The Chronicles of Barsetshire

by Anthony Trollope

  It seemed to Mr. Moffat, that though Miss Dunstable was so sprightly, so full of fun, and so ready to chatter on all subjects, she well knew the value of her own money, and of her position as dependent on it: he perceived that she never flattered the countess, and seemed to be no whit absorbed by the titled grandeur of her host’s family. He gave her credit, therefore, for an independent spirit: and an independent spirit in his estimation was one that placed its sole dependence on a respectable balance at its banker’s.

  Working on these ideas, Mr. Moffat commenced operations in such manner that his overtures to the heiress should not, if unsuccessful, interfere with the Greshamsbury engagement. He began by making common cause with Miss Dunstable: their positions in the world, he said to her, were closely similar. They had both risen from the lower class by the strength of honest industry: they were both now wealthy, and had both hitherto made such use of their wealth as to induce the highest aristocracy of England to admit them into their circles.

  “Yes, Mr. Moffat,” had Miss Dunstable remarked; “and if all that I hear be true, to admit you into their very families.”

  At this Mr. Moffat slightly demurred. He would not affect, he said, to misunderstand what Miss Dunstable meant. There had been something said on the probability of such an event; but he begged Miss Dunstable not to believe all that she heard on such subjects.

  “I do not believe much,” said she; “but I certainly did think that that might be credited.”

  Mr. Moffat then went on to show how it behoved them both, in holding out their hands half-way to meet the aristocratic overtures that were made to them, not to allow themselves to be made use of. The aristocracy, according to Mr. Moffat, were people of a very nice sort; the best acquaintance in the world; a portion of mankind to be noticed by whom should be one of the first objects in the life of the Dunstables and the Moffats. But the Dunstables and Moffats should be very careful to give little or nothing in return. Much, very much in return, would be looked for. The aristocracy, said Mr. Moffat, were not a people to allow the light of their countenance to shine forth without looking for a quid pro quo, for some compensating value. In all their intercourse with the Dunstables and Moffats, they would expect a payment. It was for the Dunstables and Moffats to see that, at any rate, they did not pay more for the article they got than its market value.

  They way in which she, Miss Dunstable, and he, Mr. Moffat, would be required to pay would be by taking each of them some poor scion of the aristocracy in marriage; and thus expending their hard-earned wealth in procuring high-priced pleasures for some well-born pauper. Against this, peculiar caution was to be used. Of course, the further induction to be shown was this: that people so circumstanced should marry among themselves; the Dunstables and the Moffats each with the other, and not tumble into the pitfalls prepared for them.

  Whether these great lessons had any lasting effect on Miss Dunstable’s mind may be doubted. Perhaps she had already made up her mind on the subject which Mr. Moffat so well discussed. She was older than Mr. Moffat, and, in spite of his two years of parliamentary experience, had perhaps more knowledge of the world with which she had to deal. But she listened to what he said with complacency; understood his object as well as she had that of his aristocratic rival; was no whit offended; but groaned in her spirit as she thought of the wrongs of Augusta Gresham.

  But all this good advice, however, would not win the money for Mr. Moffat without some more decided step; and that step he soon decided on taking, feeling assured that what he had said would have its due weight with the heiress.

  The party at Courcy Castle was now soon about to be broken up. The male De Courcys were going down to a Scotch mountain. The female De Courcys were to be shipped off to an Irish castle. Mr. Moffat was to go up to town to prepare his petition. Miss Dunstable was again about to start on a foreign tour in behalf of her physician and attendants; and Frank Gresham was at last to be allowed to go to Cambridge; that is to say, unless his success with Miss Dunstable should render such a step on his part quite preposterous.

  “I think you may speak now, Frank,” said the countess. “I really think you may: you have known her now for a considerable time; and, as far as I can judge, she is very fond of you.”

  “Nonsense, aunt,” said Frank; “she doesn’t care a button for me.”

  “I think differently; and lookers-on, you know, always understand the game best. I suppose you are not afraid to ask her.”

