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 UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS LIBRARY AT URBANA-CHAMPAIGN 
 
COLLECTION 
 
 OF 
 
 BEITISH AUTHORS 
 
 TAUCHNITZ EDITION. 
 
 VOL. 1919. 
 THE DUKE'S CHILDREN BY ANTHONY TROLLOPE. 
 
 IN THREE VOLUMES. 
 
 VOL. m. 
 
THE 
 
 DUKE'S CHILDREN. 
 
 
 ANTHONY TROLLOPE. 
 
 COPYRIGHT EDITION, 
 
 IN THREE VOLUMES. 
 VOL. III. 
 
 LEIPZIG 
 BERNHARD TAUCHNITZ 
 
 The Right of Translation is reserved. 
 
 A NOVEL. 
 
 BY 
 
 1880. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 OF VOLUME III. 
 
 Page 
 
 CHAPTER I. I don't think she is a Snake 7 
 
 — II. Polpenno ,5 
 
 — III. The News is sent to Matching 28 
 
 — IV. The Meeting at the Bobtailed Fox .... 35 
 
 — V. The Major is deposed 44 
 
 — VI. No one can tell what may come to pass . . . 53 
 
 — VII. Lord Gerald in further Trouble .... 70 
 
 — VIII. " Bone of my Bone " 77 
 
 — IX. The Brake Country go 
 
 — X. " I've seen 'em like that before " .... 103 
 
 — XI. " I believe him to be a worthy young Man " . . 112 
 
 — XII. " Do you ever think what Money is ? " . . . 120 
 
 — XIII. The three Attacks 130 
 
 — XIV. "He is such a Beast" 141 
 
 — XV. Brook Street 148 
 
 — XVI. Pert Poppet 160 
 
 — XVII. Love may be a great Misfortune" .... 169 
 
 — XVIII. "What am I to say. Sir?" 178 
 
 — XIX. Carlton Terrace iqo 
 
 — XX. ** I have never loved you " 201 
 
 389286 
 
6 
 
 CONTENTS OF VOLUME III. 
 
 Page 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. "Let us drink a Glass of Wine together" . . 211 
 
 — XXa. The Major's Story 223 
 
 — XX[IL On Deportment 231 
 
 — XXIV. "Mabel, Good-bye" 240 
 
 — XXV. The Duke returns to Office 257 
 
 — XXVL The first Wedding 266 
 
 — XXVn. The second Wedding ...... 275 
 
THE DUKE^S 
 
 CHILDREN. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 I don't think she is a snake. 
 
 On the following day, Tuesday, the Boncassens 
 went, and then there were none of the guests left but 
 Mrs. Finn and Lady Mabel Grex, — with of course 
 Miss Cassewary. The Duke had especially asked both 
 Mrs. Finn and Lady Mabel to remain, the former, 
 through his anxiety to show his repentance for the in- 
 justice he had formerly done her, and the latter in 
 the hope that something might be settled as soon as 
 the crowd of visitors should have gone. He had 
 never spoken quite distinctly to Mabel. He had felt 
 that the manner in w4iich he had learned his son's 
 purpose, — that which once had been his son's pur- 
 pose, — forbade him to do so. But he had so spoken 
 as to make Lady Mabel quite aware of his wish. He 
 would not have told her how sure he was that Silver- 
 bridge would keep no more racehorses, how he trusted 
 that Silverbridge had done with betting, how he be- 
 lieved that the young member would take a real 
 interest in the House of Commons, had he not in- 
 
8 
 
 THE duke's children. 
 
 tended that she should take a special interest in the 
 young man. And then he had spoken about the house 
 in London. It was to be made over to Silverbridge 
 as soon as Silverbridge should marry. And there was 
 Gatherum Castle. Gatherum was rather a trouble than 
 otherwise. He had ever felt it to be so, but had 
 nevertheless always kept it open perhaps for a month 
 in the year. His uncle had always resided there for 
 a fortnight at Christmas. When Silverbridge was mar- 
 ried it wmld become the young man's duty to do 
 something of the same kind. Gatherum was the White 
 Elephant of the family, and Silverbridge must enter in 
 upon his share of the trouble. He did not know that 
 in saying all this he was offering his son as a husband 
 to Lady Mabel, but she understood it as thoroughly as 
 though he had spoken the Avords. 
 
 But she knew the son's mind also. He had in- 
 deed himself told her all his mind. "Of course I love 
 her best of all," he had said. When he told her of it 
 she had been so overcome that she had wept in her 
 despair; — had wept in his presence. She had declared 
 to him her secret, — that it had been her intention to 
 become his wife, and then he had rejected her! It 
 had all been shame, and sorrow, and disappointment 
 to her. And she could not but remember that there 
 had been a moment when she might have secured 
 him by a word. A look would have done it; a touch 
 of her fmger on that morning. She had known then 
 that he had intended to be in earnest, — that he only 
 waited for encouragement. She had not given it be- 
 cause she had not wished to grasp too eagerly at the 
 prize, — and now the prize was gone! She had said 
 that she had spared him; — but then she could af- 
 
1 don't think she is a snake. 
 
 9 
 
 ford to joke, thinking that he would surely come back 
 to her. 
 
 She had begun her world with so fatal a mis- 
 take! When she was quite young, when she was little 
 more than a child but still not a child, she had given 
 all her love to a man whom she soon found that it 
 would be impossible she should ever marry. He had 
 offered to face the world with her, promising to do 
 the best to smooth the rough places, and to soften the 
 stones for her feet. But she, young as she was, had 
 felt that both he and she belonged to a class which 
 could hardly endure poverty with contentment. The 
 grinding need for money, the absolute necessity of 
 luxurious living, had been pressed upon her from her 
 childhood. She had seen it and acknowledged it, 
 and had told him with precocious wisdom, that that 
 which he offered to do for her sake would be a folly 
 for them both. She had not stinted the assurance of 
 her love, but had told him that they must both turn 
 aside and learn to love elsewhere. He had done so, 
 with too complete a readiness! She had dreamed of 
 a second love, which should obliterate the first, — 
 which might still leave to her the memory of the 
 romance of her early passion. Then this boy had 
 come in her way! With him all her ambition might 
 have been satisfied. She desired high rank and great 
 wealth. With him she might have had it all. And 
 then, too, though there would always be the memory 
 of that early passion, yet she could in another fashion 
 love this youth. He was pleasant to her, and gracious; 
 — and she had told herself that if it should be so 
 that this great fortune might be hers, she would atone 
 to him fully for that past romance by the wife-like 
 
lO 
 
 THE duke's children. 
 
 devotion of her life. The cup had come within the 
 reach of her fingers, but she had not grasped it. Her 
 happiness, her triumphs, her great success had been 
 there, present to her, and she had dalUed with her 
 fortune. There had been a day on which he had 
 been all but at her feet, and on the next he had 
 been prostrate at the feet of another. He had even 
 dared to tell her so, — saying of that American that "of 
 course he loved her the best!" 
 
 Over and over again since that she had asked 
 herself whether there was no chance. Though he had 
 loved that other one best she would take him if it 
 were possible. When the invitation came from the 
 Duke she would not lose a chance. She had told 
 him that it was impossible that he, the heir to the 
 Duke of Omnium, should marry an American. All 
 his family, all his friends, all his world would be 
 against him. And then he was so young, — and, as 
 she thought, so easily led. He was lovable and prone 
 to love; — but surely his love could not be very strong, 
 or he would not have changed so easily. 
 
 She did not hesitate to own to herself that this 
 American was very lovely. She too, herself, was 
 beautiful. She too had a reputation for grace, love- 
 liness, and feminine high-bred charm. She knew all 
 that, but she knew also that her attractions were not 
 so bright as those of her rival. She could not smile 
 or laugh and throw sparks of brilliance around her as 
 did the American girl. Miss Boncassen could be 
 graceful as a nymph in doing the awkwardest thing! 
 When she had pretended to walk stiffly along, to 
 some imaginary marriage ceremony, with her foot 
 stuck out before her, with her chin in the air, and 
 
I don't think she is a snake. 1 1 
 
 one arm akimbo, Silverbridge had been all afire with 
 admiration. Lady Mabel understood it all. The Ameri- 
 can girl must be taken away, — from out of the reach 
 of the young man's senses, — and then the struggle 
 must be made. 
 
 Lady Mabel had not been long at Matching be- 
 fore she learned that she had much in her favour. 
 She perceived that the Duke himself had no suspicion 
 of what was going on, and that he was strongly dis- 
 posed in her favour. She unravelled it all in her own 
 mind. There must have been some agreement, be- 
 tween the father and the son, when the son had all 
 but made his offer to her. More than once she was 
 half-minded to speak openly to the Duke, to tell him 
 all that Silverbridge had said to her and all that he 
 had not said, and to ask the father's help in schem- 
 ing against that rival. But she could not find the 
 words with which to begin. And then, might he not 
 despise her, and despising her reject her, were she to 
 declare her desire to marry a man who had given his 
 heart to another woman? And so, when the Duke 
 asked her to remain after the departure of the other 
 guests, she decided that it would be best to bide her 
 time. The Duke, as she assented, kissed her hand, 
 and she knew that this sign of grace was given to his 
 intended daughter-in-law. 
 
 In all this she half confided her thoughts and her 
 prospects to her old friend. Miss Cassewary. "That 
 girl has gone at last," she said to Miss Cass. 
 
 "I fear she has left her spells behind her, my 
 dear." 
 
 "Of course she has. The venom out of the snake's 
 
12 
 
 THE duke's children. 
 
 tooth will poison' all the blood; but still the poor bitten 
 wretch does not always die." 
 
 "I don't think she is a snake." 
 "Don't be moral, Cass. She is a snake in my 
 sense. She has got her weapons, and of course it is 
 natural enough that she should use them. If I want I 
 to be Duchess of Omnium, why shouldn't she?" J 
 "I hate to hear you talk of yourself in that way." ^ 
 "Because you have enough of the old school about ; 
 you to like conventional falsehood. This young man ' 
 did in fact ask me to be his wife. Of course I meant ^ 
 to accept him, — but I didn't. Then comes this con- '' 
 vict's granddaughter." : 
 "Not a convict's!" I 
 "You know what I mean. Had he been a convict . 
 it would have been all the same. I take upon my- ; 
 self to say that, had the world been informed that an ^ 
 alliance had been arranged between the eldest son of i 
 the Duke of Omnium and the daughter of Earl Grex, [ 
 — the world would have been satisfied. Every un- j 
 married daughter of every peer in England would ] 
 have envied me, — but it would have been comme il 
 faut." 
 
 "Certainly, my dear." 
 
 "But what would be the feeling as to the convict's 
 granddaughter?" 
 
 "You don't suppose that I would approve it; — but 
 it seems to me that in these days young men do just 
 what they please." 
 
 "He shall do what he pleases, but he must be 
 made to be pleased with me." So much she said to 
 Miss Cassewary; but she did not divulge any plan. 
 The Boncassens had just gone off to the station, and 
 
I DON^T THINK SHE IS A SNAKE. 
 
 13 
 
 Silverbridge was out shooting. If anything could be 
 done here at Matching, it must be done quickly, as 
 Silverbridge would soon take his departure. She did 
 not know it, but, in truth, he was remaining in order 
 that he might, as he said, "have all this out with the 
 governor." 
 
 She tried to realise for herself some plan, but when 
 the evening came nothing was fixed. For a quarter 
 of an hour, just as the sun was setting, the Duke 
 joined her in the gardens, — and spoke to her more 
 plainly than he had ever spoken before. "Has Silver- 
 bridge come home?" he asked. 
 
 "I have not seen him." 
 
 "I hope you and Mary get on well together." 
 
 "I think so, Duke. I am sure we should if we saw 
 more of each other." 
 
 "I sincerely hope you may. There is nothing I 
 wish for Mary so much as that she should have a 
 sister. And there is no one whom I would be so glad 
 to hear her call by that name as yourself" How could 
 he have spoken plainer? 
 
 The ladies were all together in the drawing- 
 room when Silverbridge came bursting in rather late. 
 "Where's the governor?" he asked, turning to his 
 sister. 
 
 "Dressing I should think; but what is the matter?" 
 
 "I want to see him. I must be off to Cornwall to- 
 morrow morning." 
 
 "To Cornwall!" said Miss Cassewary. "Why to 
 Cornwall?" asked Lady Mabel. But Mary, connecting 
 Cornwall with Frank Tregear, held her peace. 
 
 "I can't explain it all now, but I must start very 
 early to-morrow." Then he went off to his father's 
 
14 
 
 THE duke's children. 
 
 study, and finding the Duke still there explained the ' 
 cause of his intended journey. The member for Pol- 
 penno had died, and Frank Tregear had been invited 
 to stand for the borough. He had written to his 
 friend to ask him to come and assist in the struggle. 
 "Years ago there used to be always a Tregear in for 
 Polpenno,'' said Silverbridge. 
 
 "But he is a younger son." [ 
 
 "I don't know anything about it," said Silver- ! 
 bridge, "but as he has asked me to go I think I ought ' 
 to do it." The Duke, who was by no means the man 
 to make light of the political obligations of friendship, 
 raised no objection. ^ 
 
 "I wish," said he, "that something could have ] 
 been arranged between you and Mabel before you ' 
 went." The young man stood in the gloom of the ] 
 dark room aghast. This was certainly not the moment ' 
 for explaining eveiything to his father. "I have set ] 
 my heart very much upon it, and you ought to be ] 
 gratified by knowing that I quite approve your choice." | 
 
 All that had been years ago, — in last June; — % 
 before Mrs. Montacute Jones's garden-party, before ] 
 that day in the rain at Maidenhead, before the bright- 
 ness of Killancodlem, before the glories of Miss Bon- 
 cassen had been revealed to him. "There is no time 
 for that kind of thing now," he said weakly. 
 
 "I thought that when you were here together " 
 
 "I must dress now, sir; but I will tell you all 
 about it when I get back from Cornwall. I will come 
 back direct to Matching, and will explain everything." 
 So he escaped. 
 
 It was clear to Lady Mabel that there was no op- 
 portunity now for any scheme. Whatever might be 
 
I DON'T THINK SHE IS A SNAKE. 
 
 15 
 
 possible must be postponed till after this Cornish 
 business had been completed. Perhaps it might be 
 better so. She had thought that she would appeal to 
 himself, that she would tell him of his father's wishes, 
 of her love for him, — of the authority which he had 
 once given her for loving him, — and of the absolute 
 impossibility of his marriage with the American. She 
 thought that she could do it, if not efficiently at any 
 rate effectively. But it could not be done on the very 
 day on which the American had gone. 
 
 It came out in the course of the evening that he 
 was going to assist Frank Tregear in his canvass. The 
 matter was not spoken of openly, as Tregear's name 
 could hardly be mentioned. But everybody knew it, 
 and it gave occasion to Mabel for a few words apart 
 with Silverbridge. "I am so glad you are going to 
 him," she said in a little whisper. 
 
 "Of course I go when he wishes me. I don't 
 know that I can do him any good." 
 
 "The greatest good in the world. Your name will 
 go so far! It will be everything to him to be in 
 Parliament. And when are we to meet again?" she 
 said. 
 
 "I shall turn up somewhere," he replied as he gave 
 her his hand to wish her good-bye. 
 
 On the following morning the Duke proposed to 
 Lady Mabel that she should stay at Matching for yet 
 another fortnight, — or even for a month if it might be 
 possible. Lady Mabel, whose father was still abroad, 
 was not sorry to accept the invitation. 
 
i6 
 
 THE duke's children. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 POLPENNO. 
 
 Polwenning, the seat of Mr. Tregear, Frank's < 
 father, was close to the borough of Polpenno, — so close 
 that the gates of the grounds opened into the town. ^ 
 As Silverbridge had told his father, many of the \ 
 Tregear family had sat for the borough. Then there 
 had come changes, and strangers had made themselves ' 
 welcome by their money. When the vacancy now oc- 
 curred a deputation waited upon Squire Tregear and : 
 asked him to stand. The deputation would guarantee \ 
 that the expense should not exceed — a certain limited | 
 sum. Mr. Tregqar for himself had no such ambition, j 
 His eldest son was abroad and was not at all such a i 
 man as one would choose to make into a Member of 
 Parliament. After much consideration in the family, 
 Frank was invited to present himself to the con- 
 stituency. Frank's aspirations in regard to Lady Mary 
 Palliser were known at Polwenning, and it was thought 
 that they would have a better chance of success if he 
 could write the letters M.P. after his name. Frank 
 acceded, and as he was starting wrote to ask the 
 assistance of his friend Lord Silverbridge. At that 
 time there were only nine days more before the 
 election, and Mr. Carbottle, the Liberal candidate, was 
 already living in great style at the Camborne Arms. 
 
POLPENNO. 
 
 ^7 
 
 Mr. and Mrs. Tregear and an elder sister of Frank^s, 
 who quite acknowledged herself to be an old maid, 
 were very glad to welcome Frank's friend. On the 
 first morning of course they discussed the candidates' 
 prospects. "My best chance of success," said Frank, 
 "arises from the fact that Mr. Carbottle is fatter than 
 the people here seem to approve." 
 
 "If his purse be fat," said old Mr. Tregear, "that 
 will carry off any personal defect." Lord Silverbridge 
 asked whether the candidate was not too fat to make 
 speeches. Miss Tregear declared that he had made 
 three speeches daily for the last week, and that Mr. 
 Williams the rector who had heard him, declared him 
 to be a godless dissenter. Mrs. Tregear thought that 
 it would be much better that the place should be dis- 
 franchised altogether than that such a horrid man 
 should be brought into the neighbourhood. "A godless 
 dissenter!" she said, holding up her hands in dismay. 
 Frank thought that they had better abstain from allu- 
 sion to their opponent's religion. Then Mr. Tregear 
 made a little speech. "We used," he said, "to 
 endeavour to get someone to represent us in Parliament, 
 who would agree with us on vital subjects, such as the 
 Church of England and the necessity of religion. Now 
 it seems to be considered ill-mannered to make any 
 allusion to such subjects!" From which it may be 
 seen that this old Tregear was very conservative 
 indeed. 
 
 When the old people were gone to bed the two 
 young men discussed the matter. "I hope you'll get 
 in," said Silverbridge. "And if I can do anything for 
 you of course I will." 
 
 Tlie Dukes Childrett. III. 2 
 
i8 
 
 THE duke's children. 
 
 "It is always good to have a real member along 
 with one/' said Tregear." 
 
 "But I begin to think I am a very shaky Con- 
 servative myself." 
 
 "I am sorry for that." 
 
 "Sir Timothy is such a beast," said Silverbridge. 
 
 "Is that your notion of a political opinion? Are 
 you to be this or that in accordance with your own 
 liking or disliking for some particular man? One is 
 supposed to have opinions of one's own." 
 
 "Your father would be down on a man because he 
 is a dissenter." 
 
 "Of course my father is old-fashioned." 
 
 "It does seem so hard to me," said Silverbridge, 
 "to find any difference between the two sets. You 
 who are a true Conservative are much more like to my 
 father who is a Liberal than to your own who is on 
 the same side as yourself." 
 
 "It may be so, and still I may be a good Con- 
 servative." 
 
 "It seems to me in the house to mean nothing 
 more than choosing one set of companions or choosing 
 another. There are some awful cads who sit along 
 with Mr. Monk; — fellows that make you sick to hear 
 them, and whom I couldn't be civil to. But I don't 
 think there is anybody I hate so much as old Bees- 
 wax. He has a contemptuous way with his nose 
 which makes me long to pull it." 
 
 "And you mean to go over in order that you may 
 be justified in doing so. I think I soar a little higher," 
 said Tregear. 
 
 "Oh, of course. You're a clever fellow," said 
 Silverbridge, not without a touch of sarcasm. 
 
POLPENNO. 
 
 19 
 
 "A man may soar higher than that without being 
 very clever. If the party that calls itself liberal were 
 to have all its own way who is there that doesn't 
 believe that the church would go at once, then all 
 distinction between boroughs, the House of Lords im- 
 mediately afterwards, and after that the Crown/' 
 
 "Those are not my governor's ideas." 
 
 "Your governor couldn't help himself. A liberal 
 party, with plenipotentiary power, must go on right 
 away to the logical conclusion of its arguments. It is 
 only the conservative feeling of the country which 
 saves such men as your father from being carried 
 headlong to ruin by their own machinery. You have 
 read Carlyle's French Revolution." 
 
 "Yes, I have read that." 
 
 "Wasn't it so there? There were a lot of honest 
 men who thought they could do a deal of good by 
 making everybody equal. A good many were made 
 equal by having their heads cut off. That's why I 
 mean to be member for Polpenno and to send Mr. 
 Carbottle back to London. Carbottle probably doesn't 
 want to cut anybody's head off." 
 
 "I daresay he's as conservative as anybody." 
 
 "But he wants to be a member of Parliament: 
 and, as he hasn't thought much about anything, he is 
 quite willing to lend a hand to communism, radicalism, 
 socialism, chopping people's heads off, or anything else." 
 
 "That's all very well," said Silverbridge , "but 
 where should we have been if there had been no 
 Liberals? Robespierre and his pals cut off a lot of 
 heads, but Louis XIV. and Louis XV. locked up more 
 in prison." And so he had the last word in the 
 argument. 
 
 2* 
 
THE Dl^KE^S CHILDREN. 
 
 The whole of the next morning was spent in can- 
 vassing, and the whole of the afternoon. In the even- 
 ing there was a great meeting at the Polwenning 
 Assembly Room, which at the present moment was in 
 the hands of the Conservative party. Here Frank 
 Tregear made an oration, in which he declared his , 
 political convictions. The whole speech was said at 
 the time to be very good; but the portion of it which ' 
 was apparently esteemed the most, had direct reference - 
 to Mr. Carbottle. Who was Mr. Carbottle? Why had ' 
 he come to Polpenno? Who had sent for him? Why , 
 Mr. Carbottle rather than anybody else? Did not the i 
 people of Polpenno think that it might be as well to ' 
 send Mr. Carbottle back to the place from whence he 
 had come? These questions, which seemed to Silver- 
 bridge to be as easy as they were attractive, almost , 
 made him desirous of making a speech himself. ^ 
 
 Then Mr. Williams, the rector, followed, a gentleman : 
 who had many staunch friends and many bitter i 
 enemies in the town. He addressed himself chiefly \ 
 to that bane of the whole country — as he conceived ; 
 them, — the godless dissenters; and was felt by Tregear 
 to be injuring the cause by every word he spoke. It 
 was necessary that Mr. Williams should liberate his 
 own mind, and therefore he persevered with the god- 
 less dissenters at great length, — not explaining, how- 
 ever, how a man who thought enough about his religion 
 to be a dissenter could be godless, or how a godless 
 man should care enough about religion to be a 
 dissenter. 
 
 Mr. Williams was heard with impatience, and then 
 there was a clamour for the young lord. He was the 
 son of an ex-Prime Minister, and therefore of course 
 
POLPENNO. 
 
 21 
 
 he could speak. He was himself a member of Par- 
 liament, and therefore could speak. He had boldly- 
 severed himself from the faulty political tenets of his 
 family, and therefore on such an occasion as this was 
 peculiarly entitled to speak. When a man goes 
 electioneering, he must speak. At a dinner-table to 
 refuse is possible: — or in any assembly convened for 
 a semi-private purpose, a gentleman may declare that 
 he is not prepared for the occasion. But in such an 
 emergency as this, a man, — and a member of Parlia- 
 ment, — cannot plead that he is not prepared. A son 
 of a former Prime Minister who had already taken so 
 strong a part in politics as to have severed himself 
 from his father, not prepared to address the voters of 
 a borough whom he had come to canvass! The plea 
 was so absurd, that he was thrust on to his feet before 
 he knew what he was about. 
 
 It was in truth his first public speech. At Silver- 
 bridge he had attempted to repeat a few words, and 
 in his failure had been covered by the Sprugeons and 
 the Sprouts. But now he was on his , legs in a great 
 room, in an unknown town, with all the aristocracy of 
 the place before him! His eyes at first swam a little, 
 and there was a moment in which he thought he 
 would run away. But, on that morning, as he was 
 dressing, there had come to his mind the idea of the 
 possibility of such a moment as this, and a few words 
 had occurred to him. ^'My friend Frank Tregear," he 
 began, rushing at once at his subject, ''is a very good 
 fellow, and I hope you'll elect him.'' Then he paused, 
 not remembering what was to come next; but the 
 sentiment which he had uttered appeared to his 
 auditors to be so good in itself and so well delivered, 
 
22 
 
 XHE duke's children. 
 
 that they filled up a long pause with continued clappings 
 and exclamations. "Yes/' continued the young member ' 
 of Parliament, encouraged by the kindness of the crowd, 
 "I have known Frank Tregear ever so long, and I 
 don't think you could find a better member of Parlia- 
 ment anywhere." There were many ladies present and ' 
 they thought that the Duke's son was just the person , 
 who ought to come electioneering among them. His ; 
 voice was much pleasanter to their ears than that of ; 
 old Mr. Williams. The women waved their hand- 
 kerchiefs and the men stamped their feet. Here was 
 an orator come among them. "You all know all j 
 about it just as well as I do," continued the orator, 
 "and I am sure you feel that he ought to be member . 
 for Polpenno." There could be no doubt about that 
 as far as the opinion of the audience went. "There ■ 
 can't be a better fellow than Frank Tregear, and I ask ( 
 you all to give three cheers for the new member." ; 
 Ten times three cheers were given, and the Carbottleites \ 
 outside the door who had come to report what was \ 
 going on at the Tregear meeting were quite of opinion i 
 that this eldest son of the former Prime Minister was 
 a tower of strength. "I don't know anything about 
 Mr. Carbottle," continued Silverbridge, who was almost 
 growing to like the sound of his own voice. "Perhaps 
 he's a good fellow too." "No; no, no. A very bad 
 fellow indeed," was heard from different parts of the 
 room. "I don't know anything about him. I wasn't 
 at school with Carbottle." This was taken as a stroke 
 of the keenest wit, and was received with infinite 
 cheering. Silverbridge was in the pride of his youth, 
 and Carbottle was sixty at the least. Nothing could 
 have been funnier. "He seems to be a stout old 
 
POLPENNO. 
 
 23 
 
 party, but I don't think he's the man for Polpenno. 
 I think you'll return Frank Tregear. I was at school with 
 him; — and I tell you, that you can't find a better fellow 
 anywhere than Frank Tregear." Then he sat down, 
 and I am afraid he felt that he had made the speech 
 of the evening. "We are so much obliged to you, 
 Lord Silverbridge," Miss Tregear said as they were 
 walking home together. "That's just the sort of thing 
 that the people like. So reassuring, you know. What 
 Mr. Williams says about the dissenters is of course 
 true; but it isn't reassuring." 
 
 "I hope I didn't make a fool of myself to-night," 
 Silverbridge said when he was alone with Tregear, — 
 probably with some little pride in his heart. 
 
 "I ought to say that you did, seeing that you 
 praised me so violently. But, whatever it was, it was 
 well taken. I don't know whether they will elect me; 
 but had you come down as a candidate, I am quite 
 sure they would have elected you." Silverbridge was 
 hardly satisfied with this. He wished to have been 
 told that he had spoken well. He did not, however, 
 resent his friend's coldness. "Perhaps, after all, I did 
 make a fool of myself," he said to himself as he went 
 to bed. 
 
 On the next day, after breakfast, it was found to 
 be raining heavily. Canvassing was of course the 
 business of the hour, and canvassing is a business 
 which cannot be done indoors. It was soon decided 
 that the rain should go for nothing. Could an agree- 
 ment have been come to with the Carbottleites it 
 might have been decided that both parties should 
 abstain, but as that was impossible the Tregear party 
 could not afford to lose the day. As Mr. Carbottle, 
 
24 
 
 THE duke's children. 
 
 by reason of his fatness and natural slowness, would 
 perhaps be specially averse to walking about in the 
 slush and mud, it might be that they would gain 
 something; so after breakfast they started with umbrellas, 
 — Tregear, Silverbridge, Mr. Newcomb the curate, Mr. 
 Pinebott the conservative attorney, with four or five 
 followers who were armed with books and pencils, and 
 who ticked off on the lists of the voters the names of 
 the friendly, the doubtful, and the inimical. 
 
 Parliamentary canvassing is not a pleasant occupa- 
 tion. Perhaps nothing more disagreeable, more squalid, 
 more revolting to the senses, more opposed to personal 
 dignity, can be conceived. The same words have to 
 be repeated over and over again in the cottages, 
 hovels, and lodgings of poor men and women who 
 only understand that the time has come round in 
 which they are to be flattered instead of being the 
 flatterers. "I think I am right in supposing that your 
 husband's principles are conservative, Mrs. Bubbs.'' 
 "I don't know nothing about it. You'd better call 
 again and see Bubbs hissel.'' "Certainly I will do so. 
 I shouldn't at all like to leave the borough without 
 seeing Mr. Bubbs. I hope we shall have your in- 
 fluence, Mrs. Bubbs." "I don't know nothing about it. 
 My folk at home allays vote buff; and I think Bubbs 
 ought to go buff too. Only mind this; Bubbs don't 
 never come home to his dinner. You must come 
 arter six, and I hope he's to have some'at for his 
 trouble. He won't have my word to vote unless he 
 have some'at." Such is the conversation in which the 
 candidate takes a part, while his cortege at the door 
 is criticising his very imperfect mode of securing Mrs. 
 Bubbs' good wishes. Then he goes on to the next 
 
POLPENNO. 
 
 25 
 
 house, and the same thing with some variation is 
 endured again. Some guide, philosopher, and friend, 
 who accompanies him, and who is the chief of the 
 cortege, has calculated on his behalf that he ought to 
 make twenty such visitations an hour, and to call on 
 two hundred constituents in the course of the day. 
 As he is always falling behind in his number, he is 
 always being driven on by his philosopher, till he 
 comes to hate the poor creatures to whom he is forced 
 to address himself, with a most cordial hatred. 
 
 It is a nuisance to which no man should subject 
 himself in any weather. But when it rains there is 
 superadded a squalor and an ill humour to all the 
 party which makes it almost impossible for them not 
 to quarrel before the day is over. To talk politics to 
 Mrs. Bubbs under any circumstances is bad, but to do 
 so with the conviction that the moisture is penetrating 
 from your great-coat through your shirt to your bones, 
 and that while so employed you are breathing the 
 steam from those seven other wet men at the door, is 
 abominable. To have to go through this is enough 
 to take away all the pride which a man might other- 
 wise take from becoming a member of Parliament. 
 But to go through it and then not to become a member 
 is base indeed ! To go through it and to feel that you 
 are probably paying at the rate of a hundred pounds 
 a day for the privilege is most disheartening. Silver- 
 bridge as he backed up Tregear in the uncomfortable 
 work, congratulated himself on the comfort of having 
 a Mr. Sprugeon and a Mr. Sprott who could manage 
 his borough for him without a contest. 
 
 They worked on that day all the morning till one, 
 when they took luncheon, all reeking with wet, at the 
 
26 
 
 THE duke's children. 
 
 King's Head, — so that a little money might be legi- 
 timately spent in the cause. Then, at two, they sallied 
 out again, vainly endeavouring to make their twenty 
 calls within the hour. About four, when it was be- 
 ginning to be dusk, they were very tired, and Silver- 
 bridge had ventured to suggest that as they were all 
 wet through, and as there was to be another meeting 
 in the Assembly Room that night, and as nobody in 
 that part of the town seemed to be at home, they 
 might perhaps be allowed to adjourn for the present. 
 He was thinking how nice it would be to have a glass 
 of hot brandy-and-water and then lounge till dinner- 
 time. But the philosophers received the proposition 
 with stern disdain. Was his Lordship aware that Mr. 
 Carbottle had been out all day from eight in the 
 morning, and was still at work; that the Carbottleites 
 had already sent for lanterns and were determined to 
 go on till eight o'clock among the artisans who would 
 then have returned from their work? When a man 
 had put his hand to the plough, the philosophers thought 
 that that man should complete the furrow! 
 
 The philosophers' view had just carried the day, 
 the discussion having been held under seven or eight 
 wet umbrellas at the corner of a dirty little lane lead- 
 ing into the High Street; when suddenly, on the other 
 side of the way, Mr. Carbottle's cortege made its ap- 
 pearance. The philosophers at once informed them 
 that on such occasions it was customary that the rival 
 candidates should be introduced. "It will take ten 
 minutes," said the philosophers; "but then it will take 
 them ten minutes too." Upon this Tregear, as being 
 the younger of the two, crossed over the road, and the 
 introduction was made. 
 
POLPENNO. 
 
 27 
 
 There was something comfortable in it to the 
 Tregear party, as no imagination could conceive any- 
 thing more wretched than the appearance of Mr. Car- 
 bottle. He was a very stout man of sixty, and seemed 
 to be almost carried along by his companions. He 
 had pulled his coat-collar up and his hat down till 
 very little of his face was visible, and in attempting to 
 look at Tregear and Silverbridge he had to lift up his 
 chin till the rain ran off his hat on to his nose. He 
 had an umbrella in one hand and a stick in the other, 
 and was wet through to his very skin. What were his 
 own feelings cannot be told, but his philosophers, 
 guides, and friends wmld allow him no rest. "Very 
 hard work, Mr. Tregear,'^ he said, shaking his head. 
 
 "Very hard indeed, Mr. Carbottle.'' Then the two 
 parties went on, each their own way, without another 
 word. 
 
28 
 
 THE duke's children. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 THE NEWS IS SENT TO MATCHING. 
 
 There were nine days of this work, during which 
 Lord Silverbridge became very popular and made many 
 speeches. Tregear did not win half so many hearts, 
 or recommend himself so thoroughly to the political 
 predilections of the borough; — but nevertheless he was 
 returned. It would probably be unjust to attribute 
 this success chiefly to the young Lord's eloquence. It 
 certainly was not due to the strong religious feelings of 
 the rector. It is to be feared that even the thoughtful 
 political convictions of the candidate did not altogether 
 produce the result. It was that chief man among the 
 candidates, guides, and friends, that leading philosopher 
 who would not allow anybody to go home from the 
 rain, and who kept his eyes so sharply open to the 
 pecuniary doings of the Carbottleites, that Mr. Car- 
 bottle's guides and friends had hardly dared to spend 
 a shining; — it was he who had in truth been efii- 
 cacious. In every attempt they had made to spend 
 their money they had been looked into and circum- 
 vented. As Mr. Carbottle had been brought down to 
 Polpenno on purpose that he might spend money, — as 
 he had nothing but his money to recommend him, 
 and as he had not spent it, — the free and independent 
 electors of the borough had not seen their way to vote 
 
THE NEWS IS SENT TO MATCHING. 
 
 29 
 
 for him. Therefore the Conservatives were very elate 
 with their triumph. There was a great conservative 
 reaction. But the electioneering guide, philosopher, 
 and friend, in the humble retirement of his own home, 
 — he was a tailor in the town, whose assistance at 
 such periods had long been in requisition, — he knew 
 very well how the seat had been secured. Ten shil- 
 lings a head would have sent three hundred true 
 Liberals to the ballot-boxes ! The mode of distributing 
 the money had been arranged; but the conservative 
 tailor had been too acute, and not half-a-sovereign 
 could be passed. The tailor got twenty-five pounds 
 for his work, and that was smuggled in among the 
 bills for printing. 
 
 Mr. Williams, however, was sure that he had so 
 opened out the iniquities of the dissenters as to have 
 convinced the borough. Yes; every Salem and Zion 
 and Ebenezer in his large parish would be closed. 
 "It is a great thing for the country,'' said Mr. 
 Williams. 
 
 "He'll make a capital member," said Silverbridge, 
 clapping his friend on the back. 
 
 "I hope he'll never forget," said Mr. Williams, 
 "that he owes his seat to the protestant and Church- 
 of-England principles which have sunk so deeply into 
 the minds of the thoughtful portion of the inhabitants 
 of this borough." 
 
 "Whom should they elect but a Tregear?" said 
 the mother, feeling that her rector took too much of 
 the praise to himself. 
 
 "I think you have done more for us than anyone 
 else," whispered Miss Tregear to the young Lord. 
 "What you said was so reassuring!" The father be- 
 
30 
 
 THE duke's children. 
 
 fore he went to bed expressed to his son, with some 
 trepidation, a hope that all this would lead to no 
 great permanent increase of expenditure. 
 
 That evening before he went to bed Lord Silver- 
 bridge wrote to his father an account of what had 
 taken place at Polpenno. 
 
 *^Polwenning, I5tli December. 
 "My dear Father, 
 
 "Among us all we have managed to return Tregear. 
 I am afraid you will not be quite pleased because it 
 will be a vote lost to your party. But I really think 
 that he is just the fellow to be in Parliament. If he 
 were on your side Fm sure he's the kind of man you'd 
 like to bring into office. He is always thinking about 
 those sort of things. He says that, if there were no 
 Conservatives, such Liberals as you and Mr. Monk 
 would be destroyed by the Jacobins. There is some- 
 thing in that. Whether a man is a Conservative or 
 not himself, I suppose there ought to be Conservatives." 
 The Duke as he read this made a memorandum in 
 his own mind that he would explain to his son that 
 every carriage should have a drag to its wheels, but 
 that an ambitious soul would choose to be the coach- 
 man rather than the drag. 
 
 "It was beastly workl" The Duke made another 
 memorandum to instruct his son that no gentleman 
 above the age of a schoolboy should allow himself to 
 use such a word in such a sense. "We had to go 
 about in the rain up to our knees in mud for eight or 
 nine days, always saying the same thing. And of 
 course all that we said was bosh." Another memo- 
 randum — or rather two, one as to the slang, and an- 
 
THE NEWS IS SENT TO MATCHING. 
 
 31 
 
 other as to the expediency of teaching something to 
 the poor voters on such occasions. "Our only comfort 
 was that the Carbottle people were quite as badly off 
 as us/' Another memorandum as to the grammar. 
 The absence of Christian charity did not at the 
 moment affect the Duke. "I made ever so many 
 speeches, till at last it seemed to be quite easy.'' Here 
 there was a very grave memorandum. Speeches easy 
 to young speakers are generally very difficult to old 
 listeners. "But of course it was all bosh." This re- 
 quired no separate memorandum. 
 
 "I have promised to go up to town with Tregear 
 for a day or two. After that I will stick to my pur- 
 pose of going to Matching again. I will be there about 
 the 22nd, and will then stay over Christmas. After 
 that I am going into the Brake country for some hunt- 
 ing. It is such a shame to have a lot of horses and 
 never to ride them! 
 
 "Your most affectionate Son, 
 
 "SiLVERBRIDGE." 
 
 The last sentence gave rise in the Duke's mind to 
 the necessity of a very elaborate memorandum on the 
 subject of amusements generally. 
 
 By the same post another letter went from Polpenno 
 to Matching which also gave rise to some mental 
 memoranda. It was as follows; 
 
 "My dear Mabel, 
 "I am a Member of the British House of Com- 
 mons! I have sometimes regarded myself as being 
 one of the most peculiarly unfortunate men in the 
 world, and yet now I have achieved that which all 
 
32 
 
 THE duke's children. 
 
 commoners in England think to be the greatest honour 
 within their reach, and have done so at an age at 
 which very few achieve it but the sons of the wealthy 
 and the powerful. 
 
 now come to my misfortunes. I know that as 
 a poor man I ought not to be a member of Parliament. 
 I ought to be earning my bread as a lawyer or a 
 doctor. I have no business to be what I am, and 
 when I am forty I shall find that I have eaten up all 
 my good things instead of having them to eat. 
 
 "I have one chance before me. You know very 
 well what that is. Tell her that my pride in being a 
 member of Parliament is much more on her behalf 
 than on my own. The man who dares to love her 
 ought at any rate to be something in the world. If it 
 might be, — if ever it may be, — I should wish to be 
 something for her sake. I am sure you will be glad 
 of my success yourself, for my own sake. 
 
 "Your affectionate Friend and Cousin, 
 
 "Francis Tregear.'^ 
 
 The first mental memorandum in regard to this 
 came from the writer's assertion that he at forty would 
 have eaten up all his good things. No! He being a 
 man might make his way to good things though he 
 was not born to them. He surely would win his good 
 things for himself But what good things were in 
 store for her? What chance of success was there for 
 her? But the reflection which was the most bitter to 
 her of all came from her assurance that his love for 
 that other girl was so genuine. Even when he was 
 writing to her there was no spark left of the old 
 romance! Some hint of a recollection of past feelings, 
 
THE NEWS IS SENT TO MATCHING. 
 
 33 
 
 some half-concealed reference to the former passion 
 might have been allowed to him! She as a woman, 
 — as a woman all whose fortune must depend on mar- 
 riage, — could indulge in no such allusions; but surely 
 he need not have been so hard! 
 
 But still there was another memorandum. At the 
 present moment she would do all that he desired as 
 far as it was in her power. She was anxious that he 
 should marry Lady Mary Palliser, though so anxious 
 also that something of his love should remain with 
 herself! She was quite willing to convey that message, 
 — if it might be done without offence to the Duke. 
 She was there with the object of ingratiating herself 
 with the Duke. She must not impede her favour 
 with the Duke by making herself the medium of 
 any secret communications between Mary and her 
 lover. 
 
 But how should she serve Tregear without risk of 
 offending the Duke? She read the letter again and 
 again, and thinking it to be a good letter she de- 
 termined to show it to the Duke. 
 
 "Mr. Tregear has got in at Polpenno,'^ she said on 
 the day on which she and the Duke had received their 
 letters. 
 
 "So I hear from Silverbridge.'' 
 "It will be a good thing for him I suppose.^^ 
 "I do not know,'' said the Duke coldly. 
 "He is my cousin, and I have always been inter- 
 ested in his welfare." 
 "That is natural." 
 
 "And a seat in Parliament will give him something 
 to do." 
 
 "Certainly it ought," said the Duke. 
 
 Tke Dukes Children III, 3 
 
34 
 
 THE DUKE^S CHILDREN, 
 
 "I do not think that he is an idle man." To this 
 the Duke made no answer. He did not wish to be 
 made to talk about Tregear. "May I tell you why I 
 say all this?" she asked softly, pressing her hand on 
 the Duke's arm ever so gently. To this the Duke 
 assented, but still coldly. "Because I want to know 
 what I ought to do. Would you mind reading that 
 letter? Of course you will remember that Frank 
 and I have been brought up almost as brother and 
 sister." 
 
 The Duke took the letter in his hand and did 
 read it, very slowly. "What he says about young men 
 without means going into Parliament is true enough." 
 This was not encouraging, but as the Duke went on 
 reading, Mabel did not think it necessary to argue 
 the matter. He had to read the last paragraph twice 
 before he understood it. He did read it twice, and 
 then folding the letter very slowly gave it back to his 
 companion. 
 
 "What ought I to do?" asked Lady Mabel. 
 
 "As you and I, my dear, are friends, I think that 
 any carrying of a message to Mary would be breaking 
 confidence. I think that you should not speak to 
 Mary about Mr. Tregear." Then he changed the sub- 
 ject. Lady Mabel of course understood that after that 
 she could not say a word to Mary about the election 
 at Polpenno. 
 
TOE MEETING AT THE BOBTAILED FOX. 
 
 35 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 THE MEETING AT THE BOBTAILED FOX. 
 
 It was now the middle of December, and matters 
 were not comfortable in the Runny mede country. The 
 Major with much pluck had carried on his operations 
 in opposition to the wishes of the resident members of 
 the hunt. The owners of coverts had protested, and 
 farmers had sworn that he should not ride over their 
 lands. There had even been some talk among the 
 younger men of thrashing him if he persevered. But 
 he did persevere, and had managed to have one or 
 two good runs. Now it was the fortune of the Runny- 
 mede hunt that many of those who rode with the 
 hounds were strangers to the country, — men who came 
 down by train from London, gentlemen of perhaps no 
 great distinction, who could ride hard, but as to whom 
 it was thought that as they did not provide the land 
 to ride over, or the fences to be destroyed, or the 
 coverts for the foxes, or the greater part of the sub- 
 scription, they ought not to oppose those by whom all 
 these things were supplied. But the Major, knowing 
 where his strength lay, had managed to get a party to 
 support him. The contract to hunt the country had 
 been made with him in last March, and was good for 
 one year. Having the kennels and the hounds under 
 
36 
 
 THE duke's children. 
 
 his command he did hunt the country; but he did so 
 amidst a storm of contumely and ill will. 
 
 At last it was decided that a general meeting of 
 the members of the hunt should be called together 
 with the express object of getting rid of the Major. 
 The gentlemen of the neighbourhood felt that the 
 Major was not to be borne, and the farmers were very 
 much stronger against him than the gentlemen. It 
 had now become a settled belief among sporting men 
 in England that the Major had with his own hands 
 driven the nail into the horse's foot. Was it to be 
 endured that the Runnymede farmers should ride to 
 hounds under a master Vv^ho had been guilty of such 
 an iniquity as that? "The Staines and Egham 
 Gazette," which had always supported the Runnymede 
 hunt, declared in very plain terms that all who rode 
 with the Major were enjoying their sport out of the 
 plunder which had been extracted from Lord Silver- 
 bridge. Then a meeting was called for Saturday, the 
 1 8th December, to be held at that well-known sport- 
 ing little inn The Bobtailed Fox. The members of 
 the hunt were earnestly called upon to attend. It 
 was, — so said the printed document which was issued, 
 — the only means by which the hunt could be pre- 
 served. If gentlemen who were interested did not 
 put their shoulders to the wheel the Runnymede hunt 
 must be regarded as a thing of the past. One of 
 the documents was sent to the Major with an in- 
 timation that if he wished to attend no objection 
 would be made to his presence. The chair would 
 be taken at half-past twelve punctually by that po- 
 pular and well-known old sportsman Mr. Mahogany 
 Topps. 
 
