The Palliser Novels (542 page)

“I’m so glad of that! Well; — if you’ll promise that you’ll never offer me one, I’ll promise that I’ll take it when it comes. But what does all this mean?”

“It is not worth talking about.”

“You have offered somebody a ring, and somebody hasn’t taken it. May I guess?”

“I had rather you did not.”

“I could, you know.”

“Never mind about that. Now come and have a turn. I am bound not to give you a ring; but you are bound to accept anything else I may offer.”

“No, Lord Silverbridge; — not at all. Nevertheless we’ll have a turn.”

That night before he went up to his room he had told Isabel Boncassen that he loved her. And when he spoke he was telling her the truth. It had seemed to him that Mabel had become hard to him, and had over and over again rejected the approaches to tenderness which he had attempted to make in his intercourse with her. Even though she were to accept him, what would that be worth to him if she did not love him? So many things had been added together! Why had Tregear gone to Grex, and having gone there why had he kept his journey a secret? Tregear he knew was engaged to his sister; — but for all that, there was a closer intimacy between Mabel and Tregear than between Mabel and himself. And surely she might have taken his ring!

And then Isabel Boncassen was so perfect! Since he had first met her he had heard her loveliness talked of on all sides. It seemed to be admitted everywhere that so beautiful a creature had never before been seen in London. There is even a certain dignity attached to that which is praised by all lips. Miss Boncassen as an American girl, had she been judged to be beautiful only by his own eyes, might perhaps have seemed to him to be beneath his serious notice. In such a case he might have felt himself unable to justify so extraordinary a choice. But there was an acclamation of assent as to this girl! Then came the dancing, — the one dance after another; the pressure of the hand, the entreaty that she would not, just on this occasion, dance with any other man, the attendance on her when she took her glass of wine, the whispered encouragement of Mrs. Montacute Jones, the half-resisting and yet half-yielding conduct of the girl. “I shall not dance at all again,” she said when he asked her to stand up for another. “Think of all that lawn-tennis this morning.”

“But you will play to-morrow?”

“I thought you were going.”

“Of course I shall stay now,” he said, and as he said it he put his hand on her hand, which was on his arm. She drew it away at once. “I love you so dearly,” he whispered to her; “so dearly.”

“Lord Silverbridge!”

“I do. I do. Can you say that you will love me in return?”

“I cannot,” she said slowly. “I have never dreamed of such a thing. I hardly know now whether you are in earnest.”

“Indeed, indeed I am.”

“Then I will say good-night, and think about it. Everybody is going. We will have our game to-morrow at any rate.”

When he went to his room he found the ring on his dressing-table.

On the next morning Miss Boncassen did not appear at breakfast. Word came that she had been so fatigued by the lawn-tennis as not to be able to leave her bed. “I have been to her,” said Mrs. Montacute Jones, whispering to Lord Silverbridge, as though he were particularly interested. “There’s nothing really the matter. She will be down to lunch.”

“I was afraid she might be ill,” said Silverbridge, who was now hardly anxious to hide his admiration.

“Oh no; — nothing of that sort; but she will not be able to play again to-day. It was your fault. You should not have made her dance last night.” After that Mrs. Jones said a word about it all to Lady Mabel. “I hope the Duke will not be angry with me.”

“Why should he be angry with you?”

“I don’t suppose he will approve of it, and perhaps he’ll say I brought them together on purpose.”

Soon afterwards Mabel asked Silverbridge to walk with her to the waterfall. She had worked herself into such a state of mind that she hardly knew what to do, what to wish, or how to act. At one moment she would tell herself that it was better in every respect that she should cease to think of being Duchess of Omnium. It was not fit that she should think of it. She herself cared but little for the young man, and he — she would tell herself — now appeared to care as little for her. And yet to be Duchess of Omnium! But was it not clear that he was absolutely in love with this other girl? She had played her cards so badly that the game was now beyond her powers. Then other thoughts would come. Was it beyond her powers? Had he not told her in London that he loved her? Had he not given her the ring which she well knew he valued? Ah; — if she could but have been aware of all that had passed between Silverbridge and the Duke, how different would have been her feelings! And then would it not be so much better for him that he should marry her, one of his own class, than this American girl, of whom nobody knew anything? And then, — to be the daughter of the Duke of Omnium, to be the future Duchess, to escape from all the cares which her father’s vices and follies had brought upon her, to have come to an end of all her troubles! Would it not be sweet?

She had made her mind up to nothing when she asked him to walk up to the waterfall. There was present to her only the glimmer of an idea that she ought to caution him not to play with the American girl’s feelings. She knew herself to be aware that, when the time for her own action came, her feminine feelings would get the better of her purpose. She could not craftily bring him to the necessity of bestowing himself upon her. Had that been within the compass of her powers, opportunities had not been lacking to her. On such occasions she had always “spared him.” And should the opportunity come again, again she would spare him. But she might perhaps do some good, — not to herself, that was now out of the question, — but to him, by showing him how wrong he was in trifling with this girl’s feelings.

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 American 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.”