And so they started for their walk. He of course would have avoided it had it been possible. When men in such matters have two strings to their bow, much inconvenience is felt when the two become entangled. Silverbridge no doubt had come over to Killancodlem for the sake of making love to Mabel Grex, and instead of doing so he had made love to Isabel Boncassen. And during the watches of the night, and as he had dressed himself in the morning, and while Mrs. Jones had been whispering to him her little bulletin as to the state of the young lady’s health, he had not repented himself of the change. Mabel had been, he thought, so little gracious to him that he would have given up that notion earlier, but for his indiscreet declaration to his father. On the other hand, making love to Isabel Boncassen seemed to him to possess some divine afflatus of joy which made it of all imaginable occupations the sweetest and most charming. She had admitted of no embrace. Indeed he had attempted none, unless that touch of the hand might be so called, from which she had immediately withdrawn. Her conduct had been such that he had felt it to be incumbent on him, at the very moment, to justify the touch by a declaration of love. Then she had told him that she would not promise to love him in return. And yet it had been so sweet, so heavenly sweet!
During the morning he had almost forgotten Mabel. When Mrs. Jones told him that Isabel would keep her room, he longed to ask for leave to go and make some inquiry at the door. She would not play lawn-tennis with him. Well; — he did not now care much for that. After what he had said to her she must at any rate give him some answer. She had been so gracious to him that his hopes ran very high. It never occurred to him to fancy that she might be gracious to him because he was heir to the Dukedom of Omnium. She herself was so infinitely superior to all wealth, to all rank, to all sublunary arrangements, conventions, and considerations, that there was no room for confidence of that nature. But he was confident because her smile had been sweet, and her eyes bright, — and because he was conscious, though unconsciously conscious, of something of the sympathy of love.
But he had to go to the waterfall with Mabel. Lady Mabel was always dressed perfectly, — having great gifts of her own in that direction. There was a freshness about her which made her morning costume more charming than that of the evening, and never did she look so well as when arrayed for a walk. On this occasion she had certainly done her best. But he, poor blind idiot, saw nothing of this. The white gauzy fabric which had covered Isabel’s satin petticoat on the previous evening still filled his eyes. Those perfect boots, the little glimpses of party-coloured stockings above them, the looped-up skirt, the jacket fitting but never binding that lovely body and waist, the jaunty hat with its small fresh feathers, all were nothing to him. Nor was the bright honest face beneath the hat anything to him now; — for it was an honest face, though misfortunes which had come had somewhat marred the honesty of the heart.
At first the conversation was about indifferent things, — Killancodlem and Mrs. Jones, Crummie-Toddie and Reginald Dobbes. They had gone along the high-road as far as the post-office, and had turned up through the wood and reached a seat whence there was a beautiful view down upon the Archay, before a word was said affecting either Miss Boncassen or the ring. “You got the ring safe?” she said.
“Oh yes.”
“How could you be so foolish as to risk it?”
“I did not regard it as mine. You had accepted it, — I thought.”
“But if I had, and then repented of my fault in doing so, should you not have been willing to help me in setting myself right with myself? Of course, after what had passed, it was a trouble to me when it came. What was I to do? For a day or two I thought I would take it, not as liking to take it, but as getting rid of the trouble in that way. Then I remembered its value, its history, the fact that all who knew you would want to know what had become of it, — and I felt that it should be given back. There is only one person to whom you must give it.”
“Who is that?” he said quickly.
“Your wife; — or to her who is to become your wife. No other woman can be justified in accepting such a present.”
“There has been a great deal more said about it than it’s worth,” said he, not anxious at the present moment to discuss any matrimonial projects with her. “Shall we go on to the Fall?” Then she got up and led the way till they came to the little bridge from which they could see the Falls of the Codlem below them. “I call that very pretty,” he said.
“I thought you would like it.”
“I never saw anything of that kind more jolly. Do you care for scenery, Mabel?”
“Very much. I know no pleasure equal to it. You have never seen Grex?”
“Is it like this?”
“Not in the least. It is wilder than this, and there are not so many trees; but to my eyes it is very beautiful. I wish you had seen it.”
“Perhaps I may some day.”
“That is not likely now,” she said. “The house is in ruins. If I had just money enough to keep it for myself, I think I could live alone there and be happy.”
“You; — alone! Of course you mean to marry?”
“Mean to marry! Do persons marry because they mean it? With nineteen men out of twenty the idea of marrying them would convey the idea of hating them. You can mean to marry. No doubt you do mean it.”
“I suppose I shall, — some day. How very well the house looks from here.” It was incumbent upon him at the present moment to turn the conversation.
But when she had a project in her head it was not so easy to turn her away. “Yes, indeed,” she said, “very well. But as I was saying, — you can mean to marry.”
“Anybody can mean it.”
“But you can carry out a purpose. What are you thinking of doing now?”
“Upon my honour, Mabel, that is unfair.”
“Are we not friends?”
“I think so.”
“Dear friends?”
“I hope so.”