THE MEETING AT THE BOBTAILED FOX. 37 
 
 Was ever the master of a hunt treated in such a 
 way! His presence not objected to! As a rule the 
 master of a hunt does not attend hunt meetings, be- 
 cause the matter to be discussed is generally that of 
 the money to be subscribed for him, as to which it is 
 as well he should not hear the pros and cons. But it 
 is presumed that he is to be the hero of the hour, and 
 that he is to be treated to his face, and spoken of be- 
 hind his back, with love, admiration, and respect. 
 But now this master was told his presence would be 
 allowed! And then this fox-hunting meeting was 
 summoned for half-past twelve on a hunting day; — 
 when, as all the world knew, the hounds were to meet 
 at eleven, twelve miles off! Was ever anything so 
 base? said the Major to himself. But he resolved 
 that he would be equal to the occasion. He im- 
 mediately issued cards to all the members, stating that 
 on that day the meet had been changed from Crop- 
 pingham Bushes, which was ever so much on the other 
 side of Bagshot, to the Bobtailed Fox,^ — for the benefit 
 of the hunt at large, said the card,— and that the 
 hounds would be there at half-past one. 
 
 Whatever might happen, he must show a spirit. In 
 all this there were one or two of the London brigade 
 who stood fast to him. "Cock your tail, Tifto,'^ said 
 one hard-riding supporter, "and show 'em you aren't 
 afraid of nothing.'' So Tifto cocked his tail and went 
 to the meeting in his best new scarlet coat, with his 
 whitest breeches, his pinkest boots, and his neatest 
 little bows at his knees. He entered the room with 
 his horn in his hand, as a symbol of authority, and 
 took off his hunting-cap to salute the assembly with a 
 jaunty air. He had taken two glasses of cherry brandy, 
 
38 
 
 THE duke's children. 
 
 and as long as the stimulant lasted would no doubt be 
 able to support himself with audacity. 
 
 Old Mr. Topps, in rising from his chair, did not 
 say very much. He had been hunting in the Runny- 
 mede country for nearly fifty years, and had never 
 seen anything so sad as this before. It made him, he 
 knew, very unhappy. As for foxes, there were always 
 plenty of foxes in his coverts. His friend Mr. Jawstock, 
 on the right, would explain what all this was about. 
 All he wanted was to see the Runnymede hunt pro- 
 perly kept up. Then he sat down, and Mr. Jawstock 
 rose to his legs. 
 
 Mr. Jawstock was a gentleman well known in the 
 Runnymede country, who had himself been instrumental 
 in bringing Major Tifto into these parts. There is 
 often someone in a hunting country who never becomes 
 a master of hounds himself, but who has almost as 
 much to say about the business as the master himself. 
 Sometimes at hunt meetings he is rather unpopular, as 
 he is always inclined to talk. But there are occasions 
 on which his services are felt to be valuable, — as were 
 Mr. Jawstock's at present. He was about forty-five 
 years of age, was not much given to riding, owned no 
 coverts himself, and was not a man of wealth; but he 
 understood the nature of hunting, knew all its laws, 
 and was a judge of horses, of hounds, — and of men; 
 and could say a thing when he had to say it. 
 
 Mr. Jawstock sat on the right hand of Mr. Topps, 
 and a place was left for the master opposite. The 
 task to be performed was neither easy nor pleasant. 
 It was necessary that the orator should accuse the 
 gentleman opposite to him, — a man with whom he 
 himself had been very intimate, — of iniquity so gross 
 
THE MEETING AT THE BOBTAILED FOX. 3g 
 
 and so mean, that nothing worse can be conceived. 
 "You are a swindler, a cheat, a rascal of the very 
 deepest dye; — a rogue so mean that it is revolting to 
 be in the same room with you!" That was what Mr. 
 Jawstock had to say. And he said it. Looking round 
 the room, occasionally appealing to Mr. Topps, who on 
 these occasions would lift up his hands in horror, but 
 never letting his eye fall for a moment on the Major, 
 Mr. Jawstock told his story. "I did not see it done," 
 said he. "I know nothing about it. I never was at 
 Doncaster in my life. But you have evidence of what 
 the Jockey Club thinks. The Master of our Hunt has 
 been banished from racecourses." Here there was 
 considerable opposition, and a few short but excited 
 little dialogues were maintained; — throughout all which 
 Tifto restrained himself like a Spartan. "At any rate 
 he has been thoroughly disgraced," continued Mr. Jaw- 
 stock, "as a sporting man. He has been driven out 
 of the Beargarden Club." "He resigned in disgust at 
 their treatment," said a friend of the Major's. "Then 
 let him resign in disgust at ours," said Mr. Jawstock, 
 "for we won't have him here. Caesar wouldn't keep 
 a wife who was suspected of infidelity, nor will the 
 Runnymede country endure a Master of Hounds who 
 is supposed to have driven a nail into a horse's foot." 
 
 Two or three other gentlemen had something to 
 say before the Major was allowed to speak, — the up- 
 shot of the discourse of all of them being the same. 
 The Major must go. 
 
 Then the Major got up, and certainly as far as 
 attention went he had full justice done him. However 
 clamorous they might intend to be afterwards that 
 amount of fair play they were all determined to afford 
 
40 
 
 THE duke's children. 
 
 him. The Major was not excellent at speaking, but 
 he did perhaps better than might have been expected. 
 "This is a very disagreeable position," he said, "very- 
 disagreeable indeed. As for the nail in the horse's 
 foot I know no more about it than the babe unborn. 
 But IVe got two things to say, and Til say what aren't 
 the most consequence first. These hounds belong to 
 me." Here he paused, and a loud contradiction came 
 from many parts of the room. Mr. Jawstock, however, 
 proposed that the Major should be heard to the end. 
 "I say they belong to me," repeated the Major. "If 
 anybody tries his hand at anything else the law will 
 soon set that to rights. But that aren't of much con- 
 sequence. What I've got to say is this. Let the 
 matter be referred. If that 'orse had a nail run into 
 his foot, — and I don't say he hadn't, — who was the 
 man most injured? Why, Lord Silverbridge. Every- 
 body knows that. I suppose he dropped well on to 
 eighty thousand pounds! I propose to leave it to him. 
 Let him say. He ought to know more about it than 
 anyone. He and I were partners in the horse. His 
 Lordship aren't very sweet upon me just at present. 
 Nobody need fear that he'll do me a good turn. I 
 say leave it to him." 
 
 In this matter the Major had certainly been well 
 advised. A rumour had become prevalent among 
 sporting circles that Silverbridge had refused to con- 
 demn the Major. It was known that he had paid his 
 bets without delay, and that he had, to some extent, 
 declined to take advice from the leaders of the Jockey 
 Club. The Major's friends were informed that the 
 young lord had refused to vote against him at the 
 club. Was it not more than probable that if this 
 
THE MEETING AT THE BOBTAILED FOX. 
 
 41 
 
 matter were referred to him he would refuse to give a 
 verdict against his late partner? 
 
 The Major sat down, put on his cap, and folded 
 his arms akimbo, with his horn sticking out from his 
 left hand. For a time there was general silence, broken, 
 however, by murmurs in different parts of the room. 
 Then Mr. Jawstock whispered something into the ear 
 of the Chairman, and Mr. Topps, rising from his seat, 
 suggested to Tifto that he should retire. "I think so," 
 said Mr. Jawstock. "The proposition you have made 
 can be discussed only in your absence." Then the 
 Major held a consultation with one of his friends, and 
 after that did retire. 
 
 When he was gone the real hubbub of the meeting 
 commenced. There were some there who understood 
 the nature of Lord Silverbridge's feelings in the matter. 
 *^He would be the last man in England to declare him 
 guilty," said Mr. Jawstock. "Whatever my lord says, 
 he shan't ride across my land," said a farmer in the 
 background. "I don't think any gentleman ever made 
 a fairer proposition, — since anything was anything," 
 said a friend of the Major's, a gentleman who kept 
 livery stables in Long Acre. "We won't have him 
 here," said another farmer, — whereupon Mr. Topps 
 shook his head sadly. "I don't think any gentleman 
 ought to be condemned without a 'earing," said one of 
 Tifto's admirers, "and where you're to get anyone to 
 hunt the country like him, I don't know as anybody is 
 prepared to say." "We'll manage that," said a young 
 gentleman from the neighbourhood of Bagshot, who 
 thought that he could hunt the country himself quite 
 as well as Major Tifto. "He must go from here; that's 
 the long and the short of it," said Mr. Jawstock. "Put 
 
4^ 
 
 THE duke's children. 
 
 it to the vote, Mr. Jawstock," said the livery-stable 
 keeper. Mr. Topps, who had had great experience 
 in public meetings, hereupon expressed an opinion 
 that they might as well go to a vote. No doubt he 
 was right if the matter was one which must sooner or 
 later be decided in that manner. 
 
 Mr. Jawstock looked round the room trying to 
 calculate what might be the effect of a show of hands. 
 The majority was with him; but he was well aware 
 that of this majority some few would be drawn away 
 by the apparent justice of Tifto's proposition. And 
 what was the use of voting? Let them vote as they 
 might, it was out of the question that Tifto should 
 remain master of the hunt. But the chairman had 
 acceded, and on such occasions it is difficult to go 
 against the chairman. 
 
 Then there came a show of hands, — first for those 
 who desired to refer the matter to Lord Silverbridge, 
 and afterwards for Tifto's direct enemies, — for those 
 who were anxious to banish Tifto out of hand, without 
 reference to anyone. At last the matter was settled. 
 To the great annoyance of Mr. Jawstock and the 
 farmers the meeting voted that Lord Silverbridge 
 should be invited to give his opinion as to the in- 
 nocence or guilt of his late partner. 
 
 The Major's friend carried the discussion out to 
 him as he sat on horseback, as though he had alto- 
 gether gained the battle and was secure in his position , 
 as Master of the Runnymede Hunt for the next dozen 
 years. But at the same time there came a message 
 from Mr. Mahogany Topps. It was now half-past 
 two, and Mr. Topps expressed a hope that Major , 
 
THE MEETING AT THE BOBTAILED FOX. 43 
 
 Tifto would not draw the country on the present 
 occasion. The Major, thinking that it might be as 
 well to conciliate his enemies, rode solemnly and 
 slowly home to Tallyho Lodge in the middle of his 
 hounds. 
 
44 
 
 'THE duke's children. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 THE MAJOR IS DEPOSED. 
 
 When Silverbridge undertook to return with.Tregear 
 to London instead of going off direct to Matching, it is 
 to be feared that he was simply actuated by a desire 
 to postpone his further visit to his father's house. He 
 had thought that Lady Mabel would surely be gone 
 before his task at Polpenno was completed. As soon 
 as he should again find himself in his father's presence 
 he would at once declare his intention of marrying 
 Isabel Boncassen. But he could not see his way to 
 doing it while Lady Mabel should be in the house. 
 
 "I think you will find Mabel still at Matching," 
 said Tregear on their way up. **She will wait for you 
 I fancy." 
 
 "I don't know why she should wait for me," said 
 Silverbridge almost angrily. 
 
 "I thought that you and she were fast friends." 
 
 ^'I suppose we are — after a fashion. She might 
 wait for you perhaps." 
 
 "I think she would, — if I could go there." 
 
 "You are much thicker with her than I ever was. 
 You went to see her at Grex, — when nobody else was 
 there." 
 
 "Is Miss Cassewary nobody?" 
 
THE MAJOR IS DEPOSED. 
 
 45 
 
 ''Next door to it/' said Silverbridge, half jealous 
 of the favours shown to Tregear. 
 
 "I thought," said Tregear, "that there would be a 
 closer intimacy between you and her." 
 
 "I don't know why you should think so." 
 
 "Had you never any such idea yourself?" 
 
 "I haven't any now, — so there may be an end of 
 it. I don't think a fellow ought to be cross-questioned 
 on such a subject." 
 
 "Then I am very sorry for Mabel," said Tregear. 
 This was uttered solemnly, so that Silverbridge found 
 himself debarred from making any flippant answer. 
 He could not altogether defend himself. He had 
 been quite justified, he thought, in changing his mind, 
 but he did not like to own that he had changed it 
 so quickly. 
 
 "I think we had better not talk any more about 
 it," he said, after pausing for a few moments. After 
 that nothing more was said between them on the 
 subject. 
 
 Up in town Silverbridge spent two or three days 
 pleasantly enough, while a thunderbolt was being pre- 
 pared for him, or rather, in truth, two thunderbolts. 
 During these days he was much with Tregear; and 
 though he could not speak freely of his own matri- 
 monial projects, still he was brought round to give 
 some sort of assent to the engagement between 
 Tregear and his sister. This new position which his 
 friend had won for himself did in some degree operate 
 on his judgment. It was not perhaps that he himself 
 imagined that Tregear as a member of Parliament 
 would be worthier, but that he fancied that such 
 
46 
 
 ,THE duke's children. 
 
 would be the Duke's feelings. The Duke had declared 
 that Tregear was nobody. That could hardly be said 
 of a man who had a seat in the House of Commons;. 
 — certainly could not be said by so staunch a politi- 
 cian as the Duke. 
 
 But had he known of those two thunderbolts he 
 would not have enjoyed his time at the Beargarden. 
 The thunderbolts fell upon him in the shape of two 
 letters which reached his hands at the same time, and 
 were as follows: 
 
 *^The Bobtailed Fox. Egham. i8tli December. 
 
 "My Lord, 
 
 "At a meeting held in this house to-day in re- 
 ference to the hunting of the Runnymede country, it 
 was proposed that the management of the hounds 
 should be taken out of the hands of Major Tifto, in 
 consequence of certain conduct of which it is alleged 
 that he was guilty at the last Doncaster races. 
 
 "Major Tifto was present and requested that your 
 Lordship's opinion should be asked as to his guilt. I 
 do not know myself that we are warranted in troubling 
 your Lordship on the subject. I am, however, com- 
 missioned by the majority of the gentlemen who were 
 present to ask you whether you think that Major 
 Tifto's conduct on that occasion was of such a nature 
 as to make him unfit to be the depositary of that in- 
 fluence, authority and intimacy which ought to be at 
 the command of a Master of Hounds. 
 
 "I feel myself bound to inform your Lordship that 
 the hunt generally will be inclined to place great 
 weight upon your opinion; but that it does not under- 
 
THE MAJOR IS DEPOSED, 
 
 47 
 
 take to reinstate Major Tifto, even should your opinion 
 be in his favour. 
 
 "I have the honour to be, 
 "My Lord, 
 "Your Lordship's most obedient Servant^ 
 
 " Jeremiah: Jawstock, 
 "Juniper Lodge, Staines/' 
 
 Mr. Jawstock, when he had written this letter was 
 proud of his own language, but still felt that the ap- 
 plication was a very lame one. Why ask any man for 
 an opinion, and tell him at the same time that his 
 opinion might probably not be taken! And yet no 
 other alternative had been left to him. The meeting 
 had decided that the application should be made; 
 but Mr. Jawstock was well aware that let the young 
 Lord's answer be what it might, the Major would not 
 be endured as master in the Runnymede country. Mr. 
 Jawstock felt that the passage in which he explained 
 that a Master of Hounds should be a depositary of 
 influence and intimacy, was good; — but yet the appli- 
 cation was lame, very lame. 
 
 Lord Silverbridge as he read it thought that it 
 was very unfair. It was a most disagreeable thunder- 
 bolt. Then he opened the second letter, of which he 
 well knew the handwriting. It was from the Major. 
 Tifto's letters were very legible, but the writing was 
 cramped, showing that the operation had been per- 
 1 formed with difficulty. Silverbridge had hoped that 
 the might never receive another epistle from his late 
 partner! The letter, as follows, had been drawn out 
 for Tifto in rough by the livery-stable keeper in Long 
 Acre, 
 
48 
 
 THE duke's children. 
 
 "My dear Lord Silverbridge, 
 
 "I venture respectfully to appeal to your Lordship 
 for an act of justice. Nobody has more of a true-born 
 Englishman's feeling of fair play between man and 
 man than your Lordship; and as you and me have 
 been a good deal together, and your Lordship ought 
 to know me pretty well, I venture to appeal to your 
 Lordship for a good word. 
 
 "All that story from Doncaster has got down into 
 the country where I am M.F.H. Nobody could have 
 been more sorry than me that your Lordship dropped 
 your money. Would not I have been prouder than 
 anything to have a horse in my name win the race! 
 Was it likely I should lame him? Anyways I didn't, 
 and I don't think your Lordship thinks it was me. Of 
 course your Lordship and me is two now; — but that 
 don't alter the facts. 
 
 "What I want is your Lordship to send me a line, 
 just stating your Lordship's opinion that I didn't do 
 it, and didn't have nothing to do with it; — which I 
 didn't. There was a meeting at The Bob-tailed Fox 
 yesterday, and the gentlemen was all of one mind to 
 go by what your Lordship would say. I couldn't 
 desire nothing fairer. So I hope your Lordship will 
 stand to me now, and write something that will pull 
 me through. 
 
 "With all respects I beg to remain, 
 
 "Your Lordship's most dutiful Servant, 
 
 "T. TiFTO." 
 
 There was something in this letter which the 
 Major himself did not quite approve. There was an 
 absence of familiarity about it which annoyed him. 
 
THE MAJOR IS DEPOSED. 
 
 49 
 
 He would have liked to call upon his late partner to 
 declare that a more honourable man than Major Tifto 
 had never been known on the turf. But he felt him- 
 self to be so far down in the world that it was not 
 safe for him to hold an opinion of his own, even 
 against the livery-stable keeper! 
 
 Silverbridge was for a time in doubt whether he 
 should answer the letters at all, and if so how he 
 should answer them. In regard to Mr. Jawstock and 
 the meeting at large, he regarded the application as 
 an impertinence. But as to Tifto himself he vacillated 
 much between pity, contempt, and absolute con- 
 demnation. Everybody had assured him that the 
 man had certainly been guilty. The fact that he had 
 made bets against their joint horse, — bets as to which 
 he had said nothing till after the race was over, — had 
 been admitted by himself. And yet it was possible 
 that the man might not be such a rascal as to be 
 unfit to manage the Runnymede hounds. Having 
 himself got rid of Tifto, he would have been glad that 
 the poor wretch should have been left with his hunting 
 honours. But he did not think that he could write to 
 his late partner any letter that would preserve those 
 honours to him. 
 
 At Tregear's advice he referred the matter to Mr. 
 Lupton. Mr. Lupton was of opinion that both the 
 letters should be answered, but that the answer to 
 each should be very short. "There is a prejudice 
 about the world just at present," said Mr. Lupton, "in 
 favour of answering letters. I don't see why I am to 
 be subjected to an annoyance because another man 
 has taken a liberty. But it is better to submit to 
 public opinion. Public opinion thinks that letters 
 
 The Dvkes Children. III. 4 
 
50 
 
 THE duke's children. 
 
 should be answered/^ Then Mr. Liipton dictated the 
 answers. 
 
 ^'Lord Silverbridge presents his compliments to 
 Mr. Jawstock, and begs to say that he does not feel 
 himself called upon to express any opinion as to Major 
 Tifto's conduct at Doncaster.'' That was the first. - 
 The second was rather less simple, but not much i 
 longer. ! 
 
 "Sir, ; 
 
 "I do not feel myself called upon to express any < 
 opinion either to you or to others as to your conduct 
 
 at Doncaster. Having received a letter on the sub- ' 
 ject from Mr. Jawstock I have written to him to this 
 effect. 
 
 "Your obedient Servant, ! 
 
 "To T. Tifto, Esq., "Silverbridge. \ 
 
 "Tallyho Lodge." \ 
 
 Poor Tifto, when he got this very curt epistle, was i 
 broken-hearted. He did not dare to show it. Day 
 after day he told the livery-stable keeper that he had 
 received no reply, and at last asserted that his appeal 
 had remained altogether unanswered. Even this he 
 thought was better than acknowledging the rebuff 
 which had reached him. As regarded the meeting 
 which had been held, — and any further meetings 
 which might be held, — at The Bobtailed Fox, he did 
 not see the necessity, as he explained to the livery- 
 stable keeper, of acknowledging that he had written 
 any letter to Lord Silverbridge. 
 
 The letter to Mr. Jawstock was of course brought 
 
THE MAJOR IS DEPOSED. 
 
 51 
 
 forward. Another meeting at The Bobtailed Fox was 
 convened. But in the meantime hunting had been 
 discontinued in the Runnymede country. The Major 
 with all his phick, with infinite cherry brandy, could 
 not do it. Men who had a few weeks since been on 
 very friendly terms, and who had called each other 
 Dick and Harry when the squabble first began, were 
 now talking of "punching" each other's heads. Special 
 whips had been procured by men who intended to 
 ride, and special bludgeons by the young farmers who 
 intended that nobody should ride as long as Major 
 Tifto kept the hounds. It was said that the police 
 would interfere. It was w^hispered that the hounds 
 would be shot, — though Mr. Topps, Mr. Jawstock, and 
 others declared that no crime so heinous as that had 
 ever been contemplated in the Runnymede country. 
 
 The difficulties were too many for poor Tifto, and 
 the hounds were not brought out again under his in- 
 fluence. 
 
 A second meeting was summoned, and an invita- 
 tion was sent to the Major similar to that which he 
 had before received; — but on this occasion he did not 
 appear. Nor were there many of the gentlemen down 
 from London. This second meeting might almost 
 have been called select. Mr. Mahogany Topps was 
 there of course, in the chair, and Mr. Jawstock took 
 the place of honour and of difficulty on his right 
 hand. There was the young gentleman from Bagshot, 
 who considered himself quite fit to take Tifto's place 
 if somebody else would pay the bills and settle the 
 money, and there was the sporting old parson from 
 Croppingham. Three or four other members of the 
 hunt were present, and perhaps half-a-dozen farmers, 
 
 4* 
 
52 
 
 THE duke's children. 
 
 ready to declare that Major Tifto should never be 
 allowed to cross their fields again. 
 
 But there was no opposition. Mr. Jawstock read 
 the young lord's note, and declared that it was quite 
 as much as he expected. He considered that the 
 note, short as it was, must be decisive. Major Tifto 
 in appealing to Lord Silverbridge , had agreed to 
 abide by his Lordship's answer, and that answer was 
 now before them. Mr. Jawstock ventured to propose 
 that Major Tifto should be declared to be no longer 
 Master of the Runnymede Hounds. The parson from 
 Croppingham seconded the proposition, and Major 
 Tifto was formally deposed. 
 
NO ONE CAN TELL WHAT MAY COME TO PASS. 53 
 
 CHAPTER VL 
 NO ONE CAN TELL WHAT MAY COME TO PASS. 
 
 Then Lord Silverbridge necessarily went down to 
 Matching, knowing that he must meet Mabel Grex. 
 Why should she have prolonged her visit? No doubt 
 it might be very pleasant for her to be his father's 
 guest at Matching, but she had been there above a 
 month! He could understand that his father should 
 ask her to remain. His father was still brooding 
 over that foolish communication which had been 
 made to him on the night of the dinner at the Bear- 
 garden. His father was still intending to take Mabel 
 to his arms as a daughter-in-law. But Lady Mabel 
 herself knew that it could not be so! The whole 
 truth had been told to her. Why should she remain 
 at Matching for the sake of being mixed up in a 
 scene the ^acting of which could not fail to be dis- 
 agreeable to her? 
 
 He found the house very quiet and nearly empty. 
 Mrs. Finn was there with the two girls, and Mr. 
 Warburton had come back. Miss Cassewary had gone 
 to a brother's house. Other guests to make Christmas 
 merry there were none. As he looked round at the 
 large rooms he reflected that he himself was there 
 only for a special purpose. It was his duty to break 
 the news of his intended marriage to his father. As 
 
54 
 
 THE duke's children. 
 
 he stood before the fire, thinking how best he might 
 do this, it occurred to him that a letter from a distance 
 would have been the ready and simple way. But 
 then it had occurred to him also, when at a distance, 
 that a declaration of his purpose face to face was the , 
 simplest and readiest way. If you have to go head- 
 long into the water you should take your plunge [ 
 without hesitating. So he told himself, making up ^ 
 his mind that he would have it all out that evening. 
 
 At dinner Lady Mabel sat next to his father, and ^ 
 he could watch the special courtesy with which the \ 
 Duke treated the girl whom he was so desirous of | 
 introducing to his house. Silverbridge could not talk j 
 about the election at Polpenno because all conversation ] 
 about Tregear was interdicted in the presence of his ; 
 sister. He could say nothing as to the Runnymede ^ 
 hunt and the two thunderbolts which had fallen on j 
 him, as Major Tifto was not a subject on which he I 
 could expatiate in the presence of his father. He j 
 asked a few questions about the shooting, and re- ] 
 ferred with great regret to his absence from the Brake 
 country. 
 
 "I am sure Mr. Cassewary could spare you for 
 another fortnight,'' the Duke said to his neighbour, 
 alluding to a visit which she now intended to make. 
 
 "If so he would have to spare me altogether," said 
 Mabel, "for I must meet my father in London in the 
 middle of January." 
 
 "Could you not put it off to another year?" 
 
 "You would think I had taken root and was 
 growing at Matching." 
 
 "Of all our products you would be the most 
 
NO ONE CAN TELL WHAT MAY COME TO PASS. 55 
 
 delightful, and the most charming, — and we would 
 hope the most permanent,'' said the courteous Duke. 
 
 "After being here so long I need hardly say that I 
 like Matching better than any place in the world. 
 I suppose it is the contrast to Grex." 
 
 "Grex was a palace," said the Duke, "before a 
 wall of this house had been built." 
 
 "Grex is very old, and very wild, — and veiy un- 
 comfortable. But I love it dearly. Matching is the 
 very reverse of Grex." 
 
 "Not I hope in your affections." 
 
 "I did not mean that. I think one likes a con- 
 trast. But I must go, say on the first of Januaiy, to 
 pick up Miss Cassewary." 
 
 It was certain, therefore, that she was going on the 
 first of January. How would it be if he put off the 
 telling of his story for yet another week, till she should 
 be gone? Then he looked around and bethought him- 
 self that the time would hang very heavy with him. 
 And his father would daily expect from him a de- 
 claration exactly opposed to that which he had to 
 make. He had no horses to ride. As he went on 
 listening he almost convinced himself that the proper 
 thing to do would be to go back to London and 
 thence write to his father. He made no confession to 
 his father on that night. 
 
 On the next morning there was a heavy fall of 
 snow, but nevertheless everybody managed to go to 
 church. The Duke, as he looked at Lady Mabel trip- 
 ping along over the swept paths in her furs and short 
 petticoats and well-made boots, thought that his son 
 was a lucky fellow to have the chance of winning the 
 love of such a girl. No remembrance of Miss Bon- 
 
56 
 
 THE duke's children. 
 
 cassen came across his mind as he saw them close 
 together. It was so important that Silverbridge should 
 marry and thus be kept from further follies! And it 
 was so momentous to the fortunes of the Palliser family 
 generally that he should marry well! In thinking so 
 it did not occur to him that the granddaughter of an 
 American labourer might be offered to him. A young 
 lady fit to be Duchess of Omnium was not to be found 
 everywhere. But this girl, he thought as he saw her 
 walking briskly and strongly through the snow, with 
 every mark of health about her, with every sign of 
 high breeding, very beautiful, exquisite in manner, 
 gracious as a goddess, was fit to be a Duchess! Silver- 
 bridge at this moment was walking close to her side, 
 — in good looks, in gracious manner, in high breeding 
 her equal, — in worldly gifts infinitely her superior. 
 Surely she would not despise him! Silverbridge at the 
 moment was expressing a hope that the sermon would 
 not be very long. 
 
 After lunch Mabel came suddenly behind the chair 
 on which Silverbridge was sitting and asked him to 
 take a walk with her. Was she not afraid of the 
 snow? "Perhaps you are,'' she said laughing. "I do 
 not mind it in the least." When they were but a few 
 yards from the front door, she put her hand upon his 
 arm, and spoke to him as though she had arranged 
 the walk with reference to that special question, "And 
 now tell me all about Frank." 
 
 She had arranged everything. She had a plan 
 before her now, and had determined in accordance 
 with that plan that she would say nothing to disturb 
 him on this occasion. If she could succeed in bring- 
 ing him into good humour with herself, that should 
 
NO ONE CAN TELL WHAT MAY COME TO PASS. 
 
 be sufficient for to-day. "Now tell me everything about 
 Frank/' 
 
 "Frank is member of ParHament forPolpenno. That 
 is all/' 
 
 "That is so like a man and so unlike a woman. 
 What did he say? What did he do? How did he 
 look? What did you say? What did you do? How 
 did you look?'' 
 
 "We looked very miserable, when we got wet 
 through, walking about all day in the rain." 
 
 "Was that necessary?" 
 
 "Quite necessary. We looked so mean and draggled 
 that nobody would have voted for us, only that poor 
 Mr. Carbottle looked meaner and more draggled." 
 
 "The Duke says you made ever so many speeches." 
 
 "I should think I did. It is very easy to make 
 speeches down at a place like that. Tregear spoke 
 like a book." 
 
 "He spoke well?" 
 
 "Awfully well. He told them that all the good 
 thmgs that had ever been done in Parliament, had 
 been carried by the Tories. He went back to Pitt's 
 time, and had it all at his fingers' ends." 
 
 "And quite true." 
 
 "That's just what it was not. It was all a crammer. 
 But It did as well." 
 
 "I am glad he is a member. Don't you think the 
 Duke will come round a little now?" 
 
 When Tregear and the election had been sufficiently 
 discussed, they came by degrees to Major Tifto and 
 the two thunderbolts. Silverbridge, when he perceived 
 that ^ nothing was to be said about Isabel Boncassen, 
 or his own freedom in the matter of love-making, was 
 
58 
 
 THE duke's children. 
 
 not sorry to Ijave a friend from whom he could find 
 sympathy for himself in his own troubles. With some 
 encouragement from Mabel the whole story was told. 
 "Was it not a great impertinence she asked. 
 
 "It was an awful bore. What could I say? I 
 was not going to pronounce judgment against the 
 poor devil. I daresay he was good enough for Mr. 
 Jawstock.'^ 
 
 "But I suppose he did cheat horribly.'' 
 
 "I daresay he did. A great many of them do cheat. 
 But what of that? I was not bound to give him a 
 character, bad or good." 
 
 "Certainly not." 
 
 "He had not been my servant. It was such a 
 letter. I'll show it you when we get in ! — asking whether 
 Tifto was fit to be the depositary of the intimacy of 
 the Runnymede hunt! And thenTif's letter; — I almost 
 wept over that." 
 
 "How could he have had the audacity to write at 
 all!" 
 
 "He said that 'him and me had been a good 
 deal together.' Unfortunately that was true. Even 
 now I am not quite sure that he lamed the horse him- 
 self." 
 
 "Everybody thinks he did. Percival says there is 
 no doubt about it." 
 
 "Percival knows nothing about it. Three of the 
 gang ran away, and he stood his ground. That's about 
 all we do know." 
 
 "What did you say to him?" 
 
 "I had to address him as Sir, and beg him not to 
 write to me any more. Of course they mean to get 
 rid of him, and I couldn't do him any good. Poor 
 
NO ONE CAN TELL WHAT MAY COME TO PASS. 5Q 
 
 Tifto! Upon the whole I think I hate Jawstock worse 
 than Tifto/' 
 
 Lady Mabel was content with her afternoon's work. 
 When they had been at Matching before the Polpenno 
 election, there had apparently been no friendship be- 
 tween them, — at any rate no confidential friendship. 
 Miss Boncassen had been there, and he had had neither 
 ears nor eyes for anyone else. But now something like 
 the feeling of old days had been restored. She had 
 not done much towards her great object; — but then 
 she had known that nothing could be done till he 
 should again be in good humour with her. 
 
 On the Sunday, the Monday, and the Tuesday they 
 were again together. In some of these interviews 
 Silverbridge described the Polpenno people, and told 
 her how Miss Tregear had been reassured by his 
 eloquence. He also read to her the Jawstock and 
 Tifto correspondence, and was complimented by her 
 as to his prudence and foresight. ^'To tell the truth 
 I consulted Mr. Lupton,'' he said, not liking to take 
 credit for wisdom which had not been his own. Then 
 they talked about Grex, and Killancodlem, about 
 Gerald and the shooting, about Mary's love for Tregear, 
 and about the work of the coming session. On all 
 these subjects they were comfortable and confidential, 
 — Miss Boncassen's name never having been as yet so 
 much as mentioned. 
 
 But still the real work was before her. She had 
 not hoped to bring him round to kneel once more at 
 her feet by such gentle measures as these. She had 
 not dared to dream that he could in this way be 
 taught to forget the past autumn and all its charms. 
 She knew well that there was something very difiicult 
 
6o 
 
 THE duke's children. 
 
 before her. But, if that difficult thing might be done 
 at all, these were the preparations which must be 
 made for the doing of it. 
 
 It was arranged that she should leave Matching on 
 Saturday, the first day of the new year. Things had 
 gone on in the manner described till the Thursday 
 had come. The Duke had been impatient but had 
 restrained himself. He had seen that they were much 
 together and that they were apparently friends. He 
 too told himself that there were two more days, and 
 that before the end of those days everything might be 
 pleasantly settled! 
 
 It had become a matter of course that Silverbridge 
 and Mabel should walk together in the afternoon. He 
 himself had felt that there was danger in this, — not 
 danger that he should be untrue to Isabel, but that 
 he should make others think that he was true to 
 Mabel. But he excused himself on the plea that he 
 and Mabel had been intimate friends, — were still in- 
 timate friends, and that she was going away in a day 
 or two. Mary, who watched it all, was sure that 
 misery was being prepared for someone. She was 
 aware that by this time her father was anxious to wel- 
 come Mabel as his daughter-in-law. She strongly 
 suspected that something had been said between her 
 father and her brother on the subject. But then she 
 had Isabel Boncassen's direct assurance that Silver- 
 bridge was engaged to her! Now when Isabel's back 
 was turned, Silverbridge and Mabel were always 
 together. 
 
 On the Thursday after lunch they were again out 
 together. It had become so much a habit that the 
 walk repeated itself without an effort. It had been 
 
NO ONE CAN TELL WHAT MAY COME TO PASS. 6 1 
 
 part of Mabel's scheme that it should be so. During 
 all this morning she had been thinking of her scheme. 
 It was all but hopeless. So much she had declared 
 to herself. But forlorn hopes do sometimes end in 
 splendid triumphs. That which she might gain w\as 
 so much! And what could she lose? The sweet bloom 
 of her maiden shame? That, she told herself, with 
 bitterest inward tears, was already gone from her. 
 Frank Tregear at any rate knew where her heart had 
 been given. Frank Tregear knew that having lost her 
 heart to one man she was anxious to marry another. 
 He knew that she was willing to accept the coronet 
 of a duchess as her consolation. That bloom of her 
 maiden shame, of which she quite understood the 
 sweetness, the charm, the value — was gone when she 
 had brought herself to such a state that any human 
 being should know that, loving one man, she should 
 be willing to marry another. The sweet treasure was 
 gone from her. Its aroma was fled. It behoved her 
 now to be ambitious, cautious, — and if possible suc- 
 cessful. 
 
 When first she had so resolved, success seemed to 
 be easily within her reach. Of all the golden youths 
 that crossed her path no one was so pleasant to her 
 eye, to her ear, to her feelings generally as this Duke's 
 young heir. There was a coming manliness about 
 him which she liked, — and she liked even the slight 
 want of present manliness. Putting aside Frank Tre- 
 gear she could go nearer to loving him than any other 
 man she had ever seen. With him she would not be 
 turned from her duties by disgust, by dislike, or dis- 
 may. She could even think that the time w^ould 
 come when she might really love him. Then she had 
 
62 
 
 THE duke's children. 
 
 all but succeeded, and she might have succeeded al- 
 together had she been but a little more prudent. But 
 she had allowed her great prize to escape from her 
 fingers. 
 
 But the prize was not yet utterly beyond her grasp. i 
 To recover it, — to recover even the smallest chance of 
 recovering it, there would be need of great exertion. 
 She must be bold, sudden, unwomanlike, — and yet 
 with such display of woman's charms that he at least 
 should discover no want. She must be false, but false ( 
 with such perfect deceit, that he must regard her as 
 a pearl of truth. If anything could lure him back it 
 must be his conviction of her passionate love. And 
 she must be strong; — so strong as to overcome not I 
 only his weakness, but all that was strong in him. \ 
 She knew that he did love that other girl, — and she i 
 must overcome even that. And to do this she must \ 
 prostrate herself at his feet, — as, since the world be- i 
 gan, it has been man's province to prostrate himself at | 
 the feet of the woman he loves. 'i 
 
 To do this she must indeed bid adieu to the sweet v 
 bloom of her maiden shame! But had she not done c 
 so already when, by the side of the brook at Kil- 
 lancodlem, she had declared to him plainly enough 
 her despair at hearing that he loved that other girl? 
 Though she were to grovel at his feet she could not 
 speak more plainly than she had spoken then. She 
 could not tell her story now more plainly than she had 
 done then; but, — though the chances were small, — 
 perchance she might tell it more effectually. 
 
 "Perhaps this will be our last walk," she said. 
 **Come down to the seat over the river." 
 
NO ONE CAN TELL WHAT MAY COME TO PASS. 63 
 
 ^^Why should it be the last? You'll be here to- 
 morrow/' 
 
 "There are so many slips in such things/' she 
 said laughing. "You may get a letter from your con- 
 stituents that will want all the day to answer. Or 
 your father may have a political communication to 
 make to me. But at any rate come." So they went 
 to the seat. 
 
 It was a spot in the park from whence there was 
 a distant view over many lands, and low beneath the 
 bench, which stood on the edge of a steep bank, ran 
 a stream which made a sweeping bend in this place, 
 so that a reach of the little river might be seen both 
 to the right and to the left. Though the sun was 
 shining, the snow under their feet was hard with frost. 
 It was an air such as one sometimes finds in England, 
 and often in America. Though the cold was very per- 
 ceptible, though water in the shade was freezing at 
 this moment, there was no feeling of damp, no sense 
 of bitter wind. It was a sweet and jocund air, such 
 as would make young people prone to run and skip. 
 "You are not going to sit down with all the snow on 
 the bench,'' said Silverbridge. 
 
 On their way thither she had not said a word 
 that would disturb him. She had spoken to him of 
 the coming session, and had managed to display to 
 him the interest which she took in his parliamentary 
 career. In doing this she had flattered him to the 
 top of his bent. If he would return to his father's 
 politics, then would she too become a renegade. 
 Would he speak in the next session? She hoped he 
 would speak. And if he did, might she be there to 
 hear him? She was cautious not to say a word of 
 
64 
 
 THE duke's children. 
 
 Frank Tregear, understanding something of that strange 
 jealousy which could exist even when he who was 
 jealous did not love the woman who caused it. 
 
 "No/' she said, "I do not think we can sit. But 
 still I like to be here with you. All that some day 
 will be your own.'' Then she stretched her hands out 
 to the far view. 
 
 "Some of it, I suppose. I don't think it is all 
 ours. As for that, if we cared for extent of acres, one 
 ought to go to Barsetshire." 
 
 "Is that larger?" 
 
 "Twice as large, I believe, and yet none of the 
 family like being there. The rental is very well." 
 
 "And the borough," she said, leaning on his arm 
 and looking up into his face. "What a happy fellow 
 you ought to be." 
 
 "Bar Tifto, — and Mr. Jawstock." 
 
 "You have got rid of Tifto and all those troubles 
 very easily." 
 
 "Thanks to the governor." 
 
 "Yes, indeed. I do love your father so dearly." 
 "So do I— rather." 
 
 "May I tell you something about him?" As she 
 asked the question she was standing very close to 
 him, leaning upon his arm, with her left hand crossed 
 upon her right. Had others been there, of course she 
 would not have stood in such a guise. She knew that, 
 ' — and he knew it too. Of course there was some- 
 thing in it of declared affection, — of that kind of love 
 which most of us have been happy enough to give 
 and receive, without intending to show more than true 
 friendship will allow at special moments. 
 
NO ONE CAN TELL WHAT MAY COME TO PASS. 65 
 
 "Don't tell me anything about him I shan't like to 
 hear." 
 
 "Ah; — that is so hard to know. I wish you would 
 like to hear it." 
 
 "What can it be?" 
 
 "I cannot tell you now." 
 
 "Why not? And why did you offer?" 
 
 "Because Oh, Silverbridge." 
 
 He certainly as yet did not understand it. It had 
 never occurred to him that she would know what were 
 his father's wishes. Perhaps he was slow of com- 
 prehension as he urged her to tell him what this was 
 about his father. "What can you tell me about him, 
 that I should not like to hear?" 
 
 "You do not know? Oh, Silverbridge, I think 
 you know." Then there came upon him a glimmering 
 of the truth. "You do know." And she stood apart 
 looking him full in the face. 
 
 "I do not know what you can have to tell me." 
 
 "No; — no. It is not I that should tell you. But 
 yet it is so. Silverbridge, what did you say to me 
 when you came to me that morning in the Square?" 
 
 "What did I say?" 
 
 "Was I not entitled to think that you — loved 
 me?" To this he had nothing to reply, but stood be- 
 fore her silent and frowning. "Think of it, Silverbridge. 
 Was it not so? And because I did not at once tell 
 you all the truth, because I did not there say that my 
 heart was all yours, were you right to leave me?" 
 
 "You only laughed at me." 
 
 "No; — no; no; I never laughed at you. How could 
 I laugh when you were all the world to me? Ask 
 Frank; he knew. Ask Miss Cass; — she knew. And 
 
 77i.^ Djike's Chiidre;:, III, 5 
 
66 
 
 THE duke's children. 
 
 can you say you did not know; you, you, you, your- 
 self? Can any girl suppose that such words as these 
 are to mean nothing when they have been spoken? 
 You knew I loved you/' 
 <^No;— no." 
 
 "You must have known it. I will never believe 
 but that you knew it. Why should your father be so 
 sure of it?" 
 
 "He never was sure of it." 
 
 "Yes, Silverbridge; yes. There is not one in the 
 house who does not see that he treats me as though 
 he expected me to be his son's wife. Do you not 
 know that he wishes it?" He fain would not have 
 answered this; but she paused for his answer and 
 then repeated her question. "Do you not know that 
 he wishes it?" 
 
 "I think he does," said Silverbridge; "but it can 
 never be so." 
 
 "Oh, Silverbridge; — oh my loved one. Do not 
 say that to me! Do not kill me at once!" Now she 
 placed her hands one on each arm as she stood op- 
 posite to him and looked up into his face. "You said 
 you loved me once. Why do you desert me now? 
 Hav^ you a right to treat me like that; — -when I tell 
 you that you have all my heart?" The tears were 
 now streaming down her face, and they were not 
 counterfeit tears. 
 
 "You know," he said, submitting to her hands, but 
 not lifting his arm to embrace her. 
 
 "What do I know?" 
 
 "That I have given all I have to give to another." 
 As he said this he looked away sternly, over her 
 shoulder, to the distance. 
 
NO ONE CAN TELL WHAT MAY COME TO PASS. 67 
 
 "That American girl!'' she exclaimed starting back, 
 with some show of sternness also on her brow. 
 
 "Yes; — that American girl," said Silverbridge. 
 
 Then she recovered herself immediately. Indigna- 
 tion, natural indignation, would not serve her turn 
 in the present emergency. "You know that cannot 
 be. You ought to know it. What will your father 
 say? You have not dared to tell him. That is so 
 natural,'' she added, trying to appease his frown. "How 
 possibly can it be told to him? I will not say a word 
 against her." 
 
 "No; do not do that." 
 
 "But there are fitnesses of things which such a one 
 as you cannot disregard without preparing for yourself 
 a whole life of repentance." 
 
 "Look here, Mabel." 
 
 "Well." 
 
 "I will tell you the truth." 
 "Well." 
 
 "I would sooner lose all; — the rank I have; the 
 rank that I am to have; all these lands that you 
 have been looking on; my father's wealth, my seat in 
 Parliament, — everything that fortune has done for me, 
 — I would give them all up, sooner than lose her." 
 Now at any rate he was a man. She was sure of 
 * that now. This w^as more, very much more, not only 
 than she had expected from him, but more than she 
 had thought it possible that his character should have 
 produced. 
 
 His strength reduced her to weakness. "And I am 
 nothing," she said. 
 
 "Yes, indeed; you are Lady Grex, — whom all 
 women envy, and whom all men honour." 
 
