“I do not know her. I can’t say that I dislike a person whom I don’t think I ever spoke to, and never saw above once or twice. But how can I say that I like her?” She did, however, know that Lady Cantrip was a countess all over, and would be shocked at the idea of a daughter of a Duke of Omnium marrying the younger son of a country squire. Nothing further was then said on the matter, and when the Duke went to town Lady Mary was left quite alone, with an understanding that if he went into Barsetshire he should come back and take her with him.
He arrived at his own house in Carlton Terrace about five o’clock in the afternoon, and immediately went to his study, intending to dine and spend the evening there alone. His son had already pleaded an engagement for that afternoon, but had consented to devote the following morning to his father’s wishes. Of the other sojourner in his house the Duke had thought nothing; but the other sojourner had thought very much of the Duke. Frank Tregear was fully possessed of that courage which induces a man who knows that he must be thrown over a precipice, to choose the first possible moment for his fall. He had sounded Silverbridge about this change in his politics, and had found his friend quite determined not to go back to the family doctrine. Such being the case, the Duke’s ill-will and hardness and general severity would probably be enhanced by his interview with his son. Tregear, therefore, thinking that nothing could be got by delay, sent his name in to the Duke before he had been an hour in the house, and asked for an interview. The servant brought back word that his Grace was fatigued, but would see Mr. Tregear if the matter in question was one of importance. Frank’s heart quailed for a moment, but only for a moment. He took up a pen and wrote a note.
My dear Duke of Omnium,
If your Grace can spare a moment, I think you will find that what I have to say will justify the intrusion.
Of course the Duke admitted him. There was but one idea in his head as to what was coming. His son had taken this way of making some communication to him respecting his political creed. Some overture or some demand was to be preferred through Tregear. If so, it was proof of a certain anxiety as to the matter on his son’s part which was not displeasing to him. But he was not left long in this mistake after Tregear had entered the room. “Sir,” he said, speaking quite at once, as soon as the door was closed behind him, but still speaking very slowly, looking beautiful as Apollo as he stood upright before his wished-for father-in-law—“Sir, I have come to you to ask you to give me the hand of your daughter.” The few words had been all arranged beforehand, and were now spoken without any appearance of fear or shame. No one hearing them would have imagined that an almost penniless young gentleman was asking in marriage the daughter of the richest and greatest nobleman in England.
“The hand of my daughter!” said the Duke, rising from his chair.
“I know how very great is the prize,” said Frank, “and how unworthy I am of it. But—as she thinks me worthy—”
“She! What she?”
“Lady Mary.”
“She think you worthy!”
“Yes, your Grace.”
“I do not believe it.” On hearing this, Frank simply bowed his head. “I beg your pardon, Mr. Tregear. I do not mean to say that I do not believe you. I never yet gave the lie to a gentleman, and I hope I never may be driven to do so. But there must be some mistake in this.”
“I am complying with Lady Mary’s wishes in asking your permission to enter your house as her suitor.” The Duke stood for a moment biting his lips in silence. “I cannot believe it,” he said at last. “I cannot bring myself to believe it. There must be some mistake. My daughter! Lady Mary Palliser!” Again the young man bowed his head. “What are your pretensions?”
“Simply her regard.”
“Of course it is impossible. You are not so ignorant but that you must have known as much when you came to me.”
There was so much scorn in his words, and in the tone in which they were uttered, that Tregear in his turn was becoming angry. He had prepared himself to bow humbly before the great man, before the Duke, before the Croesus, before the late Prime Minister, before the man who was to be regarded as certainly one of the most exalted of the earth; but he had not prepared himself to be looked at as the Duke looked at him. “The truth, my Lord Duke, is this,” he said, “that your daughter loves me, and that we are engaged to each other—as far as that engagement can be made without your sanction as her father.”
“It cannot have been made at all,” said the Duke.
“I can only hope—we can both of us only hope that a little time may soften—”
“It is out of the question. There must be an end of this altogether. You must neither see her, nor hear from her, nor in any way communicate with her. It is altogether impossible. I believe, sir, that you have no means?”
“Very little at present, Duke.”
“How did you think you were to live? But it is altogether unnecessary to speak of such a matter as that. There are so many reasons to make this impossible, that it would be useless to discuss one as being more important than others. Has any other one of my family known of this?” This he added, wishing to ascertain whether Lord Silverbridge
