“Because it will be the last. Sit down again, Dr. Crofts. I’ve got a little speech to make to you. I’ve been preparing it all the morning, and you must give me an opportunity of speaking it.”
“I’ll come the day after to-morrow, and I’ll hear it then.”
“But I choose, sir, that you should hear it now. Am I not to be obeyed when I first get up on to my own throne? Dear, dear Dr. Crofts, how am I to thank you for all that you have done?”
“How are any of us to thank him?” said Mrs. Dale.
“I hate thanks,” said the doctor. “One kind glance of the eye is worth them all, and I’ve had many such in this house.”
“You have our hearts’ love, at any rate,” said Mrs. Dale.
“God bless you all!” said he, as he prepared to go.
“But I haven’t made my speech yet,” said Lily. “And to tell the truth, mamma, you must go away, or I shall never be able to make it. It’s very improper, is it not, turning you out, but it shall only take three minutes.” Then Mrs. Dale, with some little joking word, left the room; but, as she left it, her mind was hardly at ease. Ought she to have gone, leaving it to Lily’s discretion to say what words he might think fit to Dr. Crofts? Hitherto she had never doubted her daughters—not even their discretion; and therefore it had been natural to her to go when she was bidden. But as she went downstairs she had her doubts whether she was right or no.
“Dr. Crofts,” said Lily, as soon as they were alone. “Sit down there, close to me. I want to ask you a question. What was it you said to Bell when you were alone with her the other evening in the parlour?”
The doctor sat for a moment without answering, and Lily, who was watching him closely, could see by the light of the fire that he had been startled—had almost shuddered as the question was asked him.
“What did I say to her?” and he repeated her words in a very low voice. “I asked her if she could love me, and be my wife.”
“And what answer did she make to you?”
“What answer did she make? She simply refused me.”
“No, no, no; don’t believe her, Dr. Crofts. It was not so—I think it was not so. Mind you, I can say nothing as coming from her. She has not told me her own mind. But if you really love her, she will be mad to refuse you.”
“I do love her, Lily; that at any rate is true.”
“Then go to her again. I am speaking for myself now. I cannot afford to lose such a brother as you would be. I love you so dearly that I cannot spare you. And she—I think she’ll learn to love you as you would wish to be loved. You know her nature, how silent she is, and averse to talk about herself. She has confessed nothing to me but this—that you spoke to her and took her by surprise. Are we to have another chance? I know how wrong I am to ask such a question. But, after all, is not the truth the best?”
“Another chance!”
“I know what you mean, and I think she is worthy to be your wife. I do, indeed; and if so, she must be very worthy. You won’t tell of me, will you now, doctor?”
“No; I won’t tell of you.”
“And you’ll try again?”
“Yes; I’ll try again.”
“God bless you, my brother! I hope—I hope you’ll be my brother.” Then, as he put out his hand to her once more, she raised her head towards him, and he, stooping down, kissed her forehead. “Make mamma come to me,” were the last words she spoke as he went out at the door.
“So you’ve made your speech,” said Mrs. Dale.
“Yes, mamma.”
“I hope it was a discreet speech.”
“I hope it was, mamma. But it has made me so tired, and I believe I’ll go to bed. Do you know I don’t think I should have done much good down at the school to-day?”
Then Mrs. Dale, in her anxiety to repair what injury might have been done to her daughter by over-exertion, omitted any further mention of the farewell speech.
Dr. Crofts as he rode home enjoyed but little of the triumph of a successful lover. “It may be that she’s right,” he said to himself; “and, at any rate, I’ll ask again.” Nevertheless, that “No” which Bell had spoken, and had repeated, still sounded in his ears harsh and conclusive. There are men to whom a peal of noes rattling about their ears never takes the sound of a true denial, and others to whom the word once pronounced, be it whispered ever so softly, comes as though it were an unchangeable verdict from the supreme judgment-seat.
CHAPTER XLIII
Fie, Fie!
