“But he must be made to hear of it,” said Lady Chiltern. Two days afterwards the news reached Harrington of the death of the Duke of Omnium. A letter of an official nature reached Adelaide from Mr. Fothergill, in which the writer explained that he had been desired by Mr. Palliser to communicate to her and the relatives the sad tidings. “So the poor old man has gone at last,” said Lady Chiltern, with that affectation of funereal gravity which is common to all of us.
“Poor old Duke!” said Adelaide. “I have been hearing of him as a sort of bugbear all my life. I don’t think I ever saw him but once, and then he gave me a kiss and a pair of earrings. He never paid any attention to us at all, but we were taught to think that Providence had been very good to us in making the Duke our uncle.”
“He was very rich?”
“Horribly rich, I have always heard.”
“Won’t he leave you something? It would be very nice now that you are engaged to find that he has given you five thousand pounds.”
“Very nice indeed;—but there is not a chance of it. It has always been known that everything is to go to the heir. Papa had his fortune and spent it. He and his brother were never friends, and though the Duke did once give me a kiss I imagine that he forgot my existence immediately afterwards.”
“So the Duke of Omnium is dead,” said Lord Chiltern when he came home that evening.
“Adelaide has had a letter to tell her so this afternoon.”
“Mr. Fothergill wrote to me,” said Adelaide;—“the man who is so wicked about the foxes.”
“I don’t care a straw about Mr. Fothergill; and now my mouth is closed against your uncle. But it’s quite frightful to think that a Duke of Omnium must die like anybody else.”
“The Duke is dead;—long live the Duke,” said Lady Chiltern. “I wonder how Mr. Palliser will like it.”
“Men always do like it, I suppose,” said Adelaide.
“Women do,” said Lord Chiltern. “Lady Glencora will be delighted to reign—though I can hardly fancy her by any other name. By the by, Adelaide, I have got a letter for you.”
“A letter for me, Lord Chiltern!”
“Well—yes; I suppose I had better give it you. It is not addressed to you, but you must answer it.”
“What on earth is it?”
“I think I can guess,” said Lady Chiltern, laughing. She had guessed rightly, but Adelaide Palliser was still altogether in the dark when Lord Chiltern took a letter from his pocket and handed it to her. As he did so he left the room, and his wife followed him. “I shall be upstairs, Adelaide, if you want advice,” said Lady Chiltern.
The letter was from Mr. Spooner. He had left Harrington Hall after the uncourteous reception which had been accorded to him by Miss Palliser in deep disgust, resolving that he would never again speak to her, and almost resolving that Spoon Hall should never have a mistress in his time. But with his wine after dinner his courage came back to him, and he began to reflect once more that it is not the habit of young ladies to accept their lovers at the first offer. There was living with Mr. Spooner at this time a very attached friend, whom he usually consulted in all emergencies, and to whom on this occasion he opened his heart. Mr. Edward Spooner, commonly called Ned by all who knew him, and not unfrequently so addressed by those who did not, was a distant cousin of the Squire’s, who unfortunately had no particular income of his own. For the last ten years he had lived at Spoon Hall, and had certainly earned his bread. The Squire had achieved a certain credit for success as a country gentleman. Nothing about his place was out of order. His own farming, which was extensive, succeeded. His bullocks and sheep won prizes. His horses were always useful and healthy. His tenants were solvent, if not satisfied, and he himself did not owe a shilling. Now many people in the neighbourhood attributed all this to the judicious care of Mr. Edward Spooner, whose eye was never off the place, and whose discretion was equal to his zeal. In giving the Squire his due, one must acknowledge that he recognised the merits of his cousin, and trusted him in everything. That night, as soon as the customary bottle of claret had succeeded the absolutely normal bottle of port after dinner, Mr. Spooner of Spoon Hall opened his heart to his cousin.
“I shall have to walk, then,” said Ned.
“Not if I know it,” said the Squire. “You don’t suppose I’m going to let any woman have the command of Spoon Hall?”
“They do command—inside, you know.”
“No woman shall ever turn you out of this house, Ned.”
“I’m not thinking of myself, Tom,” said the cousin. “Of course you’ll marry some day, and of course I must take my chance. I don’t see why it shouldn’t be Miss Palliser as well as another.”
“The jade almost made me angry.”
“I suppose that’s the way with most of ’em. ‘Ludit exultim metuitque tangi.’ ” For Ned Spooner had himself preserved some few tattered shreds of learning from his school days. “You don’t remember about the filly?”
“Yes I do; very well,” said the Squire.
“ ‘Nuptiarum expers.’ That’s what it is, I suppose. Try it again.” The advice on the part of the cousin was genuine and unselfish. That Mr. Spooner of Spoon Hall should be rejected by a young lady without any fortune seemed to him to be impossible. At
