‘It is best as it is.’
‘I ought to say so too; but I have a doubt I should have liked to be Duchess of Omnium, and perhaps I might have fitted the place better than one who can as yet know but little of its duties or its privileges. I may, perhaps, think that that other arrangement would have been better even for you.’
‘I can take care of myself in that.’
‘I should have married you without loving you, but I should have done so determined to serve you with a devotion which a woman who does love hardly thinks necessary. I would have so done my duty that you should never have guessed that my heart had been in the keeping of another man.’
‘Another man!’
‘Yes; of course. If there had been no other man, why not you? Am I so hard, do you think that I can love no one? Are you not such a one that a girl would naturally love, – were she not preoccupied? That a woman should love seems as necessary as that a man should not.
‘A man can love too.’
‘No; – hardly. He can admire, and he can like, and he can fondle and be fond. He can admire, and approve, and perhaps worship. He can know of a woman that she is part of himself, the most sacred part, and therefore will protect her from the very winds.’1 But all that will not make love. It does not come to a man that to be separated from a woman is to be dislocated from his very self. A man has but one centre, and that is himself. A woman has two. Though the second may never be seen by her, may live in the arms of another, may do all for that other that man can do for woman, – still, still, though he be half the globe asunder from her, still he is to her the half of her existence. If she really love, there is, I fancy, no end of it. To the end of time I shall love Frank Tregear.’
‘Tregear!’
‘Who else?’
‘He is engaged to Mary.’
‘Of course he is. Why not; – to her or whomsoever else he might like best? He is as true I doubt not to your sister as you are to your American beauty, – or as you would have been to me had fancy held. He used to love me.’
‘You were always friends.’
‘Always; – dear friends. And he would have loved me if a man were capable of loving. But he could sever himself from me easily, just when he was told to do so. I thought that I could do the same. But I cannot. A jackal is born a jackal, and not a lion, and cannot help himself. So is a woman born – a woman. They are clinging, parasite things, which cannot but adhere; though they destroy themselves by adhering. Do not suppose that I take a pride in it. I would give one of my eyes to be able to disregard him.’
‘Time will do it.’
‘Yes; time, – that brings wrinkles and rouge-pots and rheumatism. Though I have so hated those men as to be unable to endure them, still I want some man's house, and his name, – some man's bread and wine, – some man's jewels and titles and woods and parks and gardens, – if I can get them. Time can help a man in his sorrow. If he begins at forty to make speeches, or to win races, or to breed oxen, he can yet live a prosperous life. Time is but a poor consoler for a young woman who has to be married.’
‘Oh Mabel.’
‘And now let there be not a word more about it. I know – that I can trust you.’
‘Indeed you may.’
‘Though you will tell her everything else you will not tell her this.’
‘No; – not this.’
‘And surely you will not tell your sister!’
‘I shall tell no one.’
‘It is because you are so true that I have dared to trust you. I had to justify myself, – and then to confess. Had I at that one moment taken you at your word, you would never have known anything of all this. “There is a tide in the affairs of men –!”2 But I let the flood go by! I shall not see you again now before you are married; but come to me afterwards.’
CHAPTER 74
‘Let Us Drink a Glass of Wine Together’
Silverbridge pondered it all much as he went home. What a terrible story was that he had heard! The horror to him was chiefly in this, – that she should yet be driven to marry some man without even fancying that she could love him! And this was Lady Mabel Grex, who, on his own first entrance into London life, now not much more than twelve months ago, had seemed to him to stand above all other girls in beauty, charm, and popularity!
As he opened the door of the house with his latch-key, who should be coming out but Frank Tregear, – Frank Tregear with his arm in a sling, but still with an unmistakable look of general satisfaction. ‘When on earth did you come up?’ asked Silverbridge. Tregear told him that he had arrived on the previous evening from Harrington. ‘And why? The doctor would not have let you come if he could have helped it.’
‘When he found he could not help it, he did let me come. I am nearly all right. If I had been nearly all wrong I should have had to come.’
‘And what are you doing here?’
‘Well; if you'll allow me I'll go back with you for a moment. What do you think I have been doing?’
‘Have you seen my sister?’
‘Yes, I have seen your sister. And I have done better than that. I have seen your father. Lord Silverbridge, – behold your brother-in-law.’
‘You don't mean to say that it is arranged?’
‘I do.’
‘What did he say?’
‘He made me understand by most unanswerable arguments, that I had no business to think of such a thing. I did not fight the point with him, – but simply stood there, as conclusive evidence of my business. He told me that we should have nothing to live on unless he gave us an income. I assured him that I would never ask him for a shilling. “But I cannot allow her to marry a man without an income,” he said.’
‘I know his way so well.’
‘I had just two facts to go upon, – that I would not give her up, and that she would not give me up. When I pointed that out he tore his hair, – in a mild way, and said that he did not understand that kind of thing at all.’
‘And yet he gave way.’