 5* 
 
68 
 
 THE duke's children. 
 
 "The poorest wretch this day under the sun.'* 
 "Do not say that. You should take shame to say 
 that." 
 
 "I do take shame; — and I do say it. Sir, do you 
 not feel what you owe me? Do you not know that 
 you have made me the wretch I am? How did you 
 dare to talk to me as you did talk when you were in 
 London? You tell me that I am Lady Mabel Grex; 
 — and yet you come to me with a lie on your lips, — ' 
 with such a lie as that! You must have taken me ; 
 for some nursemaid on whom you had condescended ' 
 to cast your eye! It cannot be that even you should 
 have dared to treat Lady Mabel Grex after such a 
 fashion as that! And now you have cast your eye on \ 
 this other girl. You can never marry her!" 
 
 "I shall endeavour to do so." 
 
 "You can never marry her," she said, stamping her ' 
 foot. She had now lost all the caution which she had 
 taught herself for the prosecution of her scheme, — all > 
 the care with which she had burdened herself. Now { 
 she was natural enough. "No, — you can never marry | 
 her. You could not show yourself after it in your I 
 clubs, or in Parliament, or in the world. Come home, « 
 do you say? No, I will not go to your home. It is 
 not my home. Cold; — of course I am cold; — cold 
 through to the heart." 
 
 "I cannot leave you alone here," he said, for she 
 had now turned from him, and was walking with hur- 
 ried steps and short turns on the edge of the bank, 
 which at this place was almost a precipice. 
 
 "You have left me, — utterly in the cold — more 
 desolate than I am here even though I should spend 
 the night among the trees. But I will go back, and , 
 
NO ONE CAN TELL WHAT MAY COME TO PASS. 69 
 
 will tell your father everything. If my father were 
 other than he is, — if my brother were better to me, 
 you would not have done this." 
 
 "If you had a legion of brothers it would have been 
 the same," he said, turning sharp upon her. 
 
 They walked on together, but without a word till 
 the house was in sight. Then she looked round at 
 him, and stopped him on the path as she caught his 
 eye. " Silverbridge ! " she said. 
 
 "Lady Mabel." 
 
 "Call me Mabel. At any rate call me Mabel. If 
 I have said anything to offend you — I beg your pardon." 
 
 "I am not offended — but unhappy." 
 
 "If you are unhappy, what must I be? What have 
 I to look forward to? Give me your hand, and say 
 that we are friends." 
 
 " Certainly we are friends," he said, as he gave her 
 his hand. 
 
 "Who can tell what may come to pass?" To this 
 he would make no answer, as it seemed to imply that 
 some division between himself and Isabel Boncassen 
 might possibly come to pass. "You will not tell anyone 
 that I love you." 
 
 "I tell such a thing as that!" 
 
 "But never forget it yourself. No one can tell 
 what may come to pass." 
 
 Lady Mabel at once went up to her room. She 
 had played her scene, but was well aware that she had 
 played it altogether unsuccessfully. 
 
70 
 
 THE duke's children. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 LORD GERALD IN FURTHER TROUBLE. 
 
 When Silverbridge got back to the house he was ' 
 by no means well pleased with himself. In the first • 
 place he was unhappy to think that Mabel was un- 
 happy, and that he had made her so. And then she , 
 had told him that he would not have dared to have 
 acted as he had done, but that her father and her 
 brother were careless to defend her. He had replied 
 fiercely that a legion of brothers ready to act on her 
 behalf would not have altered his conduct; but not 
 the less did he feel that he had behaved badly to her. 
 It could not now be altered. He could not now be 
 untrue to Isabel. But certainly he had said a word or 
 two to Mabel which he could not remember without 
 regret. He had not thought that a word from him 
 could have been so powerful. Now, when that word 
 was recalled to his memory by the girl to whom it 
 had been spoken, he could not quite acquit himself 
 
 And Mabel had declared to him that she would at 
 once appeal to his father. There was an absurdity in 
 this at which he could not but smile, — that the girl 
 should complain to his father because he would not 
 marry her! But even in doing this she might cause 
 him great vexation. He could not bring him.self to 
 ask her not to tell her story to the Duke. He must 
 take all that as it might come. 
 
LORD GERALD IN FURTHER TROUBLE. 7 I 
 
 While he was thinking of all this in his own room 
 a servant brought him two letters. From the first which 
 he opened he soon perceived that it contained an ac- 
 count of more troubles. It was from his brother Gerald, 
 and was written from Auld Reikie, the name of a house 
 in Scotland belonging to Lord Nidderdale^s people. 
 
 "Dear Silver, 
 
 "I have got into a most awful scrape. That fellow 
 Percival is here, and Dolly Longstaff, and Nidderdale, 
 and Popplecourt, and Jack Hindes and Perry who is 
 in the Coldstreams, and one or two more, and there 
 has been a lot of cards, and I have lost ever so much 
 money. I wouldn't mind it so much but Percival has 
 won it all, — a fellow I hate; and now I owe him — 
 three thousand four hundred pounds! He has just 
 told me he is hard up and that he wants the money 
 before the week is over. He can't be hard up because 
 he has won from everybody; — but of course I had to 
 tell him that I would pay him. 
 
 "Can you help me? Of course I know that I have 
 been a fool. Percival knows what he is abaut and 
 plays regularly for money. When I began I didn't 
 think that I could lose above twenty or thirty pounds. 
 But it got on from one thing to another, and when I 
 woke this morning I felt I didn't know what to do 
 with myself. You can't think how the luck went 
 against me. Everybody says that they never saw such 
 cards. 
 
 "And now do tell me how I am to get out of it. 
 Could you manage it with Mr. Morton? Of course I 
 will make it all right with you some day. Morton 
 always lets you have whatever you want. But perhaps 
 
72 
 
 THE duke's children. 
 
 you couldn't do this without letting the governor know. 
 I would rather anything than that. There is some money 
 owing at Oxford also which of course he must know. 
 
 "I was thinking that perhaps I might get it from 
 some of those fellows in London. There are people 
 called Comfort and Criball, who let men have money 
 constantly. I know two or three up at Oxford who 
 have had it from them. Of course I couldn't go to 
 them as you could do, for, in spite of what the governor 
 said to us up in London one day, there is nothing that 
 must come to me. But you could do anything in that 
 way, and of course I would stand to it. 
 
 "I know you won't throw me over, because you 
 always have been such a brick. But above all things 
 don't tell the governor. Percival is such a nasty fellow, 
 otherwise I shouldn't mind it. He spoke this morning 
 as though I was treating him badly, — though the money 
 was only lost last night; and he looked at me in a 
 way that made me long to kick him. I told him not 
 to flurry himself, and that he should have his money. 
 If he speaks to me like that again I will kick him. 
 
 "I will be at Matching as soon as possible, but I 
 cannot go till this is settled. *Nid' — meaning Lord 
 Nidderdale, — 4s a brick.' 
 
 "Your affectionate Brother, 
 
 "Gerald." 
 
 The other was from Nidderdale, and referred to 
 the same subject. 
 
 "Dear Silverbridge, 
 "Here has been a terrible nuisance. Last night 
 some of the men got to playing cards, and Gerald lost 
 
LORD GERALD IN FURTHER TROUBLE. 73 
 
 a terribly large sum to Percival. I did all that I could 
 to stop it, because I saw that Percival was going in 
 for a big thing. I fancy that he got as much from 
 Dolly Longstaff as he did from Gerald; — but it won't 
 matter much to Dolly; or if it does, nobody cares. 
 Gerald told me he was writing to you about it, so I 
 am not betraying him. 
 
 "What is to be done? Of course Percival is be- 
 having badly. He always does. I can't turn him out 
 of the house, and he seems to intend to stick to Gerald 
 till he has got the money. He has taken a cheque 
 from Dolly dated two months hence. I am in an awful 
 funk for fear Gerald should pitch into him. He will 
 in a minute if anything rough is said to him. I sup- 
 pose the straightest thing would be to go to the Duke 
 at once, but Gerald won't hear of it. I hope you 
 won't think me wrong to tell you. If I could help him 
 I would. You know what a bad doctor I am for that 
 sort of, complaint. 
 
 "Yours always, 
 
 "NiDDERDALE." 
 
 The dinner-bell had rung before Silverbridge had 
 come to an end of thinking of this new vexation, and 
 he had not as yet made up his mind what he had 
 better do for his brother. There was one thing as to 
 which he was determined, — that it should not be done 
 by him, nor, if he could prevent it, by Gerald, There 
 should be no dealings with Comfort and Criball. The 
 Duke had succeeded, at any rate, in filling his son's 
 mind with a horror of aid of that sort. Nidderdale 
 had suggested that the "straightest" thing would be 
 
74 THE duke's children. 
 
 to go direct to the Duke. That no doubt would be 
 straight, — and efficacious. The Duke would not have 
 allowed a boy of his to be a debtor to Lord Percival 
 for a day, let the debt have been contracted how it 
 might. But Gerald had declared against this course, 
 —and Silverbridge himself would have been most un- 
 willing to adopt it. How could he have told that story , 
 to the Duke, while there was that other infinitely more 
 important story of his own, which must be told at 
 once? ; 
 
 In the midst of all these troubles he went down to 
 dinner. "Lady Mabel," said the Duke, "tells me that' 
 you two have been to see Sir Guy's look-out." '; 
 
 She was standing close to the Duke and whispered 
 a word into his ear. "You said you would call me 
 Mabel." 
 
 "Yes, sir," said Silverbridge, "and I have made up 
 my mind that Sir Guy never stayed there very long in' 
 winter. It was awfully cold." * \ 
 
 "I had furs on," said Mabel. "Wliat a lovely spot; 
 it is, even in this weather." Then dinner was an-; 
 nounced. She had not been cold. She could still feel' 
 the tingling heat of her blood as she had implored 
 him to love her. 
 
 Silverbridge felt that he must write to his brother 
 by the first post. The communication was of a nature 
 that would bear no delay. If his hands had been free 
 he would himself have gone off to Auld Reikie. At 
 last he made up his mind. The first letter he wrote 
 was neither to Nidderdale nor to Gerald, but to Lord 
 Percival himself. 
 
LORD GERALD IN FURTHER TROUBLE. 
 
 75 
 
 "Dear Percival, 
 "Gerald writes me word that he has lost to you at 
 cards .^3,400, and he wants me to get him the money. 
 It IS a terrible nuisance, and he has been an ass. But 
 of course I shall stand to him for anything he wants. 
 I haven^t got ^3,400 in my pocket, and I don't know 
 anyone who has;— that is among our set. But I send 
 you my 1. O. U. for the amount, and will promise to 
 get you the money in two months. I suppose that will 
 be sufficient and that you will not bother Gerald any 
 more about it. 
 
 "Yours truly, 
 
 "Silverbridge.'' 
 
 ^ Then he copied this letter and enclosed the copy 
 m another which he wrote to his brother. 
 
 "Dear Gerald, 
 "What an ass you have been! But I don't sup- 
 pose you are worse than I was at Doncaster. I will 
 have nothing to do with such people as Comfort and 
 
 Cnball. That is the sure way to the D ! As for 
 
 telling Morton, that is only a polite and roundabout 
 way of tellmg the governor. He would immediately 
 ask the governor what was to be done. You will see 
 what I have done. Of course I must tell the governor 
 before the end of February, as I cannot get the money 
 in any other way. But that I will do. It does seem 
 hard upon him. Not that the money will hurt him 
 much; but that he would so like to have a steady- 
 going son. ^ 
 
 "I suppose Percival won't make any bother about 
 the I. O. U. He'll be a fool if he does. I wouldn't 
 
76 
 
 THE DUKE^S CHILDREN. 
 
 kick him if I were you, — unless he says anything very 
 bad. You would be sure to come to grief somehow. 
 He is a beast. 
 
 "Your affectionate Brother, 
 
 "SiLVERBRIDGE." ' 
 
 With these letters that special grief was removed, 
 from his mind for awhile. Looking over the dark 
 river of possible trouble which seemed to run between^ 
 the present moment and the time at which the money; 
 must be procured, he thought that he had driven off' 
 this calamity of Gerald's to infinite distance. But into ^ 
 that dark river he must now plunge almost at once. ^ 
 On the next day, he managed so that there should be' 
 no walk with Mabel. In the evening he could see that ; 
 the Duke was uneasy; — but not a word was said to^ 
 him. On the following morning Lady Mabel took her ; 
 departure. When she went from the door, both the^ 
 Duke and Silverbridge were there to bid her farewell.] 
 She smiled and was as gracious as though everything! 
 had gone according to her heart's delight. "Dear Duke, < 
 I am so obliged to you for your kindness," she said, ■ 
 as she put up her cheek for him to kiss. Then she ' 
 gave her hand to Silverbridge. "Of course you will 
 come and see me in town." And she smiled upon 
 them all, — having courage enough to keep down all 
 her sufferings. 
 
 "Come in here a moment, Silverbridge," said the 
 father as they returned into the house together. "How 
 is it now between you and her?" 
 
"bone of my bone/^ 77 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 "BONE OF MY BONE/^ 
 
 t "How is it now between you and her?'^ That was 
 the question which the Duke put to his son as soon 
 as he had closed the door of the study. Lady Mabel 
 had just been dismissed from the front door on her 
 journey, and there could be no doubt as to the "her'' 
 intended. No such question would have been asked 
 had not Silverbridge himself declared to his father his 
 purpose of making Lady Mabel his wife. On that 
 subject the Duke, without such authority, would not 
 have interfered. But he had been consulted, had ac- 
 ceded, and had encouraged the idea by excessive 
 liberality on his part. He had never dropped it out 
 of his mind for a moment. But when he found that 
 the girl was leaving his house without any explanation, 
 then he became restless and inquisitive. 
 
 They say that perfect love casteth out fear. If it 
 be so the love of children to their parents is seldom 
 altogether perfect, — and perhaps had better not be 
 quite perfect. With this young man it was not that 
 he feared anything which his father could do to him, 
 that he believed that in consequence of the declara- 
 tion which he had to make his comforts and pleasures 
 would be curtailed, or his independence diminished. 
 He knew his father too well to dread such punishment. 
 
78 
 
 THE duke's children. 
 
 But he feared that he would make his father unhappy, 
 and he was conscious that he had so often sinned in 
 that way. He had stumbled so frequently! Though 
 in action he would so often be thoughtless, — yet he 
 understood perfectly the effect which had been pro- 
 duced on his father's mind by his conduct. He had 
 it at heart "to be good to the governor," to gratify 
 that most loving of all possible friends, who, as he 
 knew well, was always thinking of his welfare. And 
 yet he never had been "good to the governor;'' — nor 
 had Gerald; — and to all this was added his sister's 
 determined perversity. It was thus he feared his 
 father. 
 
 He paused a moment, while the Duke stood with 
 his back to the fire looking at him. "I'm afraid that 
 it is all over, sir," he said. 
 
 "All over!" 
 
 "I am afraid so." 
 
 "Why is it all over? Has she refused you?" 
 
 "Well, sir; — it isn't quite that." Then he paused 
 again. It was so difficult to begin about Isabel Bon- 
 cassen. 
 
 "I am sorry for that," said the Duke, almost 
 hesitating; "very sorry. You will understand, I hope, 
 that I should make no inquiry in such a matter, un- 
 less I had felt myself warranted in doing so by Avhat 
 you had yourself told me in London." 
 
 "I understand all that." 
 
 "I have been very anxious about it, and have even 
 gone so far as [to make some preparations for what I 
 had hoped would be your early marriage." 
 
 "Preparations!" exclaimed Silverbridge, thinking of 
 church bells, bride cake, and wedding presents. 
 
^^BONE OF MY BONE." 
 
 79 
 
 ^^As to the property. I am so anxious that you 
 should enjoy all the settled independence which can 
 belong to an English gentleman. I never plough or 
 sow. I know^ no more of sheep and bulls than of the 
 extinct animals of earlier ages. I would not have it 
 so with you. I would fain see you surrounded by 
 those things which ought to interest a nobleman in 
 this country. Why is it all over with Lady Mabel 
 Grex?" 
 
 The young man looked imploringly at his father, 
 as though earnestly begging that nothing more might 
 be said about Mabel. "I had changed my mind be- 
 fore I found out that she was really in love with me!'' 
 He could not say that. He could not hint that he 
 might still have Mabel if he would. The only thing 
 for him was to tell everything about Isabel Boncassen. 
 He felt that in doing this he must begin with himself. 
 "I have rather changed my mind, sir," he said, "since 
 we were walking together in London that night." 
 
 "Have you quarrelled with Lady Mabel?" 
 
 "Oh dear no. I am very fond of Mabel; — only 
 not just like that." 
 
 "Not just like what?" 
 
 "I had better tell the whole truth at once." 
 
 "Certainly tell the truth, Silverbridge. I cannot 
 say that you are bound in duty to tell the whole truth 
 even to your father in such a matter." 
 
 "But I mean to tell you everything. Mabel did not 
 seem to care for me much — in London. And then I 
 saw someone, — someone I liked better." Then he 
 stopped, but as the Duke did not ask any questions 
 he plunged on. "It was Miss Boncassen." 
 
 "Miss Boncassen!" 
 
8o 
 
 THE duke's children. 
 
 "Yes, sir/' said Silverbridge, with a little access of 
 decision. 
 
 "The American young lady?'' 
 "Yes, sir." 
 
 "Do you know anything of her family?" 
 
 "I think I know all about her family. It is not 
 much in the way of — family." 
 
 "You have not spoken to her about it?" 
 
 "Yes, sir; — I have settled it all with her, on con- ' 
 dition " ; 
 
 " Settled it with her that she is to be your I 
 wife!" 
 
 "Yes, sir, — on condition that you will approve." | 
 "Did you go to her, Silverbridge, with such ai 
 stipulation as that?" 
 
 "It was not like that." 
 "How was it then?" 
 
 " She stipulated. She will marry me if you will ' 
 consent." ! 
 
 "It was she then who thought of my wishes and ! 
 my feeling; — not you?" ' 
 
 "I knew that I loved her. What is a man to do! 
 when he feels like that? Of course I meant to tell 
 you." The Duke was now looking very black. "I thought 
 you liked her, sir." 
 
 "Liked her! I did like her. I do like her. What 
 has that to do with it? Do you think I like none but 
 those with whom I should think it fitting to ally my- 
 self in marriage? Is there to be no duty in such 
 matters, no restraint, no feeling of what is due to your 
 own name, and to others who bear it? The lad out 
 there who is sweeping the walks can marry the first 
 girl that pleases his eye if she will take him. Perhaps 
 
"bone of my bonk." 
 
 81 
 
 his lot is the happier because he owns such liberty. 
 Have you the same freedom?^' 
 "I suppose I have, — by law/^ 
 
 "Do you recognise no duty but what the laws 
 impose upon you? Should you be disposed to eat and 
 drink in bestial excess, because the laws would not 
 hinder you! Should you lie and sleep all the day, the 
 law would say nothing! Should you neglect every 
 duty which your position imposes on you, the law 
 could not interfere! To such a one as you the law 
 can be no guide. You should so live as not to come 
 near the law, — or to have the law to come near to you. 
 From all evil against which the law bars you, you 
 should be barred, at an infinite distance, by honour, 
 by conscience, and nobility. Does the law require 
 patriotism, philanthropy, self-abnegation, public service, 
 purity of purpose, devotion to the needs of others who 
 have been placed in the world below you? The law 
 is a great thing, — because men are poor and weak, 
 and bad. And it is great, because where it exists in 
 its strength, no tyrant can be above it. But between 
 you and me there should be no mention of law as the 
 guide of conduct. Speak to me of honour, of duty, 
 and of nobilty; and tell me what they require of 
 you.'' 
 
 Silverbridge listened in silence and with something 
 of true admiration in his heart. But he felt the strong 
 necessity of declaring his own convictions on one 
 special point here, at once, in this new crisis of the 
 conversation. That accident in regard to the colour 
 of the Dean's lodge had stood in the way of his 
 logical studies, — so that he was unable to put his 
 argument into proper shape; but there belonged to 
 
 TJie Dukes Childrcji. Ill, 6 
 
82 
 
 THE duke's children. 
 
 him a certain natural astuteness which told him that 
 he must put in his rejoinder at this particular point 
 "I think I am bound in honour and in duty to marry 
 Miss Boncassen/' he said. "And, if I understand what 
 you mean, by nobility just as much." 
 "Because you have promised." 
 
 "Not only for that. I have promised and there- , 
 fore I am bound. She has; — well, she has said that 
 she loves me, and therefore of course I am bound. 
 But it is not only that." ; 
 
 "What do you mean?" 
 
 "I suppose a man ought to marry the woman he ■ 
 loves, — if he can get her." ' 
 
 "No; no; not so; not always so. Do you think 
 that love is a passion that cannot be withstood?" 
 
 "But here we are both of one mind, sir. When I 
 saw how you seemed to take to her " 
 
 "Take to her! Can I not interest myself in i 
 human beings without wishing to make them flesh of ; 
 my flesh, bone of my bone? What am I to think of ' 
 you? It was but the other day that all that you are \ 
 now telling me of Miss Boncassen, you were telling me ; 
 of Lady Mabel Grex." Here poor Silverbridge bit his 
 lips and shook his head, and looked down upon the 
 ground. This was the weak part of his case. He 
 could not tell his father the whole story about Mabel, 
 — that she had coyed his love, so that he had been 
 justified in thinking himself free from any claim in that 
 direction when he had encountered the infinitely sweeter 
 charms of Isabel Boncassen. "You are weak as water," 
 said the unhappy father. 
 
 "I am not weak in this," 
 
^^BONE OF MY BONE.'' 
 
 83 
 
 "Did you not say exactly the same about Lady 
 Mabel?" 
 
 There was a pause, so that he was driven to reply. 
 "I found her as I thought indifferent, and then— I 
 changed my mind.'' 
 
 "Indifferent! What does she think about it now? 
 Does she know of this? How does it stand between 
 you two at the present moment?" 
 
 "She knows that I am engaged to^ — Miss Bon- 
 cassen." 
 
 "Does she approve of it?" 
 
 "Why should I ask her, sir? I have not asked 
 her." 
 
 "Then why did you tell her? She could not but 
 have spoken her mind when you told her. There 
 must have been much between you when this was 
 talked of." 
 
 The unfortunate young man was obliged to take 
 some time before he could answer this appeal. He 
 had to own that his father had some justice on his 
 side, but at the same time he could reveal nothing of 
 Mabel's secret. "I told her because we were friends. 
 I did not ask her approval; but she did disapprove. 
 She thought that your son should not marry an American 
 girl without family." 
 
 "Of course she would feel that." 
 
 "Now I have told you what she said, and I hope 
 you will ask me no further questions about her. I 
 cannot make Lady Mabel my wife; — though, for the 
 matter of that, I ought not to presume that she 
 would take me if I wished it. I had intended to ask 
 you to-day to consent to my marriage with Miss Bon- 
 cassen " 
 
 6* 
 
THE duke's children. 
 
 "I cannot give you my consent." 
 "Then I am very unhappy." 
 
 "How can I believe as to your unhappiness when 
 you would have said the same about Lady Mabel 
 Grex a few weeks ago?" 
 
 "Nearly eight months," said Silverbridge. 
 
 "What is the difference? It is not the time, but 
 the disposition of the man! I cannot give you my 
 consent. The young lady sees it in the right light, ' 
 and that will make your escape easy." 
 
 "I do not want to escape." ' 
 
 "She has indicated the cause which will separate 
 you." , 
 
 "I will not be separated from her," said Silver- ' 
 bridge, who was beginning to feel that he was sub- 
 jugated to tyranny. If he chose to marry Isabel, no ' 
 one could have a right to hinder him. ' 
 
 "I can only hope that you will think better of 
 it, and that when next you speak to me on that or -j 
 any other subject you will answer me with less ar- i| 
 rogance." j 
 
 This rebuke was terrible to the son, whose mind''! 
 at the present moment was filled with two ideas, that '1 
 of constancy to Isabel Boncassen, and then of respect j 
 and affection for his father. "Indeed, sir," he said, ! 
 "I am not arrogant, and if I have answered improperly 1 
 I beg your pardon. But my mind is made up about 
 this, and I thought you had better know how it is." 
 
 "I do not see that I can say anything else to you 
 now." 
 
 "I think of going to Harrington this afternoon." 
 Then the Duke with further very visible annoyance, 
 asked where Harrington was. It was explained that 
 
"bone of my bone.'' 
 
 85 
 
 Harrington was Lord Chiltern's seat, Lord Chiltern being 
 the Master of the Brake hounds; — that it was his son's 
 purpose to remain six weeks among the Brake hounds, 
 but that he should stay only a day or two with Lord 
 Chiltern. Then it appeared that Silverbridge intended 
 to put himself up at a hunting inn in the neighbour- 
 hood, and the Duke did not at all like the plan. That 
 his son should choose to live at an inn, when the com- 
 forts of an English country house were open to him, 
 was distasteful and almost offensive to the Duke. And 
 the matter was not improved when he was made to 
 understand that all this was to be done for the sake 
 of hunting. There had been the shooting in Scotland; 
 then the racing, — ah alas yes, — the racing, and the 
 betting at Doncaster! Then the shooting at Matching 
 had been made to appear to be the chief reason why 
 he himself had been living in his own house! And 
 now his son was going away to live at an inn in order 
 that more time might be devoted to hunting! *^Why 
 can't you hunt here at home, if you must hunt?" 
 
 "It is all woodland," said Silverbridge. 
 
 "I thought you w^anted woods. Lord Chiltern is 
 always troubling me about Trumpington Wood." 
 
 This breeze about the hunting enabled the son to 
 escape without any further allusion to Miss Boncassen. 
 He did escape, and proceeded to turn over in his 
 mind all that had been said. His tale had been told. 
 A great burden was thus taken off his shoulders. He 
 could tell Isabel so much, and thus free himself from 
 the suspicion of having been afraid to declare his pur- 
 pose. She should know what he had done, and should 
 be made to understand that he had been firm. He 
 bad, he thought, been very firm and gave himself some 
 
86 
 
 THE duke's children. 
 
 credit on that head. His father, no doubt, had been 
 firm too, but that he had expected. His father had 
 said much. All that about honour and duty had been 
 very good; but this was certain, — that when a young 
 man had promised a young woman he ought to keep 
 his word. And he thought that there were certain 
 changes going on in the management of the world 
 which his father did not quite understand. Fathers 
 never do quite understand the changes which are ma- 
 nifest to their sons. Some years ago it might have 
 been improper that an American girl should be ele- 
 vated to the rank of an English Duchess; but now all 
 that was altered. 
 
 The Duke spent the rest of the day alone, and was 
 not happy in his solitude. All that Silverbridge had 
 told him was sad to him. He had taught himself to 
 think that he could love Lady Mabel as an affectionate 
 father wishes to love his son's wife. He had set him- 
 self to wish to like her, and had been successful. Being 
 most anxious that his son should marry he had pre- 
 pared himself to be more than ordinarily liberal, — to 
 be in every way gracious. His children were now 
 everything to him, and among his children his son 
 and heir was the chief From the moment in which 
 he had heard from Silverbridge that Lady Mabel was 
 chosen he had given himself up to considering how he 
 might best promote their interests, — how he might best 
 enable them to live, with that dignity and splendour 
 which he himself had unwisely despised. That the son 
 who was to come after him should be worthy of the 
 place assigned to his name had been, of personal ob- 
 jects, the nearest to his heart. There had been failures, 
 but still there had been left room for hope. The boy 
 
"bone of my bone.'^ 
 
 87 
 
 had been unfortunate at Eton; — but how many unfor- 
 tunate boys had become great men! He had disgraced 
 himself by his folly at college, — but, though some lads 
 will be men at twenty, others are then little more than 
 children. The fruit that ripens the soonest is seldom 
 the best. Then had come Tifto and the racing mania. 
 Nothing could be worse than Tifto and racehorses. But 
 from that evil Silverbridge had seemed to be made 
 free by the very disgust which the vileness of the cir- 
 cumstance had produced. Perhaps Tifto driving a nail 
 into his horse's foot had on the whole been service- 
 able. That apostacy from the political creed of the 
 Pallisers had been a blow, — much more felt than the 
 loss of the seventy thousand pounds; — but even under 
 that blow he had consoled himself by thinking that a 
 conservative patriotic nobleman may serve his country, 
 — even as a Conservative. In the midst of this he had 
 felt that the surest resource for his son against evil 
 would be in an early marriage. If he would marry 
 becomingly, then might everything still be made plea- 
 sant. If his son would marry becomingly nothing which 
 a father could do should be wanting to add splendour 
 and dignity to his son's life. 
 
 In thinking of all this he had by no means regarded 
 his own mode of life with favour. He knew how jejune 
 his life had been, — how devoid of other interests than 
 that of the public service to which he had devoted 
 himself. He was thinking of this when he told his son 
 that he had neither ploughed and sowed or been the 
 owner of sheep or oxen. He often thought of this, 
 when he heard those around him talking of the sports, 
 which, though he condemned them as the employments 
 of a life, he now regarded wistfully, hopelessly as far 
 
88 
 
 THE duke's children. 
 
 as he himself was concerned, as proper recreations for 
 a man of wealth. Silverbridge should have it all, if he 
 could arrange it. The one thing necessary was a fit- 
 ting wife; — and the fitting wife had been absolutely- 
 chosen by Silverbridge himself 
 
 It may be conceived, therefore, that he was again 
 unhappy. He had already been driven to acknowledge 
 that these children of his, — thoughtless, restless, though 
 they seemed to be, — still had a will of their own. In 
 all which how like they were to their mother ! With her, 
 however, his word, though it might be resisted, had 
 never lost its authority. When he had declared that a 
 thing should not be done, she had never persisted in 
 saying that she would do it. But with his children it 
 was otherwise. What power had he over Silverbridge, 
 — or for the matter of that, even over his daughter? 
 They had only to be firm and he knew that he must 
 be conquered. 
 
 "I thought that you liked her," Silverbridge had 
 said to him. How utterly unconscious, thought the 
 Duke, must the young man have been of all that his 
 position required of him when he used such an argu- 
 ment! Liked her. He did like her. She was clever, 
 accomplished, beautiful, well-mannered, — as far as he 
 knew endowed with all good qualities ! Would not many 
 an old Roman have said as much for some favourite 
 Greek slave, — for some freedman whom he would ad- 
 mit to his very heart? But what old Roman ever 
 dreamed of giving his daughter to the son of a Greek 
 bondsman! Had he done so, what would have become 
 of the name of a Roman citizen? And was it not his 
 duty to fortify and maintain that higher, smaller, more 
 
^^BONE OF MY BONE.'* 
 
 8g 
 
 precious pinnacle of rank on which Fortune had placed 
 him and his children? 
 
 Like her! Yes! he liked her certainly. He had by 
 no means always found that he best liked the com- 
 panionship of his own order. He had liked to feel 
 around him the free battle of the House of Commons. 
 He liked the power of attack and defence in carrying 
 on which an English politician cares nothing for rank. 
 He liked to remember that the son of any tradesman 
 might, by his own merits, become a peer of Parliament. 
 He would have liked to think that his son should share 
 all these tastes with him. Yes, — he liked Isabel Bon- 
 cassen. But how different was that liking from a de- 
 sire that she should be bone of his bone, and flesh of 
 his flesh! 
 
90 
 
 THE duke's children. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 THE BRAKE COUNTRY. 
 
 "What does your father mean to do about Trump- ; 
 ington Wood?^^ That was the first word fi-om Lord 
 Chiltern after he had shaken hands with his guest. 
 
 "Isn't it all right yet?'' '; 
 
 "All right?" No! How can a wood like that be 
 all right without a man about the place who knows ; 
 anything of the nature of a fox? In your grandfather's 
 time " 
 
 "My great-uncle you mean." i 
 "Well; — your great-uncle! — they used to trap the i 
 foxes there. There was a fellow named Fothergill who < 
 used to come there for shooting. Now it is worse than < 
 ever. Nobody shoots there because there is nothing 
 to shoot. There isn't a keeper. Every scamp is allowed 
 to go where he pleases, and of course there isn't a fox 
 .in the whole place. My huntsman laughs at me when 
 I ask him to draw it." As the indignant Master of the 
 Brake Hounds said this the very fire flashed from his 
 eyes. 
 
 "My dear," said Lady Chiltern expostulating, "Lord 
 Silverbridge hasn't been in the house above half an 
 hour." 
 
 "What does that matter? When a thing has to be 
 said it had better be said at once." 
 
THE BRAKE COUNTRY. 
 
 Phineas Finn was staying at Harrington with his 
 intimate friends the Chilterns, as were also a certain 
 Mr. and Mrs. Maule, both of whom were addicted to 
 hunting, — the lady, whose maiden name had been 
 Palliser, being a cousin to Lord Silverbridge. On that 
 day also a certain Mr. and Mrs. Spooner dined at 
 Harrington. Mr. and Mrs. Spooner were both very 
 much given to hunting, as seemed to be necessarily 
 the case with everybody admitted to that house. Mr. 
 Spooner was a gentleman who might be on the wrong 
 side of fifty, with a red nose, very vigorous, and sub- 
 missive in regard to all things but port-wine. His wife 
 was perhaps something more than half his age, a stout, 
 hard-riding, handsome woman. She had been the 
 penniless daughter of a retired officer, — but yet had 
 managed to ride on whatever animal anyone would 
 lend her. Then Mr. Spooner, who had for many years 
 been part and parcel of the Brake hunt, and who was 
 much in want of a wife, had, luckily for her, cast his 
 eyes upon Miss Leatherside. It was thought that upon 
 the whole she made him a good wife. She hunted 
 four days a week, and he could afford to keep horses 
 for her. She never flirted, and wanted no one to open 
 gates. Tom Spooner himself was not always so forward 
 as he used to be; but his wife was always there and 
 would tell him all that he did not see himself And 
 she was a good housewife, taking care that nothing 
 should be spent lavishly, except upon the stable. Of 
 him, too, and of his health, she was careful, never 
 scrupling to say a word in season when he was likely 
 to hurt himself, either among the fences or among the 
 decanters. "You ain't so young as you were, Tom. 
 Don't think of doing it." This she would say to him 
 
92 
 
 THE duke's children. 
 
 with a loud voice when she would find him pausing at 
 a fence. Then she would hop over herself and he 
 would go round. She was "quite a providence to him," 
 as her mother, old Mrs. Leatherside, would say. 
 
 She was hardly the woman that one would have 
 expected to meet as a friend in the drawing-room of 
 Lady Chiltern. Lord Chiltern was perhaps a little 
 rough, but Lady Chiltern was all that a mother, a wife, 
 and a lady ought to be. She probably felt that some 
 little apology ought to be made for Mrs. Spooner. "I 
 hope you like hunting,'' she said to Silverbridge. 
 
 "Best of all things," said he enthusiastically. 
 
 "Because you know this is Castle Nimrod, in which 
 nothing is allowed to interfere with the one great busi- 
 ness of life." 
 
 "It's like that; is it?" 
 
 "Quite like that. Lord Chiltern has taken up 
 hunting as his duty in life, and he does it with his / 
 might and main. Not to have a good day is a misery ; 
 to him; — not for himself but because he feels that he < 
 is responsible. We had one blank day last year, and 
 I thought that he never would recover it. It was that ; 
 unfortunate Trumpington Wood." 
 
 "How he will hate me." 
 
 "Not if you will praise the hounds judiciously. 
 And then there is a Mr. Spooner coming here to-night. 
 He is the first-lieutenant. He understands all about 
 the foxes, and all about the farmers. He has got a 
 wife." 
 
 "Does she understand anything?" 
 
 " She understands him. She is coming too. They 
 have not been married long, and he never goes any- 
 where without her," 
 
THE BRAKE COUNTRY. 
 
 93 
 
 "Does she ride?'' 
 
 "Well; yes. I never go out myself now because I 
 have so much of it all at home. But I fancy she does 
 ride a good deal. She will talk hunting too. If 
 Chiltern were to leave the country I think they ought 
 to make her master. Perhaps you'll think her rather 
 odd; but really she is a very good woman." 
 
 "I am sure I shall like her." 
 
 "I hope you will. You know Mr. Finn. He is here. 
 He and my husband are very old friends. And Adelaide 
 Maule is your cousin. She hunts too. And so does 
 Mr. Maule, — only not quite so energetically. I think 
 that is all we shall have." 
 
 Immediately after that all the guests came in at 
 once, and a discussion was heard as they were passing 
 through the hall. "No; — that wasn't it," said Mrs. 
 Spooner loudly. "I don't care what Dick said." Dick 
 Rabbit was the first whip, and seemed to have been 
 much exercised with the matter now under dispute. 
 "The fox never went into Grobby Gorse at all. I was 
 there and saw Sappho give him a line down the 
 bank." 
 
 "I think he must have gone into the gorse, my 
 dear," said her husband. "The earth was open you 
 know." 
 
 "I tell you she didn't. You weren't there, and you 
 can't know. I'm sure it was a vixen by her running. 
 We ought to have killed that fox, my Lord." Then 
 Mrs. Spooner made her obeisance to her hostess. Per- 
 haps she was rather slow in doing this, but the great- 
 ness of the subject had been the cause. These are 
 matters so important, that the ordinary civilities of the 
 world should not stand in their way. 
 
I 
 
 94 THE duke's children. 
 
 ^'What do you say, Chiltern?'' asked the husband. ; 
 
 ^'I say that Mrs. Spooner isn't very often wrong, 
 and that Dick Rabbit isn't very often right about a 
 fox.'' 
 
 "It was a pretty run," said Phineas. 
 
 "Just thirty- four minutes," said Mr. Spooner. 
 
 "Thirty-two up to Grobby Gorse," asserted Mrs. j 
 Spooner. "The hounds never hunted a yard after that. 
 Dick hurried them into the gorse, and the old hound 
 wouldn't stick to his line when she found that no one 
 believed her." 
 
 This was on a Monday evening, and the Brake j 
 hounds went out generally five days a week. "You'll' 
 hunt to-morrow, I suppose," Lady Chiltern said to' 
 Silverbridge. . 
 
 "I hope so." 
 
 "You must hunt to-morrow. Indeed there is nothing; 
 else to do. Chiltern has taken such a dislike to shoot- j 
 ing-men, that he won't shoot pheasants himself. We 
 don't hunt on Wednesdays or Sundays, and then every-, 
 body lies in bed. Here is Mr. Maule, he lies in bed) 
 on other mornings as well, and spends the rest of his [ 
 day riding about the country looking for the hounds." ' 
 
 "Does he ever find them?" 
 
 "What did become of you all to-day?" said Mr. 
 Maule, as he took his place at the dinner-table. "You ' 
 can't have drawn any of the coverts regularly." 
 
 "Then we found our foxes without drawing them," 
 said the master. 
 
 "We chopped one at Bromleys," said Mr. Spooner. 
 
 "I went there." ' 
 
 "Then you ought to have known better," said Mrs. 
 Spooner, "When a man loses the hovmds in that 
 
THE BRAKE COUNTRY. 
 
 95 
 
 country, he ought to go direct to Brackett's Wood. If 
 you had come on to Brackett's, you'd have seen as 
 good a thirty-two minutes as ever you wished to ride.'' 
 When the ladies went out of the room Mrs. Spooner 
 gave a parting word of advice to her husband, and to 
 the host. "Now, Tom, don't you drink port- wine. Lord 
 Chiltern, look after him, and don't let him have port- 
 wine." 
 
 Then there began an altogether different phase of 
 hunting conversation. As long as the ladies were there 
 it was all very well to talk of hunting as an amuse- 
 ment, good sport, a thirty minutes or so, the delight 
 of having a friend in a ditch, or the glory of a stiff- 
 built rail were fitting subjects for a lighter hour. But 
 now the business of the night was to begin. The dif- 
 ficulties, the enmities, the precautions, the resolutions, 
 the resources of the Brake hunt were to be discussed. 
 And from thence the conversation of these devotees 
 strayed away to the perils at large to which hunting in 
 these modern days is subjected; — not the perils of 
 broken necks and crushed ribs, which can be reduced 
 to an average, and so an end made of that small 
 matter; but the perils from outsiders, the perils from 
 new-fangled prejudices, the perils from more modern 
 sports, the perils from over-cultivation, the perils from 
 extended population, the perils from increasing rail- 
 roads, the perils from literary ignorances, the perils 
 from intruding cads, the perils from indifferent mag- 
 nates,— the Duke of Omnium, for instance; — and that 
 peril of perils, the peril of decrease of funds and in- 
 crease of expenditure! The jaunty gentleman who 
 puts on his dainty breeches and his pair of boots, and 
 on his single horse rides out on a pleasant morning to 
 
96 
 
 THE duke's children. 
 
 some neighbouring meet, thinking himself a sportsman, , 
 has but a faint idea of the troubles which a few staunch 
 workmen endure in order that he may not be made to 
 think that his boots, and his breeches, and his horse, 
 have not been in vain. 
 
 A word or two further was at first said about that 
 unfortunate wood for which Silverbridge at the present 
 felt himself responsible. Finn said that he was sure 
 the Duke would look to it, if Silverbridge would men- 
 tion it. Chiltern simply groaned. Silverbridge said 
 nothing, remembering how many troubles he had on 
 hand at this moment. Then by degrees their solicitude 
 worked itself round to the cares of a neighbouring 
 hunt. The A. R. U. had lost their master. One Cap- 
 tain Glomax was going, and the county had been 
 driven to the necessity of advertising for a successor, 
 "When hunting comes to that,'' said Lord Chiltern, 
 "one begins to think that it is in a bad way.'' It may 
 always be observed that when hunting-men speak 
 seriously of their sport, they speak despondingly. 
 Everything is going wrong. Perhaps the same thing 
 may be remarked in other pursuits. Farmers are 
 generally on the verge of ruin. Trade is always bad. 
 The church is in danger. The House of Lords isn't 
 worth a dozen years' purchase. The throne totters. 
 
 "An itinerant master with a carpet-bag never can 
 carry on a country," said Mr. Spooner. 
 
 "You ought really to have a gentleman of property 
 in the county," said Lord Chiltern, in a self-deprecating 
 tone. His father's acres lay elsewhere. 
 
 "It should be someone who has a real stake in the 
 country," replied Mr. Spooner, — "whom the farmers 
 can respect. Glomax understood hunting no doubt^, 
 
THE BRAKE COUNTRY. 
 
 97 
 
 but the farmers didn't care for him. If you don't have 
 the farmers with you you can't have hunting." Then 
 he filled a glass of port. 
 
 "If you don't approve of Glomax, what do you 
 think of a man like Major Tifto?" asked Mr. Maule. 
 
 "That was in the Runnymede," said Spooner con- 
 temptuously. 
 
 "Who is Major Tifto?" asked Lord Chiltern. 
 
 "He is the man," said Silverbridge boldly, "who 
 owned Prime Minister with me, when he didn't win the 
 Leger last September." 
 
 "There was a deuce of a row," said Maule. Then 
 Mr. Spooner, who read his "Bell's Life" and "Field" 
 very religiously, and who never missed an article in 
 "Bayley's," proceeded to give them an account of 
 everything that had taken place in the Runnymede 
 Hunt. It mattered but little that he was wrong in all 
 his details. Narrations always are. The result to 
 which he came was nearly right when he declared that 
 the Major had been turned off, that a committee had 
 been appointed, and that Messrs. Topps and Jawstock 
 had been threatened with a lawsuit. 
 
 "That comes," said Lord Chiltern solemnly, "of 
 employing men like Major Tifto in places for which 
 they are radically unfit. I daresay Major Tifto knew 
 how to handle a pack of hounds, — perhaps almost as 
 well as my huntsman. Fowler. But I don't think a 
 county would get on very well which appointed Fowler 
 Master of Hounds. He is an honest man, and there- 
 fore would be better than Tifto. But — it would not do. 
 It is a position in which a man should at any rate be 
 a gentleman. If he be not, all those who should be 
 concerned in maintaining the hunt will turn their backs 
 
 The Dukes Childreii. III. 7 
 
 i 
 
THE duke's children. 
 
 upon him. When I take my hounds over this man's 
 ground, and that man's ground, certainly without doing 
 him any good, I have to think of a great many things. 
 I have to understand that those whom I cannot com- 
 pensate by money, I have to compensate by courtesy. 
 When I shake hands with a farmer and express my 
 obHgation to him because he does not lock his gates, 
 he is gratified. I don't think any decent farmer would 
 care much for shaking hands with Major Tifto. If we 
 fall into that kind of thing there must soon be an end 
 of hunting. Major Tiftos are cheap no doubt; but in 
 hunting, as in most other things, cheap and nasty go 
 together. If men don't choose to put their hands in 
 their pockets they had better say so, and give the thing 
 up altogether. If you won't take any more wine, we'll 
 go to the ladies. Silverbridge, the trap will start from 
 the door to-morrow morning precisely at g.30 a.m. 
 Grantingham Cross is fourteen miles." Then they all 
 left their chairs, — but as they did so Mr. Spooner 
 finished the bottle of port-wine. 
 
 "I never heard Chiltern speak so much like a book 
 before," said Spooner to his wife as she drove him 
 home that night. 
 
