The Palliser Novels

by Anthony Trollope

  “You come back,” halloed Tifto, jumping up from his seat with his pipe in his mouth. Then there was a general quarrel between the man and his two masters, in which the man at last was victorious. And the horse was taken into the stable in an unfinished condition. “It’s all very well to say ‘Get rid of him,’ but where am I to get anybody better? It has come to such a pass that now if you speak to a fellow he walks out of the yard.”

  They then returned to the state of affairs, as it was between Tifto and Lord Silverbridge. “What I was saying is this,” continued the Captain. “If you choose to put yourself up to live with a fellow like that on equal terms — “

  “One gentleman with another, you mean?”

  “Put it so. It don’t quite hit it off, but put it so. Why then you get your wages when you take his arm and call him Silverbridge.”

  “I don’t want wages from any man,” said the indignant Major.

  “That comes from not knowing what wages is. I do want wages. If I do a thing I like to be paid for it. You are paid for it after one fashion, I prefer the other.”

  “Do you mean he should give me — a salary?”

  “I’d have it out of him some way. What’s the good of young chaps of that sort if they aren’t made to pay? You’ve got this young swell in tow. He’s going to be about the richest man in England; — and what the deuce better are you for it?” Tifto sat meditating, thinking of the wisdom which was being spoken. The same ideas had occurred to him. The happy chance which had made him intimate with Lord Silverbridge had not yet enriched him. “What is the good of chaps of that sort if they are not made to pay?” The words were wise words. But yet how glorious he had been when he was elected at the Beargarden, and had entered the club as the special friend of the heir of the Duke of Omnium.

  After a short pause, Captain Green pursued his discourse. “You said salary.”

  “I did mention the word.”

  “Salary and wages is one. A salary is a nice thing if it’s paid regular. I had a salary once myself for looking after a stud of ‘orses at Newmarket, only the gentleman broke up and it never went very far.”

  “Was that Marley Bullock?”

  “Yes; that was Marley Bullock. He’s abroad somewhere now with nothing a year paid quarterly to live on. I think he does a little at cards. He’d had a good bit of money once, but most of it was gone when he came my way.”

  “You didn’t make by him?”

  “I didn’t lose nothing. I didn’t have a lot of ‘orses under me without getting something out of it.”

  “What am I to do?” asked Tifto. “I can sell him a horse now and again. But if I give him anything good there isn’t much to come out of that.”

  “Very little I should say. Don’t he put his money on his ‘orses?”

  “Not very free. I think he’s coming out freer now.”

  “What did he stand to win on the Derby?”

  “A thousand or two perhaps.”

  “There may be something got handsome out of that,” said the Captain, not venturing to allow his voice to rise above a whisper. Major Tifto looked hard at him but said nothing. “Of course you must see your way.”

  “I don’t quite understand.”

  “Race ‘orses are expensive animals, — and races generally is expensive.”

  “That’s true.”

  “When so much is dropped, somebody has to pick it up. That’s what I’ve always said to myself. I’m as honest as another man.”

  “That’s of course,” said the Major civilly.

  “But if I don’t keep my mouth shut, somebody ‘ll have my teeth out of my head. Every one for himself and God for us all. I suppose there’s a deal of money flying about. He’ll put a lot of money on this ‘orse of yours for the Leger if he’s managed right. There’s more to be got out of that than calling him Silverbridge and walking arm-in-arm. Business is business. I don’t know whether I make myself understood.”

  The gentleman did not quite make himself understood; but Tifto endeavoured to read the riddle. He must in some way make money out of his friend Lord Silverbridge. Hitherto he had contented himself with the brilliancy of the connection; but now his brilliant friend had taken to snubbing him, and had on more than one occasion made himself disagreeable. It seemed to him that Captain Green counselled him to put up with that, but counselled him at the same time to — pick up some of his friend’s money. He didn’t think that he could ask Lord Silverbridge for a salary — he who was a Master of Fox-hounds, and a member of the Beargarden. Then his friend had suggested something about the young lord’s bets. He was endeavouring to unriddle all this with a brain that was already somewhat muddled with alcohol, when Captain Green got up from his chair and standing over the Major spoke his last words for that night as from an oracle. “Square is all very well, as long as others are square to you; — but when they aren’t, then I say square be d––––. Square! what comes of it? Work your heart out, and then it’s no good.”

  The Major thought about it much that night, and was thinking about it still when he awoke on the next morning. He would like to make Lord Silverbridge pay for his late insolence. It would answer his purpose to make a little money, — as he told himself, — in any honest way. At the present moment he was in want of money, and on looking into his affairs declared to himself that he had certainly impoverished himself by his devotion to Lord Silverbridge’s interests. At breakfast on the following morning he endeavoured to bring his friend back to the subject. But the Captain was cross, rather than oracular. “Everybody,” he said, “ought to know his own business. He wasn’t going to meddle or make. What he had said had been taken amiss.” This was hard upon Tifto, who had taken nothing amiss.

