“Of course I knew it was to be settled for you. You told me so at Custins.”
“I did not know it myself then. I only told you that he had asked me. And you hardly believed me.”
“I certainly believed you.”
“But you knew about—Lady Mabel Grex.”
“I only suspected something, and now I know it was a mistake. It has never been more than a suspicion.”
“And why, when we were at Custins, did you not tell me about yourself?”
“I had nothing to tell.”
“I can understand that. But is it not joyful that it should all be settled? Only poor Lady Mabel! You have got no Lady Mabel to trouble your conscience.” From which it was evident that Silverbridge had not told all.
LXXV
The Major’s Story
By the end of March Isabel was in Paris, whither she had forbidden her lover to follow her. Silverbridge was therefore reduced to the shifts of a bachelor’s life, in which his friends seemed to think that he ought now to take special delight. Perhaps he did not take much delight in them. He was no doubt impatient to commence that steady married life for which he had prepared himself. But nevertheless, just at present, he lived a good deal at the Beargarden. Where was he to live? The Boncassens were in Paris, his sister was at Matching with a houseful of other Pallisers, and his father was again deep in politics.
Of course he was much in the House of Commons, but that also was stupid. Indeed everything would be stupid till Isabel came back. Perhaps dinner was more comfortable at the club than at the House. And then, as everybody knew, it was a good thing to change the scene. Therefore he dined at the club, and though he would keep his hansom and go down to the House again in the course of the evening, he spent many long hours at the Beargarden. “There’ll very soon be an end of this as far as you are concerned,” said Mr. Lupton to him one evening as they were sitting in the smoking-room after dinner.
“The sooner the better as far as this place is concerned.”
“This place is as good as any other. For the matter of that I like the Beargarden since we got rid of two or three not very charming characters.”
“You mean my poor friend Tifto,” said Silverbridge.
“No;—I was not thinking of Tifto. There were one or two here who were quite as bad as Tifto. I wonder what has become of that poor devil?”
“I don’t know in the least. You heard of that row about the hounds?”
“And his letter to you.”
“He wrote to me—and I answered him, as you know. But whither he vanished, or what he is doing, or how he is living, I have not the least idea.”
“Gone to join those other fellows abroad, I should say. Among them they got a lot of money—as the Duke ought to remember.”
“He is not with them,” said Silverbridge, as though he were in some degree mourning over the fate of his unfortunate friend.
“I suppose Captain Green was the leader in all that?”
“Now it is all done and gone I own to a certain regard for the Major. He was true to me till he thought I snubbed him. I would not let him go down to Silverbridge with me. I always thought that I drove the poor Major to his malpractices.”
At this moment Dolly Longstaff sauntered into the room and came up to them. It may be remembered that Dolly had declared his purpose of emigrating. As soon as he heard that the Duke’s heir had serious thoughts of marrying the lady whom he loved he withdrew at once from the contest, but, as he did so, he acknowledged that there could be no longer a home for him in the country which Isabel was to inhabit as the wife of another man. Gradually, however, better thoughts returned to him. After all, what was she but a “pert poppet”? He determined that marriage “clips a fellow’s wings confoundedly,” and so he set himself to enjoy life after his old fashion. There was perhaps a little swagger as he threw himself into a chair and addressed the happy lover. “I’ll be shot if I didn’t meet Tifto at the corner of the street.”
“Tifto!”
“Yes, Tifto. He looked awfully seedy, with a greatcoat buttoned up to his chin, a shabby hat and old gloves.”
“Did he speak to you?” asked Silverbridge.
“No;—nor I to him. He hadn’t time to think whether he would speak or not, and you may be sure I didn’t.”
Nothing further was said about the man, but Silverbridge was uneasy and silent. When his cigar was finished he got up, saying that he should go back to the House. As he left the club he looked about him as though expecting to see his old friend, and when he had passed through the first street and had got into the Haymarket there he was! The Major came up to him, touched his hat, asked to be allowed to say a few words. “I don’t think it can do any good,” said Silverbridge. The man had not attempted to shake hands with him, or affected familiarity; but seemed to be thoroughly humiliated. “I don’t think I can be of any service to you, and therefore I had rather decline.”
“I don’t want you to be of any service, my Lord.”
“Then what’s the good?”
“I have something to say. May I come to you tomorrow?”
Then Silverbridge allowed himself to make an appointment,
