The Palliser Novels

by Anthony Trollope

  Silverbridge had thought very much of somebody. He was quite aware that he had almost made an offer to Lady Mabel. She certainly had not given him any encouragement; but the very fact that she had not done so allured him the more. He did believe that he was thoroughly in love with Lady Mabel. She had told him that he was too young, — but he was older than Lady Mab herself by a week. She was beautiful; — that was certain. It was acknowledged by all that she was clever. As for blood, of which he believed his father thought much, there was perhaps none better in England. He had heard it said of her, — as he now well remembered, in his father’s presence, — that she had behaved remarkably well in trying circumstances. She had no fortune; — everybody knew that; but then he did not want fortune. Would not this be a good opportunity for breaking the matter to his father? “You have never thought of any one?” said the Duke, — again very sweetly, very softly.

  “But I have!” Lord Silverbridge as he made the announcement blushed up to the eyes.

  Then there came over the father something almost of fear. If he was to be told, how would it be if he could not approve?

  “Yes I have,” said Silverbridge, recovering himself. “If you wish it, I will tell you who it is.”

  “Nay, my boy; — as to that consult your own feelings. Are you sure of yourself?”

  “Oh yes.”

  “Have you spoken to her?”

  “Well; — yes, in part. She has not accepted me, if you mean that. Rather the contrary.” Now the Duke would have been very unwilling to say that his son would certainly be accepted by any girl in England to whom he might choose to offer his hand. But when the idea of a doubt was suggested to him, it did seem odd that his son should ask in vain. What other young man was there who could offer so much, and who was at the same time so likely to be loved for his own sake? He smiled however and was silent. “I suppose I may as well out with it,” continued Silverbridge. “You know Lady Mabel Grex?”

  “Lady Mabel Grex? Yes; — I know her.”

  “Is there any objection?”

  “Is she not your senior?”

  “No, sir; no; she is younger than I am.”

  “Her father is not a man I esteem.”

  “But she has always been so good!” Then the Duke was again silent. “Have you not heard that, sir?”

  “I think I have.”

  “Is not that a great deal?”

  “A very great deal. To be good must of all qualities be the best. She is very beautiful.”

  “I think so, sir. Of course she has no money.”

  “It is not needed. It is not needed. I have no objection to make. If you are sure of your own mind — “

  “I am quite sure of that, sir.”

  “Then I will raise no objection. Lady Mabel Grex! Her father, I fear, is not a worthy man. I hear that he is a gambler.”

  “He is so poor!”

  “That makes it worse, Silverbridge. A man who gambles because he has money that he can afford to lose is, to my thinking, a fool. But he who gambles because he has none, is — well, let us hope the best of him. You may give her my love.”

  “She has not accepted me.”

  “But should she do so, you may.”

  “She almost rejected me. But I am not sure that she was in earnest, and I mean to try again.” Just at that moment the door was opened and Major Tifto walked into the room.

  CHAPTER XXVII

  Major Tifto and the Duke

  “I beg your pardon, Silverbridge,” said the Major, entering the room, “but I was looking for Longstaff.”

  “He isn’t here,” said Silverbridge, who did not wish to be interrupted by his racing friend.

  “Your father, I believe?” said Tifto. He was red in the face but was in other respects perhaps improved in appearance by his liquor. In his more sober moments he was not always able to assume that appearance of equality with his companions which it was the ambition of his soul to achieve. But a second glass of whisky-and-water would always enable him to cock his tail and bark before the company with all the courage of my lady’s pug. “Would you do me the great honour to introduce me to his Grace?”

  Silverbridge was not prone to turn his back upon a friend because he was low in the world. He had begun to understand that he had made a mistake by connecting himself with the Major, but at the club he always defended his partner. Though he not unfrequently found himself obliged to snub the Major himself, he always countenanced the little Master of Hounds, and was true to his own idea of “standing to a fellow.” Nevertheless he did not wish to introduce his friend to his father. The Duke saw it all at a glance, and felt that the introduction should be made. “Perhaps,” said he, getting up from his chair, “this is Major Tifto.”

  “Yes; — my Lord Duke. I am Major Tifto.”