Will any reader remember the loves—no, not the loves; that word is so decidedly ill-applied as to be incapable of awakening the remembrance of any reader; but the flirtations—of Lady Dumbello and Mr. Plantagenet Palliser? Those flirtations, as they had been carried on at Courcy Castle, were laid bare in all their enormities to the eye of the public, and it must be confessed that if the eye of the public was shocked, that eye must be shocked very easily.
But the eye of the public was shocked, and people who were particular as to their morals said very strange things. Lady de Courcy herself said very strange things indeed, shaking her head, and dropping mysterious words; whereas Lady Clandidlem spoke much more openly, declaring her opinion that Lady Dumbello would be off before May. They both agreed that it would not be altogether bad for Lord Dumbello that he should lose his wife, but shook their heads very sadly when they spoke of poor Plantagenet Palliser. As to the lady’s fate, that lady whom they had both almost worshipped during the days at Courcy Castle—they did not seem to trouble themselves about that.
And it must be admitted that Mr. Palliser had been a little imprudent—imprudent, that is, if he knew anything about the rumours afloat—seeing that soon after his visit at Courcy Castle he had gone down to Lady Hartletop’s place in Shropshire, at which the Dumbellos intended to spend the winter, and on leaving it had expressed his intention of returning in February. The Hartletop people had pressed him very much—the pressure having come with peculiar force from Lord Dumbello. Therefore it is reasonable to suppose that the Hartletop people had at any rate not heard of the rumour.
Mr. Plantagenet Palliser spent his Christmas with his uncle, the Duke of Omnium, at Gatherum Castle. That is to say, he reached the castle in time for dinner on Christmas eve, and left it on the morning after Christmas day. This was in accordance with the usual practice of his life, and the tenants, dependants, and followers of the Omnium interest were always delighted to see this manifestation of a healthy English domestic family feeling between the duke and his nephew. But the amount of intercourse on such occasions between them was generally trifling. The duke would smile as he put out his right hand to his nephew, and say—”Well, Plantagenet—very busy, I suppose?”
The duke was the only living being who called him Plantagenet to his face, though there were some scores of men who talked of Planty Pal behind his back. The duke had been the only living being so to call him. Let us hope that it still was so, and that there had arisen no feminine exception, dangerous in its nature and improper in its circumstances.
“Well, Plantagenet,” said the duke, on the present occasion, “very busy, I suppose?”
“Yes, indeed, duke,” said Mr. Palliser. “When a man gets the harness on him he does not easily get quit of it.”
The duke remembered that his nephew had made almost the same remark at his last Christmas visit.
“By-the-by,” said the duke, “I want to say a word or two to you before you go.”
Such a proposition on the duke’s part was a great departure from his usual practice, but the nephew of course undertook to obey his uncle’s behests.
“I’ll see you before dinner to-morrow,” said Plantagenet.
“Ah, do,” said the duke. “I’ll not keep you five minutes.” And at six o’clock on the following afternoon the two were closeted together in the duke’s private room.
“I don’t suppose there is much in it,” began the duke, “but people are talking about you and Lady Dumbello.”
“Upon my word, people are very kind.” And Mr. Palliser bethought himself of the fact—for it certainly was a fact—that people for a great many years had talked about his uncle and Lady Dumbello’s mother-in-law.
“Yes; kind enough; are they not? You’ve just come from Hartlebury, I believe.” Hartlebury was the Marquis of Hartletop’s seat in Shropshire.
“Yes, I have. And I’m going there again in February.”
“Ah, I’m sorry for that. Not that I mean, of course, to interfere with your arrangements. You will acknowledge that I have not often done so, in any matter whatever.”
“No; you have not,” said the nephew, comforting himself with an inward assurance that no such interference on his uncle’s part could have been possible.
“But in this instance it would suit me, and I really think it would suit you too, that you should be as little at Hartlebury as possible. You have said you would go there, and of course you will go. But if I were you, I would not stay above a day or two.”
