The Duke's Children

by Anthony Trollope

  ‘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 was 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.’

  ‘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 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 hurried 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 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.

  CHAPTER 60

  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 unhappy, 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 himself to ask her not to tell her story to the Duke. He must take all that as it might come.

  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 account 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 about 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 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, – ‘is 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 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 behaving badly. He always does. I can't turn him out of th
e 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 suppose 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 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 unwilling 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. ‘What a lovely spot it is, even in this weather.’ Then dinner was announced. 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.

  ‘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 I. 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 in another which he wrote to his brother.

  ‘DEAR GERALD,

  ‘What an ass you have been! But I don't suppose you are worse than I was at Doncaster. I will have nothing to do with such people as Comfort and Criball. That is the sure way to the D———! As for telling Morton, that is only a polite and roundabout way of telling 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 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?’

  CHAPTER 61

  ‘Bone of my Bone’

  ‘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 acceded, 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.1 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 declaration 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. 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 produced 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 Boncassen.

  ‘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, unless I had felt myself warranted in doing so by what 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.

  ‘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 noblem
an 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 before 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!’

  ‘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 condition –’

  ‘Settled it with her that she is to be your wife!’

  ‘Yes, sir, – on condition that you will approve.’

  ‘Did you go to her, Silverbridge, with such a stipulation as that?’

  ‘It was not like that.’

  ‘How was it then?’

  ‘She stipulated. She will marry me if you will consent.’