“I believe I know Silverbridge as well as any man, and by George it is the very last thing of the kind that I should have expected. There have been no end of quarrels.”
“There has been no quarrel at all,” said Tregear, who had then just entered the room. “Nothing on earth would make Silverbridge quarrel with his father, and I think it would break the Duke’s heart to quarrel with his son.” Tifto endeavoured to argue the matter out; but Tregear having made the assertion on behalf of his friend would not allow himself to be enticed into further speech. Nevertheless there was a good deal said by others, during which the Major drank two glasses of whisky-and-water. In the dining-room he had been struck with awe by the Duke’s presence, and had certainly no idea of presenting himself personally to the great man. But Bacchus lent him aid, and when the discussion was over and the whisky had been swallowed, it occurred to him that he would go upstairs and ask to be introduced.
In the meantime the Duke and his son were seated in close conversation on one of the upstairs sofas. It was a rule at the Beargarden that men might smoke all over the house except in the dining-room;—but there was one small chamber called the library, in which the practice was not often followed. The room was generally deserted, and at this moment the father and son were the only occupants. “A club,” said the Duke, as he sipped his coffee, “is a comfortable and economical residence. A man gets what he wants well-served, and gets it cheap. But it has its drawbacks.”
“You always see the same fellows,” said Silverbridge.
“A man who lives much at a club is apt to fall into a selfish mode of life. He is taught to think that his own comfort should always be the first object. A man can never be happy unless his first objects are outside himself. Personal self-indulgence begets a sense of meanness which sticks to a man even when he has got beyond all hope of rescue. It is for that reason—among others—that marriage is so desirable.”
“A man should marry, I suppose.”
“Unless a man has on his shoulders the burden of a wife and children he should, I think, feel that he has shirked out of school. He is not doing his share of the work of the Commonwealth.”
“Pitt was not married, sir.”
“No;—and a great many other good men have remained unmarried. Do you mean to be another Pitt?”
“I don’t intend to be a Prime Minister.”
“I would not recommend you to entertain that ambition. Pitt perhaps hardly had time for marriage. You may be more lucky.”
“I suppose I shall marry some day.”
“I should be glad to see you marry early,” said the Duke, speaking in a low voice, almost solemnly, but in his quietest, sweetest tone of voice. “You are peculiarly situated. Though as yet you are only the heir to the property and honours of our family, still, were you married, almost everything would be at your disposal. There is so much which I should only be too ready to give up to you!”
“I can’t bear to hear you talking of giving up anything,” said Silverbridge energetically.
Then the father looked round the room furtively, and seeing that the door was shut, and that they were assuredly alone, he put out his hand and gently stroked the young man’s hair. It was almost a caress—as though he would have said to himself, “Were he my daughter, I would kiss him.” “There is much I would fain give up,” he said. “If you were a married man the house in Carlton Terrace would be fitter for you than for me. I have disqualified myself for taking that part in society which should be filled by the head of our family. You who have inherited so much from your mother would, if you married pleasantly, do all that right well.” He paused for a moment and then asked a straightforward question, very quickly—“You have never thought of anyone yet, I suppose?”
Silverbridge had thought very much of somebody. He was quite aware that he had almost made an offer to Lady Mabel. She certainly had not given him any encouragement; but the very fact that she had not done so allured him the more. He did believe that he was thoroughly in love with Lady Mabel. She had told him that he was too young—but he was older than Lady Mab herself by a week. She was beautiful;—that was certain. It was acknowledged by all that she was clever. As for blood, of which he believed his father thought much, there was perhaps none better in England. He had heard it said of her—as he now well remembered, in his father’s presence—that she had behaved remarkably well in trying circumstances. She had no fortune;—everybody knew that; but then he did not want fortune. Would not this be a good opportunity for breaking the matter to his father? “You have never thought of anyone?” said the Duke—again very sweetly, very softly.
“But I have!” Lord Silverbridge as he made the announcement blushed up to the eyes.
Then there came over the father something almost of fear. If he was to be told, how would it be if he could not approve?
“Yes I have,” said Silverbridge, recovering himself. “If you wish it, I will tell you who it is.”
“Nay, my boy;—as to that consult your own feelings. Are you sure of yourself?”
“Oh yes.”
“Have you spoken to her?”
“Well;—yes, in part. She has not accepted me, if you mean that. Rather the contrary.” Now the Duke would have been very unwilling to say that his son would certainly be accepted by any girl in England to whom he might choose to offer his hand. But when the idea of a doubt was suggested to him, it did seem odd that his son should ask in vain. What other