 The next morning everybody was ready for a start 
 at half-past nine, except Mr. Maule, — as to whom his 
 wife declared that she had left him in bed when she 
 came down to breakfast. "He can never get there if 
 we don't take him," said Lord Chiltern, who was in 
 truth the most good-natured man in the world. Five 
 minutes were allowed him, and then he came down 
 with a large sandwich in one hand and a buttcn-hook 
 in the other, with which he Avas prepared to complete 
 his toilet. "What the deuce makes you always in such 
 
THE BRAKE COUNTRY. 
 
 99 
 
 a hurry?" were the first words he spoke as Lord 
 Chiltern got on the box. The Master knew him too 
 well to argue the point. ^'Well; — he ahvays is in a 
 hurry," said the sinner, when his wife accused him of 
 ingratitude. 
 
 "Where's Spooner?" asked the Master when he 
 saw Mrs. Spooner without her husband at the meet. 
 
 "I knew how it would be when I saw the port- 
 wine," she said in a whisper that could be heard all 
 round. "He has got it this time sharp, — in his great 
 toe. We shan't find at Grantingham. They were 
 cutting wood there last week. If I were you, my 
 Lord, I'd go away to the Spinnies at once." 
 
 "I must draw the country regularly," muttered the 
 Master. 
 
 The country was drawn regularly, but in vain till 
 about two o'clock. Not only was there no fox at 
 Grantingham Wood, but none even at the Spinnies. 
 And at two. Fowler, with an anxious face, held a con- 
 sultation with his more anxious master. Trumpington 
 Wood lay on their right, and that no doubt would 
 have been the proper draw. "I suppose we must try 
 it," said Lord Chiltern. 
 
 Old Fowler looked very sour. "You might as well 
 look for a fox under my wife's bed, my Lord." 
 
 "I daresay we should find one there," said one of 
 the wags of the hunt. Fowler shook his head, feeling 
 that this was no time for joking. 
 
 "It ought to be drawn," said Chiltern. 
 
 "Of course you know best, my Lord. I wouldn't 
 touch it, — never no more. Let 'em all know what the 
 Duke's Wood is." 
 
 7* 
 
100 
 
 THE duke's children. 
 
 "This is Lord Silverbridge, the Duke's son," said 
 Chiltern laughing. 
 
 "I beg your Lordship's pardon," said Fowler, taking 
 off his cap. "We shall have a good time coming, 
 some day. Let me trot 'em off to Michaelmas Daisies, 
 my Lord. I'll be there in thirty minutes." In the 
 neighbouring parish of St. Michael de Dezier there 
 was a favourite little gorse which among hunting-men 
 had acquired this unreasonable name. After a little 
 consideration the Master yielded, and away they 
 trotted. 
 
 "You'll cross the ford. Fowler?" asked Mrs. Spooner. 
 
 "Oh yes, ma'am; we couldn't draw the Daisies this 
 afternoon if we didn't." 
 
 "It'll be up to the horses' bellies." 
 
 "Those who don't like it can go round." 
 
 "They'd never be there in time. Fowler." 
 
 "There's a many, ma'am, as don't mind that. You 
 won't be one to stay behind." The water was up to 
 the horses' bellies, but, nevertheless, Mrs. Spooner was 
 at the gorse side when the Daisies were drawn. 
 
 They found and were away in a minute. It was 
 all done so quickly that Fowler, who had alone gone 
 into the gorse, had hardly time to get out with his 
 hounds. The fox ran right back, as though he were 
 making for the Duke's pernicious wood. In the first 
 field or two there was a succession of gates, and there 
 was not much to do in the way of jumping. Then the 
 fox, keeping straight ahead, deviated from the line by 
 which they had come, making for the brook by a more 
 direct course. The ruck of the horsemen, understand- 
 ing the matter very well, left the hounds, and went to 
 the right, riding for the ford. The ford was of such 
 
THE BRAKE COUNTRY. 
 
 lOI 
 
 a nature that but one horse could pass it at a time, 
 and that one had to scramble through deep mud. 
 "There'll be the devil to pay there/' said Lord Chiltern, 
 going straight with his hounds. Phineas Finn and 
 Dick Rabbit were close after him. Old Fowler had 
 craftily gone to the ford; but Mrs. Spooner, who did 
 not intend to be shaken off, followed the Master, and 
 close with her was Lord Silverbridge. "Lord Chiltern 
 hasn't got it right,'' she said. "He can't do it among 
 these bushes." As she spoke the Master put his horse 
 at the bushes and then — disappeared. The lady had 
 been right. There was no ground at that spot to take 
 off from, and the bushes had impeded him. Lord 
 Chiltern got over, but his horse was in the water. 
 Dick Rabbit and poor Phineas Finn were stopped in 
 their course by the necessity of helping the Master in 
 his trouble. 
 
 But Mrs. Spooner, the judicious Mrs. Spooner, rode 
 at the stream where it was, indeed, a little wider, but 
 at a place in which the horse could see what he was 
 about, and where he could jump from and to firm 
 ground. Lord Silverbridge followed her gallantly. They 
 both jumped the brook well, and then were together. 
 "You'll beat me in pace," said the lady as he rode up 
 alongside of her. "Take the fence ahead straight, 
 and then turn sharp to your right." With all her faults 
 Mrs. Spooner was a thorough sportsman. 
 
 He did take the fence ahead, — or rather tried to 
 do so. It w^as a bank and a double ditch, — not very 
 great in itself, but requiring a horse to land on the top 
 and go off with a second spring. Our young friend's 
 nag, not quite understanding the nature of the impedi- 
 ment, endeavoured to "swallow it whole," as hard- 
 
I02 
 
 THE duke's children. 
 
 riding men say, and came down in the further ditch. 
 Silverbridge came down on his head, but the horse 
 pursued his course, — across a heavily-ploughed field. 
 
 This was very disagreeable. He was not in the 
 least hurt, but it became his duty to run after his 
 horse. A very few furrows of that work suffice to make 
 a man think that hunting altogether is a "beastly sort 
 of thing.'' Mrs. Spooner's horse, who had shown him- 
 self to be a little less quick of foot than his own, had ; 
 known all about the bank and the double ditch, and i 
 had, apparently of his own accord, turned down to the 
 right, either seeing or hearing the hounds, and know- ' 
 ing that the ploughed ground was to be avoided. But | 
 his rider soon changed his course. She went straight 
 after the riderless horse, and when Silverbridge had 
 reduced himself to utter speechlessness by his exertions, . 
 brought him back his steed. 
 
 "I am, — I am, I am — so sorry," he struggled to j 
 say, — and then as she held his horse for him he ; 
 struggled up into the saddle. \ 
 
 "Keep down this furrow," said Mrs. Spooner, "and • 
 we shall be with them in the second field. There's no- : 
 body near them yet." 
 
"I'VE SEEN ^EM LIKE THAT BEFORE.'^ IO3 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 "iVe seen 'em like that BEFORE." 
 
 On this occasion Silverbridge stayed only a few 
 days at Harrington, having promised Tregear to enter- 
 tain him at the Baldfaced Stag. It was here that his 
 horses were standing, and he now intended, by Hmit- 
 ing himself to one horse a day, to mount his friend for 
 a couple of weeks. It was settled at last that Tregear 
 should ride his friend's horse one day, hire the next, 
 and so on. "I wonder what you'll think of Mrs. 
 Spooner?" he said. 
 
 "Why should I think anything of her?" 
 
 "Because I doubt whether you ever saw such a 
 woman before. She does nothing but hunt." 
 
 "Then I certainly shan't want to see her again." 
 
 "And she talks as I never heard a lady talk 
 before." 
 
 "Then I don't care if I never see her at all." 
 
 "But she is the most plucky and most good-natured 
 human being I ever saw in my life. After all, hunting 
 is very good fun." 
 
 "Very; if you don't do it so often as to be sick 
 of it." 
 
 "Long as I have known you I don't think I ever 
 saw you ride yet." 
 
 "We used to have hunting down in Cornwall, and 
 
THE duke's children. 
 
 thought we did it pretty well. And I have ridden in 
 South Wales, which I can assure you isn't an easy thing 
 to do. But you mustn't expect much from me." 
 
 They were both out the Monday and Tuesday in 
 that week, and then again on the Thursday without 
 anything special in the way of sport. Lord Chiltern, 
 who had found Silverbridge to be a young man after 
 his own heart, was anxious that he should come back 
 to Harrington and bring Tregear with him. But to this 
 Tregear would not assent, alleging that he should feel 
 himself to be a burden both to Lord and Lady 
 Chiltern. On the Friday Tregear did not go out, say- 
 ing that he would avoid the expense, and on that day 
 there was a good run. "It is always the way,'' said 
 Silverbridge. "If you miss a day, it is sure to be the 
 best thing of the season. An hour and a quarter with 
 hardly anything you could call a check! It is the only 
 very good thing I have seen since I have been here, 
 Mrs. Spooner was with them all through." 
 
 "And I suppose you were with Mrs. Spooner." 
 
 "I wasn't far off. I wish you had been there." 
 
 On the next day the meet was at the kennels, 
 close to Harrington, and Silverbridge drove his friend 
 over in a gig. The Master and Lady Chiltern, Spooner 
 and Mrs. Spooner, Maule and Mrs. Maule, Phineas 
 Finn, and a host of others condoled with the un- 
 fortunate young man because he had not seen the 
 good thing yesterday. "We've had it a little faster 
 once or twice," said Mrs. Spooner with deliberation, 
 "but never for so long. Then it was straight as a 
 line, and a real open kill. No changing you know. 
 We did go through the Daisies, but I'll swear to its 
 being the same fox." All of which set Tregear 
 
"iVe seen 'em like that before." 105 
 
 wondering. How could she swear to her fox? And if 
 they had changed, what did it matter? And if it had 
 been a Httle crooked, why would it have been less 
 enjoyable? And was she really so exact a judge of 
 pace as she pretended to be? "Fm afraid we shan't 
 have anything like that to-day," she continued. "The 
 wind's in the west, and I never do like a westerly 
 wind." 
 
 "A little to the north," said her husband, looking 
 round the compass. 
 
 "My dear," said the lady, "you never know where 
 the wind comes from. Now don't you think of taking 
 off your comforter. I won't have it." 
 
 Tregear was riding his friend's favourite hunter, a 
 thoroughbred bay horse, very much more than up to 
 his rider's weight, and supposed to be peculiarly good 
 at timber, water, or any well-defined kind of fence, 
 however high or however broad. They found at a 
 covert near the kennels, and killed their fox after a 
 burst of a few minutes. They found again, and 
 having lost their fox, all declared that there was not a 
 yard of scent. "I always know what a w^est wind 
 means," said Mrs. Spooner. 
 
 Then they lunched, and smoked, and trotted about 
 with an apparent acknowledgment that there wasn't 
 much to be done. It was not right that they should 
 expect much after so good a thing as they had had 
 yesterday. At half-past two Mr. Spooner had been sent 
 home by his Providence, and Mrs. Spooner was cal- 
 culating that she would be able to ride her horse again 
 on the Tuesday. When on a sudden the hounds were 
 on a fox. It turned out afterwards that Dick Rabbit 
 had absolutely ridden him up among the stubble, and 
 
1 
 
 I06 THE duke's children. 
 
 that the hounds had nearly killed him before he had 
 gone a yard. But the astute animal making the best 
 use of his legs till he could get the advantage of the 
 first ditch, ran, and crept, and jumped absolutely 
 through the pack. Then there was shouting, and 
 yelling, and riding. The men who were idly smoking 
 threw away their cigars. Those who were loitering at . 
 a distance lost their chance. But the real sportsmen, , 
 always on the alert, always thinking of the business in 
 hand, always mindful that there may be at any moment ; 
 a fox just before the hounds, had a glorious opportunity ' 
 of getting "well away." Among these no one was \ 
 more intent, or, when the moment came, "better away"' 
 than Mrs. Spooner. 
 
 Silverbridge had been talking to her and had the 
 full advantage of her care. Tregear was riding behind . 
 with Lord Chiltern, w^ho had been pressing him to ; 
 come with his friend to Harrington. As soon as the ^ 
 shouting was heard Chiltern was off like a rocket. It i 
 was not only that he was anxious to "get well away,"< 
 ^ but that a sense of duty compelled him to see how the < 
 
 thing was being done. Old Fowler certainly was a! 
 little slow, and Dick Rabbit, with the true bloody-' 
 minded instinct of a whip, was a little apt to bustle a 
 fox back into covert. And then, when a run commences 
 with a fast rush, riders are apt to over-ride the hounds, 
 and then the hounds will over-run the fox. All of 
 which has to be seen to by a Master who knows his 
 business. 
 
 Tregear followed, and being mounted on a fast 
 horse was soon as forward as a judicious rider would 
 desire. "Now, Runks, don't you press on and spoil it 
 all," said Mrs. Spooner to the hard-riding objectionable 
 
"I'VE SEEN 'em like THAT BEFORE.'^ IO7 
 
 son of old Rimks the vet. from Rufford. But young 
 Runks did press on till the Master spoke a word. The 
 word shall not be repeated, but it was efficacious. 
 
 At that moment there had been a check, — as there 
 is generally after a short spurt, when fox, hounds, and 
 horsemen get off together, and not always in the order 
 in which they have been placed here. There is too 
 much bustle, and the pack becomes disconcerted. But 
 it enabled Fowler to get up, and by dint of growling 
 at the men and conciliating his hounds, he soon picked 
 up the scent. "If they'd all stand still for two minutes 
 
 and be to them,'' he muttered aloud to himself, 
 
 "they'd 'ave some'at to ride arter. They might go 
 then, and there's some of 'em 'd soon be nowhere." 
 
 But in spite of Fowler's denunciations there was, of 
 course, another rush. Runks had slunk away, but by 
 making a little distance was now again ahead of the 
 hounds. And unfortunately there was half-a-dozen with 
 him. Lord Chiltern was very wrath. "When he's 
 like that," said Mrs. Spooner to Tregear, "it's always 
 well to give him a w^ide berth." But as the hounds 
 were now running fast it was necessary that even in 
 taking this precaution due regard should be had to the 
 fox's line. "He's back for Harrington bushes," said 
 Mrs. Spooner. And as she said so, she rode at a bank, 
 with a rail at the top of it perhaps a foot-and-a-half 
 high, with a deep drop into the field beyond. It w^as 
 not a very nice place, but it was apparently the only 
 available spot in the fence. She seemed to know it 
 well, for as she got close to it she brought her horse 
 . almost to a stand and so took it. The horse cleared 
 the rail, seemed just to touch the bank on the other 
 side, while she threw herself back almost on to his 
 
I08 THE duke's children. 
 
 crupper, and so came down with perfect ease. But 
 she, knowing that it would not be easy to all horses, 
 paused a moment to see what would happen. 
 
 Tregear was next to her and was intending to *'fly'' 
 the fence. But when he saw Mrs. Spooner pull her 
 horse and pause, he also had to pull his horse. This 
 he did so as to enable her to take her leap without 
 danger or encumbrance from him, but hardly so as to 
 bring his horse to the bank in the same way. It may 
 be doubted whether the animal he was riding would 
 have known enough and been quiet enough to have 
 performed the acrobatic manoeuvre which had carried 
 Mrs. Spooner so pleasantly over the peril. He had 
 some idea of this, for the thought occurred to him that 
 he would turn and ride fast at the jump. But before 
 he could turn he saw that Silverbridge was pressing on 
 him. It was thus his only resource to do as Mrs. 
 Spooner had done. He was too close to the rail, but 
 still he tried it. The horse attempted to jump, caught 
 his foot against the bar, and of course went over head- 
 foremost. This probably would have been nothing, 
 had not Silverbridge with his rushing beast been 
 immediately after them. When the young lord saw 
 that his friend was down it was too late for him to 
 stop his course. His horse was determined to have 
 the fence, — and did have it. He touched nothing, and 
 would have skimmed in glory over the next field had 
 he not come right down on Tregear and Tregear's 
 steed. There they were, four of them, two men and 
 two horses in one confused heap. 
 
 The first person with them was Mrs. Spooner, who 
 was off her horse in a minute. And Silverbridge too 
 was very soon on his legs. He at any rate was unhurt, 
 
"iVe seen 'em like that before/' lOQ 
 
 and the two horses were up before Mrs. Spooner was 
 out of her saddle. But Tregear did not move. "What 
 are we to do?'' said Lord Silverbridge, kneehng down 
 over his friend. "Oh, Mrs. Spooner, what are we 
 to do?" 
 
 The hunt had passed on and no one else was im- 
 mediately with them. But at this moment Dick 
 Rabbit, who had been left behind to bring up his 
 hounds, appeared above the bank. "Leave your horse 
 and come down," said Mrs. Spooner. "Here is a 
 gentleman who has hurt himself" Dick wouldn't leave 
 his horse, but was soon on the scene, having found 
 his way through another part of the fence. 
 
 "No; he ain't dead," said Dick — "I've seen 'm 
 like that before, and they wurn't dead. But he's had 
 a hawful squeege." Then he passed his hand over 
 the man's neck and chest. "There's a lot of 'em is 
 broke," said he. "We must get him into farmer 
 Tooby's." 
 
 After awhile he was got into farmer Tooby's, when 
 that surgeon came who is always in attendance on a 
 hunting-field. The surgeon declared that he had 
 broken his collar-bone, two of his ribs, and his left 
 arm. And then one of the animals had struck him 
 on the chest as he raised himself. A little brandy 
 was poured down his throat, but even under that 
 operation he gave no sign of life. "No, missis, he 
 aren't dead," said Dick to Mrs. Tooby; "no more he 
 won't die this bout; but he's got it very nasty." 
 
 That night Silverbridge was sitting by his friend's 
 bedside at ten o'clock in Lord Chiltern's house. 
 Tregear had spoken a few words, and the bones had 
 been set. But the doctor had not felt himself justified 
 
I lO 
 
 THE duke's children. 
 
 in speaking with that assurance which Dick had ex- 
 pressed. The man's whole body had been bruised by 
 the horse which had fallen on him. The agony of 
 Silverbridge was extreme, for he knew that it had 
 been his doing. "You were a little too close/' Mrs. 
 Spooner had said to him, "but nobody saw it and 
 we'll hold our tongues." Silverbridge however would 
 not hold his tongue. He told everybody how it had 
 happened, how he had been unable to stop his horse, 
 how he had jumped upon his friend, and perhaps 
 killed him. "I don't know what I am to do. I am 
 so miserable," he said to Lady Chiltern with the tears 
 running down his face. 
 
 The two remained at Harrington and their luggage 
 was brought over from the Baldfaced Stag. The 
 accident had happened on a Saturday. On the Sunday 
 there was no comfort. On the Monday the patient's 
 recollection and mind were re-established, and the 
 doctor thought that perhaps, with great care, his 
 constitution would pull him through. On that day the 
 consternation at Harrington was so great that Mrs. 
 Spooner would not go to the meet. She came over 
 from Spoon Hall, and spent a considerable part of the 
 day in the sick man's room. "It's sure to come right if 
 it's above the vitals," she said, expressing an opinion 
 which had come from much experience. "That is," 
 she added, "unless the neck's broke. When poor old 
 Jack Stubbs drove his head into his cap and dislocated 
 his wertebury, of course it was all up with him." The 
 patient heard this and was seen to smile. 
 
 On the Tuesday there arose the question of family 
 communication. As the accident would make its way 
 into the papers a message had been sent to Polwenning 
 
"iVe seen ^em like that before.'* 1 1 I 
 
 to say that various bones had been broken, but that 
 the patient was upon the whole doing well. Then 
 there had been different messages backwards and 
 forwards, in all of which there had been an attempt 
 to comfort old Mrs. Tregear. But on the Tuesday 
 letters were written. Silverbridge, sitting in his friend's 
 room, sent a long account of the accident to Mrs. 
 Tregear, giving a list of the injuries done. 
 
 "Your sister," whispered the poor fellow from his 
 pillow. 
 
 t"Yes, — yes; — yes, I will." 
 "And Mabel Grex." Silverbridge nodded assent 
 and again went to the writing-table. He did write to 
 his sister, and in plain words told her eveiything. 
 "The doctor says he is not now in danger." Then he 
 added a postscript. "As long as I am here I will let 
 you know how he is." 
 
112 
 
 THE duke's children. 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 believe him to be a worthy young man/' 
 
 Lady Mary and Mrs. Finn were alone when the 
 tidings came from Silverbridge. The Duke had been 
 absent, having gone to spend an unpleasant week in ' 
 Barsetshire. Mary had taken the opportunity of his \ 
 absence to discuss her own prospects at full length. 
 "My dear," said Mrs. Finn, "I will not express an . 
 opinion. How can I after all that has passed? I have ■ 
 told the Duke the same. I cannot be heart and hand • 
 with either without being false to the other." But still ( 
 Lady Mary continued to talk about Tregear. 
 
 'T don't think papa has a right to treat me in this ! 
 way," she said. "He wouldn't be allowed to kill me, | 
 and this is killing me." 
 
 "While there is life there is hope," said Mrs. Finn. 
 
 "Yes; while there is life there is hope. But one 
 doesn't want to grow old first." 
 
 "There is no danger of that yet, Mary." 
 
 "I feel very old. What is the use of life without 
 something to make it sweet? I am not even allowed 
 to hear anything that he is doing. If he were to ask 
 me, I think I would go away with him to-morrow." 
 
 "Pie would not be foolish enough for that." 
 
 "Because he does not suffer as I do. He has his 
 borough, and his public life, and a hundred things to 
 
"I BELIEVE HIM TO BE A WORTHY YOUNG MAN." I I 3 
 
 think of. I have got nothing but him. I know he is 
 true; — quite as true as I am. But it is I that have 
 the suffering in all this. A man can never be like a 
 girl. Papa ought not to make me suffer like this." 
 
 That took place on the Monday. On the Tuesday- 
 Mrs. Finn received a letter from her husband giving his 
 account of the accident. "As far as I can learn," he 
 said, " Silverbridge will write about it to-morrow." 
 Then he went on to give a by no means good account 
 of the state of the patient. The doctor had declared 
 him to be out of immediate danger, and had set the 
 broken bones. As tidings would be sent on the next 
 day she had better say nothing about the accident to 
 Lady Mary. This letter reached Matching on Tuesday 
 and made the position of Mrs. Finn very disagreeable. 
 She was bound to carry herself as though nothing was 
 amiss, knowing as she did so, the condition of Mary's 
 lover. 
 
 On the evening of that day Lady Mary was more 
 lively than usual, though her liveliness was hardly of 
 a happy nature. "I don't know what papa can expect. 
 IVe heard him say a hundred times that to be in 
 Parliament is the highest place a gentleman can fill, 
 and now Frank is in Parliament." Mrs. Finn looked 
 at her with beseeching eyes, as though begging her 
 not to speak of Tregear. "And then to think of their 
 having that Lord Popplecourt there! I shall always 
 hate Lady Cantrip, for it was her place. That she 
 should have thought it possible! Lord Popplecourt! 
 Such a creature. Hyperion to a satyr. Isn't it true? 
 , Oh, that papa should have thought it possible!" Then 
 she got up, and walked about the room, beating her 
 hands together. All this time Mrs. Finn knew that 
 
 The Dukes Children, III. 
 
114 
 
 THE duke's children. 
 
 Tregear was lying at Harrington with half his bones 
 broken , and in danger of his life ! 
 
 On the next morning Lady Mary received her 
 letters. There were two lying before her plate when 
 she came into breakfast, one from her father and the 
 other from Silverbridge. She read that from the Duke 
 first while Mrs. Finn was watching her. "Papa will be 
 home on Saturday," she said. "He declares that the 
 people in the borough are quite delighted with Silver- 
 bridge for a member. And he is quite jocose. ^They 
 used to be delighted with me once,' he says, ^but I 
 suppose everybody changes.' " Then she began to 
 pour out the tea before she opened her brother's 
 letter. Mrs. Finn's eyes were still on her anxiously. 
 "I wonder what Silverbridge has got to say about the 
 Brake Hunt." Then she opened her letter. 
 
 "Oh; — oh!" she exclaimed, — "Frank has killed 
 himself." 
 
 "Killed himself! Not that. It is not so bad as 
 that." 
 
 "You had heard it before." 
 "How is he, Mary?" 
 
 "Oh, heavens! I cannot read it. Do you read 
 it. Tell me all. Tell me the truth. What am I to 
 do? Where shall I go?" Then she threw up her 
 hands, and with a loud scream fell on her knees with 
 her head upon the chair. In the next moment Mrs. 
 Finn was down beside her on the floor. "Read it; 
 why do you not read it? If you will not read it, give 
 it to me." 
 
 Mrs. Finn did read the letter, which was very 
 short, but still giving by no means an unfavourable 
 account of the patient. "I am sorry to say he has 
 
"I BELIEVE HIM TO BE A WORTHY YOUNG MAN.'' 115 
 
 broken ever so many bones, and we were very much 
 frightened about him/' Then the writer went into 
 details, from which a reader who did not read the 
 words carefully might well imagine that the man's life 
 was still in danger. 
 
 Mrs. Finn did read it all, and did her best to com- 
 fort her friend. "It has been a bad accident," she 
 said, "but it is clear that he is getting better. Men 
 do so often break their bones, and then seem to think 
 nothing of it afterwards." 
 
 " Silverbridge says it was his fault. What does he 
 mean?" 
 
 "I suppose he was riding too close to Mr. Tregear, 
 and that they came down together. Of course it is 
 distressing, but I do not think you need make yourself 
 positively unhappy about it." 
 
 "Would not you be unhappy if it were Mr. Finn?" 
 said Mary, jumping up from her knees. "I shall go 
 to him. I should go mad if I were to remain here 
 and know nothing about it but what Silverbridge will 
 tell me." 
 
 "I will telegraph to Mr. Finn." 
 
 "Mr. Finn won't care. Men are so heartless. They 
 write about each other just as though it did not signify 
 in the least whether anybody were dead or alive. I 
 shall go to him." 
 
 "You cannot do that." 
 
 "I don't care now what anybody may think. I 
 choose to be considered as belonging to him, and if 
 papa were here I would say the same." It was of 
 course not difficult to make her understand that she 
 could not go to Harrington, but it was by no means 
 easy to keep her tranquil. She would send a telegram 
 
1 1 6 THE duke's children. 
 
 herself. This was debated for a long time, till at last 
 Lady Mary insisted that she was not subject to Mrs. 
 Finn's authority. "If papa were here, even then I 
 would send it.'' And she did send it, in her own 
 name, regardless of the fact pointed out to her by 
 Mrs. Finn, that the people at the post-office would 
 thus know her secret. "It is no secret," she said. 
 "I don't want it to be a secret." The telegram went 
 in the following words. "I have heard it. I am so 
 wretched. Send me one word to say how you are." 
 She got an answer back, with Tregear's own name to 
 it, on that afternoon. "Do not be unhappy. I am 
 doing well. Silverbridge is with me." 
 
 On the Thursday Gerald came home from Scot- 
 land. He had arranged his little affair with Lord 
 Percival, not however without some difficulty. Lord 
 Percival had declared he did not understand I. O. U.'s 
 in an affair of that kind. He had always thought 
 that gentlemen did not play for stakes which they 
 could not pay at once. This was not said to Gerald 
 himself; — or the result would have been calamitous. 
 Nidderdale was the go-between, and at last arranged 
 it, — not however till he had pointed out that Percival 
 having won so large a sum of money from a lad under 
 twenty-one years of age was very lucky in receiving 
 substantial security for its payment. 
 
 Gerald had chosen the period of his father's ab- 
 sence for his return. It was necessary that the story 
 of the gambling debt should be told the Duke in 
 February! Silverbridge had explained that to him, 
 and he had quite understood it. Lie, indeed, would 
 be up at Oxford in February, and, in that case, the 
 first horror of the thing would be left to poor Silver- 
 
"I BELIEVE HIM TO BE A WORTHY YOUNG MAN." I I 7 
 
 bridge! Thinking of this, Gerald felt that he was 
 bound to tell his father himself. He resolved that he 
 would do so, but was anxious to postpone the evil day. 
 He lingered therefore in Scotland till he knew that his 
 father was in Barsetshire. 
 
 On his arrival he was told of Tregear's accident. 
 "Oh Gerald; have you heard?'' said his sister. He 
 had not yet heard, and then the history was repeated 
 to him. Mary did not attempt to conceal her own 
 feelings. She was as open with her brother as she 
 had been with Mrs. Finn. 
 
 "I suppose he'll get over it," said Gerald. 
 
 "Is that all you say?" she asked. 
 
 "What can I say better? I suppose he will. Fel- 
 lows always do get over that kind of thing. Herbert 
 de Burgh smashed both his thighs, and now he can 
 move about again, — of course with crutches." 
 
 "Gerald! How can you be so unfeeling!" 
 
 "I don't know what you mean. I always liked 
 Tregear, and I am very sorry for him. If you would 
 take it a little quieter, I think it would be better." 
 
 "I could not take it quietly. How can I take 
 it quietly when he is more than all the world to 
 me?" 
 
 "You should keep that to yourself." 
 
 "Yes, — and so let people think that I didn't care, 
 till I broke my heart! I shall say just the same to 
 papa when he comes home." After that the brother 
 and sister were not on very good terms with each 
 other for the remainder of the day. 
 
 On the Saturday there was a letter from Silver- 
 bridge to Mrs. Finn. Tregear was better; but was 
 unhappy because it had been decided that he could 
 
Il8 THE duke's children. 
 
 not be moved for the next month. This entailed two 
 misfortunes on him; — first that of being the enforced 
 guest of persons who were not, — or, • hitherto had not 
 been his own friends, — and then his absence from 
 the first meeting of Parhament. When a gentleman 
 has been in Parliament some years he may be able to 
 reconcile himself to an obligatory vacation with a 
 calm mind. But when the honours and glory are new, 
 and the tedium of the benches has not yet been 
 experienced, then such an accident is felt to be a 
 grievance. But the young member was out of danger, 
 and was, as Silverbridge declared, in the very best 
 quarters which could be provided for a man in such a 
 position. 
 
 Phineas Finn told him all the politics; Mrs. Spooner 
 related to him, on Sundays and Wednesdays, all the 
 hunting details; while Lady Chiltern read to him light 
 literature, because he was not allowed to hold a book 
 in his hand. "I wish it were me,'' said Gerald. "I 
 wish I were there to read to him,'' said Mary. 
 
 Then the Duke came home. "Mary," said he, 
 "I have been distressed to hear of this accident." 
 This seemed to her to be the kindest word she had 
 heard from him for a long time. "I believe him 
 to be a worthy young man. I am sorry that he 
 should be the cause of so much sorrow to you — and 
 to me." 
 
 "Of course I was sorry for his accident," she re- 
 plied, after pausing awhile; "but now that he is better 
 I will not call him a cause of sorrow — to me." Then 
 the Duke said nothing further about Tregear; nor did 
 she. 
 
 "So you have come at last," he said to Gerald. 
 
^'I BELIEVE HIM TO BE A WORTHY YOUNG MAN." HQ 
 
 That was the first greeting, — to which the son re- 
 sponded by an awkward smile. But in the course of 
 the evening he walked straight up to his father — "I 
 have something to tell you, sir," said he. 
 
 "Something to tell me?" 
 
 "Something that will make you very angry." 
 
120 
 
 THE duke's children. 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 "do you ever think what money is?'' 
 
 Gerald told his story, standing bolt upright, and 
 looking his father full in the face as he told it. "You 
 lost three thousand four hundred pounds at one sitting 
 to Lord Percival — at cards!" 
 
 "Yes, sir." 
 
 "In Lord Nidderdale's house." 
 "Yes, sir. Nidderdale wasn't playing. It wasn't 
 his fauh." 
 
 "Who were playing?" 
 
 "Percival, and Dolly Longstaff, and Jack Hinde, — 
 and I. Popplecourt was playing at first." 
 "Lord Popplecourt!" 
 
 "Yes, sir. But he went away when he began to 
 lose." 
 
 "Three thousand four hundred pounds! How old 
 are you?" 
 
 "I am just twenty-one." 
 
 "You are beginning the world well, Gerald! What 
 is the engagement which Silverbridge has made with 
 Lord Percival?" 
 
 "To pay him the money at the end of next 
 month." 
 
 "What had Silverbridge to do with it?" 
 "Nothing, sir. I wrote to Silverbridge because 
 
^^DO YOU EVER THINK WHAT MONEY IS?'^ 12 1 
 
 I didn't know what to do. I knew he would stand 
 to me." 
 
 **Who is to stand to either of you if you go on 
 thus I do not know.'' To this Gerald of course 
 made no reply, but an idea came across his mind 
 that he knew who would stand both to himself and 
 his brother. "How did Silverbridge mean to get the 
 money?" 
 
 "He said he would ask you. But I thought that I 
 ought to tell you." 
 "Is that all?" 
 "All what, sir?" 
 
 "Are there other debts?" To this Gerald made 
 no reply. "Other gambling debts." 
 
 "No, sir; — not a shilling of that kind. I have 
 never played before." 
 
 "Does it ever occur to you that going on at that 
 rate you may very soon lose all the fortune that 
 will ever come to you? You were not yet of age 
 and you lost three thousand four hundred pounds at 
 cards to a man whom you probably knew to be a 
 professed gambler!" The Duke seemed to wait for 
 a reply, but poor Gerald had not a word to say. 
 "Can you explain to me what benefit you proposed to 
 yourself when you played for such stakes as that?" 
 
 "I hoped to win back what I had lost." 
 
 "Facilis descensus Averni!" said the Duke, shak- 
 ing his head. "Noctes atque dies patet atri janua 
 Ditis." No doubt, he thought, that as his son was at 
 Oxford, admonitions in Latin would serve him better 
 than in his native tongue. But Gerald, when he heard 
 the grand hexameter rolled out in his father's grandest 
 tone, entertained a comfortable feeling that the worst 
 
122 
 
 THE duke's children. 
 
 of the interview was over. "Win back what you had 
 lost! Do you think that that is the common fortune 
 of young gamblers when they fall among those who are 
 more experienced than themselves?" 
 
 "One goes on, sir, without reflecting.'^ 
 "Go on without reflecting! Yes; and where to? 
 where to? Oh Gerald, where to? Whither will such 
 progress without reflection take you?" "He means — , 
 to the devil," the lad said inwardly to himself, without 
 moving his lips. "There is but one ^goal for such go- \ 
 ing on as that. I can pay three thousand four hun- 
 dred pounds for you certainly. I think it hard that ' 
 I should have to do so; but I can do it, — and I will ' 
 do it." 
 
 "Thank you, sir," murmured Gerald. 
 
 "But how can I wash your young mind clean from 
 the foul stain which has already defiled it? Why did 
 you sit down to play? Was it to win the money which ; 
 these men had in their pockets?" : 
 
 "Not particularly." ( 
 
 "It cannot be that a rational being should consent ^ 
 to risk the money he has himself, — to risk even the : 
 money which he has not himself, — without a desire to 
 win that which as yet belongs to his opponents. You 
 desired to win." 
 
 "I suppose I did hope to win." 
 
 "And why? Why did you want to extract their 
 property from their pockets, and to put it into your 
 own? That the footpad on the road should have such 
 desire when, with his pistol, he stops the traveller on 
 his journey we all understand. And we know what 
 we think of the footpad, — and what we do to him. He 
 is a poor creature, who from his youth upwards has 
 
"do you ever think what money is?" 123 
 
 had no good thing done for him, uneducated, an out- 
 cast, whom we should pity more than we despise him. 
 We take him as a pest which we cannot endure, and 
 lock him up where he can harm us no more. On my 
 word, Gerald, I think that the so-called gentleman who 
 sits down with the deliberate intention of extracting 
 money from the pockets of his antagonists, who lays 
 out for himself that way of repairing the shortcomings 
 of fortune, who looks to that resource as an aid to his 
 means, — is worse, much worse, than the public robber ! 
 He is meaner, more cowardly, and has I think in his 
 bosom less of the feelings of an honest man. And he 
 probably has been educated, — as you have been. He 
 calls himself a gentleman. He should know black 
 from white. It is considered terrible to cheat at 
 cards.'' 
 
 "There was nothing of that, sir.'' 
 "The man who plays and cheats has fallen low in- 
 deed." 
 
 "I understand that, sir." 
 
 "He who plays that he may make an income, but 
 does not cheat, has fallen nearly as low. Do you ever 
 think what money is?" 
 
 The Duke paused so long, collecting his own 
 thoughts and thinking of his own words, that Gerald 
 found himself obliged to answer. "Cheques, and 
 sovereigns, and bank-notes," he replied with much 
 hesitation. 
 
 "Money is the reward of labour," said the Duke, 
 "or rather, in the shape it reaches you, it is your re- 
 presentation of that reward. You may earn it yourself, 
 or, as is, I am afraid, more likely to be the case with 
 you, you may possess it honestly as prepared for you 
 
124 
 
 THE duke's children. 
 
 by the labour of others who have stored it up for you. 
 But it is a commodity of which you are bound to see 
 that the source is not only clean but noble. You 
 would not let Lord Percival give you money.'' 
 
 "He wouldn't do that, sir, I am sure." 
 
 "Nor would you take it. There is nothing so com- 
 fortable as money, — but nothing so defiling if it be ' 
 come by unworthily; nothing so comfortable, but no- ; 
 thing so noxious if the mind be allowed to dwell upon 
 it constantly. If a man have enough, let him spend it i 
 freely. If he wants it, let him earn it honestly. Let 
 him do something for it, so that the man who pays it ■ 
 to him may get its value. But to think that it may \ 
 be got by gambling, to hope to live after that fashion, 
 to sit down with your fingers almost in your neigh- 
 bour's pockets, with your eye on his purse, trusting 
 that you may know better than he some studied cal- 
 culations as to the pips concealed in your hands, pray- i 
 ing to the only god you worship that some special card ; 
 may be vouchsafed to you, — that I say is to have left ' 
 far, far behind you, all nobility, all gentleness, all man- : 
 hood! Write me down Lord Percival's address and I 
 will send him the money." 
 
 Then the Duke wrote a cheque for the money 
 claimed and sent it with a note, as follows: — "The 
 Duke of Omnium presents his compliments to Lord 
 Percival. The Duke has been informed by Lord 
 Gerald Palliser that Lord Percival has won at cards 
 from him the sum of three thousand four hundred 
 pounds. The Duke now encloses a cheque for that 
 amount, and requests that the document which Lord 
 Percival holds from Lord Silverbridge as security for 
 the amount, may be returned to Lord Gerald." Let 
 
"do you ever think what money is?'^ 125 
 
 the noble gambler have his prey. He was little soli- 
 citous about that. If he could only so operate on the 
 mind of this son, — so operate on the minds of both his 
 sons, as to make them see the foolishness of folly, the 
 ugliness of what is mean, the squalor and dirt of 
 ignoble pursuits, then he could easily pardon past 
 faults. If it were half his wealth, what would it signify 
 if he could teach his children to accept those lessons 
 without which no man can live as a gentleman, let his 
 rank be the highest known, let his wealth be as the 
 sands, his fashion unrivalled? 
 
 The word or two which his daughter had said to 
 him, declaring that she still took pride in her lover's 
 love, and then this new misfortune on Gerald's part, 
 upset him greatly. He almost sickened of politics 
 when he thought of his domestic bereavement and his 
 domestic misfortunes. How completely had he failed 
 to indoctrinate his children with the ideas by which 
 his own mind was fortified and controlled! Nothing 
 was so base to him as a gambler, and they had both 
 commenced their career by gambling. From their 
 young boyhood nothing had seemed so desirable to 
 him as that they should be accustomed by early train- 
 , ing to devote themselves to the service of their country. 
 He saw other young noblemen around him who at 
 eighteen were known as debaters at their colleges, or 
 at twenty-five were already deep in politics, social 
 science, and educational projects. What good would 
 all his wealth or all his position do for his children if 
 their minds could rise to nothing beyond the shooting 
 I of deer and the hunting of foxes? There was young 
 Lord Buttercup, the son of the Earl of Woolantallow, 
 only a few months older than Silverbridge, — who was 
 
126 
 
 THE duke's children. 
 
 already a junior lord, and as constant at his office, or 
 during the Session on the Treasury Bench, as though 
 there were not a pack of hounds or a card-table in 
 Great Britain! Lord Buttercup, too, had already 
 written an article in "The Fortnightly on the subject 
 of Turkish finance. How long would it be before 
 Silverbridge would write an article, or Gerald sign his ' 
 name in the service of the public? 
 
 And then those proposed marriages, — as to which ; 
 he was beginning to know that his children would ; 
 be too strong for him! Anxious as he was that both 
 his sons should be permeated by liberal politics, ' 
 studious as he had ever been to teach them that the \ 
 highest duty of those high in rank was to use their 
 authority to elevate those beneath them, still he was , 
 hardly less anxious to make them understand that 
 their second duty required them to maintain their own • 
 position. It was by feeling this second duty, — by feel- : 
 ing it and performing it, — that they would be enabled ; 
 to perform the first. And now both Silverbridge and ! 
 his girl were bent upon marriages by which they would h 
 depart out of their own order! Let Silverbridge marry | 
 whom he might, he could not be other than heir to 
 the honours of his family. But by his marriage he 
 might either support or derogate from these honours. 
 And now, having at first made a choice that was 
 good, he had altered his mind from simple freak, 
 captivated by a pair of bright eyes and an arch smile; 
 and without a feeling in regard to his family, was anx- 
 ious to take to his bosom the granddaughter of an 
 American day-labourer! 
 
 And then his girl, — of whose beauty he was so 
 proud, from whose manners, and tastes, and modes of 
 
*^D0 YOU EVER THINK WHAT MONEY IS?'' I27 
 
 life he had expected to reap those good things, in a 
 feminine degree, which his sons as young men seemed 
 so Httle fitted to give him! By slow degrees he had 
 been brought round to acknowledge that the young 
 man was worthy. Tregear's conduct had been felt 
 by the Duke to be manly. The letter he had written 
 was a good letter. And then he had won for himself 
 a seat in the House of Commons. When forced to 
 speak of him to his girl he had been driven by justice 
 to call him worthy. But how could he serve to sup- 
 port and strengthen that nobility, the endurance and 
 perpetuation of which should be the peculiar care of 
 every Palliser? 
 
 And yet as the Duke walked about his room he 
 felt that his opposition either to the one marriage or 
 to the other was vain. Of course they would marry 
 according to their wills. 
 
 That same night Gerald wrote to his brother before 
 he went to bed, as follows; 
 
 ^'Dear Silver, — I was awfully obliged to you for 
 sending me the I. O. U. for that brute Percival. He 
 only sneered when he took it, and would have said 
 something disagreeable, but that he saw that I was in 
 earnest. I know he did say something to Nid, only I 
 can't find out what. Nid is an easygoing fellow, and, 
 as I saw, didn't want to have a rumpus. 
 
 "But now what do you think I've done? Directly 
 I got home I told the governor all about it! As I was 
 in the train I made up my mind that I would. I went 
 slap at it. If there is anything that never does any 
 good, it is craning. I did it all at one rush, just a§ 
 
128 
 
 THE duke's children. 
 
 though I was swallowing a dose of physic. I wish I 
 could tell you all that the governor said, because it 
 was really tip-top. What is a fellow to get by playing 
 high, — a fellow like you and me? I didn't want any 
 of that beast's money. I don't suppose he had any. 
 But one's dander gets up, and one doesn't like to be 
 done, and so it goes on. I shall cut that kind of thing . 
 altogether. You should have heard the governor spout- 
 ing Latin! And then the way he sat upon Percival, 
 without mentioning the fellow's name! I do think it ; 
 mean to set yourself to work to win money at cards, 
 — and it is awfully mean to lose more than you have 
 got to pay. ' 
 
 ^'Then at the end the governor said he'd send the 
 beast a cheque for the amount. You know his way of 
 finishing up, just like two fellows fighting; — when one , 
 has awfully punished the other he goes up and shakes ; 
 hands with him. He did pitch into me, — not abusing | 
 me, nor even saying a word about the money, which < 
 he at once promised to pay, but laying it on to gam- < 
 bling with a regular cat-o'-ninetails. And then there ; 
 was an end of it. He just asked the fellow's address 
 and said that he would send him the money. I will 
 say this; — I don't think there's a greater brick than 
 the governor out anywhere. 
 
 "I am awfully sorry about Tregear. I can't quite 
 make out how it happened. I suppose you were too 
 near him, and Melrose always does rush at his fences. 
 One fellow shouldn't be too near another fellow, — only 
 it so often happens that it can't be helped. It's just 
 like anything else, if nothing comes of it then it's all 
 right. But if anybody comes to grief then he has 
 got to be pitched into. Do you remember when I 
 
"do you ever think what money is.'* 129 
 
 nearly cut over old Sir Simon Slobody? Didn't I hear 
 about it! 
 
 "I am awfully glad you didn't smash up Tregear 
 altogether, because of Mary. I am quite sure it is no 
 good anybody setting up his back against that. It's 
 one of the things that have got to be. You always 
 have said that he is a good fellow. If so, what's the 
 harm? At any rate it has got to be. 
 
 "Your affectionate Brother, 
 
 " Gerald. 
 
 "I go up in about a week." 
 
