“She shall come afterwards as often as she likes.”
“What—paying me morning visits from New York! She must come now, if you please. Love me, love my mother.”
“I am awfully fond of her,” said Silverbridge, who felt that he really had behaved well to the old lady.
“So am I—and therefore she shall go and see the house now. You are as good as gold—and do everything just as I tell you. But a good time is coming, when I shall have to do everything that you tell me.” Then it was arranged that Mrs. and Miss Boncassen were to be taken down to the house in their own carriage, and were to be received at the door by Lord Silverbridge.
Another arrangement had also been made. Isabel was to be taken to the Duke immediately upon her arrival and to be left for awhile with him, alone, so that he might express himself as he might find fit to do to this newly-adopted child. It was a matter to him of such importance that nothing remaining to him in his life could equal it. It was not simply that she was to be the wife of his son—though that in itself was a consideration very sacred. Had it been Gerald who was bringing to him a bride, the occasion would have had less of awe. But this girl, this American girl, was to be the mother and grandmother of future Dukes of Omnium—the ancestress, it was to be hoped, of all future Dukes of Omnium! By what she might be, by what she might have in her of mental fibre, of high or low quality, of true or untrue womanliness, were to be fashioned those who in days to come might be amongst the strongest and most faithful bulwarks of the constitution. An England without a Duke of Omnium—or at any rate without any Duke—what would it be? And yet he knew that with bad Dukes his country would be in worse stress than though she had none at all. An aristocracy;—yes; but an aristocracy that shall be of the very best! He believed himself thoroughly in his order; but if his order, or many of his order, should become as was now Lord Grex, then, he thought, that his order not only must go to the wall but that, in the cause of humanity, it had better do so. With all this daily, hourly, always in his mind, this matter of the choice of a wife for his heir was to him of solemn importance.
When they arrived Silverbridge was there and led them first of all into the dining-room. “My!” said Mrs. Boncassen, as she looked around her. “I thought that our Fifth Avenue parlours whipped everything in the way of city houses.”
“What a nice little room for Darby and Joan to sit down to eat a mutton-chop in,” said Isabel.
“It’s a beastly great barrack,” said Silverbridge;—“but the best of it is that we never use it. We’ll have a cosy little place for Darby and Joan;—you’ll see. Now come to the governor. I’ve got to leave you with him.”
“Oh me! I am in such a fright.”
“He can’t eat you,” said Mrs. Boncassen.
“And he won’t even bite,” said Silverbridge.
“I should not mind that because I could bite again. But if he looks as though he thought I shouldn’t do, I shall drop.”
“My belief is that he’s almost as much in love with you as I am,” said Silverbridge, as he took her to the door of the Duke’s room. “Here we are, sir.”
“My dear,” said the Duke, rising up and coming to her, “I am very glad to see you. It is good of you to come to me.” Then he took her in both his hands and kissed her forehead and her lips. She, as she put her face up to him, stood quite still in his embrace, but her eyes were bright with pleasure.
“Shall I leave her?” said Silverbridge.
“For a few minutes.”
“Don’t keep her too long, for I want to take her all over the house.”
“A few minutes—and then I will bring her up to the drawing-room.” Upon this the door was closed, and Isabel was alone with her new father. “And so, my dear, you are to be my child.”
“If you will have me.”
“Come here and sit down by me. Your father has already told you that;—has he not?”
“He has told me that you had consented.”
“And Silverbridge has said as much?”
“I would sooner hear it from you than from either of them.”
“Then hear it from me. You shall be my child. And if you will love me you shall be very dear to me. You shall be my own child—as dear as my own. I must either love his wife very dearly, or else I must be an unhappy man. And she must love me dearly, or I must be unhappy.”
“I will love you,” she said, pressing his hand.
“And now let me say some few words to you, only let there be no bitterness in them to your young heart. When I say that I take you to my heart, you may be sure that I do so thoroughly. You shall be as dear to me and as near as though you had been all English.”
“Shall I?”
“There shall no difference be made. My boy’s wife shall be my daughter in very deed. But I had not wished it to be so.”
“I knew that;—but could I have given him up?”
“He at any rate could not give you up. There were little prejudices;—you can understand that.”
“Oh yes.”
“We who wear black coats could not bring
