She had as yet received no answer from the Duke, though nearly a fortnight had elapsed since she had written her letter. During that time she had become very angry. She felt that he was not treating her as a gentleman should treat a lady, and certainly not as the husband of her late friend should have treated the friend of his late wife. She had a proud consciousness of having behaved well to the Pallisers, and now this head of the Pallisers was rewarding her by evil treatment. She had been generous; he was ungenerous. She had been honest; he was deficient even in that honesty for which she had given him credit. And she had been unable to obtain any of that consolation which could have come to her from talking of her wrongs. She could not complain to her husband, because there were reasons that made it essential that her husband should not quarrel with the Duke. She was hot with indignation at the very moment in which Tregear was announced.
He began by apologising for his intrusion, and she of course assured him that he was welcome. “After the liberty which I took with you, Mr. Tregear, I am only too well pleased that you should come to see me.”
“I am afraid,” he said, “that I was a little rough.”
“A little warm;—but that was to be expected. A gentleman never likes to be interfered with on such a matter.”
“The position was and is difficult, Mrs. Finn.”
“And I am bound to acknowledge the very ready way in which you did what I asked you to do.”
“And now, Mrs. Finn, what is to come next?”
“Ah!”
“Something must be done! You know of course that the Duke did not receive me with any great favour.”
“I did not suppose he would.”
“Nor did I. Of course he would object to such a marriage. But a man in these days cannot dictate to his daughter what husband she should marry.”
“Perhaps he can dictate to her what husband she shall not marry.”
“Hardly that. He may put impediments in the way; and the Duke will do so. But if I am happy enough to have won the affections of his daughter—so as to make it essential to her happiness that she should become my wife—he will give way.”
“What am I to say, Mr. Tregear?”
“Just what you think.”
“Why should I be made to say what I think on so delicate a matter? Or of what use would be my thoughts? Remember how far I am removed from her.”
“You are his friend.”
“Not at all! No one less so!” As she said this she could not hinder the colour from coming into her face. “I was her friend—Lady Glencora’s; but with the death of my friend there was an end of all that.”
“You were staying with him—at his request. You told me so yourself.”
“I shall never stay with him again. But all that, Mr. Tregear, is of no matter. I do not mean to say a word against him;—not a word. But if you wish to interest anyone as being the Duke’s friend, then I can assure you I am the last person in London to whom you should come. I know no one to whom the Duke is likely to entertain feelings so little kind as towards me.” This she said in a peculiarly solemn way that startled Tregear. But before he could answer her a servant entered the room with a letter. She recognised at once the Duke’s handwriting. Here was the answer for which she had been so long waiting in silent expectation! She could not keep it unread till he was gone. “Will you allow me a moment?” she whispered, and then she opened the envelope. As she read the few words her eyes became laden with tears. They quite sufficed to relieve the injured pride which had sat so heavy at her heart. “I believe I did you a wrong, and therefore I ask your pardon!” It was so like what she had believed the man to be! She could not be longer angry with him. And yet the very last words she had spoken were words complaining of his conduct. “This is from the Duke,” she said, putting the letter back into its envelope.
“Oh, indeed.”
“It is odd that it should have come while you were here.”
“Is it—is it—about Lady Mary?”
“No;—at least—not directly. I perhaps spoke more harshly about him than I should have done. The truth is I had expected a line from him, and it had not come. Now it is here; but I do not suppose I shall ever see much of him. My intimacy was with her. But I would not wish you to remember what I said just now, if—if—”
“If what, Mrs. Finn? You mean, perhaps, if I should ever be allowed to call myself his son-in-law. It may seem to you to be arrogant, but it is an honour which I expect to win.”
“Faint heart—you know, Mr. Tregear.”
“Exactly. One has to tell oneself that very often. You will help me?”
“Certainly not,” she said, as though she were much startled. “How can I help you?”
“By telling me what I should do. I suppose if I were to go down to Richmond I should not be admitted.”
“If you ask me, I think not;—not to see Lady Mary. Lady Cantrip would perhaps see you.”
“She is acting the part of—duenna.”
“As I should do also, if Lady Mary were staying with me. You don’t suppose that if she were here I would
