“I understand all that.”
“I have been very anxious about it, and have even gone so far as to make some preparations for what I had hoped would be your early marriage.”
“Preparations!” exclaimed Silverbridge, thinking of church bells, bride cake, and wedding presents.
“As to the property. I am so anxious that you should enjoy all the settled independence which can belong to an English gentleman. I never plough or sow. I know no more of sheep and bulls than of the extinct animals of earlier ages. I would not have it so with you. I would fain see you surrounded by those things which ought to interest a nobleman in this country. Why is it all over with Lady Mabel Grex?”
The young man looked imploringly at his father, as though earnestly begging that nothing more might be said about Mabel. “I had changed my mind before I found out that she was really in love with me!” He could not say that. He could not hint that he might still have Mabel if he would. The only thing for him was to tell everything about Isabel Boncassen. He felt that in doing this he must begin with himself. “I have rather changed my mind, sir,” he said, “since we were walking together in London that night.”
“Have you quarrelled with Lady Mabel?”
“Oh dear no. I am very fond of Mabel;—only not just like that.”
“Not just like what?”
“I had better tell the whole truth at once.”
“Certainly tell the truth, Silverbridge. I cannot say that you are bound in duty to tell the whole truth even to your father in such a matter.”
“But I mean to tell you everything. Mabel did not seem to care for me much—in London. And then I saw someone—someone I liked better.” Then he stopped, but as the Duke did not ask any questions he plunged on. “It was Miss Boncassen.”
“Miss Boncassen!”
“Yes, sir,” said Silverbridge, with a little access of decision.
“The American young lady?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Do you know anything of her family?”
“I think I know all about her family. It is not much in the way of—family.”
“You have not spoken to her about it?”
“Yes, sir;—I have settled it all with her, on condition—”
“Settled it with her that she is to be your wife!”
“Yes, sir—on condition that you will approve.”
“Did you go to her, Silverbridge, with such a stipulation as that?”
“It was not like that.”
“How was it then?”
“She stipulated. She will marry me if you will consent.”
“It was she then who thought of my wishes and my feeling;—not you?”
“I knew that I loved her. What is a man to do when he feels like that? Of course I meant to tell you.” The Duke was now looking very black. “I thought you liked her, sir.”
“Liked her! I did like her. I do like her. What has that to do with it? Do you think I like none but those with whom I should think it fitting to ally myself in marriage? Is there to be no duty in such matters, no restraint, no feeling of what is due to your own name, and to others who bear it? The lad out there who is sweeping the walks can marry the first girl that pleases his eye if she will take him. Perhaps his lot is the happier because he owns such liberty. Have you the same freedom?”
“I suppose I have—by law.”
“Do you recognise no duty but what the laws impose upon you? Should you be disposed to eat and drink in bestial excess, because the laws would not hinder you? Should you lie and sleep all the day, the law would say nothing! Should you neglect every duty which your position imposes on you, the law could not interfere! To such a one as you the law can be no guide. You should so live as not to come near the law—or to have the law to come near to you. From all evil against which the law bars you, you should be barred, at an infinite distance, by honour, by conscience, and nobility. Does the law require patriotism, philanthropy, self-abnegation, public service, purity of purpose, devotion to the needs of others who have been placed in the world below you? The law is a great thing—because men are poor and weak, and bad. And it is great, because where it exists in its strength, no tyrant can be above it. But between you and me there should be no mention of law as the guide of conduct. Speak to me of honour, of duty, and of nobility; and tell me what they require of you.”
Silverbridge listened in silence and with something of true admiration in his heart. But he felt the strong necessity of declaring his own convictions on one special point here, at once, in this new crisis of the conversation. That accident in regard to the colour of the Dean’s lodge had stood in the way of his logical studies—so that he was unable to put his argument into proper shape; but there belonged to him a certain natural astuteness which told him that he must put in his rejoinder at this particular point. “I think I am bound in honour and in duty to marry Miss Boncassen,” he said. “And, if I understand what you mean, by nobility just as much.”
“Because you have promised.”
“Not only for that. I have promised and therefore I am bound. She has—well, she has said that she loves me, and therefore of course I am bound. But it is not only that.”
“What do you mean?”
“I suppose a man ought to marry the woman he loves—if he can get her.”
“No; no; not so; not always so. Do you think that love is a passion that cannot be withstood?”
“But here we are both of one mind, sir. When I saw how you seemed to take to her—”
“Take to her! Can I not interest myself in human beings without wishing to make them flesh of my flesh,