  “Square be d––––!” There was a great deal in the lesson there enunciated which demanded consideration. Hitherto the Major had fought his battles with a certain adherence to squareness. If his angles had not all been perfect angles, still there had always been an attempt at geometrical accuracy. He might now and again have told a lie about a horse — but who that deals in horses has not done that? He had been alive to the value of underhand information from racing-stables, but who won’t use a tip if he can get it? He had lied about the expense of his hounds, in order to enhance the subscription of his members. Those were things which everybody did in his line. But Green had meant something beyond this.

  As far as he could see out in the world at large, nobody was square. You had to keep your mouth shut, or your teeth would be stolen out of it. He didn’t look into a paper without seeing that on all sides of him men had abandoned the idea of squareness. Chairmen, directors, members of Parliament, ambassadors, — all the world, as he told himself, — were trying to get on by their wits. He didn’t see why he should be more square than anybody else. Why hadn’t Silverbridge taken him down to Scotland for the grouse?

  CHAPTER XXXVII

  Grex

  Far away from all known places, in the northern limit of the Craven district, on the borders of Westmorland but in Yorkshire, there stands a large, rambling, most picturesque old house called Grex. The people around call it the Castle, but it is not a castle. It is an old brick building supposed to have been erected in the days of James the First, having oriel windows, twisted chimneys, long galleries, gable ends, a quadrangle of which the house surrounds three sides, terraces, sun-dials, and fish-ponds. But it is so sadly out of repair as to be altogether unfit for the residence of a gentleman and his family. It stands not in a park, for the land about it is divided into paddocks by low stone walls, but in the midst of lovely scenery, the ground rising all round it in low irregular hills or fells, and close to it, a quarter of a mile from the back of the house, there is a small dark lake, not serenely lovely as are some of the lakes in Westmorland, but attractive by the darkness of its waters and the gloom of the woods around it.

  This is the country seat of Earl Grex, — which however he had not visited for some years. Gradually the place had got into such a condit
ion that his absence is not surprising. An owner of Grex, with large means at his disposal and with a taste for the picturesque to gratify, — one who could afford to pay for memories and who was willing to pay dearly for such luxuries, might no doubt restore Grex. But the Earl had neither the money nor the taste.

  Lord Grex had latterly never gone near the place, nor was his son Lord Percival fond of looking upon the ruin of his property. But Lady Mabel loved it with a fond love. With all her lightness of spirit she was prone to memories, prone to melancholy, prone at times almost to seek the gratification of sorrow. Year after year when the London season was over she would come down to Grex and spend a week or two amidst its desolation. She was now going on to a seat in Scotland belonging to Mrs. Montacute Jones called Killancodlem; but she was in the meanwhile passing a desolate fortnight at Grex in company with Miss Cassewary. The gardens were let, — and being let of course were not kept in further order than as profit might require. The man who rented them lived in the big house with his wife, and they on such occasions as this would cook and wait upon Lady Mabel.

  Lady Mabel was at the home of her ancestors, and the faithful Miss Cass was with her. But at the moment and at the spot at which the reader shall see her, Miss Cass was not with her. She was sitting on a rock about twelve feet above the lake looking upon the black water; and on another rock a few feet from her was seated Frank Tregear. “No,” she said, “you should not have come. Nothing can justify it. Of course as you are here I could not refuse to come out with you. To make a fuss about it would be the worst of all. But you should not have come.”

  “Why not? Whom does it hurt? It is a pleasure to me. If it be the reverse to you, I will go.”

  “Men are so unmanly. They take such mean advantages. You know it is a pleasure to me to see you.”

  “I had hoped so.”

  “But it is a pleasure I ought not to have, — at least not here.”

  “That is what I do not understand,” said he. “In London, where the Earl could bark at me if he happened to find me, I could see the inconvenience of it. But here, where there is nobody but Miss Cass — “

  “There are a great many others. There are the rooks, and stones, and old women; — all of which have ears.”

  “But of what is there to be ashamed? There is nothing in the world to me so pleasant as the companionship of my friends.”

  “Then go after Silverbridge.”

  “I mean to do so; — but I am taking you by the way.”

  “It is all unmanly,” she said, rising from her stone; “you know that it is so. Friends! Do you mean to say that it would make no difference whether you were here with me or with Miss Cass?”

  “The greatest difference in the world.”

  “Because she is an old woman and I am a young one, and because in intercourse between young men and young women there is something dangerous to the women and therefore pleasant to the men.”

  “I never heard anything more unjust. You cannot think I desire anything injurious to you.”

  “I do think so.” She was still standing and spoke now with great vehemence. “I do think so. You force me to throw aside the reticence I ought to keep. Would it help me in my prospects if your friend Lord Silverbridge knew that I was here?”

  “How should he know?”

  “But if he did? Do you suppose that I want to have visits paid to me of which I am afraid to speak? Would you dare to tell Lady Mary that you had been sitting alone with me on the rocks at Grex?”

  “Certainly I would.”

  “Then it would be because you have not dared to tell her certain other things which have gone before. You have sworn to her no doubt that you love her better than all the world.”

  “I have.”