  The Duke bowed graciously.

  “My father and I were engaged about private matters,” said Silverbridge.

  “I beg ten thousand pardons,” exclaimed the Major. “I did not intend to intrude.”

  “I think we had done,” said the Duke. “Pray sit down, Major Tifto.” The Major sat down. “Though now I bethink myself, I have to beg your pardon; — that I a stranger should ask you to sit down in your own club.”

  “Don’t mention it, my Lord Duke.”

  “I am so unused to clubs, that I forgot where I was.”

  “Quite so, my Lord Duke. I hope you think that Silverbridge is looking well?”

  “Yes; — yes. I think so.”

  Silverbridge bit his lips and turned his face away to the door.

  “We didn’t make a very good thing of our Derby nag the other day. Perhaps your Grace has heard all that?”

  “I did hear that the horse in which you are both interested had failed to win the race.”

  “Yes, he did. The Prime Minister, we call him, your Grace, — out of compliment to a certain Ministry which I wish it was going on to-day instead of the seedy lot we’ve got in. I think, my Lord Duke, that any one you may ask will tell you that I know what running is. Well; — I can assure you, — your Grace, that is, — that since I’ve seen ‘orses I’ve never seen a ‘orse fitter than him. When he got his canter that morning, it was nearly even betting. Not that I or Silverbridge were fools enough to put on anything at that rate. But I never saw a ‘orse so bad ridden. I don’t mean to say anything, my Lord Duke, against the man. But if that fellow hadn’t been squared, or else wasn’t drunk, or else wasn’t off his head, that ‘orse must have won, — my Lord Duke.”

  “I do not know anything about racing, Major Tifto.”

  “I suppose not, your Grace. But as I and Silverbridge are together in this matter I thought I’d just let your Grace know that we ought to have had a very good thing. I thought that perhaps your Grace might like to know that.”

  “Tifto, you are making an ass of yourself,” said Silverbridge.

  “Making an ass of myself!” exclaimed the Major.

  “Yes; — considerably.”

  “I think you are a little hard upon your friend,” said the Duke, with an attempt at a laugh. “It is not to be supposed that he should know how utterly indifferent I am to everything connected with the turf.”

  “I thought, my Lord Duke, you might care about learning how Silverbridge was going on.” This the poor little man said almost with a whine. His partner’s roughness had knocked out of him nearly all the courage which Bacchus had given him.

  “So I do; anything that interests him, interests me. But perhaps of all his pursuits racing is the one to which I am least able to lend an attentive ear. That every horse has a head, and that all did have tails till they were ill-used, is the extent of my stable knowledge.”

  “Very good indeed, my Lord Duke; very good indeed! Ha, ha, ha! — all horses have heads, and all have tails! Heads and tails. Upon my word that is the best thing I have heard for a long time. I will do myself the honour of wishing your Grace good-night. By-bye, Silverbridge.” Then he left the room, having been made supremely h
appy by what he considered to have been the Duke’s joke. Nevertheless he would remember the snubbing and would be even with Silverbridge some day. Did Lord Silverbridge think that he was going to look after his Lordship’s ‘orses, and do this always on the square, and then be snubbed for doing it!

  “I am very sorry that he should have come in to trouble you,” said the son.

  “He has not troubled me much. I do not know whether he has troubled you. If you are coming down to the House again I will walk with you.” Silverbridge of course had to go down to the House again, and they started together. “That man did not trouble me, Silverbridge; but the question is whether such an acquaintance must not be troublesome to you.”

  “I’m not very proud of him, sir.”

  “But I think one ought to be proud of one’s friends.”

  “He isn’t my friend in that way at all.”

  “In what way then?”

  “He understands racing.”

  “He is the partner of your pleasure then; — the man in whose society you love to enjoy the recreation of the race-course.”

  “It is, sir, because he understands it.”

  “I thought that a gentleman on the turf would have a trainer for that purpose; — not a companion. You mean to imply that you can save money by leaguing yourself with Major Tifto?”

  “No, sir, — indeed.”

