The Duke’s Children

leaned much. And yet he was conscious, almost with a feeling of shame, that in Italy he had not spoken to the Duke about his daughter because he was afraid lest the Duke might eat him. In such an affair he should have been careful from the first to keep his own hands thoroughly clean. Had it not been his duty as a gentleman to communicate with the father, if not before he gained the girl’s heart, at any rate as soon as he knew he had done so? He had left Italy thinking that he would certainly meet the Duchess and her daughter in London, and that then he might go to the Duke as though this love of his had arisen from the sweetness of those meetings in London. But all these ideas had been dissipated by the great misfortune of the death of Lady Mary’s mother. From all this he was driven to acknowledge to himself that his silence in Italy had been wrong, that he had been weak in allowing himself to be guided by the counsel of the Duchess, and that he had already armed the Duke with one strong argument against him.

He did not doubt but that Mrs. Finn would be opposed to him. Of course he could not doubt but that all the world would now be opposed to him⁠—except the girl herself. He would find no other friend so generous, so romantic, so unworldly as the Duchess had been. It was clear to him that Lady Mary had told the story of her engagement to Mrs. Finn, and that Mrs. Finn had not as yet told it to the Duke. From this he was justified in regarding Mrs. Finn as the girl’s friend. The request made was that he should at once do something which Mrs. Finn was to suggest. He could hardly have been so requested, and that in terms of such warm affection, had it been Mrs. Finn’s intention to ask him to desist altogether from his courtship. This woman was regarded by Lady Mary as her mother’s dearest friend. It was therefore incumbent on him now to induce her to believe in him as the Duchess had believed.

He knocked at the door of Mrs. Finn’s little house in Park Lane a few minutes before the time appointed, and found himself alone when he was shown into the drawing-room. He had heard much of this lady though he had never seen her, and had heard much also of her husband. There had been a kind of mystery about her. People did not quite understand how it was that she had been so intimate with the Duchess, nor why the late Duke had left to her an enormous legacy, which as yet had never been claimed. There was supposed, too, to have been something especially romantic in her marriage with her present husband. It was believed also that she was very rich. The rumours of all these things together had made her a person of note, and Tregear, when he found himself alone in the drawing-room, looked round about him as though a special interest was to be attached to the belongings of such a woman. It was a pretty room, somewhat dark, because the curtains were almost closed across the windows, but furnished with a pretty taste, and now, in these early April days, filled with flowers.

“I have to apologise, Mr. Tregear, for keeping you waiting,” she said as she entered the room.

“I fear I was before my time.”

“I know that I am after mine⁠—a few minutes,” said the lady.

He told himself that though she was not a young woman, yet she was attractive. She was dark, and still wore her black hair in curls, such as are now seldom seen with ladies. Perhaps the reduced light of the chamber had been regulated with some regard to her complexion and to her age. The effect, however, was good, and Frank Tregear felt at once interested in her.

“You have just come up from Matching?” he said.

“Yes; only the day before yesterday. It is very good of you to come to me so soon.”

“Of course I came when you sent for me. I am afraid the Duke felt his loss severely.”

“How should he not, such a loss as it was? Few people knew how much he trusted her, and how dearly he loved her.”

“Silverbridge has told me that he is awfully cut up.”

“You have seen Lord Silverbridge then?”

“Just at present I am living with him, at Carlton Terrace.”

“In the Duke’s house?” she asked, with some surprise.

“Yes; in the Duke’s house. Silverbridge and I have been very intimate. Of course the Duke knows that I am there. Is there any chance of his coming to town?”

“Not yet, I fear. He is determined to be alone. I wish it were otherwise, as I am sure he would better bear his sorrow, if he would go about among other men.”

“No doubt he would suffer less,” said Tregear. Then there was a pause. Each wished that the other should introduce the matter which both knew was to be the subject of their conversation. But Tregear would not begin. “When I left them all at Florence,” he said, “I little thought that I should never see her again.”

“You had been intimate with them, Mr. Tregear?”

“Yes; I think I may say I have been intimate with them. I had been at Eton and at Christ Church with Silverbridge, and we have always been much together.”

“I have understood that. Have you and the Duke been good friends?”

“We have never been enemies.”

“I suppose not that.”

“The Duke, I think, does not much care about young people. I hardly know what he used to do with himself. When I dined with them, I saw him, but I did not often do that. I think he used to read a good deal, and walk about alone. We were always riding.”

“Lady Mary used to ride?”

“Oh yes; and Lord Silverbridge and Lord Gerald. And the