 The Dukes Children, lit. 
 
 9 
 
130 
 
 THE duke's children. 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 THE THREE ATTACKS. 
 
 During the following week the communications 
 between Harrington and Matching were very frequent. 
 There were no further direct messages between Tregear 
 and Lady Mary, but she heard daily of his progress. 
 The Duke was conscious of the special interest which 
 existed in his house as to the condition of the young 
 man, but, after his arrival not a word w^as spoken for 
 some days between him and his daughter on the sub- 
 ject. Then Gerald went back to his college, and the 
 Duke made his preparations for going up to town and 
 making some attempt at parliamentary activity. 
 
 It was by no concert that an attack was made 
 upon him from three quarters at once as he was pre- 
 paring to leave Matching. On the Sunday morning 
 during church time, for on that day Lady Mary went 
 to her devotions alone, — Mrs. Finn was closeted for 
 an hour with the Duke in his study. "I think you 
 ought to be aware," she said to the Duke, "that though 
 I trust Mary implicitly and know her to be thoroughly 
 high principled, I cannot be responsible for her, if I 
 remain with her here." 
 
 "I do not quite follow your meaning." 
 
 "Of course there is but one matter on which there 
 can, probably, be any difference between us. If she 
 
THE THREE ATTACKS. 
 
 should choose to write to Mr. Tregear, or to send him 
 a message, or even to go to him, I could not prevent 
 it.'^ 
 
 "Go to him!'' exclaimed the horrified Duke. 
 
 "I merely suggest such a thing in order to make 
 you understand that I have absolutely no control over 
 her.'' 
 
 "What control have I?" 
 
 "Nay; I cannot define that. You are her father, 
 and she acknowledges your authority. She regards me 
 as a friend, — and as such treats me with the sweetest 
 affection. Nothing can be more gratifying than her 
 manner to me personally." 
 
 "It ought to be so." 
 
 "She has thoroughly won my heart. But still I 
 know that if there were a difference between us she 
 would not obey me. Why should she?" 
 
 "Because you hold my deputed authority." 
 
 "Oh, Duke, that goes for very little anywhere. 
 No one can depute authority. It comes too much 
 from personal accidents, and too little from reason 
 or law to be handed over to others. Besides, I fear, 
 that on one matter concerning her you and I are not 
 agreed." 
 
 "I shall be sorry if it be so." 
 
 "I feel that I am bound to tell you my opinion." 
 
 • "Oh yes." 
 "You think that in the end Lady Mary will allow 
 herself to be separated from Tregear. I think that in 
 the end they will become man and wife." 
 i This seemed to the Duke to be not quite so bad 
 as it might have been. Any speculation as to results 
 were very different from an expressed opinion as to 
 
 9* 
 
132 
 
 THE duke's children. 
 
 propriety. Were he to tell the truth as to his own 
 mind, he might perhaps have said the same thing. 
 But one is not to relax in one's endeavours to prevent 
 that which is wrong, because one fears that the wrong 
 may be ultimately perpetrated. "Let that be as it 
 may," he said, "it cannot alter my duty." 
 
 "Nor mine, Duke, if I may presume to think that 
 I have a duty in this matter." 
 
 "That you should encounter the burden of the duty ; 
 binds me to you for ever." i 
 
 "If it be that they will certainly be married one 
 day " ; 
 
 "Who has said that? Who has admitted that?" ! 
 
 "If it be so; if it seems to me that it must be so, 
 — then how can I be anxious to prolong her suffer- 
 ings? She does suffer terribly." Upon this the Duke 
 frowned, but there was more of tenderness in his ' 
 frown than in the hard smile which he had hitherto ( 
 worn. "I do not know whether you see it all." He \ 
 well remembered all that he had seen when he and 
 Mary were travelling together. "I see it; and I do J' 
 not pass half an hour with her without sorrowing for ■] 
 her." On hearing this he sighed and turned his face j 
 away. "Girls are so different! There are many who 
 though they be genuinely in love, though their natures ■ 
 are sweet and affectionate, are not strong enough to 
 support their own feelings in resistance to the will of 
 those who have authority over them." Had it been 
 so with his wife? At this moment all the former 
 history passed through his mind. "They yield to 
 that which seems to be inevitable, and allow them- 
 selves to be fashioned by the purposes of others. It 
 is well for them often that they are so plastic. Whether 
 
THE THREE ATTACKS. 
 
 it would be better for her that she should be so I will 
 not say.'' 
 
 *^It would be better/' said the Duke doggedly. 
 ^'But such is not her nature. She is as determined 
 as ever." 
 
 "I may be determined too." 
 
 "But if at last it will be of no use, — if it be her 
 fate either to be married to this man or die of a 
 
 broken heart " 
 
 "What justifies you in saying that? How can you 
 torture me by such a threat?" 
 
 "If I think so, Duke, I am justified. Of late I 
 have been with her daily, — almost hourly. I do not 
 say that this will kill her now, — in her youth. It is not 
 often, I fancy, that women die after that fashion. But 
 a broken heart may bring the sufferer to the grave 
 after a lapse of many years. How will it be with you 
 if she should live like a ghost beside you for the next 
 twenty years, and you should then see her die, faded 
 and withered before her time, — all her life gone with- 
 out a joy, — because she had loved a man whose posi- 
 tion in life was displeasing to you? Would the ground 
 on which the sacrifice had been made then justify 
 itself to you? In thus performing your duty to your 
 order would you feel satisfied that you had performed 
 that to your child?" 
 
 She had come there determined to say it all, — to 
 liberate her own soul as it were, — but had much 
 doubted the spirit in which the Duke would listen to 
 ^ her. That he would listen to her she was sure, — and 
 then if he chose to cast her out, she would endure his 
 ' Wrath. It would not be to her now as it had been 
 Ijwhen he accused her of treachery. But, nevertheless, 
 
 ;i 
 
134 
 
 THE duke's children. 
 
 bold as she was and independent, he had imbued her, 
 as he did all those around him, with so strong a sense 
 of his personal dignity, that when she had finished she 
 almost trembled as she looked in his face. Since he 
 had asked her how she could justify to herself the 
 threats which she was using he had sat still with his 
 eyes fixed upon her. Now, when she had done, he ' 
 was in no hurry to speak. He rose slowly and walk- , 
 ing towards the fire-place stood with his back towards 
 her, looking down upon the fire. She was the first to j 
 speak again. "Shall I leave you now?'' she said in a 
 low voice. ^ 
 
 "Perhaps it will be better," he answered. His | 
 voice, too, was very low. In truth he was so moved 
 that he hardly knew how to speak at all. Then she ; 
 rose and was already on her way to the door when he . 
 followed her. "One moment if you please," he said 1 
 almost sternly. "I am under a debt of gratitude to | 
 you of which I cannot express my sense in words, i 
 How far I may agree with you, and where I may dis- \ 
 agree I will not attempt to point out to you now." ' 
 
 "Oh no." j 
 
 "But all that you have troubled yourself to think 
 and to feel in this matter, and all that true friendship 
 has compelled you to say to me, shall be written down 
 in the tablets of my memory." 
 
 "Duke!" 
 
 "My child has at any rate been fortunate in secur- 
 ing the friendship of such a friend." Then he turned 
 back to the fireplace, and she was constrained to leave 
 the room without another word. 
 
 She had determined to make the best plea in her 
 power for Mary; and while she was making the plea 
 
THE THREE ATTACKS. 
 
 had been almost surprised by her own vehemence; but 
 the greater had been her vehemence, the stronger, she 
 thought, would have been the Duke's anger. And as 
 she had watched the workings of his face she had 
 felt for the moment, that the vials of his wrath were 
 about to be poured out upon her. Even when she left 
 the room she almost believed that had he not taken 
 those moments for consideration at the fireplace his 
 parting words would have been different. But, as it 
 was, there could be no question now of her departure. 
 No power was left to her of separating herself from 
 Lady Mary. Though the Duke had not as yet 
 acknowledged himself to be conquered, there was no 
 doubt to her now but that he would be conquered. 
 And she, either here or in London, must be the girl's 
 nearest friend up to the day when she should be given 
 over to Mr. Tregear. That was one of the three 
 attacks which were made upon the Duke before he 
 went up to his parliamentary duties. 
 
 This second was as follows; Among the letters on 
 the following morning one was brought to him from 
 Tregear. It is hoped that the reader will remember 
 the lover's former letter and the very unsatisfactory 
 answer which had been sent to it. Nothing could 
 have been colder, less propitious, or more inveterably 
 hostile than the reply. As he lay in bed with his 
 broken bones at Harrington he had ample time for 
 thinking over all this. He knew every word of the 
 Duke's distressing note by heart, and had often lashed 
 himself to rage as he had repeated it. But he could 
 effect nothing by showing his anger. He must go on 
 and still do something. Since the writing of that 
 letter he had done something. He had got his seat 
 
136 
 
 THE duke's children. 
 
 in Parliament. And he had secured the interest of his 
 friend Silverbridge. This had been partially done at 
 Polwenning; but the accident in the Brake country 
 had completed the work. The brother had at last de- 
 clared himself in his friend's favour. "Of course I 
 should be glad to see it," he had said while sitting 
 by Tregear's bedside. "The worst is that everything ■ 
 does seem to go against the poor governor." 
 
 Then Tregear made up his mind that he would 
 write another letter. Personally he was not in the \ 
 best condition for doing this as he was lying in bed 
 with his left arm tied up, and with straps and bandages 
 all round his body. But he could sit up in bed, and ; 
 his right hand and arm were free. So he declared to 
 Lady Chiltern his purpose of writing a letter. She 
 tried to dissuade him gently and offered to be his . 
 secretary. But when he assured her that no secretary ; 
 could write this letter for him she understood pretty | 
 well what would be the subject of the letter. With i 
 considerable difficulty Tregear wrote his letter. \ 
 
 "My Lord Duke," — On this occasion he left : 
 out the epithet which he had before used — 
 
 "Your Grace's reply to my last letter was not en- 
 couraging, but in spite of your prohibition I venture 
 to write to you again. If I had the slightest reason 
 for thinking that your daughter was estranged from 
 me, I would not persecute either you or her. But if 
 it be true that she is as devoted to me as I am to her, 
 can I be wrong in pleading my cause? Is it not evident 
 to you that she is made of such stuff that she will not 
 be controlled in her choice, — even by your will? 
 
 "I have had an accident in the hunting-field and 
 
im THREE ATTACKS. 
 
 am now writing from Lord Chiltern's house, where I 
 am confined to bed. But I think you will understand 
 me when I say that even in this helpless condition I 
 feel myself constrained to do something. Of course I 
 ask for nothing from you on my own behalf, — but on 
 her behalf may I not add my prayers to hers? 
 "I have the honour to be, 
 
 "Your Grace's very faithful Servant, 
 
 "Francis Tregear." 
 
 This coming alone would perhaps have had no 
 effect. The Duke had desired the young man not to 
 address him again; and the young man had disobeyed 
 him. No mere courtesy would now have constrained 
 him to send any reply to this further letter. But com- 
 ing as it did while his heart was still throbbing with 
 the effects of Mrs. Finn's words, it was allowed to have 
 a certain force. The argument used was a true argu- 
 ment. His girl was devoted to the man who sought 
 her hand. Mrs. Finn had told him that sooner or later 
 he must yield, — unless he was prepared to see his 
 child wither and fade at his side. He had once 
 thought that he would be prepared even for that. He 
 had endeavoured to strengthen his own will by arguing 
 with himself that when he saw a duty plainly before 
 him, he should cleave to that let the results be what 
 they might. But that picture of her face withered and 
 wan after twenty years of sorrowing had had its effect 
 upon his heart. He even made excuses within his 
 own breast in the young man's favour. He was in 
 Parliament now, and what may not be done for a young 
 man in Parliament? Altogether the young man ap- 
 peared to him in a light different from that through 
 
138 
 
 THE duke's children. 
 
 which he had viewed the presumptuous, arrogant, 
 utterly unjustifiable suitor who had come to him, now 
 nearly a year since, in Carlton Terrace. 
 
 He went to breakfast with Tregear's letter in his 
 pocket, and was then gracious to Mrs. Finn, and 
 tender to his daughter. "When do you go, papa?'' • 
 Mary asked. , 
 
 "I shall take the 11.45 train. I have ordered the • 
 carriage at a quarter before eleven." \ 
 
 "May I go to the train with you, papa?" 
 
 "Certainly; I shall be delighted." i 
 
 "Papa!" Mary said as soon as she found herself J 
 seated beside her father in the carriage. 
 
 "My dear." ; 
 
 "Oh, papa!" and she threw herself on to his, 
 breast. He put his arm round her and kissed her, — • ; 
 as he would have had so much delight in doing, as ^ 
 he would have done so often before, had there noti 
 been this ground of discord. She was very sweet to\ 
 him. It had never seemed to him that she had dis- / 
 graced herself by loving Tregear, — but that a great 1 
 misfortune had fallen upon her. Silverbridge when 
 he had gone into a racing partnership with Tifto, and 
 Gerald when he had played for money which he did 
 not possess, had — degraded themselves in his estima- 
 tion. He would not have used such a word; but it 
 was his feeling. They were less noble, less pure than 
 they might have been, had they kept themselves free 
 from such stain. But this girl, — whether she should 
 live and fade by his side, or whether she should give 
 her hand to some fitting noble suitor, — or even though 
 she might at last become the wife of this man who 
 
THE THREE ATTACKS. 
 
 loved her, would always have been pure. It was 
 sweet to him to have something to caress. Now in 
 the solitude of his life, as years were coming on him, 
 he felt how necessary it was that he should have 
 someone who would love him. Since his wife had 
 left him he had been debarred from these caresses 
 by the necessity of showing his antagonism to her 
 dearest wishes. It had been his duty to be stern. In 
 all his words to his daughter he had been governed 
 by a conviction that he never ought to allow the duty 
 of separating her from her lover to be absent from 
 his mind. He was not prepared to acknowledge that 
 that duty had ceased; — but yet there had crept over 
 him a feeling that as he was half conquered, why 
 should he not seek some recompense in his daughter's 
 love. "Papa,'' she said, "you do not hate me?" 
 
 "Hate you, my darling?" 
 
 "Because I am disobedient. Oh, papa, I cannot 
 help it. He should not have come. He should not 
 have been let to come." He had not a word to say 
 to her. He could not as yet bring himself to tell 
 her, — that it should be as she desired. Much less 
 could he now argue with her as to the impossibility of 
 such a marriage as he had done on former occasions 
 when the matter had been discussed. He could only 
 press his arm tightly round her waist, and be silent. 
 "It cannot be altered now, papa. Look at me. Tell 
 me that you love me." 
 
 "Have you doubted my love?" 
 p "No, papa, — but I would do anything to make 
 you happy; anything that I could do. Papa, you do 
 not want me to marry Lord Popplecouil?" 
 
140 THE duke's children. 
 
 "I would not have you marry any man without 
 loving him." 
 
 "I never can love anybody else; That is what I 
 w^anted you to know, papa." 
 
 To this he made no reply, nor was there anything 
 else said upon the subject before the carriage drove 
 up to the railway station. ''Do not get out, dear," 
 he said, seeing that her eyes had been filled with 
 tears. "It is not worth while. God bless you, my 
 child! You will be up in London I hope in a fort- 
 night, and we must tiy to make the house a little less 
 dull for you." 
 
 And so he had encountered the third attack. 
 
 Lady Mary, as she was driven home, recovered 
 her spirits wonderfully. Not a word had fallen from 
 her father which she could use hereafter as a refuge 
 from her embarrassments. He had made her no 
 promise. He had assented to nothing. But there 
 had been something in his manner, in his gait, in his 
 eye, in the pressure of his arm, which made her feel 
 that her troubles would soon be at an end. 
 
 "I do love you so much," she said to Mrs. Finn 
 late on that afternoon. 
 
 "I am glad of that, dear." 
 
 "I shall always love you, — because you have been 
 on my side all through." 
 
 "No, Mary; — that is not so." 
 
 "I know it is so. Of course you have to be wise 
 because you are older. And papa would not have 
 you here with me if you were not wise. But I know 
 you are on my side, — and papa knows it too. And 
 someone else shall know it some day." 
 
"he is such a beast/' 
 
 141 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 "HE IS SUCH A beast/' 
 
 Lord Silverbridge remained hunting in the Brake 
 country till a few days before the meeting of Parlia- 
 ment, and had he been left to himself he would have 
 had another week in the country and might probably 
 have overstayed the opening day; but he had not 
 been left to himself. In the last week in January an 
 important despatch reached his hands, from no less 
 important a person than Sir Timothy Beeswax, sug- 
 gesting to him that he should undertake the duty of 
 seconding the address in the House of Commons. 
 When the proposition first reached him it made his 
 hair stand on end. He had never yet risen to his 
 feet in the House. He had spoken at those election 
 meetings in Cornwall, and had found it easy enough. 
 After the first or second time he had thought it good 
 fun. But he knew that standing up in the House of 
 Commons would be different from that. Then there 
 would be the dress! "I should so hate to fig myself 
 out and look like a guy," he said to Tregear, to whom 
 of course he confided the offer that was made to him. 
 Tregear was very anxious that he should accept it. 
 "A man should never refuse anything of that kind 
 which comes in his way,'' Tregear said. 
 
 "It is only because I am the governor's son,*' 
 Silverbridge pleaded. 
 
142 
 
 THE DUKiE'S CHILDREN. 
 
 "Partly so perhaps. But if it be altogether so, 
 what of that? Take the goods the gods provide you. 
 Of course all these things which oiir ambition covets 
 are easier to Dukes' sons than to others. But not on 
 that account should a Duke's son refuse them. A 
 man when he sees a rung vacant on the ladder should 
 always put his foot there." 
 
 "Fll tell you what/' said Silverbridge. "If I 
 thought this was all fair sailing I'd do it. I should 
 feel certain that I should come a cropper, but still 
 I'd try it. As you say, a fellow should try. But it's 
 all meant as a blow at the governor. Old Beeswax 
 thinks that if he can get me up to swear that he and 
 his crew are real first-chop hands, that will hit the 
 governor hard. It's as much as saying to the governor, 
 — *This chap belongs to me, not to you.' That's a ' 
 thing I won't go in for." Then Tregear counselled ' 
 him to write to his father for advice, and at the same | 
 time to ask Sir Timothy to allow him a day or two I 
 for consideration. This counsel he took. His letter ' 
 reached his father two days before he left Matching, r 
 In answer to it there came first a telegram begging i 
 Silverbridge to be in London on the Monday, and 
 then a letter, in which the Duke expressed himself as 
 being anxious to see his son before giving a final 
 answer to the question. Thus it was that Silverbridge 
 had been taken away from his hunting. 
 
 Isabel Boncassen, however, was now in London, 
 and from her it was possible that he might find con- 
 solation. He had written to her soon after reaching 
 Harrington, telling her that he had had it all out with 
 the governor. "There is a good deal that I can only 
 tell you when I see you," he said. Then he assured 
 
"he is such a beast." 
 
 143 
 
 her with many lover's protestations that he was and 
 always would be till death altogether her own most 
 loving S. To this he had received an answer by re- 
 turn of post. She would be delighted to see him up 
 in town, — as would her father and mother. They had 
 now got a comfortable house in Brook Street. And 
 then she signed herself his sincere friend, Isabel. 
 Silverbridge thought that it was cold, and remembered 
 certain scraps in another feminine handwriting in which 
 more passion was expressed. Perhaps this was the way 
 with American young ladies when they were in love. 
 
 "Yes,'' said the Duke, "I am glad that you have 
 come up at once, as Sir Timothy should have his an- 
 swer without further delay." 
 
 "But what shall I say?" 
 
 The Duke, though he had already considered the 
 matter very seriously, nevertheless took a few minutes 
 to consider it again. "The offer," said he, "must be 
 acknowledged aS very flattering." 
 
 "But the circumstances are not usual." 
 
 "It cannot often be the case that a minister should 
 ask the son of his keenest political opponent to render him 
 such a service. But, however, we will put that aside." 
 
 "Not quite, sir." 
 
 "For the present we will put that on one side. Not 
 looking at the party which you may be called upon to 
 support, having for the moment no regard to this or 
 that line in politics, there is no opening to the real 
 i duties of parliamentary life which I would sooner see 
 accorded to you than this." 
 
 ' "But if I were to break down?" Talking to his 
 father he could not quite venture to ask what might 
 happen if he were to "come a cropper." 
 
144 
 
 THE duke's children. 
 
 "None but the brave deserve the fair," said the 
 Duke slapping his hands upon the table. "Why, if 
 *We fail, we fail! But screw your courage to the 
 sticking place, And we'll not fail/ What high point 
 would ever be reached if caution such as that were 
 allowed to prevail? What young men have done be- 
 fore cannot you do? I have no doubt of your capacity. 
 None." 
 
 "Haven't you, sir?" said Silverbridge, considerably 
 gratified, — and also surprised. 
 
 "None in the least. But, perhaps, some of your 
 diligence." 
 
 "I could learn it by heart, sir, — if you mean that." , 
 
 "But I don't mean that; or rather I mean much 
 more than that. You have first to realise in your mind i 
 the thing to be said, and then the words in which you • 
 should say it, before you come to learning by heart." ! 
 
 "Some of them I suppose would tell me what to ( 
 say." ; 
 
 "No doubt with your inexperience it would be unfit { 
 that you should be left entirely to yourself But 1 1 
 would wish you to know, — perhaps I should say to feel^ 
 that the sentiments to be expressed by you were just."; 
 
 "I should have to praise Sir Timothy." 
 
 "Not that necessarily. But you would have to ad- 
 vocate that course in Parliament which Sir Timothy 
 and his friends have taken and propose to take." 
 
 "But I hate him like poison." 
 
 "There need be no personal feeling in the matter. 
 I remember that when I moved the address in your 
 house Mr. Mildmay was Prime Minister, — a man for 
 whom my regard and esteem were unbounded, — who 
 had been in political matters the preceptor of my youth, 
 
"HE IS SUCH A BEAST.' 
 
 whom as a patriotic statesman I almost worshipped, 
 whom I now remember as a man whose departure from 
 the arena of politics left the country very destitute. 
 No one has sprung up since like to him, — or hardly 
 second to him. But in speaking on so large a subject 
 as the policy of a party, I thought it beneath me to 
 eulogise a man. The same policy reversed may keep 
 you silent respecting Sir Timothy.^' 
 
 "I needn't of course say what I think about him.'' 
 P "I suppose you do agree with Sir Timothy as to 
 his general policy? On no other condition can you 
 undertake such a duty." 
 
 "Of course I have voted with him." 
 
 "So I have observed, — not so regularly perhaps as 
 Mr. Roby would have desired." Mr. Roby was the 
 Conservative whip. 
 
 "And I suppose the people at Silverbridge expect 
 me to support him." 
 
 "I hardly know how that may be. They used to 
 be contented with my poor services. No doubt they 
 feel they have changed for the better." 
 
 "You shouldn't say that, sir." 
 
 "I am bound to suppose that they think so, because 
 when the matter was left in their own hands they at 
 once elected a Conservative. You need not fear that 
 ; you will offend them by seconding the address. They 
 will probably feel proud to see their young member 
 brought forward on such an occasion; as I shall b^ 
 proud to see my son." 
 
 "You would if it were on the other side, sir." 
 ! "Yes, Silverbridge, yes; I should be very proud if 
 it were on the other side. But there is a useful old 
 adage which bids us not cry for spilt milk. You have 
 
 The Dukes Child?-en, III. lO 
 
146 THE duke's children. 
 
 a right to your opinions, though perhaps I may think 
 that in adopting what I must call new opinions you 
 were a little precipitate. We cannot act together in 
 politics. But not the less on that account do I wish 
 to see you take an active and useful part on that side 
 to which you have attached yourself.'^ As he said this 
 he rose from his seat and spoke with emphasis, as . 
 though he were addressing some imaginary Speaker or 
 a house of legislators around. "I shall be proud to ■ 
 hear you second the address. If you do it as grace- ; 
 fully and as fitly as I am sure you may if you will ' 
 give yourself the trouble, I shall hear you do it with^ 
 infinite satisfaction, even though I shall feel at the ' 
 same time anxious to answer all your arguments and * 
 tS disprove all your assertions. I should be listening ; 
 no: doubt to my opponent; — but I should be proud to [ 
 feel that I was listening to my son. My advice to you ; 
 is to do as Sir Timothy has asked you.^' ^ 
 "He is such a beast, sir," said Silverbridge. j 
 "Pray do not speak in that way on matters so serious.^' <■ 
 "I do not think you quite understand it, sir." < 
 "Perhaps not. Can you enlighten me?" ! 
 "I believe he has done this only to annoy you." ' 
 The Duke, who had again seated himself, and was 
 leaning back in his chair, raised himself up, placed his 
 hands on the table before him, and looked his son 
 hard in the face. The idea which Silverbridge had 
 just expressed had certainly occurred to himself. He 
 remembered well all the circumstances of the time 
 when he and Sir Timothy Beeswax had been members 
 of the same government; — and he remembered how 
 animosities had grown, and how treacherous he had 
 thought the man. From the moment in which he had 
 
^'HE IS SUCH A BEAST." 
 
 M7 
 
 read the minister's letter to the young member, he 
 had felt that the offer had too probably come from a 
 desire to make the political separation between himself 
 and his son complete. But he had thought that in 
 counselling his son he was bound to ignore such a 
 feeling; and it certainly had not occurred to him that 
 Silverbridge would be astute enough to perceive the 
 same thing. 
 
 "What makes you fancy that?" said the Duke, 
 striving to conceal by his manner, but not altogether 
 successful in concealing, the gratification which he 
 certainly felt. 
 
 "Well, sir, I am not sure that I can explain it. Of 
 course it is putting you in a different boat from me." 
 
 "You have already chosen your boat." 
 
 "Perhaps he thinks I may get out again. I dislike 
 the skipper so much, that I am not sure that I shall not." 
 
 "Oh, Silverbridge, — that is such a fault! So much 
 is included in that which is unstatesmanlike un- 
 patriotic, almost dishonest! Do you mean to say that 
 you would be this or that in politics according to your 
 personal liking for an individual?" 
 
 "When you don't trust the leader, you can't believe 
 very firmly in the followers," said Silverbridge doggedly. 
 "I won't say, sir, what I may do. Though I daresay 
 that what I think is not of much account, I do think 
 a good deal about it." 
 
 "I am glad of that." 
 
 "And as I think it not at all improbable that I 
 may go back again, if you don't mind it, I will 
 refuse." Of course after that the Duke had no further 
 arguments to use in favour of Sir Timothy's pro- 
 position. 
 
 10* 
 
148 
 
 THE duke's children. 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 BROOK street. 
 
 Silverbridge had now a week on his hands which 
 he felt he might devote to the lady of his love. It 
 was a comfort to him that he need have nothing to do 
 with the address. To have to go, day after day, to 
 the Treasury in order that he might learn his lesson, 
 would have been disagreeable to him. He did not 
 quite know how the lesson would have been communi- 
 cated, but fancied it would have come from "Old 
 Roby,^' whom he did not love much better than Sir 
 Timothy. Then the speech must have been composed, 
 and afterwards submitted to someone, — probably to 
 old Roby again, by whom no doubt it would be cut 
 and slashed, and made quite a different speech than 
 he had intended. If he had not praised Sir Timothy 
 himself, Roby, — or whatever other tutor might have 
 been assigned to him, — would have put the praise in. 
 And then how many hours it would have taken to 
 learn "the horrid thing by heart. He proudly felt 
 that he had not been prompted by idleness to decline 
 the task; but not the less was he glad to have shuffled 
 the burden from off his shoulders. 
 
 Early the next morning he was in Brook Street, 
 having sent a note to say he would call, and having 
 even named the hour. And yet when he knocked at the 
 
BROOK STREET. 
 
 149 
 
 door, he was told with the utmost indifference by a 
 London footman, that Miss Boncassen was not at 
 home, — also that Mrs. Boncassen was not at home; — 
 also that Mr. Boncassen was not at home. When he 
 asked at what hour Miss Boncassen was expected 
 home, the man answered him, just as though he had 
 been anybody else, that he knew nothing about it. 
 He turned away in disgust, and had himself driven to 
 the Beargarden. In his misery he had recourse to 
 game-pie and a pint of champagne for his lunch. 
 "Halloa, old fellow, what is this I hear about you?'' 
 said Nidderdale, coming in and sitting opposite to 
 him. 
 
 "I don't know what you have heard.'' 
 "You are going to second the address. What 
 made them pick you out from the lot of us?" 
 "It is just what I am not going to do." 
 "I saw it all in the papers." 
 
 "I daresay; — and yet it isn't true. I shouldn't 
 wonder if they ask you." At this moment a waiter 
 handed a large official letter to Lord Nidderdale, 
 saying that the messenger who had brought it was 
 waiting for an answer in the hall. The letter bore the 
 important signature of T. Beeswax on the corner of 
 the envelope, and so disturbed Lord Nidderdale that 
 he called at once for a glass of soda-and-brandy. 
 When opened it was found to be very nearly a 
 counterpart of that which Silverbridge had received 
 down in the country. There was, however, added a 
 little prayer that Lord Nidderdale would at once come 
 down to the Treasury Chambers. 
 
 "They must be very hard up," said Lord Nidder- 
 dale. "But I shall do it. Cantrip is always at me to 
 
THE duke's children. 
 
 do something, and you see if I don't butter them up 
 properly." Then having fortified himself with game- 
 pie and a glass of brown sherry he went away at once 
 to the Treasury Chambers. 
 
 Silverbridge felt himself a little better after his 
 lunch, — better still when he had smoked a couple of 
 cigarettes walking about the empty smoking-room. 
 And as he walked he collected his thoughts. She 
 could hardly have meant to slight him. No doubt 
 her letter down to him at Harrington had been very 
 cold. No doubt he had been ill-treated in being sent 
 away so unceremoniously from the door. But yet she 
 could hardly intend that everything between them 
 should be over. Even an American girl could not be so 
 unreasonable as that. He remembered the passionate 
 way in which she had assured him of her love. All 
 that could not have been forgotten! He had done 
 nothing by which he could have forfeited her esteem. 
 She had desired him to tell the whole affair to her 
 father, and he had done so. Mr. Boncassen might 
 perhaps have objected. It might be that this American 
 was so prejudiced against English aristocrats as to 
 desire no commerce with them. There were not many 
 Englishmen who would not have welcomed him as a 
 son-in-law, but Americans might be different. Still, — 
 still Isabel would hardly have shown her obedience to 
 her father in this way. She was too independent to 
 obey her father in a matter concerning her own heart. 
 And if he had not been the possessor of her heart at 
 that last interview, then she must have been false 
 indeed! So he got once more into his hansom and 
 had himself taken back to Brook Street. 
 
 Mrs. Boncassen was in the drawing-room alone. 
 
BROOK STREET. 
 
 "I am SO sorry," said the lady, "but Mr. Boncassen 
 has, I think, just gone out." 
 
 "Indeed! and where is Isabel?" 
 
 "Isabel is downstairs, — that is if she hasn't gone 
 out too. She did talk of going with her father to the 
 Museum. She is getting quite bookish. She has got 
 a ticket, and goes there, and has all the things brought 
 to her just like the other learned folks." 
 
 "I am anxious to see her, Mrs. Boncassen." 
 
 "My! If she has gone out it will be a pity. She 
 was only saying yesterday she wouldn't wonder if you 
 shouldn't turn up." 
 
 "Of course I've turned up, Mrs. Boncassen. I was 
 here an hour ago." 
 
 "Was it you who called and asked all them 
 questions? My! We couldn't make out who it was. 
 The man said it was a flurried young gentleman who 
 wouldn't leave a card, — but who wanted to see Mr. 
 Boncassen most especial." 
 
 "It was Isabel I wanted to see. Didn't I leave a 
 card? No; I don't think I did. I felt so — almost at 
 home, that I didn't think of a card." 
 
 "That's very kind of you. Lord Silverb ridge." 
 
 "I hope you are going to be my friend, Mrs. 
 Boncassen." 
 
 "I am sure I don't know. Lord Silverbridge. Isabel 
 is most used to having her own way I guess. I think 
 when hearts are joined almost nothing ought to stand 
 between them. But Mr. Boncassen does have doubts. 
 He don't wish as Isabel should force herself any^vhere. 
 But here she is, and now she can speak for herself." 
 Whereupon not only did Isabel enter the room, but at 
 the same time Mrs. Boncassen most discreetly left it. 
 
152 
 
 THE duke's CHILDRr^^. 
 
 It must be confessed that American mothers are not 
 afraid of their daughters. 
 
 Silverbridge, when the door was closed, stood 
 looking at the girl for a moment and thought that she 
 was more lovely than ever. She was dressed for 
 walking. She still had on her fur jacket, but had taken 
 off her hat. "I was in the parlour downstairs,^' she 
 said, "when you came in, with papa; and we were ' 
 going out together; but when I heard who was here, I ; 
 made him go alone. Was I not good?'' ' 
 
 He had not thought of a word to say, or a thing 
 to do; — but he felt as he looked at her that the only , 
 thing in the world worth living for, was to have her ' 
 for his own. For a moment he was half abashed. Then 
 in the next she was close in his arms with his lips 
 pressed to hers. He had been so sudden that she , 
 had been unable, at any rate thought that she had ' 
 been unable, to repress him. "Lord Silverbridge," | 
 she said, "I told you I would not have it. You have I 
 offended me." 
 
 "Isabel!" 
 
 "Yes; Isabel! Isabel is offended with you. Why' 
 did you do it?" 
 
 Why did he do it? It seemed to him to be the 
 most unnecessary question. "I want you to know how 
 I love you." 
 
 "Will that tell me? That only tells me how little 
 you think of me." 
 
 "Then it tells you a falsehood; — for I am thinking 
 of you always. And I always think of you as being 
 the best and dearest and sweetest thing in the world. 
 And now I think you dearer and sweeter than ever." 
 Upon this she tried to frown; but her frown at once 
 
BROOK STREET. 
 
 broke out into a smile. "When I wrote to say that I 
 was coming why did you not stay at home for me this 
 morning?'' 
 
 "I got no letter, Lord Silverbridge.'' 
 
 "Why didn't you get it?" 
 
 "That I cannot say, Lord Silverbridge." 
 
 "Isabel, if you are so formal, you will kill me." 
 
 "Lord Silverbridge, if you are so forward, you will 
 offend me." Then it turned out that no letter from 
 him had reached the house; and as the letter had 
 been addressed to Bruton Street instead of Brook 
 Street, the failure on the part of the post-office was 
 not surprising. 
 
 Whether or no she were offended or he killed he 
 remained with her the whole of that afternoon. "Of 
 course I love you," she said. "Do you suppose I 
 should be here with you if I did not, or that you could 
 have remained in the house after what you did just 
 now? I am not given to run into rhapsodies quite so 
 much as you are, — and being a woman perhaps it is 
 as well that I don't. But I think I can be quite as 
 true to you as you are to me." 
 
 "I am so much obliged to you for that," he said, 
 grasping at her hand. 
 
 "But I am sure that rhapsodies won't do any good. 
 Now I'll tell you my mind." 
 
 "You know mine," said Silverbridge. 
 
 "I will take it for granted that I do. Your mind 
 is to marry me will ye nill ye, as the people say." He 
 answered this by merely nodding his head and getting 
 a little nearer to her. "That is all very well in its 
 way, and I am not going to say but what I am grati- 
 
154 
 
 THE duke's children. 
 
 fied." Then he did grasp her hand. "If it pleases 
 
 you to hear me say so, Lord Silverbridge 
 
 "Not Lord!'' 
 
 "Then I shall call you Plantagenet; — only it sounds 
 so horribly historical. Why are you not Thomas or 
 Abraham? But if it will please you to hear me say 
 so, I am ready to acknowledge that nothing in all my ' 
 life ever came near to the delight I have in your > 
 love." Hereupon he almost succeeded in getting his j 
 arm round her waist. But she was strong, and seized i 
 his hand and held it. "And I speak no rhapsodies. 
 I tell you a truth which I want you to know and to ] 
 keep in your heart, — so that you may be always, al- \ 
 ways sure to." 
 
 "I never will doubt it." 
 
 "But that marrying will ye nill ye, will not suit 
 me. There is so much wanted for happiness in 
 Hfe." I 
 "I will do all that I can." j 
 "Yes. Even though it be hazardous, I am willing ! 
 to trust you. If you were as other men are, if you ! 
 could do as you please as lower men may do, I would i 
 leave father and mother and my own country, — that I 
 might be your wife. I would do that because I love 
 you. But what will my life be here, if they who are 
 your friends turn their backs upon me? What will your 
 life be, if, through all that, you continue to love 
 me?" 
 
 "That will all come right." 
 
 "And what will your life be, or mine," she said, 
 going on with her own thoughts without seeming to 
 have heard his last words, "if in such a condition as 
 that you did not continue to love me?" 
 
BROOK STREET. 
 
 "I should always love you/' 
 
 "It might be very hard: — and if once felt to be 
 hard, then impossible. You have not looked at it as 
 I have done. Why should you? Even with a wife 
 that was a trouble to you 
 
 "Oh, Isabel 
 
 His arm was now round her waist, but she continued 
 speaking as though she were not aware of the embrace. 
 "Yes, a trouble! I shall not be always just what I am 
 now. Now I can be bright and pretty and hold my 
 own with others because I am so. But are you sure, 
 ■ — I am not, — that I am such stuff as an English lady 
 should be made of? If in ten years' time you found 
 that others did not think so, — that, worse again, you 
 did not think so yourself, w^ould you be true to me 
 then?'' 
 
 "I will always be true to you." 
 
 She gently extricated herself, as though she had 
 done so that she might better turn round and look 
 into his face. "Oh, my own one, who can say of him- 
 self that it would be so? How could it be so, when 
 you would have all the world against you? You would 
 still be what you are, — with a clog round your leg 
 while at home. In Parliament, among your friends, at 
 your clubs, you w^ould be just what you are. You 
 would be that Lord Silverbridge who had all good 
 things at his disposal, — except that he had been un- 
 fortunate in his marriage! But what should I be?" 
 Though she paused he could not answer her, — not yet. 
 There was a solemnity in her speech which made it 
 necessary that he should hear her to the end. "I, 
 too, have my friends in my own country. It is no 
 disgrace to me there that my grandfather worked on 
 
156 
 
 IHE duke's children. 
 
 the quays. No one holds her head higher than I do, 
 or is more sure of being able to hold it. I have there 
 that assurance of esteem and honour which you have 
 here. I would lose it all to do you a good. But I 
 will not lose it to do you an injury.'' 
 
 "I don't know about injuries," he said, getting up 
 and walking about the room. "But I am sure of this. 
 You will have to be my wife." , 
 
 '^If your father will take me by the hand and say 
 that I shall be his daughter, I will risk all the rest. ' 
 Even then it might not be wise; but we love each 
 other too well not to run some peril. Do you think j 
 that I want anything better than to preside in your 
 home, to soften your cares, to welcome your joys, to ' 
 be the mother perhaps of your children, and to know , 
 that you are proud that I should be so? No, my dar- 
 ling. I can see a Paradise; — only, only, I may not be 
 fit to enter it. I must use some judgment better than • 
 my own, sounder, dear, than yours. Tell the Duke ' 
 what I say; — tell him with what language a son may 
 use to his father. And remember that all you ask for 
 yourself you will ask doubly for me." 
 
 "I will ask him so that he cannot refuse me." 
 
 "If you do I shall be contented. And now go. I 
 have said ever so much, and I am tired." 
 
 "Isabel! Oh, my love." 
 
 "Yes; Isabel; — your love! I am that at any rate 
 for the present, — and proud to be so as a queen. 
 Well, if it must be, this once, — as I have been so hard 
 to you." Then she gave him her cheek to kiss, but of 
 course he took more than she gave. 
 
 When he got out into the street it was dark and 
 there was still standing the faithful cab. But he felt! 
 
BROOK STREET. 
 
 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, this 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 Avere 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 they were no- 
 thing 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 q-q 
 
158 
 
 THE duke's children. 
 
 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" wonder- 
 ful effort of eloquence must be made by which his 
 father might be convinced that this girl was so in- 
 finitely 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 iu: 
 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 grace- 
 ful, 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 him- 
 self, 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 
 
BROOK SIREKT, 
 
 repaired by varnish and veneering. Though he had 
 loved her he had never been aUogether 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. 
 
 I 
 
i6o 
 
 THE duke's children. 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 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 Bon- 
 cassen he had not said a word that might be sup- 
 posed 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 
 
PERT POPPET. 
 
 l6l 
 
 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 gen- 
 tleman'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 Long- 
 staff. 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." 
 
 Tlw Dukes Children. III. II 
 
l62 
 
 THE duke's children. 
 
 "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 Popple- 
 court, or Hindes! If they knew anything about you 
 that you didn't want to have knov/n, — 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. Sil-, 
 verbridge 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, look- 
 ing eagerly at his companion. "What the mischief is 
 it?" asked Silverbridge impatiently. j 
 
 "I have quite made up my own mind." I 
 
 "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 
 
PERT POPPET. 
 
 163 
 
 done, you know. There are three different properties 
 coming to me. At least one has come already.'' 
 "You're a lucky fellow." 
 
 "Fve made up my mind; and when I say a thing 
 I mean to do it." 
 
 "But what can I do?" 
 
 "That's just what Tm 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 con- 
 venient 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. 
 
164 
 
 THE duke's children. 
 
 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 Silver- 
 bridge, 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 
 
PERT POPPET. 
 
 165 
 
 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 a i 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 in- 
 sult her, — and me too by talking of her." 
 
 "I don't quite understand this," said the unfor- 
 tunate 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 ab- 
 surd." 
 
 "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 
 
THE duke's children. 
 
 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 look- 
 ing at it. Well; Silverbridge, I'll tell you what I shall 
 do; I shall hook it." 
 
 "No; no, not you." 
 
 "Yes, I shall. I daresay 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 daresay 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 
 
PERT POPPET. 
 
 167 
 
 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 anyone, 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 pro- 
 mised 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 re- 
 membrance 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 
 
i68 
 
 THE duke's children. 
 
 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 an- 
 nounced his engagement to such a one as Dolly Long- 
 staff, the matter now would admit of no delay. He 
 would explain to his father that as tidings of the 
 engagement had got abroad, honour to the young lady 
 would compel him to come forward openly as her i 
 suitor at once. If this argument might serve him, then 
 perhaps this intrusion would not have been altogether 
 a misfortune. 
 
"LOVE MAY BE A GREAT MISFORTUNE." 
 
 169 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 "LOVE MAY BE A GREAT MISFORTUNE.'' 
 
 SiLVERBRiDGE wheii he reached Brook Street that 
 day was surprised to find that a large party was going 
 to hmch 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 an- 
 nounced, 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 manoeuvred that there should 
 
170 
 
 THE duke's children. 
 
 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 calcula- 
 tions 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 con- 
 versation very much between them, Sir Timothy flatter- 
 ing 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 Silver- 
 bridge 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 j 
 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 i 
 familiar conversation. Then Silverbridge remembered 1 
 that he had always thought Lupton to be a most con- i 
 ceited prig. Nobody gave himself so many airs, or 1 
 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 j 
 finished eating they moved about and changed their 
 
"love may be a great misfortune.'' 171 
 
 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. Silver- 
 bridge, who at this moment was being interrogated by 
 Sir Timothy, heard every word of it. 
 
 "I was so sorry. Lord Silverbridge," said Sir 
 Timothy, "that you could not accede to our little 
 request." 
 
 "I did not quite see my way," said Silverbridge, 
 with his eye upon Isabel. 
 
 "So I understood, but I hope that things will make 
 themselves clearer to you shortly. There is nothing 
 that I desire so much as the support of young men 
 such as yourself,— the very cream, I may say, of the 
 whole country. It is to the young conservative thought- 
 fuhiess and the truly British spirit of our springing 
 aristocracy that I look for that reaction which I am 
 sure will at last carry us safely over the rocks and 
 shoals of communistic propensities." 
 
 "I shouldn't wonder if it did," said Silverbridge. 
 They didn't think that he was going to remain down 
 :here talking politics to an old humbug like Sir 
 Timothy when the sun, and moon, and all the stars 
 
172 
 
 THE duke's children. 
 
 had gone up into the drawing room! For at that mo- 
 ment Isabel was making her way to the door. 
 
 But Sir Timothy had buttonholed him. "0^ 
 course it is late now to say anything further about the! 
 address. We have arranged that. Not quite as ]j 
 would have wished, for I had set my heart upon 
 initiating you into the rapturous pleasure of parlia-j 
 mentary debate. But I hope that a good time i? 
 coming. And pray remember this, Lord Silverbridge : 
 — there is no member sitting on our side of the House 
 and I need hardly say on the other, whom I would gC 
 farther to oblige than your father's son.'' ! 
 