Mr. Plantagenet Palliser received everything he had in the world from his uncle. He sat in Parliament through his uncle’s interest, and received an allowance of ever so many thousand a year which his uncle could stop to-morrow by his mere word. He was his uncle’s heir, and the dukedom, with certain entailed properties, must ultimately fall to him, unless his uncle should marry and have a son. But by far the greater portion of the duke’s property was unentailed; the duke might probably live for the next twenty years or more; and it was quite possible that, if offended, he might marry and become a father. It may be said that no man could well be more dependent on another than Plantagenet Palliser was upon his uncle; and it may be said also that no father or uncle ever troubled his heir with less interference. Nevertheless, the nephew immediately felt himself aggrieved by this allusion to his private life, and resolved at once that he would not submit to such surveillance.
“I don’t know how long I shall stay,” said he; “but I cannot say that my visit will be influenced one way or the other by such a rumour as that.”
“No; probably not. But it may perhaps be influenced by my request.” And the duke, as he spoke, looked a little savage.
“You wouldn’t ask me to regard a report that has no foundation.”
“I am not asking about its foundation. Nor do I in the least wish to interfere with your manner in life.” By which last observation the duke intended his nephew to understand that he was quite at liberty to take away any other gentleman’s wife, but that he was not at liberty to give occasion even for a surmise that he wanted to take Lord Dumbello’s wife. “The fact is this, Plantagenet. I have for many years been intimate with that family. I have not many intimacies, and shall probably never increase them. Such friends as I have, I wish to keep, and you will easily perceive that any such report as that which I have mentioned, might make it unpleasant for me to go to Hartlebury, or for the Hartlebury people to come here.” The duke certainly could not have spoken plainer, and Mr. Palliser understood him thoroughly. Two such alliances between the two families could not be expected to run pleasantly together, and even the rumour of any such second alliance might interfere with the pleasantness of the former one.
“That’s all,” said the duke.
“It’s a most absurd slander,” said Mr. Palliser.
“I dare say. Those slanders always are absurd; but what can we do? We can’t tie up people’s tongues.” And the duke looked as though he wished to have the subject considered as finished, and to be left alone.
“But we can disregard them,” said the nephew, indiscreetly.
“You may. I have never been able to do so. And yet, I believe, I have not earned for myself the reputation of being subject to the voices of men. You think that I am asking much of you; but you should remember that hitherto I have given much and have asked nothing. I expect you to oblige me in this matter.”
Then Mr. Plantagenet Palliser left the room, knowing that he had been threatened. What the duke had said amounted to this—If you go on dangling after Lady Dumbello, I’ll stop the seven thousand a year which I give you. I’ll oppose your next return at Silverbridge, and I’ll make a will and leave away from you Matching and The Horns—a beautiful little place in Surrey, the use of which had been already offered to Mr. Palliser in the event of his marriage; all the Littlebury estate in Yorkshire, and the enormous Scotch property. Of my personal goods, and money invested in loans, shares, and funds, you shall never touch a shilling, or the value of a shilling. And, if I find that I can suit myself, it may be that I’ll leave you plain Mr. Plantagenet Palliser, with a little first cousin for the head of your family.
The full amount of this threat Mr. Palliser understood, and, as he thought of it, he acknowledged to himself that he had never felt for Lady Dumbello anything like love. No conversation between them had ever been warmer than that of which the reader has seen a sample. Lady Dumbello had been nothing to him. But now—now that the matter had been put before him in this way, might it not become him, as a gentleman, to fall in love with so very beautiful a woman, whose name had already been linked with his own? We all know that story of the priest, who, by his question in the confessional, taught the ostler to grease the horses’ teeth. “I never did yet,” said the ostler, “but I’ll have a try at it.” In this case, the duke had acted the part of the priest, and Mr. Palliser, before the night was over, had almost become as ready a pupil as the ostler. As to the threat, it would ill become him, as a Palliser and a Plantagenet, to regard it. The duke would not marry. Of all men in the world he was the least likely to spite his own face by cutting off his own nose; and, for the rest of it, Mr. Palliser would take his chance. Therefore he went down to Hartlebury early in February, having fully determined to be very particular in his attentions to Lady Dumbello.
Among a houseful of people at Hartlebury, he found Lord Porlock, a slight, sickly, worn-out looking man, who had something about his eye of his father’s hardness, but nothing in his mouth of his father’s ferocity.
“So your sister is going to be married?” said Mr. Palliser.
