Over and over again since that, she had asked herself whether there was no chance. Though he had loved that other one best she would take him if it were possible. When the invitation came from the Duke she would not lose a chance. She had told him that it was impossible that he, the heir to the Duke of Omnium, should marry an American. All his family, all his friends, all his world would be against him. And then he was so young—and, as she thought, so easily led. He was lovable and prone to love;—but surely his love could not be very strong, or he would not have changed so easily.
She did not hesitate to own to herself that this American was very lovely. She too, herself, was beautiful. She too had a reputation for grace, loveliness, and feminine high-bred charm. She knew all that, but she knew also that her attractions were not so bright as those of her rival. She could not smile or laugh and throw sparks of brilliance around her as did the American girl. Miss Boncassen could be graceful as a nymph in doing the awkwardest thing! When she had pretended to walk stiffly along, to some imaginary marriage ceremony, with her foot stuck out before her, with her chin in the air, and one arm akimbo, Silverbridge had been all afire with admiration. Lady Mabel understood it all. The American girl must be taken away—from out of the reach of the young man’s senses—and then the struggle must be made.
Lady Mabel had not been long at Matching before she learned that she had much in her favour. She perceived that the Duke himself had no suspicion of what was going on, and that he was strongly disposed in her favour. She unravelled it all in her own mind. There must have been some agreement, between the father and the son, when the son had all but made his offer to her. More than once she was half-minded to speak openly to the Duke, to tell him all that Silverbridge had said to her and all that he had not said, and to ask the father’s help in scheming against that rival. But she could not find the words with which to begin. And then, might he not despise her, and, despising her, reject her, were she to declare her desire to marry a man who had given his heart to another woman? And so, when the Duke asked her to remain after the departure of the other guests, she decided that it would be best to bide her time. The Duke, as she assented, kissed her hand, and she knew that this sign of grace was given to his intended daughter-in-law.
In all this she half-confided her thoughts and her prospects to her old friend, Miss Cassewary. “That girl has gone at last,” she said to Miss Cass.
“I fear she has left her spells behind her, my dear.”
“Of course she has. The venom out of the snake’s tooth will poison all the blood; but still the poor bitten wretch does not always die.”
“I don’t think she is a snake.”
“Don’t be moral, Cass. She is a snake in my sense. She has got her weapons, and of course it is natural enough that she should use them. If I want to be Duchess of Omnium, why shouldn’t she?”
“I hate to hear you talk of yourself in that way.”
“Because you have enough of the old school about you to like conventional falsehood. This young man did in fact ask me to be his wife. Of course I meant to accept him—but I didn’t. Then comes this convict’s granddaughter.”
“Not a convict’s!”
“You know what I mean. Had he been a convict it would have been all the same. I take upon myself to say that, had the world been informed that an alliance had been arranged between the eldest son of the Duke of Omnium and the daughter of Earl Grex—the world would have been satisfied. Every unmarried daughter of every peer in England would have envied me—but it would have been comme il faut.”
“Certainly, my dear.”
“But what would be the feeling as to the convict’s granddaughter?”
“You don’t suppose that I would approve it;—but it seems to me that in these days young men do just what they please.”
“He shall do what he pleases, but he must be made to be pleased with me.” So much she said to Miss Cassewary; but she did not divulge any plan. The Boncassens had just gone off to the station, and Silverbridge was out shooting. If anything could be done here at Matching, it must be done quickly, as Silverbridge would soon take his departure. She did not know it, but, in truth, he was remaining in order that he might, as he said, “have all this out with the governor.”
She tried to realise for herself some plan, but when the evening came nothing was fixed. For a quarter of an hour, just as the sun was setting, the Duke joined her in the gardens—and spoke to her more plainly than he had ever spoken before. “Has Silverbridge come home?” he asked.
“I have not seen him.”
“I hope you and Mary get on well together.”
“I think so, Duke. I am sure we should if we saw more of each other.”
“I sincerely hope you may. There is nothing I wish for Mary so much as that she should have a sister. And there is no one whom I would be so glad to hear her call by that name as yourself.” How could he have spoken plainer?
The ladies were all together in the drawing-room when Silverbridge came bursting in rather late. “Where’s the governor?” he asked, turning to his sister.
“Dressing, I should think;
