“Mr. Lupton, and Sir Henry Playfair, and Lord Stirling were in the room when the bets were made.”
“Were the gentlemen you name concerned with Major Tifto?”
“No, sir.”
“Who can tell with whom he may be in a room? Though rooms of that kind are, I think, best avoided.” Then the Duke paused again, but Silverbridge was now sobbing so that he could hardly speak. “I am sorry that you should be so grieved,” continued the father, “but such delights cannot, I think, lead to much real joy.”
“It is for you, sir,” said the son, rubbing his eyes with the hand which supported his head.
“My grief in the matter might soon be cured.”
“How shall I cure it? I will do anything to cure it.”
“Let Major Tifto and the horses go.”
“They are gone,” said Silverbridge energetically, jumping from his chair as he spoke. “I will never own a horse again, or a part of a horse. I will have nothing more to do with races. You will believe me?”
“I will believe anything that you tell me.”
“I won’t say I will not go to another race, because—”
“No; no. I would not have you hamper yourself. Nor shall you bind yourself by any further promises. You have done with racing.”
“Indeed, indeed I have, sir.”
Then the father came up to the son and put his arms round the young man’s shoulders and embraced him. “Of course it made me unhappy.”
“I knew it would.”
“But if you are cured of this evil, the money is nothing. What is it all for but for you and your brother and sister? It was a large sum, but that shall not grieve me. The thing itself is so dangerous that, if with that much of loss we can escape, I will think that we have made not a bad market. Who owns the horse now?”
“The horses shall be sold.”
“For anything they may fetch so that we may get clear of this dirt. And the Major?”
“I know nothing of him. I have not seen him since that day.”
“Has he claims on you?”
“Not a shilling. It is all the other way.”
“Let it go then. Be quit of him, however it may be. Send a messenger so that he may understand that you have abandoned racing altogether. Mr. Moreton might perhaps see him.”
That his father should forgive so readily and yet himself suffer so deeply, affected the son’s feelings so strongly that for a time he could hardly repress his sobs. “And now there shall not be a word more said about it,” said the Duke suddenly.
Silverbridge in his confusion could make no answer.
“There shall not be another word said about it,” said the Duke again. “And now what do you mean to do with yourself immediately?”
“I’ll stay here, sir, as long as you do. Finn, and Warburton, and I have still a few coverts to shoot.”
“That’s a good reason for staying anywhere.”
“I meant that I would remain while you remained, sir.”
“That at any rate is a good reason, as far as I am concerned. But we go to Custins next week.”
“There’s a deal of shooting to be done at Gatherum,” said the heir.
“You speak of it as if it were the business of your life—on which your bread depended.”
“One can’t expect game to be kept up if nobody goes to shoot it.”
“Can’t one? I didn’t know. I should have thought that the less was shot the more there would be to shoot; but I am ignorant in such matters.” Silverbridge then broke forth into a long explanation as to coverts, gamekeepers, poachers, breeding, and the expectations of the neighbourhood at large, in the middle of which he was interrupted by the Duke. “I am afraid, my dear boy, that I am too old to learn. But as it is so manifestly a duty, go and perform it like a man. Who will go with you?”
“I will ask Mr. Finn to be one.”
“He will be very hard upon you in the way of politics.”
“I can answer him better than I can you, sir. Mr. Lupton said he would come for a day or two. He’ll stand to me.”
After that his father stopped him as he was about to leave the room. “One more word, Silverbridge. Do you remember what you were saying when you walked down to the House with me from your club that night?” Silverbridge remembered very well what he had said. He had undertaken to ask Mabel Grex to be his wife, and had received his father’s ready approval to the proposition. But at this moment he was unwilling to refer to that matter. “I have thought about it very much since that,” said the Duke. “I may say that I have been thinking of it every day. If there were anything to tell me, you would let me know;—would you not?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then there is nothing to be told? I hope you have not changed your mind.”
Silverbridge paused a moment, trusting that he might be able to escape the making of any answer;—but the Duke evidently intended to have an answer. “It appeared to me, sir, that it did not seem to suit her,” said the hardly-driven young man. He could not now say that Mabel had shown a disposition to reject his offer, because as they had been sitting by the brookside at Killancodlem, even he, with all his self-diffidence, had been forced to see what were her wishes. Her confusion, and too evident despair when she heard of the offer to the American girl, had plainly told her tale. He could not now plead to his father that Mabel Grex would refuse his offer. But his self-defence, when first he found that he had lost himself in love for the American, had been based on that idea. He had done his best to make Mabel understand him. If he had not actually offered to her, he had done the next thing to it. And he had run after her, till he was ashamed of
