The Palliser Novels (520 page)

“Who is Maclean?”

“One of the other tutors. But the brute only smiled.”

“He thought you meant it for chaff.”

“Well; — I suppose I did mean to show him that I was not going to be exterminated by him. He will write to the governor to-day. And you will have to talk to the governor.”

Yes! As Lord Silverbridge went back that afternoon to London he thought very much of that talking to the governor! Never yet had he been able to say anything very pleasant to “the governor.” He had himself been always in disgrace at Eton, and had been sent away from Oxford. He had introduced Tregear into the family, which of all the troubles perhaps was the worst. He had changed his politics. He had spent more money than he ought to have done, and now at this very moment must ask for a large sum. And he had brought Gerald up to see the Derby, thereby causing him to be sent away from Cambridge! And through it all there was present to him a feeling that by no words which he could use would he be able to make his father understand how deeply he felt all this.

He could not bring himself to see the Duke that evening, and the next morning he was sent for before he was out of bed. He found his father at breakfast with the tutor’s letter before him. “Do you know anything about this?” asked the Duke very calmly.

“Gerald ran up to see the Derby, and in the evening missed the train.”

“Mr. Harnage tells me that he had been expressly ordered not to go to these races.”

“I suppose he was, sir.”

Then there was silence between them for some minutes. “You might as well sit down and eat your breakfast,” said the father. Then Lord Silverbridge did sit down and poured himself out a cup of tea. There was no servant in the room, and he dreaded to ring the bell. “Is there anything you want?” asked the Duke. There was a small dish of fried bacon on the table, and some cold mutton on the sideboard. Silverbridge, declaring that he had everything that was necessary, got up and helped himself to the cold mutton. Then again there was silence, during which the Duke crunched his toast and made an attempt at reading the newspaper. But, soon pushing that aside, he again took up Mr. Harnage’s letter. Silverbridge watched every motion of his father as he slowly made his way through the slice of cold mutton. “It seems that Gerald is to be sent away altogether.”

“I fear so, sir.”

“He has profited by your example at Oxford. Did you persuade him to come to these races?”

“I am afraid I did.”

“Though you knew the orders which had been given?”

“I thought it was meant that he should not be away the night.”

“He had asked permission to go to the Derby and had been positively refused. Did you know that?”

Silverbridge sat for some moments considering. He could not at first quite remember what he had known and what he had not known. Perhaps he entertained some faint hope that the question would be allowed to pass unanswered. He saw, however, from his father’s eye that that was impossible. And then he did remember it all. “I suppose I did know it.”

“And you were willing to imperil your brother’s position in life, and my happiness, in order that he might see a horse, of which I believe you call yourself part owner, run a race?”

“I thought there would be no risk if he got back the same night. I don’t suppose there is any good in my saying it, but I never was so sorry for anything in all my life. I feel as if I could go and hang myself.”

“That is absurd, — and unmanly,” said the Duke. The expression of sorrow, as it had been made, might be absurd and unmanly, but nevertheless it had touched him. He was severe because he did not know how far his severity wounded. “It is a great blow, — another great blow! Races! A congregation of all the worst blackguards in the country mixed with the greatest fools.”

“Lord Cantrip was there,” said Silverbridge; “and I saw Sir Timothy Beeswax.”

“If the presence of Sir Timothy be an allurement to you, I pity you indeed. I have nothing further to say about it. You have ruined your brother.” He had been driven to further anger by this reference to one man whom he respected, and to another whom he despised.

“Don’t say that, sir.”

“What am I to say?”

“Let him be an attaché, or something of that sort.”

“Do you believe it possible that he should pass any examination? I think that my children between them will bring me to the grave. You had better go now. I suppose you will want to be — at the races again.” Then the young man crept out of the room, and going to his own part of the house shut himself up alone for nearly an hour. What had he better do to give his father some comfort? Should he abandon racing altogether, sell his share of Prime Minister and Coalition, and go in hard and strong for committees, debates, and divisions? Should he get rid of his drag, and resolve to read up parliamentary literature? He was resolved upon one thing at any rate. He would not go to the Oaks that day. And then he was resolved on another thing. He would call on Lady Mab Grex and ask her advice. He felt so disconsolate and insufficient for himself that he wanted advice from someone whom he could trust.