  “If you associate with him, not for pleasure, then it surely must be for profit. That you should do the former would be to me so surprising that I must regard it as impossible. That you should do the latter — is, I think, a reproach.” This he said with no tone of anger in his voice, — so gently that Silverbridge at first hardly understood it. But gradually all that was meant came in upon him, and he felt himself to be ashamed of himself.

  “He is bad,” he said at last.

  “Whether he be bad I will not say; but I am sure that you can gain nothing by his companionship.”

  “I will get rid of him,” said Silverbridge, after a considerable pause. “I cannot do so at once, but I will do it.”

  “It will be better, I think.”

  “Tregear has been telling me the same thing.”

  “Is he objectionable to Mr. Tregear?” asked the Duke.

  “Oh yes. Tregear cannot bear him. You treated him a great deal better than Tregear ever does.”

  “I do not deny that he is entitled to be treated well; — but so also is your groom. Let us say no more about him. And so it is to be Mabel Grex?”

  “I did not say so, sir. How can I answer for her? Only it was so pleasant for me to know that you would approve if it should come off.”

  “Yes; — I will approve. When she has accepted you — “

  “But I don’t think she will.”

  “If she should, tell her that I will go to her at once. It will be much to have a new daughter; — very much that you should have a wife. Where would she like to live?”

  “Oh, sir, we haven’t got as far as that yet.”

  “I dare say not; I dare say not,” said the Duke. “Gatherum is always thought to be dull.”

  “She wouldn’t like Gatherum, I’m sure.”

  “Have you asked her?”

  “No, sir. But nobody ever did like Gatherum.”

  “I suppose not. And yet, Silverbridge, what a sum of money it cost!”

  “I believe it did.”

  “All vanity; and vexation of spirit!”

  The Duke no doubt was thinking of certain scenes passed at the great house in question, which scenes had not been delightful to him. “No, I don’t suppose she would wish to live at Gatherum. The Horns was given expressly by my uncle to your dear mother, and I should like Mary to have the place.”

  “Certainly.”

  “You should live among your tenantry. I don’t care so very much for Matching.”

  “It is the one place you do like, sir.”

  “However, we can manage all that. Carlton Terrace I do not particularly like; but it is a good house, and there you should hang up your hat when in London. When it is settled, let me know at once.”

  “But if it should never be settled?”

  “I will ask no questions; but if it be settled, tell me.” Then in Palace Yard he was turning to go, but before he did so, he said another word leaning on his son’s shoulder. “I do not think that Mabel Grex and Major Tifto would do well together at all.”

  “There shall be an end to that, sir.”

  “God bless you, my boy!” said the Duke.

  Lord Silverbridge sat in the House — or, to speak more accurately, in the smoking-room of the House — for about an hour thinking over all that had passed between himself and his father. He certainly had not intended to say anything about Lady Mab, but on the spur of the moment it had all come out. Now at any rate it was decided for him that he must, in set terms, ask her to be his wife. The scene which had just occurred had made him thoroughly sick of Major Tifto. He must get rid of the Major, and there could be no way of doing this at once so easy and so little open to observation as marriage. If he were but once engaged to Mabel Grex the dismissal of Tifto would be quite a matter of course. He would see Lady Mabel again on the morrow and ask her in direct language to be his wife.

  CHAPTER XXVIII

  Mrs. Montacute Jones’s Garden-Party

  It was known to all the world that Mrs. Montacute Jones’s first great garden-party was to come off on Wednesday, 16th June, at Roehampton. Mrs. Montacute Jones, who lived in Grosvenor Place and had a country house in Gloucestershire, and a place for young men to shoot at in Scotland, also kept a suburban elysium at Roehampton, in order that she might give two garden-parties every year. When it is said that all these costly luxuries appertained to Mrs. Montacute Jones, it is to be understood that they did in truth belong to Mr. Jones, of whom nobody heard much. But of Mrs. Jones, — that is, Mrs. Montacute Jones, — everybody heard a great deal. She was an old lady who devoted her life to the amusement of — not only her friends, but very many who were not her friends. No doubt she was fond of Lords and Countesses, and worked very hard to get round her all the rank and fashion of the day. It must be acknowledged that she was a worldly old woman. But no more good-natured old woman lived in London, and everybody liked to be asked to her garden-parties. On this occasion there was to be a considerable infusion of royal blood, — German, Belgian, French, Spanish, and of native growth. Everybody who was asked would go, and everybody had been asked, — who was anybody. Lord Silverbridge had been asked, and Lord Silverbridge intended to be there. Lady Mary, his sister, could not even be asked, because her mother was hardly more than three months dead; but it is understood in the world that women mourn longer than men.