“Yes. One has no right to be surprised at anything they do, when one remembers the life their father leads them.”
“I was going to congratulate you.”
“Don’t do that.”
“I met him at Courcy, and rather liked him.”
Mr. Palliser had barely spoken to Mr. Crosbie at Courcy, but then in the usual course of his social life he seldom did more than barely speak to anybody.
“Did you?” said Lord Porlock. “For the poor girl’s sake I hope he’s not a ruffian. How any man should propose to my father to marry a daughter out of his house, is more than I can understand. How was my mother looking?”
“I didn’t see anything amiss about her.”
“I expect that he’ll murder her some day.” Then that conversation came to an end.
Mr. Palliser himself perceived—as he looked at her he could not but perceive—that a certain amount of social energy seemed to enliven Lady Dumbello when he approached her. She was given to smile when addressed, but her usual smile was meaningless, almost leaden, and never in any degree flattering to the person to whom it was accorded. Very many women smile as they answer the words which are spoken to them, and most who do so flatter by their smile. The thing is so common that no one thinks of it. The flattering pleases, but means nothing. The impression unconsciously taken simply conveys a feeling that the woman has made herself agreeable, as it was her duty to do—agreeable, as far as that smile went, in some very infinitesimal degree. But she has thereby made her little contribution to society. She will make the same contribution a hundred times in the same evening. No one knows that she has flattered anybody; she does not know it herself; and the world calls her an agreeable woman. But Lady Dumbello put no flattery into her customary smiles. They were cold, unmeaning, accompanied by no special glance of the eye, and seldom addressed to the individual. They were given to the room at large; and the room at large, acknowledging her great pretensions, accepted them as sufficient. But when Mr. Palliser came near to her she would turn herself slightly, ever so slightly, on her seat, and would allow her eyes to rest for a moment upon his face. Then when he remarked that it had been rather cold, she would smile actually upon him as she acknowledged the truth of his observation. All this Mr. Palliser taught himself to observe, having been instructed by his foolish uncle in that lesson as to the greasing of the horses’ teeth.
But, nevertheless, during the first week of his stay at Hartlebury, he did not say a word to her more tender than his observation about the weather. It is true that he was very busy. He had undertaken to speak upon the address, and as Parliament was now about to be opened, and as his speech was to be based upon statistics, he was full of figures and papers. His correspondence was pressing, and the day was seldom long enough for his purposes. He felt that the intimacy to which he aspired was hindered by the laborious routine of his life; but nevertheless he would do something before he left Hartlebury, to show the special nature of his regard. He would say something to her, that should open to her view the secret of—shall we say his heart? Such was his resolve, day after day. And yet day after day went by, and nothing was said. He fancied that Lord Dumbello was somewhat less friendly in his manner than he had been, that he put himself in the way and looked cross; but, as he declared to himself, he cared very little for Lord Dumbello’s looks.
“When do you go to town?” he said to her one evening.
“Probably in April. We certainly shall not leave Hartlebury before that.”
“Ah, yes. You stay for the hunting.”
“Yes; Lord Dumbello always remains here through March. He may run up to town for a day or two.”
“How comfortable! I must be in London on Thursday, you know.”
“When Parliament meets, I suppose?”
“Exactly. It is such a bore; but one has to do it.”
“When a man makes a business of it, I suppose he must.”
“Oh, dear, yes; it’s quite imperative.” Then Mr. Palliser looked round the room, and thought he saw Lord Dumbello’s eye fixed upon him. It was really very hard work. If the truth must be told, he did not know how to begin. What was he to say to her? How was he to commence a conversation that should end by being tender? She was very handsome certainly, and for him she could look interesting; but for his very life he did not know how to begin to say anything special to her. A liaison with such a woman as Lady Dumbello—platonic, innocent, but nevertheless very intimate—would certainly lend a grace to his life, which, under its present circumstances, was rather dry. He was told—told by public rumour, which had reached him through his uncle—that the lady was willing. She certainly looked as though she liked him; but how was he to begin? The art of startling the House of Commons and frightening the British public by the voluminous accuracy of his statistics he had already learned; but what was he to say to a pretty woman?