He found Tifto, Dolly Longstaff, and one or two others at the stables, from whence it was intended that the drag should start. They were waiting, and rather angry because they had been kept waiting. But the news, when it came, was very sad indeed. “You wouldn’t mind taking the team down and back yourself; would you, Dolly?” he said to Longstaff.

“You aren’t going!” said Dolly, assuming a look of much heroic horror.

“No; — I am not going to-day.”

“What’s up?” asked Popplecourt.

“That’s rather sudden; isn’t it?” asked the Major.

“Well; yes; I suppose it is sudden.”

“It’s throwing us over a little, isn’t it?”

“Not that I see. You’ve got the trap and the horses.”

“Yes; — we’ve got the trap and the horses,” said Dolly, “and I vote we make a start.”

“As you are not going yourself, perhaps I’d better drive your horses,” said Tifto.

“Dolly will take the team,” said his Lordship.

“Yes; — decidedly. I will take the team,” said Dolly. “There isn’t a deal of driving wanted on the road to Epsom, but a man should know how to hold his reins.” This of course gave rise to some angry words, but Silverbridge did not stop to hear them.

The poor Duke had no one to whom he could go for advice and consolation. When his son left him he turned to his newspaper, and tried to read it — in vain. His mind was too ill at ease to admit of political matters. He was greatly grieved by this new misfortune as to Gerald, and by Lord Silverbridge’s propensity to racing.

But though these sorrows were heavy, there was a sorrow heavier than these. Lady Cantrip had expressed an opinion almost in favour of Tregear — and had certainly expressed an opinion in favour of Mrs. Finn. The whole affair in regard to Mrs. Finn had been explained to her, and she had told the Duke that, according to her thinking, Mrs. Finn had behaved well! When the Duke, with an energy which was by no means customary with him, had asked that question, on the answer to which so much depended, “Should there have been a moment lost?” Lady Cantrip had assured him that not a moment had been lost. Mrs. Finn had at once gone to work, and had arranged that the whole affair should be told to him, the Duke, in the proper way. “I think she did,” said Lady Cantrip, “what I myself should have done in similar circumstances.”

If Lady Cantrip was right, then must his apology to Mrs. Finn be ample and abject. Perhaps it was this feeling which at the moment was most vexatious to him.

Between two and three o’clock Lord Silverbridge, in spite of his sorrow, found himself able to eat his lunch at his club. The place was deserted, the Beargarden world having gone to the races. As he sat eating cold lamb and drinking soda-and-brandy he did confirm himself in certain modified resolutions, which might be more probably kept than those sterner laws of absolute renunciation to which he had thought of pledging himself in his half-starved morning condition. His father had spoken in very strong language against racing, — saying that those who went were either fools or rascals. He was sure that this was exaggerated. Half the House of Lords and two-thirds of the House of Commons were to be seen at the Derby; but no doubt there were many rascals and fools, and he could not associate with the legislators without finding himself among the fools and rascals. He would, — as soon as he could, — separate himself from the Major. And he would not bet. It was on that side of the sport that the rascals and the fools showed themselves. Of what service could betting be to him whom Providence had provided with all things wanted to make life pleasant? As to the drag, his father had in a certain measure approved of that, and he would keep the drag, as he must have some relaxation. But his great effort of all should be made in the House of Commons. He would endeavour to make his father perceive that he had appreciated that letter. He would always be in the House soon after four, and would remain there, — for, if possible, as long as the Speaker sat in the chair. He had already begun to feel that there was a difficulty in keeping his seat upon those benches. The half-hours there would be so much longer than elsewhere! An irresistible desire of sauntering out would come upon him. There were men the very sound of whose voices was already odious to him. There had come upon him a feeling in regard to certain orators, that when once they had begun there was no reason why they should ever stop. Words of some sort were always forthcoming, like spiders’ webs. He did not think that he could learn to take a pleasure in sitting in the House; but he hoped that he might be man enough to do it, though it was not pleasant. He would begin to-day, instead of going to the Oaks.

