“And will he be sent down?”
“I do not know all the circumstances. From your own showing the case seems to be one of great insubordination. To tell the truth, Lord Silverbridge, I ought not to have spoken to you on the subject at all.”
“You mean that I should not have spoken to you.”
“Well; I did not say so. And if you have been indiscreet I can pardon that. I wish I could have served you; but I fear that it is not in my power.” Then Lord Silverbridge took his leave, and going to his brother’s rooms waited there till Lord Gerald had returned from his interview with the tutor.
“It’s all up,” said he, chucking down his cap, striving to be at his ease. “I may pack up and go—just where I please. He says that on no account will he have anything more to do with me. I asked him what I was to do, and he said that the governor had better take my name off the books of the college. I did ask whether I couldn’t go over to Maclean.”
“Who is Maclean?”
“One of the other tutors. But the brute only smiled.”
“He thought you meant it for chaff.”
“Well;—I suppose I did mean to show him that I was not going to be exterminated by him. He will write to the governor today. And you will have to talk to the governor.”
Yes! As Lord Silverbridge went back that afternoon to London he thought very much of that talking to the governor! Never yet had he been able to say anything very pleasant to “the governor.” He had himself been always in disgrace at Eton, and had been sent away from Oxford. He had introduced Tregear into the family, which of all the troubles perhaps was the worst. He had changed his politics. He had spent more money than he ought to have done, and now at this very moment must ask for a large sum. And he had brought Gerald up to see the Derby, thereby causing him to be sent away from Cambridge! And through it all there was present to him a feeling that by no words which he could use would he be able to make his father understand how deeply he felt all this.
He could not bring himself to see the Duke that evening, and the next morning he was sent for before he was out of bed. He found his father at breakfast with the tutor’s letter before him. “Do you know anything about this?” asked the Duke very calmly.
“Gerald ran up to see the Derby, and in the evening missed the train.”
“Mr. Harnage tells me that he had been expressly ordered not to go to these races.”
“I suppose he was, sir.”
Then there was silence between them for some minutes. “You might as well sit down and eat your breakfast,” said the father. Then Lord Silverbridge did sit down and poured himself out a cup of tea. There was no servant in the room, and he dreaded to ring the bell. “Is there anything you want?” asked the Duke. There was a small dish of fried bacon on the table, and some cold mutton on the sideboard. Silverbridge, declaring that he had everything that was necessary, got up and helped himself to the cold mutton. Then again there was silence, during which the Duke crunched his toast and made an attempt at reading the newspaper. But, soon pushing that aside, he again took up Mr. Harnage’s letter. Silverbridge watched every motion of his father as he slowly made his way through the slice of cold mutton. “It seems that Gerald is to be sent away altogether.”
“I fear so, sir.”
“He has profited by your example at Oxford. Did you persuade him to come to these races?”
“I am afraid I did.”
“Though you knew the orders which had been given?”
“I thought it was meant that he should not be away the night.”
“He had asked permission to go to the Derby and had been positively refused. Did you know that?”
Silverbridge sat for some moments considering. He could not at first quite remember what he had known and what he had not known. Perhaps he entertained some faint hope that the question would be allowed to pass unanswered. He saw, however, from his father’s eye that that was impossible. And then he did remember it all. “I suppose I did know it.”
“And you were willing to imperil your brother’s position in life, and my happiness, in order that he might see a horse, of which I believe you call yourself part owner, run a race?”
“I thought there would be no risk if he got back the same night. I don’t suppose there is any good in my saying it, but I never was so sorry for anything in all my life. I feel as if I could go and hang myself.”
“That is absurd—and unmanly,” said the Duke. The expression of sorrow, as it had been made, might be absurd and unmanly, but nevertheless it had touched him. He was severe because he did not know how far his severity wounded. “It is a great blow—another great blow! Races! A congregation of all the worst blackguards in the country mixed with the greatest fools.”
“Lord Cantrip was there,” said Silverbridge; “and I saw Sir Timothy Beeswax.”
“If the presence of Sir Timothy be an allurement to you, I pity you indeed. I have nothing further to say about it. You have ruined your