  “Afraid!” said Frank, in a tone of considerable scorn. He almost made up his mind that he would ask her to show that he was not afraid. His only obstacle to doing so was, that he had not the slightest intention of marrying her.

  There was to be but one other great event before the party broke up, and that was a dinner at the Duke of Omnium’s. The duke had already declined to come to Courcy; but he had in a measure atoned for this by asking some of the guests to join a great dinner which he was about to give to his neighbours.

  Mr. Moffat was to leave Courcy Castle the day after the dinner-party, and he therefore determined to make his great attempt on the morning of that day. It was with some difficulty that he brought about an opportunity; but at last he did so, and found himself alone with Miss Dunstable in the walks of Courcy Park.

  “It is a strange thing, is it not,” said he, recurring to his old view of the same subject, “that I should be going to dine with the Duke of Omnium—the richest man, they say, among the whole English aristocracy?”

  “Men of that kind entertain everybody, I believe, now and then,” said Miss Dunstable, not very civilly.

  “I believe they do; but I am not going as one of the everybodies. I am going from Lord de Courcy’s house with some of his own family. I have no pride in that—not the least; I have more pride in my father’s honest industry. But it shows what money does in this country of ours.”

  “Yes, indeed; money does a great deal many queer things.” In saying this Miss Dunstable could not but think that money had done a very queer thing in inducing Miss Gresham to fall in love with Mr. Moffat.

  “Yes; wealth is very powerful: here we are, Miss Dunstable, the most honoured guests in the house.”

  “Oh! I don’t know about that; you may be, for you are a member of Parliament, and all that—”

  “No; not a member now, Miss Dunstable.”

  “Well, you will be, and that’s all the same; but I have no such title to honour, thank God.”

  They walked on in silence for a little while, for Mr. Moffat hardly knew how to manage the business he had in hand. “It is quite delightful to watch these people,” he said at last; “now they accuse us of being tuft-hunters.”

  “Do they?” said Miss Dunstable. “Upon my word I didn’t know that anybody ever so accused me.”

  “I didn’t mean you and me personally.”

  “Oh! I’m glad of that.”

  “But that is what the world says of persons of our class. Now it seems to me that the toadying is all on the other side. The countess here does toady you, and so do the young ladies.”

  “Do they? if so, upon my word I didn’t know it. But, to tell the truth, I don’t think much of such things. I live mostly to myself, Mr. Moffat.”

  “I see that you do, and I admire you for it; but, Miss Dunstable, you cannot always live so,” and Mr. Moffat looked at her in a manner which gave her the first intimation of his coming burst of tenderness.

  “That’s as may be, Mr. Moffat,” said she.

  He went on beating about the bush for some time—giving her to understand now necessary it was that persons situated as they were should live either for themselves or for each other, and that, above all things, they should beware of falling into the mouths of voracious aristocratic lions who go about looking for prey—till they came to a turn in the grounds; at which Miss Dunstable declared her determination of going in. She had walked enough, she said. As by this time Mr. Moffat’s immediate intentions were becoming visible she thought it prudent to retire. �
�Don’t let me take you in, Mr. Moffat; but my boots are a little damp, and Dr. Easyman will never forgive me if I do not hurry in as fast as I can.”

  “Your feet damp?—I hope not: I do hope not,” said he, with a look of the greatest solicitude.

  “Oh! it’s nothing to signify; but it’s well to be prudent, you know. Good morning, Mr. Moffat.”

  “Miss Dunstable!”

  “Eh—yes!” and Miss Dunstable stopped in the grand path. “I won’t let you return with me, Mr. Moffat, because I know you were not coming in so soon.”

  “Miss Dunstable; I shall be leaving this to-morrow.”

  “Yes; and I go myself the day after.”

  “I know it. I am going to town and you are going abroad. It may be long—very long—before we meet again.”

  “About Easter,” said Miss Dunstable; “that is, if the doctor doesn’t knock up on the road.”

  “And I had, had wished to say something before we part for so long a time. Miss Dunstable—”

  “Stop!—Mr. Moffat. Let me ask you one question. I’ll hear anything that you have got to say, but on one condition: that is, that Miss Augusta Gresham shall be by while you say it. Will you consent to that?”