 "Fm sure that's very kind," said Silverbridge, ab- 
 solutely using a little force as he disengaged himself 
 Then he at once followed the ladies upstairs, passing 
 the poet on the stairs. "You have hardly spoken tc 
 me," he whispered to Isabel. He knew that i( 
 whisper to her now, with the eyes of many upon hini 
 with the ears of many open, was an absurdity; but h( 
 could not refrain himself. ^ 
 
 "There are so many to be, — entertained, as peoplj 
 say! I don't think I ought to have to entertain you,'i 
 she answered, laughing. No one heard her but Silves 
 bridge, yet she did not seem to whisper. She lei 
 him, however, at once, and was soon engaged in con 
 versation with Sir Timothy. 
 
 A convivial lunch I hold to be altogether bad, bu 
 the worst of its many evils is that vacillating mine 
 which does not know when to take its owner of 
 Silverbridge was on this occasion quite determined nc 
 to take himself off at all. As it was only lunch th 
 people must go, and then he would be left with Isabe 
 But the vacillation of the others was distressing to hin 
 
j "love may be a great misfortune.'' 173 
 
 I [Mr. Lupton went, and poor Dolly got away apparently 
 I without a word. But the Beeswaxes and the Gotobeds 
 I would not go, and the poet sat staring immovably, 
 [n the meanwhile Silverbridge endeavoured to make 
 -he time pass lightly by talking to Mrs. Boncassen. 
 He had been so determined to accept Isabel with all 
 tier adjuncts that he had come almost to like Mrs. 
 ^ Boncassen, and would certainly have taken her part 
 violently had anyone spoken ill of her in his presence. 
 : Then suddenly he found that the room was nearly 
 ;^mpty. The Beeswaxes and the Gotobeds were gone; 
 md at last the poet himself, with a final glare of 
 idmiration at Isabel, had taken his departure. When 
 ' silverbridge looked round, Isabel also was gone. Then 
 
 00 Mrs. Boncassen had left the room suddenly. At 
 he same instant Mr. Boncassen entered by another 
 ioor, and the two men were alone together. "My 
 lear Lord Silverbridge," said the father, "I want to 
 lave a few words with you." Of course there was 
 lothmg for him but to submit. "You remember what 
 'ou said to me down at Matching?" 
 
 "Oh yes; I remember that." 
 
 1 ^ "You did me the great honour of expressing a 
 mh to make my child your wife." 
 
 "I was asking for a very great favour." 
 
 "That also;— for there is no greater favour I could 
 lo to any man than to give him my daughter. 
 Nevertheless, you were doing me a great honour,— 
 nd you did it, as you do everything, with an honest 
 race that went far to win my heart. I am not at all 
 urprised, sir, that you should have won hers." The 
 oung man as he heard this could only blush and look 
 
174 
 
 THE duke's children. 
 
 foolish. "If I know my girl, neither your money nor 
 your title would go for anything/' 
 
 "I think much more of her love, Mr. Boncassen, 
 than I do of anything else in the world." 
 
 "But love, my Lord, may be. a great misfortune." 
 As he said this the tone of his voice was altered , and 
 there was a melancholy solemnity not only in his w^ords 
 but in his countenance. "I take it that young people 
 when they love rarely think of more than the present 
 moment. If they did so the bloom would be gone 
 from their romance. But others have to do this for 
 them. If Isabel had come to me saying that she loved 
 a poor man, there would not have been much to 
 disquiet me. A poor man may earn bread for himself 
 and his wife, and if he failed I could have found them 
 bread. Nor, had she loved somewhat below her own 
 degree, should I have opposed her. So long as her 
 husband had been an educated man, there might have 
 been no future punishment to fear." 
 
 "I don't think she could have done that," said 
 Silverbridge. 
 
 "At any rate she has not done so. But how am I 
 to look upon this that she has done?" 
 
 "I'll do my best for her, Mr. Boncassen." 
 
 "I believe you would. But even your love can't 
 make her an Englishwoman. You can make her a 
 Duchess." 
 
 "Not that, sir." 
 
 "But you can't give her a parentage fit for a 
 Duchess: — not fit at least in the opinion of those with 
 whom you will pass your life, with whom, — or perhaps 
 without whom, — she will be destined to pass her life, 
 if she becomes your wife! Unfortunately it does not 
 
*^LOVE MAY BE A GREAT MISFORTUNE." 
 
 suffice that you should think it fit. Though you loved 
 each other as well as any man and woman that ever 
 were brought into each other's arms by the beneficence 
 of God, you cannot make her happy, — unless you can 
 ensure her the respect of those around her." 
 
 "All the world will respect her." 
 
 "Her conduct, — yes. I think the world, your 
 world, would learn to do that. I do not think it 
 could help itself. But that would not suffice. I may 
 respect the man who cleans my boots. But he would 
 be a wretched man if he were thrown on me for 
 society. I would not give him my society. Will your 
 Duchesses and your Countesses give her theirs?" 
 
 "Certainly they will." 
 
 "I do not ask for it as thinking it to be of more 
 value than that of others; but were she to become 
 your wife she would be so abnormally placed as to 
 require it for her comfort. She would have become a 
 lady of high rank, — not because she loves rank, but 
 because she loves you." 
 
 "Yes, yes, yes," said Silverbridge , hardly himself 
 knowing why he became impetuous. 
 
 "But having removed herself into that position, 
 being as she would be, a Countess, or a Duchess, or 
 what not, how could she be happy if she were ex- 
 cluded from the community of Countesses and 
 Duchesses?" 
 
 "They are not like that," said Silverbridge. 
 
 "I will not say that they are, but I do not know. 
 Having Anglican tendencies, I have been wont to 
 contradict my countrymen when they have told me of 
 the narrow exclusiveness of your nobles. Having 
 found your nobles and your commoners all alike in 
 
176 
 
 THE duke's children. 
 
 their courtesy, — which is a cold word; in their hospitable 
 friendships, — I would now not only contradict, but 
 would laugh to scorn any such charge — so far he 
 spoke somewhat loudly, and then dropped his voice 
 as he concluded, — "were it anything less than the 
 happiness of my child that is in question." 
 
 "What am I to say, sir? I only know this; I am 
 not going to lose her." 
 
 "You are a fine fellow. I was going to say that I 
 wished you were an American, so that Isabel need not 
 lose you. But, my boy, I have told you that I do not 
 know how it might be. Of all whom you know, who 
 could best tell me the truth on such a subject? Who 
 is there whose age will have given him experience, 
 whose rank will have made him familiar with this 
 matter, who from friendship to you would be least 
 likely to decide against your wishes, who from his own 
 native honesty would be most sure to tell the truth?" 
 
 "You mean my father," said Silverbridge. 
 
 "I do mean your father. Happily he has taken 
 no dislike to the girl herself I have seen enough 
 of him to feel sure that he is devoted to his own 
 children." 
 
 "Indeed he is." 
 
 "A just and a liberal man; — one I should say not 
 carried away by prejudices! Well, — my girl and I 
 have just put our heads together, and we have come 
 to a conclusion. If the Duke of Omnium will tell us 
 that she would be safe as your wife, — safe from the 
 contempt of those around her, — you shall have her. 
 And I shall rejoice to give her to you, — not because 
 you are Lord Silverbridge, not because of your rank 
 
*'love may be a great misfortune/' 177 
 
 and wealth; but because you are — that individual 
 human being whom I now hold by the hand." 
 
 When the American had come to an end Silver- 
 bridge was too much moved to make any immediate 
 answer. He had an idea in his own mind that the 
 appeal was not altogether fair. His father was a just 
 man, — ^just, affectionate, and liberal. But then it will 
 so often happen that fathers do not want their sons to 
 marry those very girls on whom the sons have set their 
 hearts. He could only say that he would speak to his 
 father again on the subject. "Let him tell me that he 
 is contented," said Mr. Boncassen, "and I will tell 
 him I am contented. Now, my friend, good-bye." 
 Silverbridge begged that he might be allowed to see 
 Isabel before he was turned out; but Isabel had left 
 the house in company with her mother. 
 
 The Duke's Childreti, III, 
 
 12 
 
THE duke's children. 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 "WHAT AM I TO SAY, SIR?" 
 
 When Silverbridge left Mr. Boncassen's house he ' 
 was resolved to go to his father without an hour's ; 
 delay, and represent to the Duke exactly how the case ' 
 stood. He would be urgent, piteous, submissive, and 
 eloquent. In any other matter he would promise to , 
 make whatever arrangements his father might desire. ' 
 He would make his father understand that all his hap- 
 piness depended on this marriage. When once married 
 he would settle down, even at Gatherum Castle if the 
 Duke should wish it. He would not think of race- 
 horses, he would desert the Beargarden, he would ; 
 learn blue-books by heart, and only do as much shoot- | 
 ing and hunting as would become a young nobleman ' 
 in his position. All this he would say as eagerly and 1 
 as pleasantly as it might be said. But he would add ^ 
 to all this an assurance of his unchangeable intention. 
 It was his purpose to marry Isabel Boncassen. If he 
 could do this with his father's good will, — so best. But 
 at any rate he would marry her! 
 
 The world at this time was altogether busy with 
 political rumours; and it was supposed that Sir Timothy 
 Beeswax would do something very clever. It was sup- 
 posed also that he would sever himself from some of 
 his present companions. On that point everybody was 
 
"WHAT AM I TO SAY, SIR?" 
 
 179 
 
 agreed, — and on that point only everybody was right. 
 Lord Drummond, who was the titular Prime Minister, 
 and Sir Timothy, had, during a considerable part of 
 the last session, and through the whole vacation, so 
 belarded each other with praise in all their public ex- 
 pressions that it was quite manifest that they had 
 quarrelled. When any body of statesmen make public 
 asseverations by one or various voices, that there is no 
 discord among them, not a dissentient voice on any 
 subject, people are apt to suppose that they cannot 
 hang together much longer. It is the man who has no 
 peace at home that declares abroad that his wife is 
 an angel. He who lives on comfortable terms with 
 the partner of his troubles can afford to acknowledge 
 the ordinary rubs of life. Old Mr. Mildmay, who was 
 Prime Minister for so many years, and whom his party 
 worshipped, used to say that he had never found a 
 gentleman who had quite agreed with him all round; 
 but Sir Timothy has always been in exact accord 
 with all his colleagues, — till he has left them, or they 
 him. Never had there been such concord as of late, 
 — and men, clubs, and newspapers now protested 
 that as a natural consequence there would soon be a 
 break-up. 
 
 But not on that account would it perhaps be ne- 
 cessary that Sir Timothy should resign, — or not neces- 
 sary that his resignation should be permanent. The 
 Conservative majority had dwindled, — but still there 
 was a majority. It certainly was the case that Lord 
 Drummond could not get on without Sir Timothy. But 
 might it not be possible that Sir Timothy should get 
 on without Lord Drummond? If so he must begin his 
 fiction in this direction by resigning. He would have 
 
 12* 
 
l8o THE duke's children. 
 
 to place his resignation, no doubt with infinite regret, 
 in the hands of Lord Drummond. But if such a step 
 were to be taken now, just as ParHament was about to 
 assemble, what would become of the Queen's speech, 
 of the address, and of the noble peers and noble and 
 other commoners who were to propose and second it 
 in the two Houses of Parliament? There were those 
 who said that such a trick played at the last moment 
 would be very shabby. But then again there were 
 those who foresaw that the shabbiness would be made 
 to rest anywhere rather than on the shoulders of Sir 
 Timothy. If it should turn out that he had striven 
 manfully to make things run smoothly; — that the 
 Premier's incompetence, or the Chancellor's obstinacy, 
 or this or that Secretary's peculiarity of temper had 
 done it all; — might not Sir Timothy then be able to 
 emerge from the confused flood, and swim along 
 pleasantly with his head higher than ever above the 
 waters? 
 
 In these great matters parliamentary management 
 goes for so much! If a man be really clever and 
 handy at his trade, if he can work hard and knows 
 what he is about, if he can give and take and be not 
 thin-skinned or sore-bored, if he can ask pardon for a 
 peccadillo and seem to be sorry with a good grace, if 
 above all things he be able to surround himself with 
 the prestige of success, then so much will be forgiven 
 him! Great gifts of eloquence are hardly wanted, or 
 a deep-seated patriotism which is capable of strong 
 indignation. A party has to be managed, and he who 
 can manage it best, will probably be its best leader. 
 The subordinate task of legislation and of executive 
 government may well fall into the inferior hands of 
 
"WHAT AM I TO SAY, SIR?" l8l 
 
 less astute practitioners. It was admitted on both 
 sides that there was no man like Sir Timothy for 
 managing the House or coercing a party, and there 
 was therefore a general feeling that it would be a pity 
 that Sir Timothy should be squeezed out. He knew 
 all the little secrets of the business; — could arrange 
 let the cause be what it might, to get a full House for 
 himself and his friends, and empty benches for his 
 opponents, — could foresee a thousand little things to 
 which even a Walpole would have been blind, which a 
 Pitt would not have condescended to regard, but with 
 which his familiarity made him a very comfortable 
 leader of the House of Commons. There were various 
 ideas prevalent as to the politics of the coming ses- 
 sion; but the prevailing idea was in favour of Sir 
 Timothy. 
 
 The Duke was at Longroyston, the seat of his old 
 political ally the Duke of St. Bungay, and had been 
 absent from Sunday the 6th till the morning of Friday 
 the nth, on which day Parliament was to meet. On 
 that morning at about noon a letter came to the son 
 saying that his father had returned and would be glad 
 to see him. Silverbridge was going to the House on 
 that day and was not without his own political anxie- 
 ties. If Lord Drummond remained in, he thought that 
 he must, for the present, stand by the party which he 
 had adopted. If, however. Sir Timothy should become 
 Prime Minister there would be a loophole for escape. 
 There were some three or four besides himself who 
 detested Sir Timothy, and in such case he might per- 
 haps have company in his desertions. All this was on 
 his mind; but through all this he was aware that there 
 was a matter of much deeper moment which required 
 
l82 
 
 THE duke's children. 
 
 his energies. When his father's message was brought 
 to him he told himself at once that now was the time 
 for his eloquence. 
 
 "Well, Silverb ridge," said the Duke, "how are mat- 
 ters going on with you?" There seemed to be some- 
 thing in his father's manner more than ordinarily 
 jocund and good-humoured. 
 
 "With me, sir?" 
 
 "I don't mean to ask any party secrets. If you and ; 
 Sir Timothy understand each other, of course you will 
 be discreet." i 
 
 "I can't be discreet, sir, because I don't know any- 
 thing about him." 
 
 "When I heard," said the Duke smiling, "of your '[ 
 being in close conference with Sir Timothy " 
 
 "I, sir?" 
 
 "Yes, you. Mr. Boncassen told me that you and 
 he were so deeply taken up with each other at his i 
 house, that nobody could get a word with either of i 
 you." 
 
 "Have you seen Mr. Boncassen?" asked the son, ] 
 whose attention was immediately diverted from his | 
 father's political badinage. ; 
 
 "Yes; — I have seen him. I happened to meet him 
 where I was dining last Sunday, and he walked home 
 with me. He was so intent upon what he was saying 
 that I fear he allowed me to take him out of his way." 
 
 "What was he talking about," said Silverbridge. 
 All his preparations, all his eloquence, all his method, 
 now seemed to have departed from him. 
 
 "He was talking about you," said the Duke. 
 
 "He had told me that he wanted to see you. What 
 did he say, sir?" ^ 
 
"WHAT AM I TO SAY, SIR?" 
 
 183 
 
 "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 im- 
 ploring eyes as though everything now depended on 
 the few next 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 
 
184 THE duke's CHILDREN. 
 
 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 re- 
 plied that he was to look solely to his daughter's hap- 
 piness. 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 pre- 
 judice. 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 how- 
 ever 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 I" 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." 
 
"WHAT AM I TO SAY, SIR? 
 
 185 
 
 "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 
 
i86 
 
 THE duke's children. 
 
 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 suc- 
 cess, 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 Silver- 
 bridge 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 
 
"WHAT AM I TO SAY, SIR?'' 
 
 187 
 
 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 oc- 
 cupied 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 Til 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 in- 
 vitation 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 cere- 
 
i88 
 
 THE duke's children. 
 
 monies. 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 al- 
 ready carried off to the other side of the Atlantic. 
 Then Mrs. Boncassen explained. Within the last three 
 minutes Mrs. Montacute Jones had called and 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 Silver- 
 bridge. 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 Ameri- 
 
"WHAT AM I TO SAY, SIR?'' iSq 
 
 can took the young man's two hands and shook them 
 cordially, while Mrs. Boncassen bursting into tears in- 
 sisted on kissing him. 
 
 "Indeed she is a happy girl," said she; "but 
 I hope Isabel won't be carried away too high and 
 mighty." 
 
THE DUKF/s children. 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 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 re- 
 posed itself among diamonds, gold and silver orna- 
 ments, 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 pil- 
 low on which her head must rest. She had never yet 
 seen even the outside of the house in which she was 
 
CARLTON TERRACE. 
 
 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 nm 
 smoothly with her, this lordly host, who was so pleas- 
 antly 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 
 1 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 
 I now. But I fear that someone else is losing you." To 
 I 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 in- 
 jured her." "No," he said boldly; "no; there is no 
 
192 
 
 THE duke's children. 
 
 such person.'' For he had never ceased to assure him- 
 self that in all that matter with Mabel Grex he had 
 been guilty of no treachery. There had been a mo- 
 ment, 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 Yorkl 
 She must come now, if you please. Love me, love my 
 mother." 
 
 "I am awfully fond of her," said Silverbridge, 
 
CARLTON TERRACE. 
 
 who felt that he really had behaved well to tlie old 
 lady. 
 
 "So am I, — and therefore she shall go and see the 
 house now. You are as good as gold, — and do every- 
 thing 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 car- 
 riage, 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 
 i 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 Ameiican 
 t 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, 
 I were to be fashioned those who in days to come might 
 r be amongst the strongest and most faithful bulwarks 
 of the constitution. An England without a Duke of 
 Omnium, — or at any rate w^ithout 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 aristo- 
 
 Tkc Duke's Children. III. 1 3 
 
194 
 
 THE duke's children, 
 
 cracy that shall be of the very best! He believe d him- 
 self 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 in 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." 
 
 "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 
 
CARLTON TERRACK. 
 
 1^5 
 
 ' 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 licr 
 all over the house." 
 
 "A few minutes, — and then I will bring her u\} 
 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." 
 ||r "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 " 
 
 13* 
 
196 THE duke's children. 
 
 "I knew that; — but could I have given him up?'' 
 "He at any rate could not give you up. There 
 were little prejudices; — you can understand that." 
 "Oh yes." 
 
 "We who wear black coats could not bring our- 
 selves readily to put on scarlet garments; nor should 
 we sit comfortably with our legs crossed like Turks." 
 
 "I am your scarlet coat and your cross-legged Turk/' 
 she said, with feigned self-reproach in her voice, but 
 with a sparkle of mirth in her eye. 
 
 "But when I have once got into my scarlet coat I 
 can be very proud of it, and when I am once seated 
 in my divan I shall find it of all postures the easiest. 
 Do you understand me?" 
 
 "I think so." 
 
 "Not a shade of any prejudice shall be left to 
 darken my mind. There shall be no feeling but that 
 you are in truth his chosen wife. After all neither can 
 country, nor race, nor rank, nor wealth, make a good , 
 woman. Education can do much. But nature must : 
 have done much also." j 
 
 "Do not expect too much of me." ^ 
 
 "I will so expect that all shall be taken for the \ 
 best. You know, I think, that I have liked you since 
 I first saw you." 
 
 "I know that you have always been good to me." 
 
 "I have liked you from the first. That you are 
 lovely perhaps is no merit; though, to speak the truths 
 I am well pleased that Silverbridge should have found 
 so much beauty." 
 
 "That is all a matter of taste, I suppose," she said, 
 laughing. 
 
 "But there is much that a young woman may da 
 
CARLTON TERRACE. 
 
 for herself which I think you have done. A silly girl, 
 though she had been a second Helen, would h^irdly 
 have satisfied me.'^ 
 
 "Or perhaps him,'' said Isabel. 
 
 "Or him; and it is in that feeling that 1 find my 
 chief satisfaction, — that he should have had the sense 
 to have liked such a one as you better than others. 
 Now I have said it. As not being one of us I did at 
 first object to his choice. As being what you are 
 yourself, I am altogether reconciled to it. Do not keep 
 him long waiting." 
 
 "I do not think he likes to be kept waiting for 
 anything.'' 
 
 "I dare say not. I dare say not. And now there 
 is one thing else." Then the Duke unlocked a little 
 drawer that was close to his hand, and taking out a 
 ring put it on her finger. It was a bar of diamonds, 
 perhaps a dozen of them, fixed in a little circlet of 
 gold. "This must never leave you/' he said. 
 
 "It never shall, — having come from you." 
 
 "It was the first present that I gave to my wife, 
 and it is the first that I give to you. You may imagine 
 how sacred it is to me. On no other hand could it be 
 Iworn without something which to me would be akin to 
 sacrilege. Now I must not keep you longer or Silver- 
 bridge will be storming about the house. He of course 
 will tell me when it is to be; but do not you keep him 
 long waiting." Then he kissed her and led her up 
 into the drawing-room. When he had spoken a word 
 of greeting to Mrs. Boncassen, he left them to their 
 OAvn devices. 
 
 After that they spent the best part of an hour in 
 going over the house; but even that was done in a 
 
THE duke's children. 
 
 manner unsatisfactory to Silverbridge. Wherever Isabel 
 went, there Mrs. Boncassen went also. There might 
 have been some fun in showing even the back kitchens 
 to his bride-elect, by herself; — but there was none in 
 wandering about those vast underground regions with 
 a stout old lady who was really interested with the 
 cooking apparatus and the washhouses. The bedrooms 
 one after another became tedious to him when Mrs. 
 Boncassen would make communications respecting each 
 of them to her daughter. "That is Gerald's room," 
 said Silverbridge. "You have never seen Gerald. He 
 is such a brick.'' Mrs. Boncassen was charmed with 
 the whips and sticks and boxing-gloves in Gerald's 
 room, and expressed an opinion that young men in the 
 States mostly carried their knickknacks about with them 
 to the Universities. When she was told that he had 
 another collection of "knickknacks" at Matching, and 
 another at Oxford, she thought that he was a very ex- 
 travagant young man. Isabel, who had heard all about { 
 the gambling in Scotland, looked round at her lover | 
 and smiled. I 
 
 "jWell, my dear," said Mrs. Boncassen, as they tookv 
 their leave, "it is a very grand house, and I hope with^^ 
 all my heart you may have your health there and be 
 happy. But I don't know that you'll be any happier 
 because it's so big." 
 
 "Wait till you see Gatherum," said Silverbridge. 
 "That, I own, does make me unhappy. It has been 
 calculated that three months at Gatherum Castle would 
 drive a philosopher mad." 
 
 In all this there had been a certain amount of dis- 
 appointment for Silverbridge; but on that evening, be- 
 fore dinner in Brook Street, he received compensation. 
 
CARLTON TERRACE. 
 
 IQ9 
 
 As the day was one somewhat peciiHar in its nature 
 he decided that it should be kept aUogether as a lioH- 
 day, and he did not therefore go down to the House. 
 And not going to the House of course he spent tlie 
 time with the Boncassens. "You know you ought to 
 go," Isabel said to him when they found themselves 
 alone together in the back drawing-room. 
 "Of course I ought." 
 
 "Then go. Do you think I would keep a Briton 
 from his duties?" 
 
 "Not though the constitution should fall in ruins. 
 Do you suppose that a man wants no rest after in- 
 specting all the pots and pans in that establishment? 
 A woman, I believe, could go on doing that kind of 
 thing all day long." 
 
 "You should remember at least that the — woman 
 was interesting herself about your pots and pans." 
 
 "And now, Bella, tell me what the governor said 
 to you." Then she showed him the ring. "Did he 
 give you that?" She nodded her head in assent. "I 
 did not think he would ever have parted with that." 
 
 "It was your mother's." 
 
 "She wore it always. I almost think that I never 
 saw her hand without it. He would not have given 
 you that unless he had meant to be very good to you." 
 
 "He was very good to me. Silverbridge, I have a 
 great deal to do, to learn to be your wife." 
 
 "Fll teach you." 
 
 "Yes; you'll teach me. But will you teach me 
 right? There is something almost awful in your father's 
 serious dignity and solemn appreciation of the re- 
 sponsibilities of his position. Vv^ill vou ever come to 
 that?" 
 
200 
 
 THE duke's children. 
 
 "I shall never be a great man as he is." 
 
 "It seems to me that life to him is a load; — which 
 he does not object to carry, but which he knows must 
 be carried with a great struggle." 
 
 "I suppose it ought to be so with everyone." 
 
 "Yes," she said, "but the higher you put your foot 
 on the ladder the more constant should be your thought 
 that your stepping requires care. I fear that I am 
 climbing too high." 
 
 "You can't come down now, my young woman." 
 
 "I have to go on now, — and do it as best I can. 
 I will try to do my best. I will try to do my best. I 
 told him so, and now I tell you so. I will try to do 
 my best." 
 
 "Perhaps after all I am only a *pert poppet,'" she 
 said half an hour afterwards, for Silverbridge had 
 told her of that terrible mistake made by poor Dolly 
 Longstaff. 
 
 "Brute!" he exclaimed. 
 
 "Not at all. And when we are settled down in 
 the real Darby-and-Joan way I shall hope to see Mr. 
 Longstaff very often. I daresay he won't call me a 
 pert poppet, and I shall not remind him of the word. 
 But I shall always think of it; and remembering the 
 way in which my character struck an educated English- 
 man, — who was not altogether ill-disposed towards me, 
 — I may hope to improve myself" 
 
"I HAVE NEVER LOVED YOU.' 
 
 20I 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 "I HAVE NEVER LOVED YOU." 
 
 SiLVERBRiDGE had HOW been in town three or four 
 weeks, and Lady Mabel Grex had also been in London 
 all that time, and yet he had not seen her. She had 
 told him that she loved him and had asked him 
 plainly to make her his wife. He had told her that 
 he could not do so, — that he was altogether resolved 
 to make another woman his wife. Then she had re- 
 buked him, and had demanded from him how he had 
 dared to treat her as he had done. His conscience 
 was clear. Lie had his own code of morals as to such 
 matters, and had, as he regarded it, kept within the 
 law. But she thought that she was badly treated, and 
 had declared that she was now left out in the cold 
 for ever through his treachery. Then her last word 
 had been almost the worst of all, ^'Who can tell what 
 may come to pass?" — showing too plainly that she 
 would not even now give up her hope. Before the 
 month was up she wrote to him as follows: 
 
 "Dear Lord Silverbridge, 
 "Why do you not come and see me? Are friends 
 so plentiful with you that one so staunch as I may be 
 thrown over? But of course I know why you do not 
 come. Put all that aside, — and come. I cannot hurt 
 
202 
 
 THE duke's children. 
 
 you. I have learned to feel that certain things which 
 the world regards as too awful to be talked of, — except 
 in the way of scandal, may be discussed and then laid 
 aside just like other subjects. What though I wear a 
 wig or a wooden leg, I may still be fairly comfortable 
 among my companions unless I crucify myself by trying 
 to hide my misfortune. It is not the presence of the 
 skeleton that crushes us. Not even that will hurt us 
 much if we let him go about the house as he lists. It 
 is the everlasting effort which the horror makes to 
 peep out of his cupboard that robs us of our ease. At 
 any rate come and see me. 
 
 "Of course I know that you are to be married to 
 Miss Boncassen. Who does not know it? The trum- 
 peters have been at work for the last week. 
 
 "Your very sincere Friend, 
 
 "Mabel.'' 
 
 He wished that she had not written. Of course [ 
 he must go to her. And though there was a word or i 
 two in her letter which angered him, his feelings to- ) 
 wards her were kindly. Had not that American angel | 
 flown across the Atlantic to his arms he could have \ 
 been well content to make her his wife. But the 
 interview at the present moment could hardly be other 
 than painful. She could, she said, talk of her own 
 misfortunes, but the subject would be very painful to 
 him. It was not to him a skeleton, to be locked out 
 of sight; but it had been a misfortune, and the sooner 
 that such misfortunes could be forgotten the better. 
 
 He knew what she meant about trumpeters. She 
 had intended to signify that Isabel in her pride had 
 boasted of her matrimonial prospects. Of course there 
 
"t have never loved you." 
 
 203 
 
 had been trumpets. Are there not always trumpets 
 when a marriage is contemplated, magnificent enough 
 to be called an alliance? As for that he himself had 
 blown the trumpets. He had told everybody that he 
 was going to be married to Miss Boncassen. Isabel 
 had blown no trumpets. In her own straightforward 
 way she had told the truth to whom it concerned. Of 
 course she would go and see Lady Mabel, but he 
 trusted that for her own sake nothing would be said 
 about trumpets. 
 
 "So you have come at last," Mabel said when he 
 entered the room. "No; — Miss Cassewary is not here. 
 As I wanted to see you alone I got her to go out this 
 morning. Why did you not come before?" 
 
 "You said in your letter that you knew why." 
 
 "But in saying so I was accusing you of cowardice; 
 — was I not?" 
 
 "It was not cowardice." 
 
 "Why then did you not come?" 
 
 "I thought you would hardly wish to see me so 
 soon, — after what passed." 
 
 "That is honest at any rate. You felt that I must 
 be too much ashamed of what I said to be able to 
 look you in the face." 
 
 "Not that exactly." 
 
 "Any other man would have felt the same, but no 
 other man would be honest enough to tell me so. I 
 do not think that ever in your life you have constrained 
 yourself to the civility of a lie." 
 
 "I hope not." 
 
 "To be civil and false is often better than to 
 be harsh and true. I may be soothed by the 
 courtesy and yet not deceived by the lie. But what 
 
204 " THE duke's CHILDREN. 
 
 I told you in my letter, — which I hope you have des- 
 troyed " 
 
 "I will destroy it." 
 
 "Do. It was not intended for the partner of your 
 future joys. As I told you then, I can talk freely. 
 Why not? We know it, — both of us. How your con- 
 science may be I cannot tell; but mine is clear from 
 that soil with which you think it should be smirched.'' 
 
 "I think nothing of the sort." 
 
 "Yes, Silverbridge, you do. You have said to 
 yourself this; — That girl has determined to get me, 
 and she has not scrupled as to how she would do it." 
 
 "No such idea has ever crossed my mind." 
 
 "But you have never told yourself of the encourage- 
 ment which you gave me. Such condemnation as I 
 have spoken of would have been just if my efforts had 
 been sanctioned by no words, no looks, no deeds from 
 you. Did you give me warrant for thinking that you 
 were my lover?" 
 
 That theory by which he had justified himself to 
 himself seemed to fall away from him under her ques- 
 tioning. He could not now remember his words to 
 her in those old days before Miss Boncassen had 
 crossed his path; but he did know that he had once 
 intended to make her understand that he loved her. 
 She had not understood him; — or understanding, had 
 not accepted his words; and therefore he had thought 
 himself free. But it now seemed that he had not been 
 entitled so to regard himself There she sat, looking 
 at him, waiting for his answer; and he who had been 
 so sure that he had committed no sin against her, had 
 not a word to say to her. 
 
 "I want your answer to that, Lord Silverbridge. I 
 
"I HAVE NEVER LOVED YOU/' 
 
 205 
 
 have told you that I would have no skeleton in the 
 cupboard. Down at Matching, and before that at 
 Killancodlem , I appealed to you, asking you to take 
 me as your wife." 
 "Hardly that." 
 
 "Altogether that! I will have nothing denied that 
 I have done, — nor will I be ashamed of anything. I 
 did do so, — even after this infatuation. I thought then 
 that one so volatile might perhaps fly back again." 
 
 "I shall not do that," said he, frowning at her. 
 
 " You need trouble yourself with no assurance , my 
 friend. Let us understand each other now. I am not 
 now supposing that you can fly back again. You have 
 found your perch, and you must settle on it like a 
 good domestic barn-door fowl." Again he scowled. If 
 she were too hard upon him he would certainly turn 
 upon her. "No; you will not fly back again now; — 
 but was I, or was I not, justified when you came to 
 Killancodlem in thinking that my lover had come 
 there?" 
 
 "How can I tell? It is my own justification I am 
 thinking of." 
 
 "I see all that. But we cannot both be justified. 
 Did you mean me to suppose that you were speaking 
 to me words in earnest when there, — sitting in that 
 very spot, — you spoke to me of your love." 
 
 "Did I speak of my love?" 
 
 "Did you speak of your love! And now, Silver- 
 bridge, — for if there be an English gentleman on earth 
 I think that you are one, — as a gentleman tell me this. 
 Did you not even tell your father that I should be 
 your wife? I know you did." 
 
 "Did he tell you?" 
 
 I 
 
206 
 
 THE duke's children. 
 
 "Men such as you and he, who cannot even He 
 with your eyeHds, who will not condescend to cover 
 up a secret by a moment of feigned inanimation, have 
 many voices. He did tell me; but he broke no con- 
 fidence. He told me, but did not mean to tell me. 
 Now you also have told me." 
 
 "I did. I told him so. And then I changed my 
 mind." 
 
 "I know you changed your mind. Men often do. 
 A pinker pink, a whiter white, — a finger that will 
 press you just half an ounce the closer, — a cheek that 
 will consent to let itself come just a little nearer ! " 
 
 "No; no; no!" It was because Isabel had not 
 easily consented to such approaches! 
 
 "Trifles such as these will do it; — and some such 
 trifles have done it with you. It would be beneath me 
 to make comparisons w^here I might seem to be the 
 gainer. I grant her beauty. She is very lovely. She 
 has succeeded." 
 
 "I have succeeded." 
 
 "But — I am justified, and you are condemned. Is 
 it not so? Tell me like a man." 
 "You are justified." 
 
 "And you are condemned? When you told me 
 that I should be your wife, and then told your father 
 the same story, was I to think it all meant nothing! 
 Have you deceived me?" 
 
 "I did not mean it." 
 
 "Have you deceived me? What; you cannot deny 
 it, and yet have not the manliness to own it to a poor 
 woman who can only save herself from humiliation by 
 extorting the truth from you!" 
 
 ^'Qh^ Mabel; I am so sorry it should be so" 
 
HAVE NEVER LOVED YOU.'* 
 
 207 
 
 "I believe you are, — with a sorrow that will last 
 till she is again sitting close to you. Nor, Silverbridge, 
 do I wish it to be longer. No; — no; — no. Your fault 
 after all has not been great. You deceived, but did 
 not mean to deceive me?" 
 
 "Never; never." 
 
 "And I fancy you have never known how much 
 you bore about with you. Your modesty has been so 
 perfect that you have not thought of yourself as more 
 than other men. You have forgotten that you have 
 had in your hand the disposal to some one woman of 
 a throne in Paradise." 
 
 "I don't suppose you thought of that." 
 
 "But I did. Why should I tell falsehoods now. I 
 have determined that you should know everything, — 
 but I could better confess to you my own sins when I 
 had shown that you too have not been innocent. Not 
 think of it! Do not men think of high titles and great 
 wealth and power and place? And if men, why should 
 not women? Do not men try to get them; — and are 
 they not even applauded for their energy? A woman 
 has but one way to try. I tried." 
 
 "I do not think it was all for that." 
 
 "How shall I answer that without a confession 
 which even I am not hardened enough to make? In 
 truth, Silverbridge, I have never loved you." 
 
 He drew himself up slowly before he answered her, 
 and gradually assumed a look very different from that 
 easy boyish smile which was customary to him. "I 
 am glad of that," he said. 
 
 "Why are you glad?" 
 
 "Now I can have no regrets." 
 
 "You need have none, It was necessary to me 
 
2o8 
 
 THE duke's children. 
 
 that I should have my little triumph; — that I should 
 show you that I knew how far you had wronged me! 
 But now I wish that you should know everything. I 
 have never loved you." 
 
 "There is an end of it then." 
 
 "But I have liked you so well, — so much better 
 than all others! A dozen men have asked me to 
 marry them. And though they might be nothing till 
 they made that request, then they became — things of 
 horror to me. But you were not a thing of horror. I 
 could have become your wife, and I think that I could 
 have learned to love you." 
 
 "It is best as it is." 
 
 "I ought to say so too; but I have a doubt I 
 should have liked to be Duchess of Omnium, and 
 perhaps I might have fitted the place better than one 
 who can as yet know but little of its duties or its 
 privileges. I may, perhaps, think that that other ar- 
 rangement would have been better even for you." 
 
 "I can take care of myself in that." 
 
 "I should have married you without loving you, 
 but I should have done so determined to sei-ve you 
 with a devotion which a woman who does love hardly 
 thinks necessary. I would have so done my duty that 
 you should never have guessed that my heart had been 
 in the keeping of another man." 
 
 "Another man!" 
 
 "Yes; of course. If there had been no other man, 
 why not you? Am I so hard, do you think that I can 
 love no one? Are you not such a one that a girl would 
 naturally love, — were she not preoccupied? That a 
 woman should love seems as necessary as that a man 
 should not." 
 
"I HAVE NEVER LOVED YOU.' 
 
 209 
 
 "A man can love too/' 
 
 "No; — hardly. He can admire, and he can like, 
 and he can fondle and be fond. He can admire, and 
 approve, and perhaps worship. He can know of a 
 woman that she is part of himself, the most sacred 
 part, and therefore will protect her from the very 
 winds. But all that will not make love. It does not 
 come to a man that to be separated from a woman is 
 to be dislocated from his very self. A man has but 
 one centre, and that is himself A woman has two. 
 Though the second may never be seen by her, may 
 live in the arms of another, may do all for that other 
 that man can do for woman, — still, still, though he 
 be half the globe asunder from her, still he is to her 
 the half of her existence. If she really love, there is, 
 I fancy, no end of it. To the end of time I shall love 
 Frank Tregear.'' 
 
 "TregearT' 
 
 "Who else?" 
 
 "He is engaged to Mary." 
 
 "Of course he is. Why not; — to her or whom- 
 soever else he might like best? He is as true I doubt 
 not to your sister as you are to your American beauty, 
 — or as you would have been to me had fancy held. 
 He used to love me." 
 
 "You were always friends." 
 
 "Always; — dear friends. And he would have 
 loved me if a man were capable of loving. But he 
 could sever himself from me easily, just when he was 
 told to do so. I thought that I could do the same. 
 But I cannot. A jackal is born a jackal, and not a 
 lion, and cannot help himself. So is a woman born — 
 a woman. They are clinging, parasite things, which 
 
 The Duke's Children. II L \\ 
 
2IO 
 
 THE duke's children. 
 
 cannot but adhere; though they destroy themselves 
 by adhering. Do not suppose that I take a pride in 
 it. I would give one of my eyes to be able to dis- 
 regard him.'' 
 
 "Time will do it." 
 
 "Yes; time,— that brings wrinkles and rouge-pots 
 and rheumatism. Though I have so hated those men 
 as to be unable to endure them, still I want some 
 man's house, and his name, — some man's bread and 
 wine, — some man's jewels and titles and woods and 
 parks and gardens, — if I can get them. Time can 
 help a man in his sorrow. If he begins at forty to 
 make speeches, or to win races, or to breed oxen, 
 he can yet live a prosperous life. Time is but a 
 poor consoler for a young woman who has to be 
 married." 
 
 "Oh Mabel." 
 
 "And now let there be not a word more about it. 
 I know — that I can trust you." 
 "Indeed you may." 
 
 "Though you will tell her everything else you will 
 not tell her this." 
 "No;— not this." 
 
 "And surely you will not tell your sister!" 
 "I shall tell no one." 
 
 "It is because you are so true that I have dared 
 to trust you. I had to justify myself, — and then to 
 confess. Had I at that one moment taken you at 
 your word, you would never have known anything of 
 
 all this. * There is a tide in the affairs of men !' 
 
 But I let the flood go by! I shall not see you again 
 now before you are married; but come to me after- 
 wards." 
 
"let us drink a glass of wine together.'^ 211 
 
 CHAPTER XXL 
 "let us drink a glass of wine together." 
 
 SiLVERBRiDGE pondered it all much as he went 
 home. What a terrible story was that he had heard! 
 The horror to him was chiefly in this, — that she should 
 yet be driven to marry some man without even fancy- 
 ing that she could love him! And this was Lady 
 Mabel Grex, who, on his own first entrance into Lon- 
 don life, now not much more than twelve months ago, 
 had seemed to him to stand above all other girls in 
 beauty, charm, and popularity! 
 
 As he opened the door of the house with his 
 latch-key, who should be coming out but Frank Tre- 
 gear, — Frank Tregear with his arm in a sling, but 
 still with an unmistakable look of general satisfaction. 
 "When on earth did you come up?" asked Silver- 
 bridge. Tregear told him that he had arrived on the 
 previous evening from Harrington. "And why? The 
 doctor would not have let you come if he could have 
 helped it." 
 
 "When he found he could not help it, he did let 
 me come. I am nearly all right. If I had been nearly 
 all wrong I should have had to come." 
 
 "And what are you doing here?" 
 
 "Well; if you'll allow me Til go back with you 
 
 14* 
 
212 
 
 THE duke's children. 
 
 for a moment. What do you think I have been do- 
 ing?" 
 
 "Have you seen my sister?" 
 
 "Yes, I have seen your sister. And I have done 
 better than that. I have seen your father. Lord 
 Silverbridge, — behold your brother-in-law." 
 
 "You don't mean to say that it is arranged?" 
 
 "I do." 
 
 "What did he say?" 
 
 "He made me understand by most unanswerable 
 arguments, that I had no business to think of such a 
 thing. I did not fight the point with him, — but 
 simply stood there, as conclusive evidence of my 
 business. He told me that we should have nothing 
 to live on unless he gave us an income. I assured 
 him that I would never ask him for a shilling. *But 
 I cannot allow her to many a man without an income,' 
 he said." 
 
 "I know his way so well." 
 
 "I had just two facts to go upon, — that I would 
 not give her up, and that she would not give me up. 
 When I pointed that out he tore his hair, — in a mild 
 way, and said that he did not understand that kind of 
 thing at all." 
 
 "And yet he gave way." 
 
 "Of course he did. They say that when a king 
 of old would consent to see a petitioner for his life, 
 he was bound by his royalty to mercy. So it was with 
 the Duke. Then, very early in the argument, he for- 
 got himself, and called her — Mary. I knew he had 
 thrown up the sponge then." 
 
 "How did he give way at last?" 
 
 "He asked me what were my ideas about life i 
 
"let us drink a glass of wine together.'' 213 
 
 general. I said that I thought Parliament was a good 
 sort of thing, that I was lucky enough to have a seat, 
 and that I should take lodgings somewhere in West- 
 minster till . ^Till what?' he asked. Till some- 
 thing is settled I replied. Then he turned away from 
 me and remained silent. May I see Lady Mary? I 
 asked. ^Yes; you may see her,' he replied, as he rang 
 the bell. Then when the servant was gone he stopped 
 me. *I love her too dearly to see her grieve,' he said. 
 *I hope you will show that you can be worthy of her.' 
 Then I made some sort of protestation and went up- 
 stairs. While I was with Mary there came a message 
 to me, telling me to come to dinner." 
 
 "The Boncassens are all dining here." 
 
 "Then we shall be a family party. So far I sup- 
 pose I may say it is settled. When he will let us 
 marry heaven only knows. Mary declares that she will 
 not press him. I certainly cannot do so. It is all a 
 matter of money." 
 
 "He won't care about that." 
 
 "But he may perhaps think that a little patience 
 will do us good. You will have to soften him." Then 
 Silverbridge told all that he knew about himself. He 
 was to be married in May, was to go to Matching for 
 a week or two after his wedding, was then to see the 
 Session to an end, and after that to travel with his 
 wife in the United States. "I don't suppose we shall 
 be allowed to run about the world together so soon as 
 that," said Tregear, "but I am too well satisfied with 
 my day's work to complain." 
 
 "Did he say what he meant to give her?" 
 
 "Oh dear no; — nor even that he meant to give her 
 anything. I should not dream of asking a question 
 
2 14 
 
 THE duke's children. 
 
 about it. Nor when he makes any proposition shall I 
 think of having any opinion of my own." 
 
 "He'll make it all right; — for her sake you know." 
 
 "My chief object as regards him, is that he should 
 not think that I have been looking after her money. 
 Well; good-bye. I suppose we shall all meet at dinner?" 
 
 Wjien Tregear left him Silverbridge went to his 
 father's room. He was anxious that they should un- 
 derstand each other as to Mary's engagement. "I 
 thought you were at the house," said the Duke. 
 
 "I was going there, but I met Tregear at the door. 
 He tells me you have accepted him for Mary." 
 
 "I wish that he had never seen her. Do you think 
 that a man can be thwarted in everything and not 
 feel it?" 
 
 " I thought — you had reconciled yourself — to Isabel." 
 
 "If it were that alone I could do so the more easily, 
 because personally she wins upon me. And this man, 
 too; — it is not that I find fault with himself." 
 
 "He is in all respects a high-minded gentleman." 
 
 "I hope so. But yet, had he a right to set his 
 heart there, where he could make his fortune, — having 
 none of his own?" 
 
 "He did not think of that." 
 
 "He should have thought of it. A man does not 
 allow himself to love without any consideration or 
 .purpose. You say that he is a gentleman. A gentle- 
 man should not look to live on means brought to him 
 by a wife. You say that he did not." 
 
