“I think I should take her to some place on the seashore in England,” said Mrs. Finn.
“Custins is close to the sea,” he replied. “It is Lord Cantrip’s place in Dorsetshire. It was partly settled that she was to go there.”
“I suppose she likes Lady Cantrip.”
“Why should she not?”
“She has not said a word to me to the contrary. I only fear she would feel that she was being sent there—as to a convent.”
“What ought I to do then?”
“How can I venture to answer that? What she would like best, I think, would be to return to Matching with you, and to settle down in a quiet way for the winter.” The Duke shook his head. That would be worse than travelling. She would still have headaches and still tell him that she was unhappy. “Of course I do not know what your plans are, and pray believe me that I should not obtrude my advice if you did not ask me.”
“I know it,” he said. “I know how good you are and how reasonable. I know how much you have to forgive.”
“Oh, no.”
“And, if I have not said so as I should have done, it has not been from want of feeling. I do believe you did what you thought best when Mary told you that story at Matching.”
“Why should your Grace go back to that?”
“Only that I may acknowledge my indebtedness to you, and say to you somewhat fuller than I could do in my letter that I am sorry for the pain which I gave you.”
“All that is over now—and shall be forgotten.”
Then he spoke of his immediate plans. He would at once go back to England by slow stages—by very slow stages—staying a day or two at Salzburg, at Ratisbon, at Nuremberg, at Frankfort, and so on. In this way he would reach England about the 10th of October, and Mary would then be ready to go to Custins by the time appointed.
In a day or two Lady Mary was better. “It is terrible while it lasts,” she said, speaking to Mrs. Finn of her headache, “but when it has gone then I am quite well. Only”—she added after a pause—“only I can never be happy again while papa thinks as he does now.” Then there was a party made up before they separated for an excursion to the Hintersee and the Obersee. On this occasion Lady Mary seemed to enjoy herself, as she liked the companionship of Mrs. Finn. Against Lady Cantrip she never said a word. But Lady Cantrip was always a duenna to her, whereas Mrs. Finn was a friend. While the Duke and Phineas were discussing politics together—thoroughly enjoying the weakness of Lord Drummond and the iniquity of Sir Timothy—which they did with augmented vehemence from their ponies’ backs, the two women in lower voices talked over their own affairs. “I dare say you will be happy at Custins,” said Mrs. Finn.
“No; I shall not. There will be people there whom I don’t know, and I don’t want to know. Have you heard anything about him, Mrs. Finn?”
Mrs. Finn turned round and looked at her—for a moment almost angrily. Then her heart relented. “Do you mean—Mr. Tregear?”
“Yes, Mr. Tregear.”
“I think I heard that he was shooting with Lord Silverbridge.”
“I am glad of that,” said Mary.
“It will be pleasant for both of them.”
“I am very glad they should be together. While I know that, I feel that we are not altogether separated. I will never give it up, Mrs. Finn—never; never. It is no use taking me to China.” In that Mrs. Finn quite agreed with her.
XLII
Again at Killancodlem
Silverbridge remained at Crummie-Toddie under the dominion of Reginald Dobbes till the second week in September. Popplecourt, Nidderdale, and Gerald Palliser were there also, very obedient, and upon the whole efficient. Tregear was intractable, occasional, and untrustworthy. He was the cause of much trouble to Mr. Dobbes. He would entertain a most heterodox and injurious idea that, as he had come to Crummie-Toddie for amusement, he was not bound to do anything that did not amuse him. He would not understand that in sport as in other matters there was an ambition, driving a man on to excel always and be ahead of others. In spite of this Mr. Dobbes had cause for much triumph. It was going to be the greatest thing ever done by six guns in Scotland. As for Gerald, whom he had regarded as a boy, and who had offended him by saying that Crummie-Toddie was ugly—he was ready to go round the world for him. He had indoctrinated Gerald with all his ideas of a sportsman—even to a contempt for champagne and a conviction that tobacco should be moderated. The three lords too had proved themselves efficient, and the thing was going to be a success. But just when a day was of vital importance, when it was essential that there should be a strong party for a drive, Silverbridge found it absolutely necessary that he should go over to Killancodlem.
“She has gone,” said Nidderdale.
“Who the ⸻ is she?” asked Silverbridge, almost angrily.
“Everybody knows who she is,” said Popplecourt.
“It will be a good thing when some She has got hold of you, my boy, so as to keep you in your proper place.”
“If you cannot withstand that sort of attraction you ought not to go in for shooting at all,” said Dobbes.
“I shouldn’t wonder at his going,” continued Nidderdale, “if we didn’t all know that the American is no longer there. She has gone to—Bath I think they say.”
“I suppose it’s Mrs. Jones herself,” said Popplecourt.
“My dear boys,” said Silverbridge, “you may be quite sure that when I say that I am going to Killancodlem I mean to go to Killancodlem, and that no chaff about young ladies—which I think very disgusting—will stop me.