  Silverbridge had mounted a private hansom cab in which he could be taken about rapidly, — and, as he said himself, without being shut up in a coffin. In this vehicle he had himself taken to Roehampton, purporting to kill two birds with one stone. He had not as yet seen his sister since she had been with Lady Cantrip. He would on this day come back by The Horns.

  He was well aware that Lady Mab would be at the garden-party. What place could be better for putting the question he had to ask? He was by no means so confident as the heir to so many good things might perhaps have been without overdue self-confidence.

  Entering through the house into the lawn he encountered Mrs. Montacute Jones, who, with a seat behind her on the terrace, surrounded by flowers, was going through the immense labour of receiving her guests.

  “How very good of you to come all this way, Lord Silverbridge, to eat my strawberries.”

  “How very good of you to ask me! I did not come to eat your strawberries but to see your friends.”

  “You ought to have said you came to see me, you know. Have you met Miss Boncassen yet?”

  “The American beauty? No. Is she here?”

  “Yes; and she particularly wants to be introduced to you; you won’t betray me, will you?”

  “Certainly not; I am as true a
s steel.”

  “She wanted, she said, to see if the eldest son of the Duke of Omnium really did look like any other man.”

  “Then I don’t want to see her,” said Silverbridge, with a look of vexation.

  “There you are wrong, for there was real downright fun in the way she said it. There they are, and I shall introduce you.” Then Mrs. Montacute Jones absolutely left her post for a minute or two, and taking the young lord down the steps of the terrace did introduce him to Mr. Boncassen, who was standing there amidst a crowd, and to Miss Boncassen the daughter.

  Mr. Boncassen was an American who had lately arrived in England with the object of carrying out certain literary pursuits in which he was engaged within the British Museum. He was an American who had nothing to do with politics and nothing to do with trade. He was a man of wealth and a man of letters. And he had a daughter who was said to be the prettiest young woman either in Europe or in America at the present time.

  Isabel Boncassen was certainly a very pretty girl. I wish that my reader would believe my simple assurance. But no such simple assurance was ever believed, and I doubt even whether any description will procure for me from the reader that amount of faith which I desire to achieve. But I must make the attempt. General opinion generally considered Miss Boncassen to be small, but she was in truth something above the average height of English women. She was slight, without that look of slimness which is common to girls, and especially to American girls. That her figure was perfect the reader must believe on my word, as any detailed description of her arms, feet, bust, and waist, would be altogether ineffective. Her hair was dark brown and plentiful; but it added but little to her charms, which depended on other matters. Perhaps what struck the beholder first was the excessive brilliancy of her complexion. No pink was ever pinker, no alabaster whiteness was ever more like alabaster; but under and around and through it all there was a constantly changing hue which gave a vitality to her countenance which no fixed colours can produce. Her eyes, too, were full of life and brilliancy, and even when she was silent her mouth would speak. Nor was there a fault within the oval of her face upon which the hypercritics of mature age could set a finger. Her teeth were excellent both in form and colour, but were seen but seldom. Who does not know that look of ubiquitous ivory produced by teeth which are too perfect in a face which is otherwise poor? Her nose at the base spread a little, — so that it was not purely Grecian. But who has ever seen a nose to be eloquent and expressive, which did not so spread? It was, I think, the vitality of her countenance, — the way in which she could speak with every feature, the command which she had of pathos, of humour, of sympathy, of satire, the assurance which she gave by every glance of her eye, every elevation of her brow, every curl of her lip, that she was alive to all that was going on, — it was all this rather than those feminine charms which can be catalogued and labelled that made all acknowledge that she was beautiful.