  “Miss Augusta Gresham,” said he, “has no right to listen to my private conversation.”

  “Has she not, Mr. Moffat? then I think she should have. I, at any rate, will not so far interfere with what I look on as her undoubted privileges as to be a party to any secret in which she may not participate.”

  “But, Miss Dunstable—”

  “And to tell you fairly, Mr. Moffat, any secret that you do tell me, I shall most undoubtedly repeat to her before dinner. Good morning, Mr. Moffat; my feet are certainly a little damp, and if I stay a moment longer, Dr. Easyman will put off my foreign trip for at least a week.” And so she left him standing alone in the middle of the gravel-walk.

  For a moment or two, Mr. Moffat consoled himself in his misfortune by thinking how he might best avenge himself on Miss Dunstable. Soon, however, such futile ideas left his brain. Why should he give over the chase because the rich galleon had escaped him on this, his first cruise in pursuit of her? Such prizes were not to be won so easily. Her present objection clearly consisted in his engagement to Miss Gresham, and in that only. Let that engagement be at an end, notoriously and publicly broken off, and this objection would fall to the ground. Yes; ships so richly freighted were not to be run down in one summer morning’s plain sailing. Instead of looking for his revenge on Miss Dunstable, it would be more prudent in him—more in keeping with his character—to pursue his object, and overcome such difficulties as he might find in his way.

  CHAPTER XIX

  The Duke of Omnium

  The Duke of Omnium was, as we have said, a bachelor. Not the less on that account did he on certain rare gala days entertain the beauty of the county at his magnificent rural seat, or the female fashion of London in Belgrave Square; but on this occasion the dinner at Gatherum Castle—for such was the name of his mansion—was to be confined to the lords of the creation. It was to be one of those days on which he collected round his board all the notables of the county, in order that his popularity might not wane, or the established glory of his hospitable house become dim.

  On such an occasion it was not probable that Lord de Courcy would be one of the guests. The party, indeed, who went from Courcy Castle was not large, and consisted of the Honourable George, Mr. Moffat, and Frank Gresham. They went in a tax-cart, with a tandem horse, driven very knowingly by George de Courcy; and the fourth seat on the back of the vehicle was occupied by a servant, who was to look after the horses at Gatherum.

  The Honourable George drove either well or luckily, for he reached the duke’s house in safety; but he drove very fast. Poor Miss Dunstable! what would have been her lot had anything but good happened to that vehicle, so richly freighted with her three lovers! They did not quarrel as to the prize, and all reached Gatherum Castle in good humour with each other.

  The castle was a new building of white stone, lately erected at an enormous cost by one of the first architects of the day. It was an immense pile, and seemed to cover ground enough for a moderate-sized town. But, nevertheless, report said that when it was completed, the noble owner found that he had no rooms to live in; and that, on this account, when disposed to study his own comfort, he resided in a house of perhaps one-tenth the size, built by his grandfather in another county.

  Gatherum Castle would probably be called Italian in its style of architecture; though it may, I think, be doubted whether any such edifice, or anything like it, was ever seen in any part of Italy. It was a vast edifice; irregular in height—or it appeared to be so—having long wings on each side too high to be passed over by the eye as mere adjuncts to the mansion, and a portico so large as to make the house behind it look like another building of a greater altitude. This portico was supported by Ionic columns, and was in itself doubtless a beautiful structure. It was approached by a flight of steps, very broad and very grand; but, as an approach by a flight of steps hardly suits an Englishman’s house, to the immediate entrance of which it is necessary that his carriage should drive, there was another front door in one of the wings which was commonly used. A carriage, however, could on very stupendously grand occasions—the visits, for instance, of queens and kings, and royal dukes—be brought up under the portico; as the steps had been so constructed as to admit of a road, with a rather stiff ascent, being made close in front of the wing up into the very porch.

