And yet Mary could not tell her tale in return. She could not show the reverse picture;—that she being a star was anxious to dispose of herself after the fashion of poor human rushlights. It was not that she was ashamed of her love, but that she could not bring herself to yield altogether in reference to the great descent which Silverbridge would have to make.
On the day after this—the last day of the Duke’s sojourn at Custins, the last also of the Boncassens’ visit—it came to pass that the Duke and Mr. Boncassen, with Lady Mary and Isabel, were all walking in the woods together. And it so happened when they were at a little distance from the house, each of the girls was walking with the other girl’s father. Isabel had calculated what she would say to the Duke should a time for speaking come to her. She could not tell him of his son’s love. She could not ask his permission. She could not explain to him all her feelings, or tell him what she thought of her proper way of getting into heaven. That must come afterwards if it should ever come at all. But there was something that she could tell. “We are so different from you,” she said, speaking of her own country.
“And yet so like,” said the Duke, smiling;—“your language, your laws, your habits!”
“But still there is such a difference! I do not think there is a man in the whole Union more respected than father.”
“I dare say not.”
“Many people think that if he would only allow himself to be put in nomination, he might be the next president.”
“The choice, I am sure, would do your country honour.”
“And yet his father was a poor labourer who earned his bread among the shipping at New York. That kind of thing would be impossible here.”
“My dear young lady, there you wrong us.”
“Do I?”
“Certainly! A Prime Minister with us might as easily come from the same class.”
“Here you think so much of rank. You are—a Duke.”
“But a Prime Minister can make a Duke; and if a man can raise himself by his own intellect to that position, no one will think of his father or his grandfather. The sons of merchants have with us been Prime Ministers more than once, and no Englishmen ever were more honoured among their countrymen. Our peerage is being continually recruited from the ranks of the people, and hence it gets its strength.”
“Is it so?”
“There is no greater mistake than to suppose that inferiority of birth is a barrier to success in this country.”
She listened to this and to much more on the same subject with attentive ears—not shaken in her ideas as to the English aristocracy in general, but thinking that she was perhaps learning something of his own individual opinions. If he were more liberal than others, on that liberality might perhaps be based her own happiness and fortune.
He, in all this, was quite unconscious of the working of her mind. Nor in discussing such matters generally did he ever mingle his own private feelings, his own pride of race and name, his own ideas of what was due to his ancient rank with the political creed by which his conduct in public life was governed. The peer who sat next to him in the House of Lords, whose grandmother had been a washerwoman and whose father an innkeeper, was to him every whit as good a peer as himself. And he would as soon sit in counsel with Mr. Monk, whose father had risen from a mechanic to be a merchant, as with any nobleman who could count ancestors against himself. But there was an inner feeling in his bosom as to his own family, his own name, his own children, and his own personal self, which was kept altogether apart from his grand political theories. It was a subject on which he never spoke; but the feeling had come to him as a part of his birthright. And he conceived that it would pass through him to his children after the same fashion. It was this which made the idea of a marriage between his daughter and Tregear intolerable to him, and which would operate as strongly in regard to any marriage which his son might contemplate. Lord Grex was not a man with whom he would wish to form any intimacy. He was, we may say, a wretched unprincipled old man, bad all round; and such the Duke knew him to be. But the blue blood and the rank were there; and as the girl was good herself, he would have been quite contented that his son should marry the daughter of Lord Grex. That one and the same man should have been in one part of himself so unlike the other part—that he should have one set of opinions so contrary to another set—poor Isabel Boncassen did not understand.
XLIX
The Major’s Fate
The affair of Prime Minister and the nail was not allowed to fade away into obscurity. Through September and October it was made matter for pungent inquiry. The Jockey Club was alive. Mr. Pook was very instant—with many Pookites anxious to free themselves from suspicion. Sporting men declared that the honour of the turf required that every detail of the case should be laid open. But by the end of October, though every detail had been surmised, nothing had in truth been discovered. Nobody doubted but that Tifto had driven the nail into the horse’s foot, and that Green and Gilbert Villiers had shared the bulk of the plunder. They
