“I am not weak in this.”
“Did you not say exactly the same about Lady Mabel?”
There was a pause, so that he was driven to reply. “I found her as I thought indifferent, and then—I changed my mind.”
“Indifferent! What does she think about it now? Does she know of this? How does it stand between you two at the present moment?”
“She knows that I am engaged to—Miss Boncassen.”
“Does she approve of it?”
“Why should I ask her, sir? I have not asked her.”
“Then why did you tell her? She could not but have spoken her mind when you told her. There must have been much between you when this was talked of.”
The unfortunate young man was obliged to take some time before he could answer this appeal. He had to own that his father had some justice on his side, but at the same time he could reveal nothing of Mabel’s secret. “I told her because we were friends. I did not ask her approval; but she did disapprove. She thought that your son should not marry an American girl without family.”
“Of course she would feel that.”
“Now I have told you what she said, and I hope you will ask me no further questions about her. I cannot make Lady Mabel my wife;—though, for the matter of that, I ought not to presume that she would take me if I wished it. I had intended to ask you today to consent to my marriage with Miss Boncassen.”
“I cannot give you my consent.”
“Then I am very unhappy.”
“How can I believe as to your unhappiness when you would have said the same about Lady Mabel Grex a few weeks ago?”
“Nearly eight months,” said Silverbridge.
“What is the difference? It is not the time, but the disposition of the man! I cannot give you my consent. The young lady sees it in the right light, and that will make your escape easy.”
“I do not want to escape.”
“She has indicated the cause which will separate you.”
“I will not be separated from her,” said Silverbridge, who was beginning to feel that he was subjugated to tyranny. If he chose to marry Isabel, no one could have a right to hinder him.
“I can only hope that you will think better of it, and that when next you speak to me on that or any other subject you will answer me with less arrogance.”
This rebuke was terrible to the son, whose mind at the present moment was filled with two ideas, that of constancy to Isabel Boncassen, and then of respect and affection for his father. “Indeed, sir,” he said, “I am not arrogant, and if I have answered improperly I beg your pardon. But my mind is made up about this, and I thought you had better know how it is.”
“I do not see that I can say anything else to you now.”
“I think of going to Harrington this afternoon.” Then the Duke, with further very visible annoyance, asked where Harrington was. It was explained that Harrington was Lord Chiltern’s seat, Lord Chiltern being the Master of the Brake hounds;—that it was his son’s purpose to remain six weeks among the Brake hounds, but that he should stay only a day or two with Lord Chiltern. Then it appeared that Silverbridge intended to put himself up at a hunting inn in the neighbourhood, and the Duke did not at all like the plan. That his son should choose to live at an inn, when the comforts of an English country house were open to him, was distasteful and almost offensive to the Duke. And the matter was not improved when he was made to understand that all this was to be done for the sake of hunting. There had been the shooting in Scotland; then the racing—ah, alas! yes—the racing, and the betting at Doncaster! Then the shooting at Matching had been made to appear to be the chief reason why he himself had been living in his own house! And now his son was going away to live at an inn in order that more time might be devoted to hunting! “Why can’t you hunt here at home, if you must hunt?”
“It is all woodland,” said Silverbridge.
“I thought you wanted woods. Lord Chiltern is always troubling me about Trumpington Wood.”
This breeze about the hunting enabled the son to escape without any further allusion to Miss Boncassen. He did escape, and proceeded to turn over in his mind all that had been said. His tale had been told. A great burden was thus taken off his shoulders. He could tell Isabel so much, and thus free himself from the suspicion of having been afraid to declare his purpose. She should know what he had done, and should be made to understand that he had been firm. He had, he thought, been very firm and gave himself some credit on that head. His father, no doubt, had been firm too, but that he had expected. His father had said much. All that about honour and duty had been very good; but this was certain—that when a young man had promised a young woman he ought to keep his word. And he thought that there were certain changes going on in the management of the world which his father did not quite understand. Fathers never do quite understand the changes