  Opening from the porch was the grand hall, which extended up to the top of the house. It was magnificent, indeed; being decorated with many-coloured marbles, and hung round with various trophies of the house of Omnium; banners were there, and armour; the sculptured busts of many noble progenitors; full-length figures in marble of those who had been especially prominent; and every monument of glory that wealth, long years, and great achievements could bring together. If only a man could but live in his hall and be for ever happy there! But the Duke of Omnium could not live happily in his hall; and the fact was, that the architect, in contriving this magnificent entrance for his own honour and fame, had destroyed the duke’s house as regards most of the ordinary purposes of residence.

  Nevertheless, Gatherum Castle is a very noble pile; and, standing as it does on an eminence, has a very fine effect when seen from many a distant knoll and verdant-wooded hill.

  At seven o’clock Mr. de Courcy and his friends got down from their drag at the smaller door—for this was no day on which to mount up under the portico; nor was that any suitable vehicle to have been entitled to such honour. Frank felt some excitement a little stronger than that usual to him at such moments, for he had never yet been in company with the Duke of Omnium; and he rather puzzled himself to think on what points he would talk to the man who was the largest landowner in that county in which he himself had so great an interest. He, however, made up his mind that he would allow the duke to choose his own subjects; merely reserving to himself the right of pointing out how deficient in gorse covers was West Barsetshire—that being the duke’s division.

  They were soon divested of their coats and hats, and, without entering on the magnificence of the great hall, were conducted through rather a narrow passage into rather a small drawing-room—small, that is, in proportion to the number of gentlemen there assembled. There might be about thirty, and Frank was inclined to think that they were almost crowded. A man came forward to greet them when their names were announced; but our hero at once knew that he was not the duke; for this man was fat and short, whereas the duke was thin and tall.

  There was a great hubbub going on; for everybody seemed to be talking to his neighbour; or, in default of a neighbour, to himself. It was clear that the exalted rank of their host had put very little constraint on his guests’ tongues, for they chatted away with as much freedom as farmers at an ordinary.

  “Which is the duke?” at last Frank contrived to whisper to his cousin.
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  “Oh—he’s not here,” said George; “I suppose he’ll be in presently. I believe he never shows till just before dinner.”

  Frank, of course, had nothing further to say; but he already began to feel himself a little snubbed: he thought that the duke, duke though he was, when he asked people to dinner should be there to tell them that he was glad to see them.

  More people flashed into the room, and Frank found himself rather closely wedged in with a stout clergyman of his acquaintance. He was not badly off, for Mr. Athill was a friend of his own, who had held a living near Greshamsbury. Lately, however, at the lamented decease of Dr. Stanhope—who had died of apoplexy at his villa in Italy—Mr. Athill had been presented with the better preferment of Eiderdown, and had, therefore, removed to another part of the county. He was somewhat of a bon-vivant, and a man who thoroughly understood dinner-parties; and with much good nature he took Frank under his special protection.

  “You stick to me, Mr. Gresham,” he said, “when we go into the dining-room. I’m an old hand at the duke’s dinners, and know how to make a friend comfortable as well as myself.”

  “But why doesn’t the duke come in?” demanded Frank.

  “He’ll be here as soon as dinner is ready,” said Mr. Athill. “Or, rather, the dinner will be ready as soon as he is here. I don’t care, therefore, how soon he comes.”

  Frank did not understand this, but he had nothing to do but to wait and see how things went.

  He was beginning to be impatient, for the room was now nearly full, and it seemed evident that no other guests were coming; when suddenly a bell rang, and a gong was sounded, and at the same instant a door that had not yet been used flew open, and a very plainly dressed, plain, tall man entered the room. Frank at once knew that he was at last in the presence of the Duke of Omnium.

  But his grace, late as he was in commencing the duties as host, seemed in no hurry to make up for lost time. He quietly stood on the rug, with his back to the empty grate, and spoke one or two words in a very low voice to one or two gentlemen who stood nearest to him. The crowd, in the meanwhile, became suddenly silent. Frank, when he found that the duke did not come and speak to him, felt that he ought to go and speak to the duke; but no one else did so, and when he whispered his surprise to Mr. Athill, that gentleman told him that this was the duke’s practice on all such occasions.