 "He did not think of it." 
 
 "A gentleman should do more than not think of it. 
 He should think that it shall not be so. A man should 
 own his means, or should earn them." 
 
"let us drink a glass of wine together." 215 
 
 "How many men, sir, do neither?" 
 
 "Yes; I know," said the Duke. "Such a doctrine 
 nowadays is caviare to the general. One must live as 
 others live around one, I suppose. I could not see 
 her suffer. It was too much for me. When I became 
 convinced that this was no temporary passion, no 
 romantic love which time might banish, that she was 
 of such a temperament that she could not change, — 
 then I had to give way. Gerald I suppose will bring 
 me some kitchen-maid for his wife." 
 
 "Oh, sir, you should not say that to me." 
 
 "No; — I should not have said it to you. I beg 
 your pardon, Silverbridge." Then he paused a mo- 
 ment, turning over certain thoughts within his own 
 bosom. "Perhaps after all, it is well that a pride of 
 which I am conscious should be rebuked. And it 
 may be that the rebuke has come in such a form 
 that I should be thankful. I know that I can love 
 Isabel." 
 
 "That to me will be everything." 
 
 "And this young man has nothing that should 
 revolt me. I think he has been wrong. But now that 
 I have said it I will let all that pass from me. He 
 will dine with us to-day." 
 
 Silverbridge then went up to see his sister. "So 
 you have settled your little business, Mary." 
 
 "Oh Silverbridge, you will wish me joy?" 
 
 "Certainly. Why not?" 
 \ "Papa is so stern with me. Of course he has 
 given way, and of course I am grateful. But he looks 
 at me as though I had done something to be forgiven." 
 
 "Take the good the gods provide you, Mary. That 
 will all come right." 
 
2l6 
 
 THE duke's children. 
 
 "But I have not done anything wrong. Have I?'' 
 
 "That is a matter of opinion. How can I answer 
 about you when I don't quite know whether I have 
 done anything wrong or not myself. I am going to 
 marry the girl I have chosen. That's enough for me." 
 
 "But you did change." 
 
 "We need not say anything about that." 
 
 "But r have never changed. Papa just told me 
 that he would consent, and that I might write to him. 
 So I did write, and he came. But papa looks at me 
 as though I had broken his heart." 
 
 "I tell you what it is, Mary. You expect too 
 much from him. He has not had his own way with 
 either of us, and of course he feels it." 
 
 As Tregear had said, there was quite a family 
 party in Carlton Terrace, though as yet the family was 
 not bound together by family ties. All the Boncassens 
 were there, the father, the mother, and the promised 
 bride. Mr. Boncassen bore himself with more ease 
 than anyone in the company, having at his command 
 a gift of manliness which enabled him to regard this 
 marriage exactly as he would have done any other. 
 America was not so far distant but what he would be 
 able to see his girl occasionally. He liked the young 
 man and he believed in the comfort of wealth. There- 
 fore he was satisfied. But when the marriage was 
 spoken of, or written of, as "an alliance," then he 
 would say a hard word or two about dukes and lords 
 in general. On such an occasion as this he was happy 
 and at his ease. 
 
 So much could not be said for his wife, with whom 
 the Duke attempted to place himself on terms of family 
 equality. But in doing this he failed to hide the at- 
 
"let us drink a glass of wine together." 217 
 
 tempt even from her, and she broke down under it. 
 Had he simply walked into the room with her as he 
 would have done on any other occasion, and then re- 
 marked that the frost was keen or the thaw disagreeable, 
 it would have been better for her. But when he told 
 her that he hoped she would often make herself at 
 home in that house, and looked, as he said it, as 
 though he were asking her to take a place among the 
 goddesses of Olympus, she was troubled as to her an- 
 swer. "Oh, my Lord Duke," she said, "when I think 
 of Isabel living here and being called by such a name, 
 it almost upsets me." 
 
 Isabel had all her father's courage, but she was 
 more sensitive; and though she would have borne her 
 honours well, was oppressed by the feeling that the 
 weight was too much for her mother. She could not 
 keep her ear from listening to her mother's words, or 
 her eye from watching her mother's motions. She was 
 prepared to carry her mother everywhere. "As other 
 girls have to be taken with their belongings, so must 
 I, if I be taken at all." This she had said plainly 
 enough. There should be no division between her and 
 her mother. But still knowing that her mother was not 
 quite at ease, she was hardly at ease herself. 
 
 Silverbridge came in at the last moment, and of 
 course occupied a chair next to Isabel. As the House 
 was sitting, it was natural that he should come up in 
 a flurry. "I left Phineas," he said, "pounding away in 
 his old style at Sir Timothy. By-the-bye, Isabel, you 
 must come down some day and hear Sir Timothy 
 badgered. I must be back again about ten. Well, 
 Gerald, how are they all at Lazarus?" He made an 
 
2l8 
 
 THE duke's children. 
 
 effort to be free and easy, but even he soon found that 
 it was an effort. 
 
 Gerald had come up from Oxford for the occasion 
 that he might make acquaintance with the Boncassens. 
 He had taken Isabel in to dinner, but had been 
 turned out of his place when his brother came in. 
 He had been a little confused by the first impression 
 made upon him by Mrs. Boncassen, and had in- 
 voluntarily watched his father. "Silver is going to 
 have an odd sort of a mother-in-law," he said after- 
 wards to Mary, who remarked in reply that this would 
 not signify, as the mother-in-law would be in New 
 York. 
 
 Tregear's part was very difficult to play. He 
 could not but feel that though he had succeeded, still 
 he was as yet looked upon askance. Silverbridge 
 had told him that by degrees the Duke would be 
 won round, but that it was not to be expected that 
 he should swallow at once all his regrets. The truth 
 of this could not but be accepted. The immediate 
 inconvenience, however, was not the less felt. Each 
 and everyone there knew the position of each and 
 everyone; — but Tregear felt it difficult to act up to 
 his. He could not play the well-pleased lover openly, 
 as did Silverbridge. Mary herself was disposed to be 
 very silent. The heart-breaking tedium of her dull 
 life had been removed. Her determination had been 
 rewarded. All that she had wanted had been granted 
 to her, and she was happy. But she was not prepared 
 to show off her happiness before others. And she 
 was aware that she was thought to have done evil by 
 introducing her lover into her august family. 
 
 But it was the Duke who made the greatest efforts, 
 
"LET US DRINK A GLASS OF WINE TOGETHER.'' 2ig 
 
 and with the least success. He had told himself 
 again and again that he was bound by every sense of 
 duty to swallow all regrets. He had taken himself 
 to task on this matter. He had done so even out 
 loud to his son. He had declared that he would "let 
 it all pass from him.'' But who does not know how 
 hard it is for a man in such matters to keep his word 
 to himself? Who has not said to himself at the very 
 moment of his own delinquency, "Now, — it is now, — 
 at this very instant of time, that I should crush, and 
 quench, and kill the evil spirit within me; it is now 
 that I should abate my greed, or smother my ill- 
 humour, or abandon my hatred. It is now, and here, 
 that I should drive out the fiend, as I have sworn to 
 myself that I would do," — and yet has failed? 
 
 That it would be done, would be done at last, 
 by this man was very certain. When Silverbridge 
 assured his sister that "it would come all right very 
 soon," he had understood his father's character. But 
 it could not be completed quite at once. Had he 
 been required to take Isabel only to his heart, it 
 would have been comparatively easy. There are men, 
 who do not seem at first sight very susceptible to 
 feminine attractions, who nevertheless are dominated 
 by the grace of flounces, who succumb to petticoats 
 unconsciously, and who are half in love with every 
 woman merely for her womanhood. So it was with 
 the Duke. He had given way in regard to Isabel 
 with less than half the effort that Frank Tregear was 
 likely to cost him. 
 
 "You were not at the House, sir," said Silver- 
 bridge when he felt that there was a pause. 
 
 "No, not to-day." Then there was a pause again. 
 
220 
 
 THE duke's children. 
 
 ''I think that we shall beat Cambridge this year 
 to a moral/' said Gerald, who was sitting at the round 
 table opposite to his father. Mr. Boncassen, who was 
 next him, asked, in irony probably rather than in 
 ignorance, whether the victory was to be achieved by 
 mathematical or classical proficiency. Gerald turned 
 and looked at him. "Do you mean to say that you 
 have never heard of the University boat-races?" 
 
 "Papa, you have disgraced yourself for ever,'' said 
 Isabel. 
 
 "Have I, my dear? Yes, I have heard of them. 
 But I thought Lord Gerald's protestation was too 
 great for a mere aquatic triumph." 
 
 "Now you are poking your fun at me," said 
 Gerald. 
 
 • "Well he may," said the Duke sententiously. 
 "We have laid ourselves very open to having fun 
 poked at us in this matter." 
 
 "I think, sir," said Tregear, "that they are learn- 
 ing to do the same sort of thing at the American 
 Universities." 
 
 "Oh, indeed," said the Duke in a solemn, dry, 
 funereal tone. And then all the little life which 
 Gerald's remark about the boat-race had produced, 
 was quenched at once. The Duke was not angry 
 with Tregear for his little word of defence, — but he 
 was not able to bring himself into harmony with this 
 one guest, and was almost savage to him without 
 meaning it. He was continually asking himself why 
 Destiny had been so hard upon him as to force him 
 to receive there at his table as his son-in-law a man 
 who was distasteful to him. And he was endeavouring 
 to answer the question, taking himself to task and 
 
"let us drink a glass of wine together.'^ 221 
 
 telling himself that his destiny had done him no in- 
 jury, and that the pride which had been wounded 
 was a false pride. He was making a brave fight; but 
 during the fight he was hardly fit to be the genial 
 father and father-in-law of young people who were 
 going to be married to one another. But before the 
 dinner was over he made a great effort. "Tregear/^ 
 he said, — and even that was an effort, for he had 
 never hitherto mentioned the man's name without the 
 formal Mister, "Tregear, as this is the first time you 
 have sat at my table, let me be old-fashioned, and 
 ask you to drink a glass of wine with me.'' 
 
 The glass of wine was drunk and the ceremony 
 afforded infinite satisfaction at least to one person 
 there. Mary could not keep herself from some ex- 
 pression of joy by pressing her finger for a moment 
 against her lover's arm. He, though not usually given 
 to such manifestations, blushed up to his eyes. But 
 the feeling produced on the company was solemn 
 rather than jovial. Everyone there understood it all. 
 Mr. Boncassen could read the Duke's mind down to 
 the last line. Even Mrs. Boncassen was aware that an 
 act of reconciliation had been intended. "When the 
 governor drank that glass of wine it seemed as though 
 half the marriage ceremony had been performed," 
 Gerald said to his brother that evening. When the 
 Duke's glass was replaced on the table, he himself 
 was conscious of the solemnity of what he had done, 
 and was half ashamed of it. 
 
 When the ladies had gone upstairs the conversa- 
 tion became political and lively. The Duke could 
 talk freely about the state of things to Mr. Boncassen, 
 and was able gradually to include Tregear in the 
 
222 
 
 THE duke's children. 
 
 badinage with which he attacked the conservatism of 
 his son. And so the half hour passed well. Upstairs 
 the two girls immediately came together, leaving Mrs. 
 Boncassen to chew the cud of the grandeur around 
 her in the sleepy comfort of an arm-chair. "And so 
 everything is settled for both of us/' said Isabel. 
 
 "Of course I knew it was to be settled for you. 
 You told me so at Custins.'' 
 
 "I did not know it myself then. I only told 
 you that he had asked me. And you hardly be- 
 lieved me.'' 
 
 "I certainly believed you." 
 
 "But you knew about — Lady Mabel Grex." 
 
 "I only suspected something, and now I know 
 it was a mistake. It has never been more than a 
 suspicion." 
 
 "And why, when we were at Custins, did you not 
 tell me about yourself?" 
 "I had nothing to tell." 
 
 "I can understand that. But is it not joyful that 
 it should all be settled? Only poor Lady Mabel! 
 You have got no Lady Mabel to trouble your con- 
 science." From which it was evident that Silverbridge 
 had not told all. 
 
THE major's story. 
 
 223 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 THE major's story. 
 
 By the end of March Isabel was in Paris, whither 
 she had forbidden her lover to follow her. Silverbridge 
 was therefore reduced to the shifts of a bachelor's 
 life, in which his friends seemed to think that he 
 ought now to take special delight. Perhaps he did 
 not take much delight in them. He was no doubt 
 impatient to commence that steady married life for 
 which he had prepared himself. But nevertheless, 
 just at present, he lived a good deal at the Bear- 
 garden. Where was he to live? The Boncassens were 
 in Paris, his sister was at Matching with a houseful 
 of other Pallisers, and his father was again deep in 
 politics. 
 
 Of course he was much in the House of Commons, 
 f but that also was stupid. Indeed everything would be 
 stupid till Isabel came back. Perhaps dinner was 
 more comfortable at the club than at the House. And 
 ' then, as everybody knew, it was a good thing to 
 change the scene. Therefore he dined at the club, 
 and though he w^ould keep his hansom and go down 
 to the House again in the course of the evening, he 
 ; spent many long hours at the Beargarden. ^'There'll 
 ; veiy soon be an end of this as far as you are con- 
 
224 
 
 THE DUKE^S CHILDREN. 
 
 cerned," said Mr. Lupton to him one evening as they 
 were sitting in the smoking-room after dinner. 
 
 "The sooner the better as far- as this place is 
 concerned.^' 
 
 "This place is as good as any other. For the matter 
 of that I like the Beargarden since we got rid of two 
 or three not very charming characters.'^ 
 
 "You mean my poor friend Tifto," said Silver- 
 bridge. 
 
 "No; — I was not thinking of Tifto. There were 
 one or two here who were quite as bad as Tifto. I 
 wonder what has become of that poor devil?'' 
 
 "I don't know in the least. You heard of that row 
 about the hounds?" 
 
 "And his letter to you." 
 
 "He wrote to me, — and I answered him, as you 
 know. But whither he vanished, or what he is doing, 
 or how he is living, I have not the least idea." 
 
 "Gone to join those other fellows abroad I should 
 say. Among them they got a lot of money, — as the 
 Duke ought to remember." 
 
 "He is not with them," said Silverbridge, as though 
 he were in some degree mourning over the fate of his 
 unfortunate friend. 
 
 "I suppose Captain Green was the leader in all 
 that?" 
 
 "Now it is all done and gone I own to a certain 
 regard for the Major. He was true to me till he thought 
 I snubbed him. I would not let him go down to Silver- 
 bridge with me. I always thought that I drove the 
 poor Major to his malpractices." 
 
 At this moment Dolly Longstaff sauntered into the 
 room and came up to them. It may be remembered 
 
THE major's story. 
 
 that Dolly had declared his purpose of emigrating. As 
 soon as he heard that the Duke's heir had serious 
 thoughts of marrying the lady whom he loved he with- 
 drew at once from the contest, but, as he did so, he 
 acknowledged that there could be no longer a home 
 for him in the country which Isabel was to inhabit as 
 the wife of another man. Gradually, however, better 
 thoughts returned to him. After all, what was she 
 but a "pert poppet?" He determined that marriage 
 "clips a fellow's wings confoundedly," and so he set 
 himself to enjoy life after his old fashion. There was 
 perhaps a little swagger as he threw himself into a 
 chair and addressed the happy lover. "Til be shot if 
 I didn't meet Tifto at the corner of the street." 
 "Tifto!" 
 
 "Yes, Tifto. He looked awfully seedy, with a 
 greatcoat buttoned up to his chin, a shabby hat and 
 old gloves." 
 
 "Did he speak to you?" asked Silverbridge. 
 
 "No; — nor I to him. He hadn't time to think 
 whether he would speak or not, and you may be sure 
 I didn't." 
 
 Nothing further was said about the man, but Silver- 
 bridge was uneasy and silent. When his cigar w^as 
 finished he got up saying that he should go back to 
 the House. As he left the club he looked about him 
 as though expecting to see his old friend, and when 
 he had passed through the first street and had got 
 into the Haymarket there he was! The Major came 
 up to him, touched his hat, asked to be allowed to 
 say a few words. "I don't think it can "do any good," 
 said Silverbridge. The man had not attempted to 
 shake hands with him, or affected familiarity; but 
 
 Tlie Dukes Children. III. 1$ 
 
226 
 
 THE duke's children. 
 
 seemed to be thoroughly humiliated. "I don't think I 
 can be of any service to you, and therefore I had 
 rather decline." 
 
 "I don't want you to be of any service, my 
 Lord." 
 
 "Then what's the good?" 
 
 "I have something to say. May I come to you to- 
 morrow?" 
 
 Then Silverbridge allowed himself to make an 
 appointment, and an hour was named at which Tifto 
 might call in Carlton Terrace. He felt that he almost 
 owed some reparation to the wretched man, — whom 
 he had unfortunately admitted among his friends, 
 whom he had used, and to whom he had been un- 
 courteous. Exactly at the hour named the Major was 
 shown into his room. 
 
 Dolly had said that he was shabby, — but the man 
 was altered rather than shabby. He still had rings 
 on his fingers and studs in his shirt, and a jewelled 
 pin in his cravat; — but he had shaven off his moustache 
 and the tuft from his chin, and his hair had been cut 
 short, and in spite of his jewellery there was a hang- 
 dog look about him. "IVe got something that I par- 
 ticularly want to say to you, my Lord." Silverbridge 
 would not shake hands with him, but could not refrain 
 from offering him a chair. 
 
 "Well; — you can say it now." 
 
 "Yes; — but it isn't 30 very easy to be said. There 
 are some things, though you want to say them ever so, 
 you don't quite know how to do it." 
 
 "You have your choice, Major Tifto. You can 
 speak or hold your tongue." 
 
 Then there was a pause, during which Silverbridge 
 
THE major's story. 
 
 227 
 
 sat with his hands in his pockets trying to look un- 
 concerned. "But if youVe got it here, and feel it as 
 I do/' — the poor man as he said this put his hand 
 upon his heart, — "you can't sleep in your bed till it's 
 out. I did that thing that they said I did." 
 "What thing?" 
 
 "Why, the nail! It was I lamed the horse." 
 
 "I am sorry for it. I can say nothing else." 
 
 "You ain't so sorry for it as I am. Oh no; you 
 can never be that, my Lord. After all, what does it 
 matter to you?" 
 
 "Very little. I meant that I was sorry for your 
 sake." 
 
 "I believe you are, my Lord. For though you 
 could be rough you was always kind. Now I will tell 
 you everything, and then you can do as you please." 
 
 "I wish to do nothing. As far as I am concerned 
 the matter is over. It made me sick of horses, and I 
 do not wish to have to think of it again." 
 
 "Nevertheless, my Lord, I've got to tell it. It was 
 Green who put me up to it. He did it just for the 
 plunder. As God is my judge it was not for the money 
 I did it." 
 
 "Then it was revenge." 
 
 "It was the devil got hold of me, my Lord. Up 
 to that I had always been square, — square as a die! 
 I got to think that your Lordship was upsetting. I 
 don't know whether your Lordship remembers, but 
 you did put me down once or twice rather un- 
 common." 
 j "I hope I was not unjust." 
 
 "I don't say you was, my Lord. But I got a feel- 
 1 ing on me that you wanted to get rid of me, and I 
 
 15* 
 
 I 
 
228 
 
 THE duke's children. 
 
 all the time doing the best I could for the 'orses. I 
 did do the best I could up to that very morning at 
 Doncaster. Well; — it was Green put me up to it. I 
 don't say I was to get nothing; but it wasn't so much 
 more than I could have got by the 'orse winning. And 
 I've lost pretty nearly all that I did get. Do you re- 
 member, my Lord," — and now the Major sank his 
 voice to a whisper, — "when I come up to your bed- 
 room that morning?" 
 
 "I remember it." 
 
 "The first time?" 
 
 "Yes; I remember it." 
 
 "Because I came twice, my Lord. When I came 
 first it hadn't been done. You turned me out." 
 "That is true. Major Tifto." 
 
 "You was very rough then. Wasn't you rough?" 
 "A man's bedroom is generally supposed to be 
 private." 
 
 "Yes, my Lord, — that's true. I ought to have sent 
 your man in first. I came then to confess it all, before 
 it was done." 
 
 "Then why couldn't you let the horse alone?" 
 
 "I was in their hands. And then you was so rough 
 with me ! So I said to myself I might as well do it ; 
 —and I did it." 
 
 "What do you want me to say? As far as my for- 
 giveness goes, you have it!" 
 
 "That's saying a great deal, my Lord, — a great 
 deal," said Tifto, now in tears. "But I ain't said it 
 all yet. He's here; in London!" 
 
 "Who's here." 
 
 "Green. He's here. He doesn't think that I know, 
 but I could lay my hand on him to-morrow." 
 
THE major's story. 
 
 229 
 
 "There is no human being aUve, Major Tifto, 
 whose presence or absence could be a matter of more 
 indifference to me." 
 
 "ril tell you what Til do, my Lord. I'll go before 
 any judge, or magistrate, or police-officer in the 
 country, and tell the truth. I won't ask even for a 
 pardon. They shall punish me and him too. I'm in 
 that state of mind that any change would be for the 
 better. But he, — he ought to have it heavy." 
 
 "It won't be done by me, Major Tifto. Look here. 
 Major Tifto; you have come here to confess that you 
 have done me a great injury?" 
 
 "Yes, I have." 
 
 "And you say you are sorry for it." 
 "Indeed I am." 
 
 "And I have forgiven you. There is only one way 
 in which you can show your gratitude. Hold your 
 tongue about it. Let it be as a thing done and gone. 
 The money has been paid. The horse has been sold. 
 The whole thing has gone out of my mind, and I don't 
 want to have it brought back again." 
 
 "And nothing is to be done to Green!" 
 
 "I should say nothing, — on that score." 
 
 "And he has got they say, five-and-twenty thousand 
 pounds clear money." 
 
 "It is a pity, but it cannot be helped. I will have 
 nothing further to do with it. Of course I cannot bind 
 you, but I have told you my wishes." The poor wretch 
 was silent, but still it seemed as though he did not 
 wish to go quite yet. "If you have said what you 
 have got to say. Major Tifto, I may as well tell you that 
 my time is engaged.'^ 
 
 "And must that be all?" 
 
230 
 
 THE duke's children. 
 
 "What else?" 
 
 "I am in such a state of mind, Lord Silverbridge, 
 that it would be a satisfaction to tell it all, even against 
 myself." 
 
 "I can't prevent you." 
 
 Then Tifto got up from his chair, as though he 
 were going. "I wish I knew what I was going to do 
 with myself" 
 
 "I don't know that I can help you, Major Tifto." 
 
 "I suppose not, my Lord. I haven't twenty pounds 
 left in all the world. It's the only thing that wasn't 
 square that ever I did in all my life. Your Lordship 
 couldn't do anything for me? We was very much to- 
 gether at one time, my Lord." 
 
 "Yes, Major Tifto, we were." 
 
 "Of course I was a villain. But it was only once; 
 and your Lordship was so rough to me! I am not 
 saying but what I was a villain. Think of what I did 
 for myself by that one piece of wickedness! Master 
 of hounds ! member of the club ! And the horse would 
 have run in my name and won the Leger! And every- 
 body knew as your Lordship and me was together in 
 him!" Then he burst into a paroxysm of tears and 
 sobbing. 
 
 The young Lord certainly could not take the man 
 into partnership again, nor could he restore to him 
 either the hounds or his club, — or his clean hands. 
 Nor did he know in what way he could serve the man, 
 except by putting his hand into his pocket, — which he 
 did. Tifto accepted the gratuity, and ultimately be- 
 came an annual pensioner on his former noble partner, 
 living on the allowance made him in some obscure 
 corner of South Wales. 
 
ON DEPORTMENT. 
 
 231 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 ON DEPORTMENT. 
 
 Frank Tregear had come up to town at the end 
 of February. He remained in London, with an under- 
 standing that he was not to see Lady Mary again till 
 the Easter hoHdays. He was then to pay a visit to 
 Matching, and to enter in, it may be presumed, on the 
 full fruition of his advantages as accepted suitor. All 
 this had been arranged with a good deal of precision, 
 — as though there had still been a hope left that Lady 
 Mary might change her mind. Of course there was 
 no such hope. When the Duke asked the young man 
 to dine with him, when he invited him to drink that 
 memorable glass of wine, when the young man was 
 allowed, in the presence of the Boncassens, to sit next 
 Lady Mary, it was of course settled. But the father 
 probably found some relief in yielding by slow degrees. 
 "I would rather that there should be no correspondence 
 till then,'' he had said both to Tregear and to his 
 daughter. And they had promised there should be no 
 correspondence. At Easter they would meet. After 
 Easter Mary was to come up to London to be present 
 at her brother's wedding, to which also Tregear had 
 been formally invited; and it was hoped that then 
 something might be settled as to their own marriage. 
 
232 
 
 THE duke's children. 
 
 Tregear, with the surgeon's permission, took his seat 
 in Parhament. He was introduced by two leading 
 Members on the conservative side, but immediately 
 afterwards found himself seated next to his friend 
 Silverbridge on the top bench behind the ministers. 
 The House was very full, as there was a feverish report 
 abroad that Sir Timothy Beeswax intended to make a 
 statement. No one quite knew what the statement 
 was to be; but every politician in the House and out 
 of it thought that he knew that the statement would 
 be a bid for higher power on the part of Sir Timothy 
 himself. If there had been dissensions in the Cabinet, 
 the secret of them had been well kept. To Tregear 
 who was not as yet familiar with the House there was 
 no special appearance of activity; but Silverbridge 
 could see that there was more than wonted animation. 
 That the Treasury bench should be full at this time 
 was a thing of custom. A whole broadside of ques- 
 tions would be fired off, one after another, like a rattle 
 of musketry down the ranks, when as nearly as possible 
 the report of each gun is made to follow close upon 
 that of the gun before, — with this exception, that in 
 such case each little sound is intended to be as like 
 as possible to the preceding; whereas with the rattle 
 of the questions and answers, each question and each 
 answer becomes a little more authoritative and less 
 courteous than the last. The Treasury bench was 
 ready for its usual responsive firing, as the questioners 
 were of course in their places. The opposition front 
 bench was also crowded, and those behind were nearly 
 equally full. There were many Peers in the gallery, 
 and a general fueling of sensation prevailed. All this 
 Silverbridge had been long enough in the House to 
 
ON DEPORTMENT. 
 
 appreciate; — but to Tregear the House was simply the 
 House. 
 
 "It's odd enough we should have a row the very 
 first day you come/' said Silverbridge. 
 
 "Beeswax has something special to say. He's not 
 here yet you see. They've left about six inches for 
 him there between Roper and Sir Orlando. You'll 
 have the privilege of looking just down on the top of 
 his head when he does come. I shan't stay much 
 longer after that." 
 
 "Where are you going?" 
 
 "I don't mean to-day. But I should not have been 
 here now, — in this very place I mean, — but I want to 
 stick to you just at first. I shall move down below 
 the gangway; and not improbably creep over to the 
 other side before long." 
 
 "You don't mean it?" 
 
 "I think I shall. I begin to feel I've made a 
 mistake." 
 
 "In coming to this side at all?" 
 
 "I think I have. After all it is not very im- 
 portant." 
 
 "What is not important? I think it very im- 
 portant." 
 
 "Perhaps it may be to you, and perhaps you may 
 be able to keep it up. But the more I think of it 
 the less excuse I seem to have for deserting the old 
 ways of the family. What is there in those fellows 
 down there to make a fellow feel that he ought to 
 bind himself to them neck and heels?" 
 
 "Their principles." 
 
 "Yes, their principles! I believe I have some 
 vague idea as to supporting property and land and all 
 
234 
 
 THE duke's children. 
 
 that kind of thing. I don't know that anybody wants 
 to attack anything." 
 
 "Somebody soon would want to attack it if there 
 were no defenders." 
 
 "I suppose there is an outside power, — the people, 
 or public opinion, or whatever they choose to call it. 
 And the country will have to go very much as that 
 outside power chooses. Here, in Parliament, every- 
 body will be as conservative as the outside will let 
 them. I don't think it matters on which side you sit; 
 — but it does matter that you shouldn't have to act 
 with those who go against the grain with you." 
 
 "I never heard a worse political argument in my 
 hfe." 
 
 "I daresay not. However, here's Sir Timothy. 
 When he looks in that way, all buckram, deportment, 
 and solemnity, I know he's going to pitch into some- 
 body." 
 
 At this moment the leader of the House came in 
 from behind the Speaker's chair and took his place 
 between Mr. Roper and Sir Orlando Drough. Silver- 
 bridge had been right in saying that Sir Timothy's air 
 was solemn. When a man has to declare a solemn 
 purpose on a solemn occasion in a solemn place it is 
 needful that he should be solemn himself. And though 
 the solemnity which befits a man best will be that 
 which the importance of the moment may produce, 
 without thought given by himself to his own outward 
 person, still, who is there can refrain himself from 
 some attempt? Who can boast, who that has been 
 versed in the ways and duties of high places, that 
 he has kept himself free from all study of grace, of 
 feature, of attitude, of gait — or even of dress? For 
 
ON DEPORTMENT. 
 
 most of our bishops, for most of our judges, of our 
 statesmen, our orators, our generals, for many even of 
 our doctors and our parsons, even our attorneys, our 
 taxgatherers, and certainly our butlers and our coach- 
 men, Mr. Turveydrop, the great professor of deport- 
 ment, has done much. But there should always be 
 the art to underlie and protect the art; — the art that 
 can hide the art. The really clever archbishop, — the 
 really potent chief justice, the man who, as a politician, 
 will succeed in becoming a king of men, should know 
 how to carry his buckram without showing it. It was 
 in this that Sir Timothy perhaps failed a little. There 
 are men who look as though they were born to wear 
 blue ribbons. It has come, probably, from study, but 
 it seems to be natural. Sir Timothy did not impose 
 on those who looked at him as do these men. You 
 could see a little of the paint, you could hear the 
 crumple of the starch and the padding; you could 
 trace something of uneasiness in the would-be composed 
 grandeur of the brow. "Turveydrop!" the spectator 
 would say to himself. But after all it may be a question 
 whether a man be open to reproach for not doing that 
 well which the greatest among us, — if we could find 
 one great enough, — would not do at all. 
 
 For I think we must hold that true personal dignity 
 should be achieved, — must, if it be quite true, have 
 been achieved, — without any personal effort. Though 
 it be evinced, in part, by the carriage of the body, 
 that carriage should be the fruit of the operation of 
 the mind. Even when it be assisted by external 
 garniture such as special clothes, and wigs, and orna- 
 ments, such garniture should have been prescribed by 
 the sovereign or by custom, and should not have been 
 
236 
 
 THE duke's children. 
 
 selected by the wearer. In regard to speech a man 
 may study all that which may make him suasive, but 
 if he go beyond that he will trench on those histrionic 
 efforts which he will know to be wrong because he 
 will be ashamed to acknowledge them. It is good to 
 be beautiful, but it should come of God and not of 
 the hairdresser. And personal dignity is a great pos- 
 session; but a man should struggle for it no more 
 than he would for beauty. Many, however, do struggle 
 for it, and with such success that, though they do not 
 achieve quite the real thing, still they get something 
 on which they can bolster themselves up and be 
 mighty. 
 
 Others, older men than Silverbridge, saw as much 
 as did our young friends, but they were more com- 
 plaisant and more reasonable. They, too, heard the 
 crackle of the buckram, and were aware that the last 
 touch of awe had come upon that brow just as its 
 owner was emerging from the shadow of the Speaker's 
 chair; — but to them it was a thing of course. A real 
 Caesar is not to be found every day, nor can we 
 always have a Pitt to control our debates. That kind 
 of thing, that last touch has its effect. Of course it is 
 all paint, — but how would the poor girl look before 
 the gaslights if there were no paint? The House of 
 Commons likes a little deportment on occasions. If a 
 special man looks bigger than you, you can console 
 yourself by reflecting that he also looks bigger than 
 your fellows. Sir Timothy probably knew what he was 
 about, and did himself on the whole more good than 
 harm by his little tricks. 
 
 As soon as Sir Timothy had taken his seat, Mr. j 
 Rattler got up from the opposition bench to ask him ' 
 
ON DEPORTMENT. 
 
 some question on a matter of finance. The brewers 
 were anxious about publican licences. Could the 
 Chancellor of the Exchequer say a word on the 
 matter? Notice had of course been given, and the 
 questioner had stated a quarter of an hour previously 
 that he would postpone his query till the Chancellor 
 of the Exchequer was in the House. 
 
 Sir Timothy rose from his seat, and in his blandest 
 manner began by apologising for his late appearance. 
 He was sorry that he had been prevented by public 
 business from being in his place to answer the honour- 
 able gentleman's question in its proper turn. And 
 even now, he feared, that he must decline to give any 
 answer which could be supposed to be satisfactory. It 
 would probably be his duty to make a statement to 
 the House on the following day, — a statement which 
 he was not quite prepared to make at the present 
 moment. But in the existing state of things he was 
 unwilling to make any reply to any question by which 
 he might seem to bind the government to any opinion. 
 Then he sat down. And rising again not long after- 
 wards, when the House had gone through certain 
 formal duties, he moved that it should be adjourned 
 till the next day. Then all the members trooped .out, 
 and with the others Tregear and Lord Silverbridge. 
 "So that is the end of your first day of Parliament,'' 
 said Silverbridge. 
 
 "What does it all mean?" 
 
 "Let us go to the Carlton and hear what the 
 I fellows are saying." 
 
 i. On that evening both the young men dined at Mr. 
 I Boncassen's house. Though Tregear had been cautioned 
 \ not to write to Lady Mary, and though he was not to 
 
 i; 
 
 t 
 
238 THE duke's children. 
 
 see her before Easter, still it was so completely under- 
 stood that he was about to become her husband, that 
 he was entertained in that capacity by all those who 
 were concerned in the family. "And so they will all 
 go out," said Mr. Boncassen. 
 
 "That seems to be the general idea," said the ex- 
 pectant son-in-law. "When two men want to be first 
 and neither will give way, they can't very well get on 
 in the same boat together." Then he expatiated 
 angrily on the treachery of Sir Timothy, and Tregear 
 in a more moderate way joined in the same opinion. 
 
 "Upon my word, young men, I doubt whether you 
 are right," said Mr. Boncassen. "Whether it can be 
 possible that a man should have risen to such a posi- 
 tion with so little patriotism as you attribute to our 
 friend, I will not pretend to say. I should think that 
 in England it was impossible. But of this I am sure, 
 that the facility which exists here for a minister or 
 ministers to go out of office without disturbance of the 
 Crown, is a great blessing. You say the other party 
 will come in." 
 
 "That is most probable," said Silverbridge. 
 
 "With us the other party never comes in, — never 
 has a chance of coming in, — except once in four 
 years, when the President is elected. That one event 
 binds us all for four years." 
 
 "But you do change your ministers," said Tregear. 
 
 "A secretary may quarrel with the President, or he 
 may have the gout, or be convicted of peculation." 
 
 "And yet you think yourselves more nearly free 
 than we are." 
 
 "I am not so sure of that. We have had a pretty 
 difficult task, that of carrying on a government in a 
 
ON DEPORTMENT. 
 
 new country, which is nevertheless more populous than 
 almost any old countiy. The influxions are so rapid, 
 that every ten years the nature of the people is 
 changed. It isn't easy; and though I think on the 
 whole weVe done pretty well, I am not going to boast 
 that Washington is as yet the seat of a political 
 Paradise." 
 
240 
 
 THE duke's children. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 "MABEL, GOOD-BYE.'' 
 
 When Tregear first came to town with his arm in 
 a sling, and bandages all round him, — in order that 
 he might be formally accepted by the Duke, — he had 
 himself taken to one other house besides the house in 
 Carlton Terrace. He went to Belgrave Square, to 
 announce his fate to Lady Mabel Grex; — but Lady 
 Mabel Grex was not there. The Earl was ill at 
 Brighton, and Lady Mabel had gone down to nurse 
 him. The old woman who came to him in the hall 
 told him that the Earl was very ill; — he had been 
 attacked by the gout, but in spite of the gout, and in 
 spite of the doctors, he had insisted on being taken to 
 his club. Then he had been removed to Brighton, 
 under the doctor's advice, chiefly in order that he 
 might be kept out of the way of temptation. Now he 
 was supposed to be very ill indeed. "My Lord is so 
 imprudent!" said the old woman, shaking her old 
 head in real unhappiness. For though the Earl had 
 been a tyrant to everyone near him, yet when a poor 
 woman becomes old it is something to have a tyrant 
 to protect her. "My Lord" always had been impru- 
 dent. Tregear knew that it had been the theory of 
 my Lord's life that to eat and drink, and die was 
 
"MABEL, GOOD-BYE.'' 
 
 better than to abstain and live. Then Tregear wrote 
 to his friend as follows: 
 
 "My dear Mabel, 
 
 "I am up in town again as you will perceive, 
 although I am still in a helpless condition and hardly 
 able to write even this letter. I called to-day and was 
 very sorry to hear so bad an account of your father. 
 Had I been able to travel I should have come down 
 to you. When I am able I will do so if you would 
 wish to see me. In the meantime pray tell me how 
 he is and how you are. 
 
 "My news is this. The Duke has accepted me. It 
 is great news to me, and I hope will be acceptable to 
 you. I do believe that if ever a friend has been 
 anxious for a friend's welfare you have been anxious 
 for mine, — as I have been and ever shall be for yours. 
 
 "Of course this thing will be very much to me. I 
 will not speak now of my love for the girl who is to 
 become my wife. You might again call me Romeo. 
 Nor do I like to say much of what may now be 
 pecuniary prospects. I did not ask Mary to become 
 my wife because I supposed she would be rich. But 
 I could not have married her or anyone else who had 
 not money. What are the Duke's intentions I have 
 not the slightest idea, nor shall I ask him. I am to 
 go down to Matching at Easter, and shall endeavour 
 to have some time fixed. I suppose the Duke will say 
 something about money. If he does not I shall not. 
 
 "Pray write to me at once, and tell me when I 
 shall see you. 
 
 "Your affectionate Cousin, 
 
 "F. O. Tregear." 
 
 The Dukes Children, III. 1 6 
 
242 
 
 THE duke's children. 
 
 In answer to this there came a note in a very few 
 words. She congratulated him, — not very warmly, — 
 but expressed a hope that she might see him soon. 
 But she told him not to come to Brighton. The Earl 
 was better but very cross, and she would be up in 
 town before long. 
 
 Towards the end of the month it became suddenly 
 known in London that Lord Grex had died at Brighton. 
 There was a Garter to be given away, and everybody 
 was filled with regret that such an ornament to the 
 Peerage should have departed from them. The con- 
 servative papers remembered how excellent a politician 
 he had been in his younger days, and the world was 
 informed that the family of Grex of Grex was about 
 the oldest in Great Britain of which authentic records 
 were in existence. Then there came another note 
 from Lady Mabel to Tregear. "I shall be in town on 
 the 31st in the old house, with Miss Cassewary, and 
 will see you if you can come on the ist. Come early, 
 at eleven, if you can." 
 
 On the day named and at the hour fixed he was 
 in Belgrave Square. He had known this house since 
 he was a boy, and could well remember how, when he 
 first entered it, he had thought with some awe of the 
 grandeur of the Earl. The Earl had then not paid 
 much attention to him, but he had become very much 
 taken by the grace and good nature of the girl who 
 had owned him as a cousin. "You are my cousin 
 Frank," she had said; "I am so glad to have a 
 cousin." He could remember the words now as though 
 they had been spoken only yesterday. Then there had 
 quickly grown to be friendship between him and this, 
 as he thought, sweetest of all girls. At that time he 
 
MABEL, GOOD-BYE.'^ 
 
 had just gone to Eton; but before he left Eton they 
 had sworn to love each other. And so it had been 
 and the thing had grown, till at last, just when he had 
 taken his degree two matters had been settled between 
 them; the first was that each loved the other irre- 
 trievably, irrevocably, passionately; the second, that it 
 w^as altogether out of the question that they should 
 ever marry each other. 
 
 It is but fair to Tregear to say that this last de- 
 cision originated with the lady. He had told her that 
 he certainly would hold himself engaged to marry her 
 at some future time; but she had thrown this aside at 
 once. How was it possible, she said, that two such 
 beings, brought up in luxury, and taught to enjoy all 
 the good things of the world, should expect to live 
 and be happy together without an income? He offered 
 to go to the bar; — but she asked him whether he 
 thought it well that such a one as she should wait say 
 a dozen years for such a process. "When the time 
 comes, I should be an old woman and you would be 
 a wretched man." She released him, — declared her 
 own purpose of marrying well; and then, though there 
 had been a moment in which her own assurance of 
 her own love had been passionate enough, she went 
 so far as to tell him that she was heartwhole. "We 
 have been two foolish children but we cannot be 
 children any longer," she said. "There must be an 
 end of it." " 
 
 What had hitherto been the result of this the 
 reader knows, — and Tregear knew also. He had taken 
 the privilege given to him, and had made so complete 
 a use of it that he had in truth transferred his heart 
 as well as his allegiance. Where is the young man 
 
 16* 
 
244 
 
 TriE duke's CHlLDRElSf. 
 
 who cannot do so;— how few are there who do not do 
 so when their first fit of passion has come on them at 
 one-and-twenty? And he had thought that she would 
 do the same. But gradually he found that she had 
 not done so, did not do so, could not do so! When she 
 first heard of Lady Mary she had not reprimanded 
 him, — but she could not keep herself from showing 
 the bitterness of her disappointment. Though she 
 would still boast of her own strength and of her own 
 purpose, yet it was too clear to him that she was 
 wounded and very sore. She would have liked him 
 to remain single at any rate till she herself were mar- 
 ried. But the permission had been hardly given before 
 he availed himself of it. And then he talked to her 
 not only of the brilliancy of his prospects, — which she 
 could have forgiven, — but of his love — his love ! 
 
 Then she had refused one offer after another, and 
 he had known it all. There was nothing in which she 
 was concerned that she did not tell him. Then young 
 Silverbridge had come across her, and she had deter- 
 mined that he should be her husband. She had been 
 nearly successful, — so nearly that at moments she had 
 felt sure of success. But the prize had slipped from 
 her through her own fault. She knew well enough that 
 it was her own fault. When a girl submits to play 
 such a game as that, she should not stand on too nice 
 scruples. She had told herself this many a time since; 
 — but the prize was gone. 
 
 All this Tregear knew, and knowing it almost 
 dreaded the coming interview. He could not without 
 actual cruelty have avoided her. Had he done so be- 
 fore he could not have continued to do so now, when 
 she was left alone in the world. Her father had not 
 
"MABEL, GOOD-BYE.' 
 
 been much to her, but still his presence had enabled 
 her to put herself before the world as being somebody. 
 Now she would be almost nobody. And she had lost 
 her rich prize , while he, — out of the same treasury as 
 it were, — had won his! 
 
 The door was opened to him by the same old 
 woman, and he was shown, at a funereal pace, up into 
 the drawing-room which he had known so well. He 
 was told that Lady Mabel would be down to him di- 
 rectly. As he looked about him he could see that al- 
 ready had been commenced that work of division of 
 spoil which is sure to follow the death of most of us. 
 Things were already gone which used to be familiar 
 to his eyes, and the room, though not dismantled, had 
 been deprived of many of its little prettinesses and was 
 ugly. 
 
 In about ten minutes she came down to him, — with 
 so soft a step that he would not have been aware of 
 her entrance had he not seen her form in the mirror. 
 Then, when he turned round to greet her, he was aston- 
 ished by the blackness of her appearance. She looked 
 as though she had become ten years older since he 
 had last seen her. As she came up to him she was 
 grave and almost solemn in her gait, but there was no 
 sign of any tears. Why should there have been a tear? 
 Women weep, and men too, not from grief, but from 
 emotion. Indeed, grave and slow as was her step, and 
 serious, almost solemn, as was her gait, there was some- 
 thing of a smile on her mouth as she gave him her 
 hand. And yet her face was very sad, declaring to 
 him too plainly something of the hopelessness of her 
 heart. "And so the Duke has consented,'' she said. 
 He had told her that in his letter, but, since that, her 
 
246 
 
 THE duke's children. 
 
 father had died, and she had been left, he did not as 
 yet know how far impoverished, but, he feared, with 
 no pleasant worldly prospects before her. 
 
 "Yes, Mabel; — that I suppose will be settled. I 
 have been so shocked to hear all this." 
 
 "It has been very sad; — has it not? Sit down, Frank. 
 You and I have a good deal to say to each other now 
 that we have met. It was no good your going down 
 to Brighton. He would not have seen you, and at last 
 I never left him." 
 
 "Was Percival there?" She only shook her head. 
 "That was dreadful." 
 
 "It was not Percivars fault. He would not see 
 him; nor till the last hour or two would he believe in 
 his own danger. Nor was he ever frightened for a 
 moment, — not even then." 
 
 "Was he good to you?" 
 
 "Good to me! Well; — he liked my being there. 
 Poor papal It had gone so far with him that he could 
 not be good to any one. I think that he felt that it 
 would be unmanly not to be the same to the end." 
 
 "He would not see Percival." 
 