“Then may I not tell you what I think? If you do not mean to marry that American young lady you should not raise false hopes.”
“False — hopes!” He had hopes, but he had never thought that Isabel could have any.
“False hopes; — certainly. Do you not know that everyone was looking at you last night?”
“Certainly not.”
“And that that old woman is going about talking of it as her doing, pretending to be afraid of your father, whereas nothing would please her better than to humble a family so high as yours.”
“Humble!” exclaimed Lord Silverbridge.
“Do you think your father would like it? Would you think that another man would be doing well for himself by marrying Miss Boncassen?”
“I do,” said he energetically.
“Then you must be very much in love with her.”
“I say nothing about that.”
“If you are so much in love with her that you mean to face the displeasure of all your friends — “
“I do not say what I mean. I could talk more freely to you than to any one else, but I won’t talk about that even to you. As regards Miss Boncassen, I think that any man might marry her, without discredit. I won’t have it said that she can be inferior to me, — or to anybody.”
There was a steady manliness in this which took Lady Mabel by surprise. She was convinced that he intended to offer his hand to the girl, and now was actuated chiefly by a feeling that his doing so would be an outrage to all English propriety. If a word might have an effect it would be her duty to speak that word. “I think you are wrong there, Lord Silverbridge.”
“I am sure I am right.”
“What have you yourself felt about your sister and Mr. Tregear?”
“It is altogether different; — altogether. Frank’s wife will be simply his wife. Mine, should I outlive my father, will be Duchess of Omnium.”
“But your father? I have heard you speak with bitter regret of this affair of Lady Mary’s, because it vexes him. Would your marriage with an A
merican lady vex him less?”
“Why should it vex him at all? Is she vulgar, or ill to look at, or stupid?”
“Think of her mother.”
“I am not going to marry her mother. Nor for the matter of that am I going to marry her. You are taking all that for granted in a most unfair way.”
“How can I help it after what I saw yesterday?”
“I will not talk any more about it. We had better go down or we shall get no lunch.” Lady Mabel, as she followed him, tried to make herself believe that all her sorrow came from regret that so fine a scion of the British nobility should throw himself away upon an American adventuress.
The guests were still at lunch when they entered the dining-room, and Isabel was seated close to Mrs. Jones. Silverbridge at once went up to her, — and place was made for him as though he had almost a right to be next to her. Miss Boncassen herself bore her honours well, seeming to regard the little change at table as though it was of no moment. “I became so eager about that game,” she said, “that I went on too long.”
“I hope you are now none the worse.”
“At six o’clock this morning I thought I should never use my legs again.”
“Were you awake at six?” said Silverbridge, with pitying voice.
“That was it. I could not sleep. Now I begin to hope that sooner or later I shall unstiffen.”
During every moment, at every word that he uttered, he was thinking of the declaration of love which he had made to her. But it seemed to him as though the matter had not dwelt on her mind. When they drew their chairs away from the table he thought that not a moment was to be lost before some further explanation of their feelings for each other should be made. Was not the matter which had been so far discussed of vital importance for both of them? And, glorious as she was above all other women, the offer which he had made must have some weight with her. He did not think that he proposed to give more than she deserved, but still, that which he was so willing to give was not a little. Or was it possible that she had not understood his meaning? If so, he would not willingly lose a moment before he made it plain to her. But she seemed content to hang about with the other women, and when she sauntered about the grounds seated herself on a garden-chair with Lady Mabel, and discussed with great eloquence the general beauty of Scottish scenery. An hour went on in this way. Could it be that she knew that he had offered to make her his wife? During this time he went and returned more than once, but still she was there, on the same garden-seat, talking to those who came in her way.
Then on a sudden she got up and put her hand on his arm. “Come and take a turn with me,” she said. “Lord Silverbridge, do you remember anything of last night?”
“Remember!”
“I thought for a while this morning that I would let it pass as though it had been mere trifling.”
“It would have wanted two to let it pass in that way,” he said, almost indignantly.
On hearing this she looked up at him, and there came over her face that brilliant smile, which to him was perhaps the most potent of her spells. “What do you mean by — wanting two?”
“I must have a voice in that as well as you.”
“And what is your voice?”
“My voice is this. I told you last night that I loved you. This morning I ask you to be my wife.”
“It is a very clear voice,” she said, — almost in a whisper; but in a tone so serious that it startled him.
“It ought to be clear,” he said doggedly.
“Do you think I don’t know that? Do you think that if I liked you well last night I don’t like you better now?”
“But do you — like me?”
“That is just the thing I am going to say nothing about.”
“Isabel!”
“Just the one thing I will not allude to. Now you must listen to me.”
“Certainly.”
“I know a great deal about you. We Americans are an inquiring people, and I have found out pretty much everything.” His mind misgave him as he felt she had ascertained his former purpose respecting Mabel. “You,” she said, “among young men in England are about the foremost, and therefore, — as I think, — about the foremost in the world. And you have all personal gifts; — youth and spirits — Well, I will not go on and name the others. You are, no doubt, supposed to be entitled to the best and sweetest of God’s feminine creatures.”
