Then in the first week in November a special meeting was called at the Beargarden, at which Lord Silverbridge was asked to attend. “It is impossible that he should be allowed to remain in the club.” This was said to Lord Silverbridge by Mr. Lupton. “Either he must go or the club must be broken up.”
Silverbridge was very unhappy on the occasion. He had at last been reasoned into believing that the horse had been made the victim of foul play; but he persisted in saying that there was no conclusive evidence against Tifto. The matter was argued with him. Tifto had laid bets against the horse; Tifto had been hand-and-glove with Green; Tifto could not have been absent from the horse above two minutes; the thing could not have been arranged without Tifto. As he had brought Tifto into the club, and had been his partner on the turf, it was his business to look into the matter. “But for all that,” said he, “I’m not going to jump on a man when he’s down, unless I feel sure that he’s guilty.”
Then the meeting was held, and Tifto himself appeared. When the accusation was made by Mr. Lupton, who proposed that he should be expelled, he burst into tears. The whole story was repeated—the nail, and the hammer, and the lameness; and the moments were counted up, and poor Tifto’s bets and friendship with Green were made apparent—and the case was submitted to the club. An old gentleman who had been connected with the turf all his life, and who would not have scrupled, by square betting, to rob his dearest friend of his last shilling, seconded the proposition—telling all the story over again. Then Major Tifto was asked whether he wished to say anything.
“I’ve got to say that I’m here,” said Tifto, still crying, “and if I’d done anything of that kind, of course I’d have gone with the rest of ’em. I put it to Lord Silverbridge to say whether I’m that sort of fellow.” Then he sat down.
Upon this there was a pause, and the club was manifestly of opinion that Lord Silverbridge ought to say something. “I think that Major Tifto should not have betted against the horse,” said Silverbridge.
“I can explain that,” said the Major. “Let me explain that. Everybody knows that I’m a man of small means. I wanted to ’edge, I only wanted to ’edge.”
Mr. Lupton shook his head. “Why have you not shown me your book?”
“I told you before that it was stolen. Green got hold of it. I did win a little. I never said I didn’t. But what has that to do with hammering a nail into a horse’s foot? I have always been true to you, Lord Silverbridge, and you ought to stick up for me now.”
“I will have nothing further to do with the matter,” said Silverbridge, “one way or the other,” and he walked out of the room—and out of the club. The affair was ended by a magnanimous declaration on the part of Major Tifto that he would not remain in a club in which he was suspected, and by a consent on the part of the meeting to receive the Major’s instant resignation.
L
The Duke’s Arguments
The Duke before he left Custins had an interview with Lady Cantrip, at which that lady found herself called upon to speak her mind freely. “I don’t think she cares about Lord Popplecourt,” Lady Cantrip said.
“I am sure I don’t know why she should,” said the Duke, who was often very aggravating even to his friend.
“But as we had thought—”
“She ought to do as she is told,” said the Duke, remembering how obedient his Glencora had been. “Has he spoken to her?”
“I think not.”
“Then how can we tell?”
“I asked her to see him, but she expressed so much dislike that I could not press it. I am afraid, Duke, that you will find it difficult to deal with her.”
“I have found it very difficult!”
“As you have trusted me so much—”
“Yes;—I have trusted you, and do trust you. I hope you understand that I appreciate your kindness.”
“Perhaps then you will let me say what I think.”
“Certainly, Lady Cantrip.”
“Mary is a very peculiar girl—with great gifts—but—”
“But what?”
“She is obstinate. Perhaps it would be fairer to say that she has great firmness of character. It is within your power to separate her from Mr. Tregear. It would be foreign to her character to—to—leave you, except with your approbation.”
“You mean, she will not run away.”
“She will do nothing without your permission. But she will remain unmarried unless she be allowed to marry Mr. Tregear.”
“What do you advise then?”
“That you should yield. As regards money, you could give them what they want. Let him go into public life. You could manage that for him.”
“He is Conservative!”
“What does that matter when the question is one of your daughter’s happiness? Everybody tells me that he is clever and well conducted.”
He betrayed nothing by his face as this was said to him. But as he got into the carriage he was a miserable man. It is very well to tell a man that he should yield, but there is nothing so wretched to a man as yielding. Young people and women have to yield—but for such a man as this, to yield is in itself a misery. In this matter the Duke was quite certain of the propriety of his judgment. To yield would be not only to mortify himself, but to do wrong at the same time. He had convinced himself that the Popplecourt arrangement would come to nothing. Nor had he and Lady Cantrip combined been