 "When it was suggested he would only ask what 
 good Percival could do him. I did send for him at 
 last, in my terror, but he did not see his father alive. 
 AVhen he did come he only told me how badly his fa- 
 ther had treated him! It was very dreadful!" 
 
 "I did so feel for you." 
 
 "I am sure you did, and will. After all, Frank, I 
 think that the pious godly people have the best of it 
 in this world. Let them be ever so covetous, ever so 
 false, ever so hard-hearted, the mere fact that they 
 must keep up appearances, makes them comfortable to 
 
"MABEL, GOOD-BYE.'' 247 
 
 those around them. Poor papa was not comfortable to 
 me. A little hypocrisy, a little sacrifice to the feelings 
 of the world, may be such a blessing.'' 
 
 "I am sorry that you should feel it so." 
 
 "Yes; it is sad. But you;— everything is smiling 
 with you! Let us talk about your plans." 
 
 "Another time will do for that. I had come to 
 hear about your own affairs." 
 
 "There they are," she said, pointing round the 
 room. "I have no other affairs. You see that I am 
 going from here." 
 
 "And where are you going?" She shook her head. 
 ''With whom will you live?" . 
 
 '^With Miss Cass, — two old maids together! I know 
 nothing further." 
 
 "But about money? That is if I am justified in 
 asking." 
 
 "What would you not be justified in asking? Do 
 you not know that I would tell you every secret of my 
 heart,— if my heart had a secret? It seems that I have 
 given up what was to have been my fortune. There 
 was a claim of ^12,000 on Grex. But I have aban- 
 doned it." 
 
 "And there is nothing." 
 
 "There will be scrapings they tell me,— unless Per- 
 cival refuses to agree. This house is mortgaged, but 
 not for its value. And there are some jewels. But all 
 that is detestable, — a mere grovelling among mean 
 hundreds; whereas you,— you will soar among " 
 
 "Oh Mabel! do not say hard things to me." 
 
 "No, indeed! why should I,— I who have been 
 preaching that comfortable doctrine of hypocrisy? I 
 
THE duke's children. 
 
 will say nothing hard. But I would sooner talk of your 
 good things than of my evil ones." 
 "I would not." 
 
 "Then you must talk about them for my sake. How 
 was it that the Duke came round at last?" 
 
 "I hardly know. She sent for me." 
 
 "A fine high-spirited girl. These Pallisers have 
 more courage about them than one expects from their 
 outward manner. Silverbridge has plenty of it." 
 
 "I remember telling you he could be obstinate." 
 
 **And I remember that I did not believe you. Now 
 I know it. He has that sort of pluck which enables a 
 man to break a girPs heart, — or to destroy a girl's 
 hopes, — without wincing. He can tell a girl to her face 
 
 that she can go to the mischief for him. There 
 
 are so many men who can't do that, from cowardice, 
 though their hearts be ever so well inclined. *I have 
 changed my mind.' There is something great in the 
 courage of a man who can say that to a woman in so 
 many words. Most of them, when they escape, escape 
 by lies and subterfuges. Or they run away and won't 
 allow themselves to be heard of. They trust to a 
 chapter of accidents, and leave things to arrange them- 
 selves. But when a man can look a girl in the face 
 with those seemingly soft eyes, and say with that seem- 
 ingly soft mouth, — 'I have changed my mind,' — though 
 she would look him dead in return if she could, still 
 she must admire him." 
 
 "Are you speaking of Silverbridge now?" 
 
 "Of course I am speaking of Silverbridge. I sup- 
 pose I ought to hide it all and not to tell you. But 
 as you are the only person I do tell, you must put up 
 with me. Yes; — when I taxed him with his false- 
 
"MABEL, GOOD-BYE." 
 
 249 
 
 hood, — for he had been false, — he answered me with 
 those very words! have changed my mind/ He 
 could not lie. To speak the truth was a necessity to 
 him, even at the expense of his gallantry, almost of 
 his humanity." 
 
 "Has he been false to you, Mabel?" 
 
 "Of course he has. But there is nothing to quarrel 
 about if you mean that. People do not quarrel now 
 about such things. A girl has to fight her own battle 
 with her own pluck and her own wits. As with these 
 weapons she is generally stronger than her enemy, she 
 succeeds sometimes although everything else is against 
 her. I think I am courageous, but his courage beat 
 mine. I craned at the first fence. When he was 
 willing to swallow my bait, my hand was not firm 
 enough to strike the hook in his jaws. Had I not 
 quailed then I think I should have — ^had him.'" 
 
 "It is horrid to hear you talk like this." She was 
 leaning over from her seat, looking, black as she was, 
 so much older than her wont, with something about 
 her of that unworldly serious thoughtfulness which 
 a mourning garb always gives. And yet her words 
 were so worldly, so unfeminine! 
 
 "I have got to tell the truth to somebody. It 
 was so, just as I have said. Of course I did not 
 love him. How could I love him after what has 
 passed? But there need have been nothing much in 
 that. I don't suppose that Dukes' eldest sons often 
 get married for love." 
 
 "Miss Boncassen loves him." 
 
 "I dare say the beggar's daughter loved King 
 Cophetua. When you come to distances such as that, 
 there can be love. The very fact that a man should 
 
250 
 
 THE duke's children. 
 
 have descended so far in quest of beauty, — the flattery 
 of it alone, — will produce love. When the angels 
 came after the daughters of men of course the daughters 
 of men loved them. The distance between him and 
 me is not great enough to have produced that sort of 
 worship. There was no reason why Lady Mabel Grex 
 should not be good enough wife for the son of the 
 Duke of Omnium.'' 
 "Certainly not.'' 
 
 "And therefore I was not struck, as by the shin- 
 ing of a light from heaven. I cannot say I loved him. 
 Frank, — I am beyond worshipping even an angel from 
 heaven!" 
 
 "Then I do not know that you could blame him," 
 he said very seriously. 
 
 "Just so; — and as I have chosen to be honest 
 I have told him everything. But I had my revenge 
 first." 
 
 "I would have said nothing." 
 
 "You would have recommended — delicacy! No 
 doubt you think that women should be delicate let 
 them suffer what they may. A woman should not 
 let it be known that she has any human nature in 
 her. I had him on the hip, and for a moment I used 
 my power. He had certainly done me a wrong. He 
 had asked for my love, — and with the delicacy which 
 you commend, I had not at once grasped at all that 
 such a request conveyed. Then, as he told me so 
 frankly, 4ie changed his mind!' Did he not wrong 
 me?" 
 
 "He should not have raised false hopes." 
 "He told me that — he had changed his mind. 
 I think I loved him then as nearly as ever I did, — 
 
"MABEL, GOOD-BYE.'^ 2^1 
 
 because he looked me full in the face. Then, — I told 
 him I had never cared for him, and that he need 
 have nothing on his conscience. But I doubt whether 
 he was glad to hear it. Men are so vain! I have 
 talked too much of myself. And so you are to be the 
 Duke's son-in-law. And she will have hundreds of 
 thousands." 
 
 "Thousands perhaps, but I do not think very much 
 about it. I feel that he will provide for her.'' 
 
 "And that you, having secured her, can creep 
 under his wing like an additional ducal chick. It is 
 very comfortable. The Duke will be quite a Provi- 
 dence to you. I wonder that all young gentlemen do 
 not marry heiresses; — it is so easy. And you have 
 got your seat in Parliament too! Oh, your luck! 
 When I look back upon it all it seems so hard to me! 
 It was for you, — for you that I used to be anxious. 
 Now it is I who have not an inch of ground to stand 
 upon." Then he approached her and put out his 
 hand to her. "No," she said, putting both her hands 
 behind her back, "for God's sake let there be no ten- 
 derness. But is it not cruel? Think of my advantages 
 at that moment when you and I agreed that our paths 
 should be separate. My fortune then had not been 
 made quite shipwreck by my father and brother. I 
 had before me all that society could offer. I was called 
 handsome and clever. Where was there a girl more 
 likely to make her way to the top?" 
 
 "You may do so still." 
 
 "No; — no; — I cannot. And you at least should 
 not tell me so. I did not know then the virulence of 
 the malady which had fallen on me. I did not know 
 then that, because of you, other men would be abhor- 
 
252 
 
 THE duke's children. 
 
 rent to me. I thought that I was as easy-hearted as 
 you have proved yourself/' 
 "How cruel you can be." 
 
 "Have I done anything to interfere with you? 
 Have I said a word even to that young lad, when I 
 might have said a word? Yes; to him I did say some- 
 thing; but I waited, and would not say it, while a ' 
 word could hurt you. Shall I tell you what I told ; 
 him? Just everything that has ever happened between 
 you and me." 
 
 "You did?" 
 
 "Yes; — because I saw that I could trust him. I 
 told him because I wanted him to be quite sure that , 
 I had never loved him. But, Frank, I have put no 
 spoke in your wheel. There has not been a moment 
 since you told me of your love for this rich young 
 lady in which I would not have helped you had help 
 been in my power. Whomever I may have harmed, li 
 have never harmed you." 
 
 "Am I not as clear from blame towards you?" j 
 
 "No, Frank. You have done me the terrible evil| 
 of ceasing to love me." \ 
 
 "It was at your own bidding." 
 
 "Certainly! but if I were to bid you to cut my 
 throat, would you do it?" 
 
 "Was it not you who decided that we could not 
 wait for each other?" 
 
 "And should it not have been for you to decide 
 that you would wait?" 
 
 "You also would have married." 
 
 "It almost angers me that you should not see the 
 difference. A girl unless she marries becomes nothing, 
 as I have become nothing now. A man does not 
 
"MABEL, good-bye/^ 
 
 want a pillar on which to lean. A man, when he has 
 done as you had done with me, and made a girFs 
 heart all his own, even though his own heart had been 
 flexible and plastic as yours is, should have been true 
 to her, at least for a while. Did it never occur to you 
 that you owed something to me?" 
 
 "I have always owed you very much.'' 
 
 "There should have been some touch of chivaliy if 
 not of love to make you feel that a second passion 
 should have been postponed for a year or two. You 
 could wait without growing old. You might have 
 allowed yourself a little space to dwell — I was going 
 to say on the sweetness of your memories. But they 
 were not sweet, Frank; they were not sweet to you.'' 
 
 "These rebukes, Mabel, will rob them of their 
 sweetness, — for a time." 
 
 "It is gone; all gone," she said, shaking her head, 
 — "gone from me because I have been so easily 
 deserted; gone from you because the change has been 
 so easy to you. How long was it, Frank, after you 
 had left me before you were basking happily in the 
 smiles of Lady Mary Palliser?" 
 
 "It was not very long, as months go." 
 
 "Say days, Frank." 
 
 "I have to defend myself, and I will do so with 
 truth. It was not very long, — as months go; but why 
 should it have been less long, whether for months or 
 days? I have to cure myself of a wound." 
 
 "To put a plaster on a scratch, Frank." 
 
 "And the sooner a man can do that the more 
 manly he is. Is it a sign of strength to wail under 
 a sorrow that cannot be cured, — or of truth to per- 
 petuate the appearance of a woe?" 
 
^54 
 
 THE duke's children. 
 
 "Has it been an appearance with me?" 
 
 "I am speaking of myself now. I am driven to 
 speak of myself by the bitterness of yom* words. It 
 was you who decided." 
 
 "You accepted my decision easily." 
 
 "Because it was based not only on my unfitness 
 for such a marriage, but on yours. When I saw that 
 there would be perhaps some years of misery for you, 
 of course I accepted your decision. The sweetness 
 had been very sweet to me." 
 
 "Oh Frank, was it ever sweet to you?" 
 
 "And the triumph of it had been very great. I 
 had been assured of the love of her who among all 
 the high ones of the world seemed to me to be the 
 highest. Then came your decision. Do you really 
 believe that I could abandon the sweetness, that I 
 could be robbed of my triumph, that I could think I 
 could never again be allowed to put my arm round 
 your waist, never again to feel your cheek close to 
 mine, that I should lose all that had seemed left to 
 me among the gods, without feeling it?" 
 
 "Frank, Frank!" she said, rising to her feet, and 
 stretching out her hands as though she were going to 
 give him back all these joys. 
 
 "Of course I felt it. I did not then know what 
 was before me." When he said this she sank back 
 immediately upon her seat. "I was wretched enough. 
 I had lost a limb and could not walk; my eyes, and 
 must always hereafter be blind; my fitness to be among 
 men, and must always hereafter be secluded. It is so 
 that a man is stricken down when some terrible trouble 
 comes upon him. But it is given to him to retrick his 
 l^eams," 
 
MABEL, GOOD-BYE." 
 
 *'You have retricked yours." 
 
 *'Yes; — and the strong man will show his strength 
 by doing it quickly. Mabel, I sorrowed for myself 
 greatly when that word was spoken, partly because I 
 thought that your love could so easily be taken from 
 me. And, since I have found that it has not been so, 
 I have sorrowed for you also. But I do not blame 
 myself, and — and I will not submit to have blame 
 even from you." She stared him in the face as he 
 said this. "A man should never submit to blame," 
 
 "But if he has deserved it." 
 
 "Who is to be the judge? But why should we 
 c(ntest this? You do not really wish to trample on 
 me!" 
 
 "No;— not that." 
 
 "Nor to disgrace me; nor to make me feel myself 
 disgraced in my own judgment?" Then there was a 
 pause for some moments as though he had left her 
 without another word to say. "Shall I go now?" he 
 asked. 
 
 "Oh Frank!" 
 
 "I fear that my presence only makes you unhappy." 
 
 "Then what will your absence do? When shall I 
 see you again? But, no; I will not see you again. 
 Not for many days, — not for years. Why should I? 
 Frank, is it wicked that I should love you?" He could 
 only shake his head in answer to this. "If it be so 
 wicked that I must be punished for it eternally, still I 
 love you. I can never, never, never love another. 
 You cannot understand it. Oh God, — that I had 
 never understood it myself! I think, I think, that I 
 would go with you now anywhere, facing all misery, 
 all judgments, all disgrace. You know, do you not, 
 
THE duke's CHILDRE]^. 
 
 that if it were possible, I should not say so. But as 
 I know that you would not stir a step with me, I do 
 say so." 
 
 "I know it is not meant." 
 
 "It is meant, though it could not be done. Frank, 
 I must not see her, not for awhile; not for years. I do 
 not wish to hate her, but how can I help it? Do 
 you remember when she flew into your arms in this 
 room?" 
 
 "I remember it." 
 
 "Of course you do. It is your great joy now to 
 remember that, and such like. She must be very 
 good! Though I hate her!" 
 
 "Do not say that you hate her, Mabel." 
 
 "Though I hate her she must be good. It was a 
 fine and a brave thing to do. I have done it; but 
 never before the world like that; have I, Frank? Oh 
 Frank, I shall never do it again. Go now, and do not 
 touch me. Let us both pray that in ten years we may 
 meet as passionless friends." He came to her hardly 
 knowing what he meant, but purposing, as though by 
 instinct, to take her hand as he parted from her. But 
 she, putting both her hands before her face, and 
 throwing herself on to the sofa, buried her head among 
 the cushions. 
 
 "Is there not to be another word?" he said. Lying 
 as she did, she still was able to make a movement of 
 dissent and he left her, muttering just one word be- 
 tween his teeth, "Mabel, good-bye." 
 
THE DUKE RETURNS TO OFFICE. 
 
 ^57 
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 THE DUKE RETURNS TO OFFICE. 
 
 That farewell took place on the Friday morning. 
 Tregear as he walked out of the Square knew now 
 that he had been the cause of a great shipwreck. At 
 first when that passionate love had been declared, — 
 he could hardly remember whether with the fullest 
 passion by him or by her, — he had been as a god 
 walking upon air. That she who seemed to be so 
 much above him should have owned that she was all 
 his own seemed then to be world enough for him. For 
 a few weeks he lived a hero to himself, and was able 
 to tell himself that for him, the glory of a passion was 
 sufficient. In those halcyon moments no common 
 human care is allowed to intrude itself. To one who 
 has thus entered in upon the heroism of romance his 
 own daily work, his dinners, clothes, income, father 
 and mother, sisters and brothers, his own street and 
 house are nothing. Hunting, shooting, rowing, Alpine- 
 climbing, even speeches in Parliament, — if they per- 
 chance have been attained to, — all become leather or 
 prunella. The heavens have been opened to him, and 
 he walks among them like a god. So it had been 
 with Tregear. Then had come the second phase of 
 his passion, — which is also not uncommon to young 
 
 The Dukes Children. III. I 7 
 
258 THE duke's children. 
 
 men who soar high in their first assaults. He was 
 told that it would not do; and was not so told by a 
 hard-hearted parent, but by the youhg lady herself. 
 And she had spoken so reasonably, that he had yielded, 
 and had walked away with that sudden feeling of a 
 vile return to his own mean belongings, to his lodgings, 
 and his income, which not a few ambitious young men 
 have experienced. But she had convinced him. Then 
 had come the journey to Italy, and the reader knows 
 all the rest. He certainly had not derogated in trans- 
 ferring his affections, — but it may be doubted whether 
 in his second love he had walked among the stars as 
 in the first. A man can hardly mount twice among 
 the stars. But he had been as eager, — and as true. 
 And he had succeeded, without any flaw on his con- 
 science. It had been agreed, when that first disruption 
 took place, that he and Mabel should be friends; and, 
 as to a friend, he had told her of his hopes. When 
 first she had mingled something of sarcasm with her 
 congratulations, though it had annoyed him, it had 
 hardly made him unhappy. When she called him 
 Romeo and spoke of herself as Rosaline, he took her 
 remark as indicating some petulance rather than an 
 enduring love. That had been womanly and he could 
 forgive it. He had his other great and solid happiness 
 to support him. Then he had believed that she would 
 soon marry, if not Silverbridge , then some other fitting 
 young nobleman, and that all would be well. But now 
 things were very far from well. The storm which was 
 now howling round her afflicted him much. 
 
 Perhaps the bitterest feeling of all was that her 
 love should have been so much stronger, so much more 
 enduring than his own. He could not but remember 
 
THE DUKE RETURNS TO OFFICE. 259 
 
 how in his first agony he had blamed her because she 
 had declared that they should be severed. He had 
 then told himself that such severing would be to him 
 impossible, and that had her nature been as high as 
 his, it would have been as impossible to her. Which 
 nature must he now regard as the higher? She had 
 done her best to rid herself of the load of her passion 
 and had failed. But he had freed himself with con- 
 venient haste. All that he had said as to the man- 
 liness of conquering grief had been wise enough. But 
 still he could not quit himself of some feeling of dis- 
 grace in that he had changed and she had not. He 
 tried to comfort himself with reflecting that Mary was 
 all his own, — that in that matter he had been victorious 
 and happy; — but for an hour or two he thought more 
 of Mabel than of Mary. 
 
 When the time came in which he could employ 
 himself he called for Silverbridge , and they walked 
 together across the park to Westminster. Silverbridge 
 was gay and full of eagerness as to the coming minis- 
 terial statement, but Tregear could not turn his mind 
 from the work of the morning. "I don't seem to care 
 very much about it," he said at last. 
 
 "I do care very much," said Silverbridge. 
 
 "What difference will it make?" 
 
 "I breakfasted with the governor this morning, and 
 
 I have not seen him in such good spirits since, 
 
 well, for a long time." The date to which Silverbridge 
 would have referred, had he not checked himself, w^as 
 that of the evening on which it had been agreed be- 
 tween him and his father that Mabel Grex should be 
 promoted to the seat of highest honour in the house 
 of Palliser, — but that was a matter which must hence- 
 
 17* 
 
260 THE duke's CHILDREN. 
 
 forward be buried in silence. "He did not say as 
 much, but I feel perfectly sure that he and Mr. Monk 
 have arranged a new government." 
 
 "I don't see any matter for joy in that to Con- 
 servatives like you and me." 
 
 "He is my father, — and as he is going to be your 
 father-in-law I should have thought that you might 
 have been pleased." 
 
 "Oh, yes; — if he likes it. But I have heard so 
 often of the crushing cares of office, and I had thought 
 that of all living men he had been the most crushed 
 by them." 
 
 All that had to be done in the House of Commons 
 on that afternoon was finished before five o'clock. By 
 half-past five the House, and all the purlieus of the 
 House, were deserted. And yet at four, immediately 
 after prayers, there had been such a crowd that mem- 
 bers had been unable to find seats! Tregear and 
 Silverbridge having been early had succeeded, but 
 those who had been less careful were obliged to listen 
 as best they could in the galleries. The stretching out 
 of necks and the holding of hands behind the ears did 
 not last long. Sir Timothy had not had much to say, 
 but what he did say was spoken with a dignity which 
 seemed to anticipate future exaltation rather than 
 present downfall. There had arisen a question in 
 regard to revenue, — he need hardly tell them that it 
 was that question in reference to brewers' licences to 
 which the honourable gentleman opposite had alluded 
 on the previous day, — as to which unfortunately he 
 was not in accord with his noble friend the Prime 
 Minister. Under the circumstances it was hardly 
 possible that they should at once proceed to business, 
 
THE DUKE RETURNS TO OFFICE. 
 
 261 
 
 and he therefore moved that the House should stand 
 adjourned till Tuesday next. That was the whole 
 statement. 
 
 Not very long afterwards the Prime Minister made 
 another statement in the House of Lords. As the 
 Chancellor of the Exchequer had very suddenly re- 
 signed and had thereby broken up the Ministry, he 
 had found himself compelled to place his resignation 
 in the hands of her Majesty. Then that House was 
 also adjourned. On that afternoon all the clubs were 
 alive with admiration at the great cleverness displayed 
 by Sir Timothy in this transaction. It was not only 
 that he had succeeded in breaking up the Ministry, 
 and that he had done this without incurring violent 
 disgrace; but he had so done it as to throw all the 
 reproach upon his late unfortunate colleague. It was 
 thus that Mr. Lupton explained it. Sir Timothy had 
 been at the pains to ascertain on what matters con- 
 nected with the revenue. Lord Drummond, — or Lord 
 Drummond^s closest advisers,^ — had opinions of their 
 own, opinions strong enough not to be abandoned; and 
 having discovered that, he also discovered arguments 
 on which to found an exactly contrary opinion. But 
 as the Revenue had been entrusted specially to his 
 unworthy hands, he was entitled to his own opinion 
 on this matter. "The majority of the House," said 
 Mr. Lupton, "and the entire public, will no doubt give 
 him credit for great self-abnegation." 
 
 All this happened on the Friday. During the 
 Saturday it was considered probable that the Cabinet 
 would come to terms with itself, and that internal 
 wounds would be healed. The general opinion was 
 
262 
 
 THE duke's children. 
 
 that Lord Drummond would give way. But on the 
 Sunday morning it was understood that Lord Drummond 
 would not yield. It was reported that Lord Drummond 
 was willing to purchase his separation from Sir Timothy 
 even at the expense of his office. That Sir Timothy 
 should give way seemed to be impossible. Had he 
 done so it would have been impossible for him to 
 recover the respect of the House. Then it was 
 rumoured that two or three others had gone with Sir 
 Timothy. And on Monday morning it was proclaimed 
 that the Prime Minister was not in a condition to with- 
 draw his resignation. On the Tuesday the House met 
 and Mr. Monk announced, still from the Opposition 
 benches, that he had that morning been with the 
 Queen. Then there was another adjournment, and all 
 the Liberals knew that the gates of Paradise were 
 again about to be opened to them. 
 
 This is only interesting to us as affecting the 
 happiness and character of our Duke. He had con- 
 sented to assist Mr. Monk in forming a government, 
 and to take office under Mr. Monk's leadership. He 
 had had many contests with himself before he could 
 bring himself to this submission. He knew that if 
 anything could once again make him contented it 
 would be work; he knew that if he could serve his 
 country it was his duty to serve it; and he knew also 
 that it was only by the adhesion of such men as him- 
 self that the traditions of his party could be main- 
 tained. But he had been Prime Minister, — and he 
 was sure he could never be Prime Minister again. 
 There are in all matters certain little, almost hidden, 
 signs, by which we can measure within our own 
 
THE DUKE RETURNS TO OFFICE. 263 
 
 bosoms the extent of our successes and our failures. 
 Our Duke's friends had told him that his Ministry- 
 had been serviceable to the country; but no one had 
 ever suggested to him that he would again be asked 
 to fill the place which he had filled. He had stopped 
 a gap. He would beforehand have declared himself 
 willing to serve his country even in this way; but 
 having done so, — having done that and no more than 
 that, — he felt that he had failed. He had in his sore- 
 ness declared to himself that he would never more 
 take office. He had much to do to overcome this 
 promise to himself; — but when he had brought himself 
 to submit he was certainly a happier man. 
 
 There was no going to see the Queen. That on 
 the present occasion was done simply by Mr. Monk. 
 But on the Wednesday morning his name appeared in 
 the list of the new Cabinet as President of the 
 Council. He was perhaps a little fidgety, a little 
 too anxious to employ himself and to be employed, 
 a little too desirous of immediate work; — but still he 
 was happy and gracious to those around him. "I 
 suppose you like that particular office,'' Silverbridge 
 said to him. 
 
 "Well; yes; — not best of all, you know," and he 
 smiled as he made this admission. 
 "You mean Prime Minister." 
 
 "No, indeed I don't. I am inclined to think that 
 the Premier should always sit in your House. No, 
 Silverbridge, if I could have my way, — which is of 
 course impossible, for I cannot put off my honours, 
 — I would return to my old place. I would return to 
 the Exchequer where the work is hard and certain. 
 
264 
 
 THE duke's children. 
 
 where a man can do, or at any rate attempt to do, 
 some special thing. A man there if he stick to that 
 and does not travel beyond it, need hot be popular, 
 need not be a partisan, need not be eloquent, need 
 not be a courtier. He should understand his pro- 
 fession, as should a lawyer or a doctor. If he does 
 that thoroughly he can serve his country without re- 
 course to that parliamentary strategy for which I know 
 that I am unfit.'' 
 
 "You can't do that in the House of Lords, sir." 
 
 "No; no. I wish the title could have passed over 
 my head, Silverbridge , and gone to you at once. I 
 think we both should have been suited better. But 
 there are things which one should not consider. Even 
 in this place I may perhaps do something. Shall you 
 attack us very bitterly?" 
 
 "I am the only man who does not mean to make 
 any change." 
 
 "How so?" 
 
 "I shall stay where I am, — on the Government side 
 of the House." 
 
 "Are you clear about that, my boy?" 
 "Quite clear." 
 
 "Such changes should not be made without very 
 much consideration." 
 
 "I have already written to them at Silverbridge 
 and have had three or four answers. Mr. De Boung 
 says that the borough is more than grateful. Mr. 
 Sprott regrets it much, and suggests a few months' 
 consideration. Mr. Sprugeon seems to think it does 
 not signify," 
 
 "That is hardly complimentary." 
 
THE DUKE RETURNS TO OFFICE. 265 
 
 "No, — not to me. But he is very civil to the 
 family. As long as a Palliser represents the borough, 
 Mr. Sprugeon thinks that it does not matter much on 
 which side he may sit. I have had my little vagary, 
 and I don't think that I shall change again." 
 
 "I suppose it is your republican bride-elect that 
 has done that," said the Duke laughing. 
 
266 
 
 THE duke's children. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVI. 
 THE FIRST WEDDING. 
 
 As Easter Sunday fell on the 17th April, and as 
 the arrangement of the new Cabinet, with its inferior 
 offices, was not completed till the 6th of that month, 
 there was only just time for the new elections before 
 the holidays. Mr. Monk sat on his bench so com- 
 fortably that he hardly seemed ever to have been off 
 it. And Phineas Finn resumed the peculiar ministerial 
 tone of voice just as though he had never allowed 
 himself to use the free and indignant strains of op- 
 position. As to a majority, — nothing as yet was 
 known about that. Some few besides Silverbridge 
 might probably transfer themselves to the Govern- 
 ment. None of the ministers lost their seats at the 
 new elections. The opposite party seemed for a while 
 to have been paralysed by the defection of Sir Timothy, 
 and men who liked a quiet life were able to comfort 
 themselves with the reflection that nothing could be 
 done this session. 
 
 For our lovers this was convenient. Neither of 
 them would have allowed their parliamentary energies 
 to have interfered at such a crisis with his domestic 
 affairs; but still it was well to have time at command. 
 The day for the marriage of Isabel and Silverbridge 
 had been now fixed. That was to take place on the 
 
THE FIRST WEDDING. 
 
 267 
 
 Wednesday after Easter, and was to be celebrated by- 
 special royal favour in the chapel at Whitehall. All 
 the Pallisers would be there, and all the relations of 
 all the Pallisers, all the ambassadors, and of course all 
 the Americans in London. It would be a "wretched 
 grind,'' as Silverbridge said, but it had to be done. 
 In the meantime the whole party, including the new 
 President of the Council, were down at Matching. 
 Even Isabel, though it must be presumed that she 
 had much to do in looking after her bridal garments, 
 was able to be there for a day or two. But Tregear 
 was the person to whom this visit was of the greatest 
 importance. 
 
 He had been allowed to see Lady Mary in London, 
 but hardly to do more than see her. With her he had 
 been alone for about five minutes, and then cruel cir- 
 cumstances, — circumstances, however, which were not 
 permanently cruel, — had separated them. All their 
 great difficulties had been settled, and no doubt they 
 were happy. Tregear, though he had been as it were 
 received into grace by that glass of wine, still had not 
 entered into the intimacies of the house. This he felt 
 himself. He had been told that he had better restrain 
 himself from writing to Mary, and he had restrained 
 himself. He had therefore no immediate opportunity 
 of creeping into that perfect intimacy with the house 
 and household which is generally accorded to a pro- 
 mised son-in-law. 
 
 On this occasion he travelled down alone, and as 
 he approached the house he, who was not by nature 
 timid, felt himself to be somewhat cowed. That the 
 Duke should not be cold to him was almost impossible. 
 Of course he was there in opposition to the Duke's 
 
268 
 
 THE duke's children. 
 
 wishes. Even Silverbridge had never quite liked the 
 match. Of course he was to have all that he desired. 
 Of course he was the most fortunate of men. Of 
 course no man had ever stronger reason to be contented 
 with the girl he loved. But still his heart was a little 
 low as he was driven up to the door. 
 
 The first person whom he saw was the Duke him- 
 self, who, as the fly from the station arrived, was re- 
 turning from his walk. "You are welcome to Matching,'* 
 he said, taking off his hat with something of ceremony. 
 This was said before the servants, but Tregear was 
 then led into the study and the door was closed. "I 
 never do anything by halves, Mr. Tregear," he said. 
 "Since it is to be so you shall be the same to me as 
 though you had come under other auspices. Of your- 
 self personally I hear all that is good. Consider your- 
 self at home here, and in all things use me as your 
 friend." Tregear endeavoured to make some reply, but 
 could not find words that were fitting. "I think that 
 the young people are out," continued the Duke. "Mr. 
 Warburton will help you to find them if you like to go 
 upon the search." The words had been very gracious, 
 but still there was something in the manner of the 
 man which made Tregear find it almost impossible to 
 regard him as he might have regarded another father- 
 in-law. He had often heard the Duke spoken of as a 
 man who could become awful if he pleased, almost 
 without an effort. He had been told of the man's 
 mingled simplicity, courtesy, and self-assertion against 
 which no impudence or raillery could prevail. And 
 now he seemed to understand it. 
 
 He was not driven to go under the private secretary's 
 escort in quest of the young people. Mary had under- 
 
THE FIRST WEDDING. 
 
 26g 
 
 Stood her business much better than that. "If you 
 please, sir, Lady Mary is in the Httle drawing-room,'' 
 said a well- arrayed young girl to him as soon as the 
 Duke's door was closed. This was Lady Mary's own 
 maid who had been on the look-out for the fly. Lady 
 Mary had known all details, as to the arrival of the 
 trains and the length of the journey from the station, 
 and had not been walking with the other young people 
 when the Duke had intercepted her lover. Even that 
 delay she had thought was hard. The discreet maid 
 opened the door of the little drawing-room, — and dis- 
 creetly closed it instantly. "At last!" she said, throw- 
 ing herself into his arms. 
 "Yes, — at last." 
 
 On this occasion time did not envy them. The 
 long afternoons of spring had come, and as Tregear 
 had reached the house between four and five they were 
 able to go out together before the sun set. "No," she 
 said when he came to inquire as to her life during the 
 last twelve months; "you had not much to be afraid of 
 as to my forgetting." 
 
 "But when everything was against me?" 
 
 "One thing was not against you. You ought to 
 have been sure of that." 
 
 "And so I was. And yet I felt that I ought not to 
 have been sure. Sometimes, in my solitude, I used to 
 think that I myself had been wrong. I began to doubt 
 whether under any circumstances I could have been 
 justified in asking your father's daughter to be' my 
 wife." 
 
 "Because of his rank?" 
 
 "Not so much his rank as his money." 
 
 "Ought that to be considered?" 
 
270 
 
 THE duke's children. 
 
 poor man who marries a rich woman will always 
 be suspected.'' 
 
 "Because people are so mean and poor-spirited; 
 and because they think that money is more than any- 
 thing else. It should be nothing at all in such matters. 
 I don't know how it can be anything. They have been 
 saying that to me all along, — as though one were to 
 stop to think whether one was rich or poor." Tregear, 
 when this was said, could not but remember that a 
 time not very much prior to that at which Mary had 
 not stopped to think, neither for a while had he and 
 Mabel. "I suppose it was worse for me than for you," 
 she added. 
 
 "I hope not." 
 
 "But it was, Frank; and therefore I ought to have 
 it made up to me now. It was very bad to be alone 
 here, particularly when I felt that papa always looked 
 at me as though I were a sinner. He did not mean 
 it, but he could not help looking at me like that. As 
 there was nobody to whom I could say a word." 
 
 "It was pretty much the same with me." 
 
 "Yes; but you were not offending a father who 
 could not keep himself from looking reproaches at you. 
 I was like a boy at school who had been put into 
 Coventry. And then they sent me to Lady Can- 
 trip!" 
 
 "Was that very bad?" 
 
 "I do believe that if I were a young woman with 
 a well-ordered mind, I should feel myself very much 
 indebted to Lady Cantrip. She had a terrible task of 
 it. But I could not teach myself to like her. I be- 
 lieve she knew all through that I should get my way 
 ^t last." 
 
THE FIRST WEDDING. 
 
 271 
 
 ^'That ought to have made you friends/' 
 "But yet she tried everything she could. And 
 when I told her about that meeting up at Lord Grex's, 
 she was so shocked! Do you remember that?" 
 "Do I remember it!'' 
 
 "Were not you shocked?" This question was not 
 to be answered by any word, "I was," she continued. 
 "It was an awful thing to do; but I was determined to 
 show them all that I was in earnest. Do you remem- 
 ber how Miss Cassewary looked?" 
 
 "Miss Cassewary knew all about it." 
 
 "I daresay she did. And so I suppose did Mabel 
 Grex. I had thought that perhaps I might make 
 
 Mabel a confidante, but " Then she looked up 
 
 into his face. 
 
 "But what?" 
 
 "You like Mabel, do you not? I do." 
 "I like her very, very much." 
 
 "Perhaps you have liked her too well for that, eh, 
 Frank?" 
 
 "Too well for what?" 
 
 "That she should have heard all that I had to say 
 about you with sympathy. If so, I am so sorry." 
 
 "You need not fear that I have ever for a moment 
 been untrue either to her or you." 
 
 "I am sure you have not to me. Poor Mabel! Then 
 they took me to Custins. That was worst of all. I 
 cannot quite tell you what happened there." Of course 
 he asked her, — but, as she had said, she could not 
 quite tell him about Lord Popplecourt. 
 
 The next morning the Duke asked his guest in a 
 playful tone what was his Christian name. It could 
 hardly be that he should not have known, but yet he 
 
272 
 
 THE DUKE^S CHILDREN. 
 
 asked the question. "Francis Oliphant," said Tregear. 
 "Those are two Christian names I suppose, but what 
 do they call you at home?" 
 
 "Frank," whispered Mary, who was with them. 
 
 "Then I will call you Frank, if you will allow me. 
 The use of Christian names is, I think, pleasant and 
 hardly common enough among us. I almost forget my 
 own boy^s name because the practice has grown up of 
 calling him by a title." 
 
 "I am going to call him Abraham," said Isabel. 
 
 "Abraham is a good name, only I do not think he 
 got it from his godfathers and godmothers." 
 
 "Who can call a man Plantagenet? I should as 
 soon think of calling my father-in-law Coeur de 
 Lion." 
 
 "So he is," said Mary. Whereupon the Duke kissed 
 the two girls and went his way, — showing that by this 
 time he had adopted the one and the proposed hus- 
 band of the other into his heart. 
 
 The day before the Duke started for London to be 
 present at the grand marriage he sent for Frank. "I 
 suppose" said he, "that you would wish that some 
 time should be fixed for your own marriage." To this 
 the accepted suitor of course assented. "But before 
 we can do that something must be settled about — 
 money." Tregear when he heard this became hot all 
 over, and felt that he could not restrain his blushes. 
 Such must be the feeling of a man when he finds 
 himself compelled to own to a girl's father that he in- 
 tends to live upon her money and not upojn his own. 
 "I do not like to be troublesome," continued the 
 Duke, "or to ask questions which might seem to be 
 impertinent." 
 
THE FIRST WEDDING. 
 
 ^^Oh no! Of course I feel my position. I can 
 only say that it was not because your daughter might 
 probably have money that I first sought her love." 
 
 "It shall be so received. And now But per- 
 haps it will be best that you should arrange all this 
 with my man of business. Mr. Morton shall be in- 
 structed. Mr. Morton lives near my place in Barset- 
 shire, but is now in London. If you will call on him 
 he shall tell you what I would suggest. I hope you 
 will find that your affairs will be comfortable. And 
 now as to the time.'' 
 
 Isabel's wedding was declared by the newspapers 
 to have been one of the most brilliant remembered in 
 the metropolis. There were six bridesmaids, of whom 
 of course Mary was one, — and of whom poor Lady 
 Mabel Grex was equally of course not another. Poor 
 Lady Mabel was at this time with Miss Cassewary at 
 Grex, paying what she believed would be a last visit 
 to the old family home. Among the others were two 
 American girls, brought into that august society for 
 the sake of courtesy rather than of personal love. And 
 there were two other Palliser girls and a Scotch McCloskie 
 cousin. The breakfast was of course given by Mr. 
 Boncassen at his house in Brook Street, where the 
 bridal presents were displayed. And not only were 
 they displayed; but a list of them, with an approximat- 
 ing statement as to their value, appeared in one or 
 two of the next day's newspapers; — as to which terrible 
 sin against good taste neither was Mr. or Mrs. Bon- 
 cassen guilty. But in these days, in which such 
 splendid things were done on so very splendid a 
 scale, a young lady cannot herself lay out her friends' 
 gifts so as to be properly seen by her friends. Some 
 
 The Dickes Children. Ill, 1 8 
 
274 
 
 THE duke's children. 
 
 well-skilled, well-paid hand is needed even for that, 
 and hence comes this public information on affairs 
 which should surely be private. In our grandmothers' 
 time the happy bride's happy mother herself com- 
 pounded the cake; — or at any rate the trusted house- 
 keeper. But we all know that terrible tower of silver 
 which now stands niddle-noddling with its appendages 
 of flags and spears on the modern wedding breakfast- 
 table. It will come to pass with some of us soon 
 that we must deny ourselves the pleasure of having 
 young friends, because their marriage presents are so 
 costly. 
 
 Poor Mrs. Boncassen had not perhaps a happy 
 time with her august guests on that morning; but when 
 she retired to give Isabel her last kiss in privacy she 
 did feel proud to think that her daughter would some 
 day be an English Duchess. 
 
THE SECOND WEDDING. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVII. 
 THE SECOND WEDDING. 
 
 November is not altogether an hymeneal month, 
 but it was not till November that Lady Mary Palliser 
 became the wife of Frank Tregear. It was postponed 
 a little perhaps, in order that the Silverbridges, — as 
 they were now called, — might be present. The Silver- 
 bridges, who were now quite Darby and Joan, had 
 gone to the States when the Session had been brought 
 to a close early in August, and had remained there 
 nearly three months. Isabel had taken infinite plea- 
 sure in showing her English husband to her American 
 friends, and the American friends had no doubt taken 
 a pride in seeing so glorious a British husband in the 
 hands of an American wife. Everything was new to 
 Silverbridge, and he was happy in his new possession. 
 She too enjoyed it infinitely, and so it happened that 
 they had been unwilling to curtail their sojourn. But 
 in November they had to return, because Mary had 
 declared that her marriage should be postponed till it 
 could be graced by the presence of her elder brother. 
 
 The marriage of Silverbridge had been august. 
 There had been a manifest intention that it should be 
 so. Nobody knew with whom this originated. Mrs. 
 Boncassen had probably been told that it ought to be 
 so, and Mr. Boncassen had been willing to pay the 
 
 i8* 
 
276 
 
 THE duke's children. 
 
 bill. External forces had perhaps operated. The 
 Duke had simply been passive and obedient. There 
 had however been a general feeling that the bride of 
 the heir of the house of Omnium should be produced 
 to the world amidst a blaze of trumpets and a glare 
 of torches. So it had been. But both the Duke and 
 Mary were determined that this wedding should be 
 different. It was to take place at Matching, and none 
 would be present but they who were staying in the 
 house, or who lived around, — such as tenants and 
 dependents. Four clergymen united their forces to 
 tie Isabel to her husband, one of whom was a bishop, 
 one a canon, and the two others royal chaplains; but 
 there was only to be the Vicar of the parish at Match- 
 ing. And indeed there were no guests in the house 
 except the two bridesmaids and Mr. and Mrs. Finn. 
 As to Mrs. Finn Mary had made a request, and then 
 the Duke had suggested that the husband should be 
 asked to accompany his wife. 
 
 It was very pretty. The church itself is pretty, 
 standing in the park, close to the old Priory, not above 
 three hundred yards from the house. And they all 
 walked, taking the broad path through the ruins, going 
 under that figure of Sir Guy which Silverbridge had 
 pointed out to Isabel when they had been whispering 
 there together. The Duke led the way with his girl 
 upon his arm. The two bridesmaids followed. Then 
 Silverbridge and his wife, with Phineas and his wife. 
 Gerald and the bridegroom accompanied them, be- 
 longing as it were to the same party! It was very 
 rustic; — almost improper! "This is altogether wrong, 
 you know," said Gerald. "You should appear coming 
 from some other part of the world, as if you were 
 
THE SECOND WEDDING. 
 
 277 
 
 almost unexpected. You ought not to have been in 
 the house at all, and certainly should have gone under 
 disguise.'' 
 
 There had been rich presents too on this occasion, 
 but they were shown to none except to Mrs. Finn and 
 the bridesmaids, — and perhaps to the favoured servants 
 of the house. At any rate there was nothing said of 
 them in the newspapers. One present there was, — 
 given not to the bride but to the bridegroom, — which 
 he showed to no one except to her. This came to 
 him only on the morning of his marriage, and the 
 envelope containing it bore the postmark of Sedberg. 
 He knew the handwriting well before he opened the 
 parcel. It contained a small signet-ring with his crest, 
 and with it there were but a few words written on a 
 scrap of paper. "I pray that you may be happy. This 
 was to have been given to you long ago, but I kept it 
 back because of that decision.'' He showed the ring 
 to Lady Mary and told her it had come from Lady 
 Mabel; — but the scrap of paper no one saw but him- 
 self. 
 
 Perhaps the matter most remarkable in the wedding 
 was the hilarity of the Duke. One who did not know 
 him well might have said that he was a man with very 
 few cares, and who now took special joy in the happi- 
 ness of his children, — who was thoroughly contented 
 to see them marry after their own hearts. And yet, as 
 he stood there on the altar-steps giving his daughter 
 to that new son and looking first at his girl, and then 
 at his married son, he was reminding himself of all he 
 had suffered. 
 
 After the breakfast, — which was by no means a 
 grand repast and at which the cake did not look so 
 
 I 
 1 
 \ 
 
278 THE duke's children. 
 
 like an ill-soldered silver castle as that other construc- 
 tion had done, — the happy couple were sent away in a 
 modest chariot to the railway station, and not above 
 half-a-dozen slippers were thrown after them. There 
 were enough for luck, — or perhaps there might have 
 been luck even without them, for the wife thoroughly 
 respected her husband, as did the husband his wife. 
 Mrs. Finn, when she was alone with Phineas, said a 
 word or two about Tregear. "When she first told me 
 of her engagement I did not think it possible that she 
 should marry him. But after he had been with me I 
 felt sure that he would succeed." 
 
 "Well, sir,'' said Silverbridge to the Duke when 
 they were out together in the park that afternoon, 
 "what do you think about him?" 
 
 "I think he is a manly young man." 
 
 "He certainly is that. And then he knows things 
 and understands them. It was never a surprise to me 
 that Mary should have been so fond of him." 
 
 "I do not know that one ought to be surprised at 
 anything. Perhaps what surprised me most was that 
 he should have looked so high. There seemed to be 
 so little to justify it. But now I will accept that as 
 courage what I before regarded as arrogance." 
 
 the end. 
 
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