The Duke’s Children

duty could not be altered by the fact that his girl would avenge herself upon him by dying! If such a marriage were in itself wrong, that wrong could not be made right by the fear of such a catastrophe. Was it not often the case that duty required that someone should die? And yet as he thought of it⁠—thought that the someone whom his mind had suggested was the one female creature now left belonging to him⁠—he put his hand up to his brow and trembled with agony. If he knew, if in truth he believed that such would be the result of firmness on his part⁠—then he would be infirm, then he must yield. Sooner than that, he must welcome this Tregear to his house. But why should he think that she would die? This woman had now asked him whether he would be willing to break his girl’s heart. It was a frightful question; but he could see that it had come naturally in the sequence of the conversation which he had forced upon her. Did girls break their hearts in such emergencies? Was it not all romance? “Men have died and worms have eaten them⁠—but not for love.” He remembered it all and carried on the argument in his mind, though the pause was but for a minute. There might be suffering, no doubt. The higher the duties the keener the pangs! But would it become him to be deterred from doing right because she for a time might find that she had made the world bitter to herself? And were there not feminine wiles⁠—tricks by which women learn to have their way in opposition to the judgment of their lords and masters? He did not think that his Mary was wilfully guilty of any scheme. The suffering he knew was true suffering. But not the less did it become him to be on his guard against attacks of this nature.

“No,” he said at last; “I would not have her break her heart⁠—if I understand what such words mean. They are generally, I think, used fantastically.”

“You would not wish to see her overwhelmed by sorrow?”

“Wish it! What a question to ask a father!”

“I must be more plain in my language, Duke. Though such a marriage be distasteful to you, it might perhaps be preferable to seeing her sorrowing always.”

“Why should it? I have to sorrow always. We are told that man is born to sorrow as surely as the sparks fly upwards.”

“Then I can say nothing further.”

“You think I am cruel.”

“If I am to say what I really think I shall offend you.”

“No;⁠—not unless you mean offence.”

“I shall never do that to you, Duke. When you talk as you do now you hardly know yourself. You think you could see her suffering, and not be moved by it. But were it to be continued long you would give way. Though we know that there is an infinity of grief in this life, still we struggle to save those we love from grieving. If she be steadfast enough to cling to her affection for this man, then at last you will have to yield.” He looked at her frowning, but did not say a word. “Then it will perhaps be a comfort for you to know that the man himself is trustworthy and honest.”

There was a terrible rebuke in this; but still, as he had called it down upon himself, he would not resent it, even in his heart. “Thank you,” he said, rising from his chair. “Perhaps you will see her again this afternoon.” Of course she assented, and, as the interview had taken place in his rooms, she took her leave.

This which Mrs. Finn had said to him was all to the same effect as that which had come from Lady Cantrip; only it was said with a higher spirit. Both the women saw the matter in the same light. There must be a fight between him and his girl; but she, if she could hold out for a certain time, would be the conqueror. He might take her away and try what absence would do, or he might have recourse to that specific which had answered so well in reference to his own wife; but if she continued to sorrow during absence, and if she would have nothing to do with the other lover⁠—then he must at last give way! He had declared that he was willing to sacrifice himself⁠—meaning thereby that if a lengthened visit to the cities of China, or a prolonged sojourn in the Western States of America would wean her from her love, he would go to China or to the Western States. At present his self-banishment had been carried no farther than Vienna. During their travels hitherto Tregear’s name had not once been mentioned. The Duke had come away from home resolved not to mention it⁠—and she was minded to keep it in reserve till some seeming catastrophe should justify a declaration of her purpose. But from first to last she had been sad, and latterly she had been ill. When asked as to her complaint she would simply say that she was not happy. To go on with this through the Chinese cities could hardly be good for either of them. She would not wake herself to any enthusiasm in regard to scenery, costume, pictures, or even discomforts. Wherever she was taken it was all barren to her.

As their plans stood at present, they were to return to England so as to enable her to be at Custins by the middle of October. Had he taught himself to hope that any good could be done by prolonged travelling he would readily have thrown over Custins and Lord Popplecourt. He could not bring himself to trust much to the Popplecourt scheme. But the same contrivance had answered on that former occasion. When he spoke to her about their plans, she expressed herself quite ready to go back to England.