“You are she.”
“Whether you be entitled to me or not I cannot yet say. Now I will tell you something of myself. My father’s father came to New York as a labourer from Holland, and worked upon the quays in that city. Then he built houses, and became rich, and was almost a miser; — with the good sense, however, to educate his only son. What my father is you see. To me he is sterling gold, but he is not like your people. My dear mother is not at all like your ladies. She is not a lady in your sense, — though with her unselfish devotion to others she is something infinitely better. For myself I am, — well, meaning to speak honestly, I will call myself pretty and smart. I think I know how to be true.”
“I am sure you do.”
“But what right have you to suppose I shall know how to be a Duchess?”
“I am sure you will.”
“Now listen to me. Go to your friends and ask them. Ask that Lady Mabel; — ask your father; — ask that Lady Cantrip. And above all, ask yourself. And allow me to require you to take three months to do this. Do not come to see me for three months.”
“And then?”
“What may happen then I cannot tell, for I want three months also to think of it myself. Till then, good-bye.” She gave him her hand and left it in his for a few seconds. He tried to draw her to him; but she resisted him, still smiling. Then she left him.
CHAPTER XLI
Ischl
It was a custom with Mrs. Finn almost every autumn to go off to Vienna, where she possessed considerable property, and there to inspect the circumstances of her estate. Sometimes her husband would accompany her, and he did so in this year of which we are now speaking. One morning in September they were together at an hotel at Ischl, whither they had come from Vienna, when as they went through the hall into the courtyard, they came, in the very doorway, upon the Duke of Omnium and his daughter. The Duke and Lady Mary had just arrived, having passed through the mountains from the salt-mine district, and were about to take up their residence in the hotel for a few days. They had travelled very slowly, for Lady Mary had been ill, and the Duke had expressed his determination to see a doctor at Ischl.
There is no greater mistake than in supposing that only the young blush. But the blushes of middle life are luckily not seen through the tan which has come from the sun and the gas and the work and the wiles of the world. Both the Duke and Phineas blushed; and though their blushes were hidden, that peculiar glance of the eye which always accompanies a blush was visible enough from one to the other. The elder lady kept her countenance admirably, and the younger one had no occasion for blushing. She at once ran forward and kissed her friend. The Duke stood with his hat off waiting to give his hand to the lady, and then took that of his late colleague. “How odd that we should meet here,” he said, turning to Mrs. Finn.
“Odd enough to us that your Grace should be here,” she said, “because we had heard nothing of your intended coming.”
“It is so nice to find you,” said Lady Mary. “We are this moment come. Don’t say that you are this moment going.”
“At this moment we are only going as far as Halstadt.”
“And are coming back to dinner? Of course they will dine with us. Will they not, papa?” The Duke said that he hoped they would. To declare that you are engaged at an hotel, unless there be some real engagement, is almost an impossibility. There was no escape, and before they were allowed to get into their carriage they had promised they would dine with the Duke and his daughter.
“I don’t know that it is especially a bore,” Mrs. Finn said to her husband in the carriage
. “You may be quite sure that of whatever trouble there may be in it, he has much more than his share.”
“His share should be the whole,” said her husband. “No one else has done anything wrong.”
When the Duke’s apology had reached her, so that there was no longer any ground for absolute hostility, then she had told the whole story to her husband. He at first was very indignant. What right had the Duke to expect that any ordinary friend should act duenna over his daughter in accordance with his caprices? This was said and much more of the kind. But any humour towards quarrelling which Phineas Finn might have felt for a day or two was quieted by his wife’s prudence. “A man,” she said, “can do no more than apologise. After that there is no room for reproach.”
At dinner the conversation turned at first on British politics, in which Mrs. Finn was quite able to take her part. Phineas was decidedly of opinion that Sir Timothy Beeswax and Lord Drummond could not live another Session. And on this subject a good deal was said. Later in the evening the Duke found himself sitting with Mrs. Finn in the broad verandah over the hotel garden, while Lady Mary was playing to Phineas within. “How do you think she is looking?” asked the father.
“Of course I see that she has been ill. She tells me that she was far from well at Salzburg.”
“Yes; — indeed for three or four days she frightened me much. She suffered terribly from headaches.”
“Nervous headaches?”
“So they said there. I feel quite angry with myself because I did not bring a doctor with us. The trouble and ceremony of such an accompaniment is no doubt disagreeable.”
“And I suppose seemed when you started to be unnecessary?”
“Quite unnecessary.”
“Does she complain again now?”
“She did to-day — a little.”
The next day Lady Mary could not leave her bed; and the Duke in his sorrow was obliged to apply to Mrs. Finn. After what had passed on the previous day Mrs. Finn of course called, and was shown at once up to her young friend’s room. There she found the girl in great pain, lying with her two thin hands up to her head, and hardly able to utter more than a word. Shortly after that Mrs. Finn was alone with the Duke, and then there took place a conversation between them which the lady thought to be very remarkable.
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