‘Of course he did. They say that when a king of old would consent to see a petitioner for his life, he was bound by his royalty to mercy. So it was with the Duke. Then, very early in the argument, he forgot himself, and called her – Mary. I knew he had thrown up the sponge then.’
‘How did he give way at last?’
‘He asked me what were my ideas about life in general. I said that I thought Parliament was a good sort of thing, that I was lucky enough to have a seat, and that I should take lodgings somewhere in Westminster till –. “Till what?” he asked. Till something is settled I replied. Then he turned away from me and remained silent. May I see Lady Mary? I asked. “Yes; you may see her,” he replied, as he rang the bell. Then when the servant was gone he stopped me. “I love her too dearly to see her grieve,” he said. “I hope you will show that you can be worthy of her.” Then I made some sort of protestation and went upstairs. While I was with Mary there came a message to me, telling me to come to dinner.’
‘The Boncassens are all dining here.’
‘Then we shall be a family party. So far I suppose I may say it is settled. When he will let us marry heaven only knows. Mary declares that she will not press him. I certainly cannot do so. It is all a matter of money.’
‘He won't care about that.’
‘But he may perhaps think that a little patience will do us good. You will have to soften him.’ Then Silverbridge told all that he knew about himself. He was to be married in May; was to go to Matching for a week or two after his wedding, was then to see the Session to an end, and after that to travel with his wife in the United States. ‘I don't suppose we shall be allowed to run about the world together so soon as that,’ said Tregear, ‘but I am too well satisfied with my day's work to complain.’
‘Did he say what he meant to give her?’
‘Oh dear no; – nor even that he meant to give her anything. I should not dream of asking a question about it. Nor when he makes any proposition shall I think of h
aving any opinion of my own.’
‘He'll make it all right; – for her sake you know.’
‘My chief object as regards him, is that he should not think that I have been looking after her money. Well; good-bye. I suppose we shall all meet at dinner?’
When Tregear left him Silverbridge went to his father's room. He was anxious that they should understand each other as to Mary's engagement. ‘I thought you were at the House,’ said the Duke.
‘I was going there, but I met Tregear at the door. He tells me you have accepted him for Mary.’
‘I wish that he had never seen her. Do you think that a man can be thwarted in everything and not feel it?
‘I thought – you had reconciled yourself – to Isabel.’
‘If it were that alone I could do so the more easily, because personally she wins upon me. And this man, too; – it is not that I find fault with himself.
‘He is in all respects a high-minded gentleman.’
‘I hope so. But yet, had he a right to set his heart there, where he could make his fortune, – having none of his own?’
‘He did not think of that.’
‘He should have thought of it. A man does not allow himself to love without any consideration or purpose. You say that he is a gentleman. A gentleman should not look to live on means brought to him by a wife. You say that he did not.’
‘He did not think of it.’
‘A gentleman should do more than not think of it. He should think that it shall not be so. A man should own his means or should earn them.’
‘How many men, sir, do neither?’
‘Yes; I know,’ said the Duke. ‘Such a doctrine nowadays is caviare to the general.1 One must live as others live around one, I suppose. I could not see her suffer. It was too much for me. When I became convinced that this was no temporary passion, no romantic love which time might banish, that she was of such a temperament that she could not change, – then I had to give way. Gerald I suppose will bring me some kitchen-maid for his wife.’
‘Oh, sir, you should not say that to me.’
‘No; – I should not have said it to you. I beg your pardon, Silverbridge.’ Then he paused a moment, turning over certain thoughts within his own bosom. ‘Perhaps after all, it is well that a pride of which I am conscious should be rebuked. And it may be that the rebuke has come in such a form that I should be thankful. I know that I can love Isabel.’
‘That to me will be everything.’
‘And this young man has nothing that should revolt me. I think he has been wrong. But now that I have said it I will let all that pass from me. He will dine with us today.’
Silverbridge then went up to see his sister. ‘So you have settled your little business, Mary.’
‘Oh Silverbridge, you will wish me joy?’
‘Certainly. Why not?’
‘Papa is so stern with me. Of course he has given way, and of course I am grateful. But he looks at me as though I had done something to be forgiven.’
‘Take the good the gods provide you, Mary. That will all come right.’
‘But I have not done anything wrong. Have I?’
‘That is a matter of opinion. How can I answer about you when I don't quite know whether I have done anything wrong or not myself. I am going to marry the girl I have chosen. That's enough for me.’
‘But you did change.’
‘We need not say anything about that.’
‘But I have never changed. Papa just told me that he would consent, and that I might write to him. So I did write, and he came. But papa looks at me as though I had broken his heart.’
‘I tell you what it is, Mary. You expect too much from him. He has not had his own way with either of us, and of course he feels it.’
As Tregear had said, there was quite a family party in Carlton Terrace, though as yet the family was not bound together by family ties. All the Boncassens were there, the father, the mother, and the promised bride. Mr Boncassen bore himself with more ease than anyone in the company, having at his command a gift of manliness which enabled him to regard this marriage exactly as he would have done any other. America was not so far distant but what he would be able to see his girl occasionally. He liked the young man and he believed in the comfort of wealth. Therefore he was satisfied. But when the marriage was spoken of, or written of, as ‘an alliance’, then he would say a hard word or two about dukes and lords in general. On such an occasion as this he was happy and at his ease.