But before he went to the House he would see Lady Mabel Grex. And here it may be well to state that in making his resolutions as to a better life, he had considered much whether it would not be well for him to take a wife. His father had once told him that when he married, the house in Carlton Terrace should be his own. “I will be a lodger if you will have me,” said the Duke; “or if your wife should not like that, I will find a lodging elsewhere.” This had been in the sadness and tenderness which had immediately followed the death of the Duchess. Marriage would steady him. Were he a married man, Tifto would of course disappear. Upon the whole he thought it would be good that he should marry. And, if so, who could be so nice as Lady Mabel? That his father would be contented with Lady Mab, he was inclined to believe. There was no better blood in England. And Lady Mabel was known to be clever, beautiful, and, in her peculiar circumstances, very wise.

He was aware, however, of a certain drawback. Lady Mabel as his wife would be his superior, and in some degree his master. Though not older she was wiser than he, — and not only wiser but more powerful also. And he was not quite sure but that she regarded him as a boy. He thought that she did love him, — or would do so if he asked her, — but that her love would be bestowed upon him as on an inferior creature. He was already jealous of his own dignity, and fearful lest he should miss the glory of being loved by this lovely one for his own sake, — for his own manhood, and his own gifts and his own character.

And yet his attraction to her was so great that now in the day of his sorrow he could think of no solace but what was to be found in her company.

“Not at the Oaks!” she said as soon as he was shown into the drawing-room.

“No; — not at the Oaks. Lord Grex is there, I suppose?”

“Oh yes; — that is a matter of course. Why are you a recreant?”

“The House sits to-day.”

“How virtuous! Is it coming to that, — that when the House sits you will never be absent?”

“That’s the kind of life I’m going to lead. You haven’t heard about Gerald?”

“About your brother?”

“Yes — you haven’t heard?”

“Not a word. I hope there is no misfortune.”

“But indeed there is, — a most terrible misfortune.” Then he told the whole story. How Gerald had been kept in London, and how he had gone down to Cambridge, — all in vain; how his father had taken the matter to heart, telling him that he had ruined his brother; and how he, in consequence, had determined not to go to the races. “Then he said,” continued Silverbridge, “that his children between them would bring him to his grave.”

“That was terrible.”

“Very terrible.”

“But what did he mean by that?” asked Lady Mabel, anxious to hear something about Lady Mary and Tregear.

“Well; of course what I did at Oxford made him unhappy; and now there is this affair of Gerald’s.”

“He did not allude to your sister?”

“Yes he did. You have heard of all that. Tregear told you.”

“He told me something.”

“Of course my father does not like it.”

“Do you approve of it?”

“No,” said he — curtly and sturdily.

“Why not? You like Tregear.”

“Certainly I like Tregear. He is the friend, among men, whom I like the best. I have only two real friends.”

“Who are they?” she asked, sinking her voice very low.

“He is one; — and you are the other. You know that.”

“I hoped that I was one,” she said. “But if you love Tregear so dearly, why do you not approve of him for your sister?”

“I always knew it would not do.”

“But why not?”

“Mary ought to marry a man of higher standing.”

“Of higher rank you mean. The daughters of Dukes have married commoners before.”

“It is not exactly that. I don’t like to talk of it in that way. I knew it would make my father unhappy. In point of fact he can’t marry her. What is the good of approving of a thing that is impossible?”

“I wish I knew your sister. Is she — firm?”

“Indeed she is.”

“I am not so sure that you are.”

“No,” said he, after considering awhile; “nor am I. But she is not like Gerald or me. She is more obstinate.”

“Less fickle perhaps.”

“Yes, if you choose to call it fickle. I don’t know that I am fickle. If I were in love with a girl I should be true to her.”