The Palliser Novels (562 page)

“No,” she said, “I do not think we can sit. But still I like to be here with you. All that some day will be your own.” Then she stretched her hands out to the far view.

“Some of it, I suppose. I don’t think it is all ours. As for that, if we cared for extent of acres, one ought to go to Barsetshire.”

“Is that larger?”

“Twice as large, I believe, and yet none of the family like being there. The rental is very well.”

“And the borough,” she said, leaning on his arm and looking up into his face. “What a happy fellow you ought to be.”

“Bar Tifto, — and Mr. Jawstock.”

“You have got rid of Tifto and all those troubles very easily.”

“Thanks to the governor.”

“Yes, indeed. I do love your father so dearly.”

“So do I — rather.”

“May I tell you something about him?” As she asked the question she was standing very close to him, leaning upon his arm, with her left hand crossed upon her right. Had others been there, of course she would not have stood in such a guise. She knew that, — and he knew it too. Of course there was something in it of declared affection, — of that kind of love which most of us have been happy enough to give and receive, without intending to show more than true friendship will allow at special moments.

“Don’t tell me anything about him I shan’t like to hear.”

“Ah; — that is so hard to know. I wish you would like to hear it.”

“What can it be?”

“I cannot tell you now.”

“Why not? And why did you offer?”

“Because — Oh, Silverbridge.”

He certainly as yet did not understand it. It had never occurred to him that she would know what were his father’s wishes. Perhaps he was slow of comprehension as he urged her to tell him what this was about his father. “What can you tell me about him, that I should not like to hear?”

“You do not know? Oh, Silverbridge, I think you know.” Then there came upon him a glimmering of the truth. “You do know.” And she stood apart looking him full in the face.

“I do not know what you can have to tell me.”

“No; — no. It is not I that should tell you. But yet it is so. Silverbridge, what did you say to me when you came to me that morning in the Square?”

“What did I say?”

“Was I not entitled to think that you — loved me?” To this he had nothing to reply, but stood before her silent and frowning. “Think of it, Silverbridge. Was it not so? And because I did not at once tell you all the truth, because I did not there say that my heart was all yours, were you right to leave me?”

“You only laughed at me.”

“No; — no; no; I never laughed at you. How could I laugh when you were all the world to me? Ask Frank; — he knew. Ask Miss Cass; — she knew. And can you say you did not know; you, you, you yourself? Can any girl suppose that such words as these are to mean nothing when they have been spoken? You knew I loved you.”

“No; — no.”

“You must have known it. I will never believe but that you knew it. Why should your father be so sure of it?”

“He never was sure of it.”

“Yes, Silverbridge; yes. There is not one in the house who does not see that he treats me as though he expected me to be his son’s wife. Do you not know that he wishes it?” He fain would not have answered this; but she paused for his answer and then repeated her question. “Do you not know that he wishes it?”

“I think he does,” said Silverbridge; “but it can never be so.”

“Oh, Silverbridge; — oh, my loved one! Do not say that to me! Do not kill me at once!” Now she placed her hands one on each arm as she stood opposite to him and looked up into his face. “You said you loved me once. Why do you desert me now? Have you a right to treat me like that; — when I tell you that you have all my heart?” The tears were now streaming down her face, and they were not counterfeit tears.

“You know,” he said, submitting to her hands, but not lifting his arm to embrace her.

“What do I know?”

“That I have given all I have to give to another.” As he said this he looked away sternly, over her shoulder, to the distance.

“That American girl!” she exclaimed, starting back, with some show of sternness also on her brow.

“Yes; — that American girl,” said Silverbridge.

Then she recovered herself immediately. Indignation, natural indignation, would not serve her turn in the present emergency. “You know that cannot be. You ought to know it. What will your father say? You have not dared to tell him. That is so natural,” she added, trying to appease his frown. “How possibly can it be told to him? I will not say a word against her.”

“No; do not do that.”

“But there are fitnesses of things which such a one as you cannot disregard without preparing for yourself a whole life of repentance.”

“Look here, Mabel.”

“Well?”

“I will tell you the truth.”

“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 Mabel 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 any one 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.

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. Moreton? Of course I will make it all right with you some day. Moreton 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 the 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?