So much could not be said for his wife, with whom the Duke attempted to place himself on terms of family equality. But in doing this he failed to hide the attempt even from her, and she broke down under it. Had he simply walked into the room with her as he would have done on any other occasion, and then remarked that the frost was keen or the thaw disagreeable, it would have been better for her. But when he told her that he hoped she would often make herself at home in that house, and looked, as he said it, as though he were asking her to take a place among the goddesses of Olympus, she was troubled as to her answer. ‘Oh, my Lord Duke,’ she said, ‘when I think of Isabel living here and being called by such a name, it almost upsets me.’
Isabel had all her father's courage, but she was more sensitive; and though she would have borne her honours well, was oppressed by the feeling that the weight was too much for her mother. She could not keep her ear from listening to her mother's words, or her eye from watching her mother's motions. She was prepared to carry her mother everywhere. ‘As other girls have to be taken with their belongings, so must I, if I be taken at all.’ This she had said plainly enough. There should be no division between her and her mother. But still knowing that her mother was not quite at ease, she was hardly at ease herself.
Silverbridge came in at the last moment, and of course occupied a chair next to Isabel. As the House was sitting, it was natural that he should come up in a flurry. ‘I left Phineas,’ he said, ‘pounding away in his old style at Sir Timothy. By-the-bye, Isabel, you must come down some day and hear Sir Timothy badgered. I must be back again about ten. Well, Gerald, how are they all at Lazarus?’ He made an effort to be free and easy, but even he soon found that it was an effort.
Gerald had come up from Oxford for the occasion that he might make acquaintance with the Boncassens. He had taken Isabel in to dinner, but had been turned out of his place when his brother came in. He had been a little confused by the first impression made upon him by Mrs Boncassen, and had involuntarily watched his father. ‘Silver is going to have an odd sort of a mother-in-law,’ he said afterwards to Mary, who remarked in reply that this would not signify, as the mother-in-law would be in New York.
Tregear's part was very difficult to play. He could not but feel that though he had succeeded, still he was as yet looked upon askance. Silverbridge had told him that by degrees the Duke would be won round, but that it was not to be expected that he should swallow at once all his regrets. The truth of this could not but be accepted. The immediate inconvenience, however, was not the less felt. Each and everyone there knew the position of each and everyone; – but Tregear felt it difficult to act up to his. He could not play the well-pleased lover openly, as did Silverbridge. Mary herself was disposed to be very silent. The heart-breaking tedium of her dull life had been removed. Her determination had been rewarded. All that she had wanted had been granted to her, and she was happy. But she was not prepared to show off her happiness before others. And she was aware that she was thought to have done evil by introducing her lover into her august family.
But it was the Duke who made the greatest efforts, and with the least success. He had told himself again and again that he was bound by every sense of duty to swallow all regrets. He had taken himself to task on this matter. He had done so even out loud to his son. He had declared that he would ‘let it all pass from him’. But who does not know how hard it is for a man in such matters to keep his word to himself? Who has not said to himself at the very moment of his own delinquency, ‘Now, – it
is now, – at this very instant of time, that I should crush, and quench, and kill the evil spirit within me; it is now that I should abate my greed, or smother my ill-humour, or abandon my hatred. It is now, and here, that I should drive out the fiend, as I have sworn to myself that I would do,’ – and yet has failed?
That it would be done, would be done at last, by this man was very certain. When Silverbridge assured his sister that ‘it would come all right very soon’, he had understood his father's character. But it could not be completed quite at once. Had he been required to take Isabel only to his heart, it would have been comparatively easy. There are men, who do not seem at first sight very susceptible to feminine attractions, who nevertheless are dominated by the grace of flounces, who succumb to petticoats unconsciously, and who are half in love with every woman merely for her womanhood. So it was with the Duke. He had given way in regard to Isabel with less than half the effort that Frank Tregear was likely to cost him.
‘You were not at the House, sir,’ said Silverbridge when he felt that there was a pause.
‘Not, not today.’ Then there was a pause again.
‘I think that we shall beat Cambridge this year to a moral,’2 said Gerald, who was sitting at the round table opposite to his father. Mr Boncassen, who was next him, asked, in irony probably rather than in ignorance, whether the victory was to be achieved by mathematical or classical proficiency. Gerald turned and looked at him. ‘Do you mean to say that you have never heard of the University boat-races?’
‘Papa, you have disgraced yourself for ever,’ said Isabel.
‘Have I, my dear? Yes, I have heard of them. But I thought Lord Gerald's protestation was too great for a mere aquatic triumph.’
‘Now you are poking your fun at me,’ said Gerald.
‘Well he may,’ said the Duke sententiously. ‘We have laid ourselves very open to having fun poked at us in this matter.’
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