  “And you have taken the trouble to come here to tell me that, — to wound me to the core by saying so; to show me that, though I may still be sick, you have recovered, — that is if you ever suffered! Go your way and let me go mine. I do not want you.”

  “Mabel!”

  “I do not want you. I know you will not help me, but you need not destroy me.”

  “You know that you are wronging me.”

  “No! You understand it all though you look so calm. I hate your Lady Mary Palliser. There! But if by anything I could do I could secure her to you I would do it, — because you want it.”

  “She will be your sister-in-law, — probably.”

  “Never. It will never be so.”

  “Why do you hate her?”

  “There again! You are so little of a man that you can ask me why!” Then she turned away as though she intended to go down to the marge of the lake.

  But he rose up and stopped her. “Let us have this out, Mabel, before we go,” he said. “Unmanly is a heavy word to hear from you, and you have used it a dozen times.”

  “It is because I have thought it a thousand times. Go and get her if you can; — but why tell me about it?”

  “You said you would help me.”

  “So I would, as I would help you do anything you might want; but you can hardly think that after what has passed I can wish to hear about her.”

  “It was you spoke of her.”

  “I told you you should not be here, — because of her and because of me. And I tell you again, I hate her. Do you think I can hear you speak of her as though she were the only woman you had ever seen without feeling it? Did you ever swear that you loved any one else?”

  “Certainly, I have so sworn.”

  “Have you ever said that nothing could alter that love?”

  “Indeed I have.”

  “But it is altered. It has all gone. It has been transferred to one who has more advantages of beauty, youth, wealth, and position.”

  “Oh Mabel, Mabel!”

  “But it is so.”

  “When you say this do you not think of yourself?”

  “Yes. But I have never been false to any one. You are false to me.”

  “Have I not offered to face all the world with you?”

  “You would not offer it now?”

  “No,” he said, after a pause, — “not now. Were I to do so, I should be false. You bade me take my love elsewhere, and I did so.”

  “With the greatest ease.”

  “We agreed it should be so; and you have done the same.”

  “That is false. Look me in the face and tell me whether you do not know it to be false!”

  “And yet I am told that I am injuring you with Silverbridge.”

  “Oh, — so unmanly again! Of course I have to marry. Who does not know it? Do you want to see me begging my bread about the streets? You have bread; or if not, you might earn it. If you marry for money — “

  “The accusation is altogether unjustifiable.”

  “Allow me to finish what I have to say. If you marry for money you will do that which is in itself bad, and which is also unnecessary. What other course would you recommend me to take? No one goes into the gutter while there is a clean path open. If there be no escape but through the gutter, one has to take it.”

  “You mean that my duty to you should have kept me from marrying all my life.”

  “Not that; — but a little while, Frank; just a little while. Your bloom is not fading; your charms are not running from you. Have you not a strength which I cannot have? Do you not feel that you are a tree, standing firm in the ground, while I am a bit of ivy that will be trodden in the dirt unless it can be made to cling to something? You should not liken yourself to me, Frank.”

  “If I could do you any good!”

  “Good! What is the meaning of good? If you love, it is good to be loved again. It is good not to have your heart torn in pieces. You know that I love you.” He was standing close to her, and put out his hand as though he would twine his arm round her waist. “Not for worlds,” she said. “It belongs to that Palliser girl. And as I have taught myself to think that what there is left of me may perhaps belong to some other one, worthless as it is, I will keep
it for him. I love you, — but there can be none of that softness of love between us.” Then there was a pause, but as he did not speak she went on. “But remember, Frank, — our position is not equal. You have got over your little complaint. It probably did not go deep with you, and you have found a cure. Perhaps there is a satisfaction in finding that two young women love you.”

  “You are trying to be cruel to me.”

  “Why else should you be here? You know I love you, — with all my heart, with all my strength, and that I would give the world to cure myself. Knowing this, you come and talk to me of your passion for this other girl.”

  “I had hoped we might both talk rationally as friends.”

  “Friends! Frank Tregear, I have been bold enough to tell you I love you; but you are not my friend, and cannot be my friend. If I have before asked you to help me in this mean catastrophe of mine, in my attack upon that poor boy, I withdraw my request. I think I will go back to the house now.”

  “I will walk back to Ledburgh if you wish it without going to the house again.”

  “No; I will have nothing that looks like being ashamed. You ought not to have come, but you need not run away.” Then they walked back to the house together and found Miss Cassewary on the terrace. “We have been to the lake,” said Mabel, “and have been talking of old days. I have but one ambition now in the world.” Of course Miss Cassewary asked what the remaining ambition was. “To get money enough to purchase this place from the ruins of the Grex property. If I could own the house and the lake, and the paddocks about, and had enough income to keep one servant and bread for us to eat — of course including you, Miss Cass — “

  “Thank’ee, my dear; but I am not sure I should like it.”

  “Yes; you would. Frank would come and see us perhaps once a year. I don’t suppose anybody else cares about the place, but to me it is the dearest spot in the world.” So she went on in almost high spirits, though alluding to the general decadence of the Grex family, till Tregear took his leave.

  “I wish he had not come,” said Miss Cassewary when he was gone.