They stood confused—even the unblushing front of the lover reddened.
‘I have thought of a way of getting time. Come with us, Constance, as Lord Chester’s nearest female relation; I as his tutor, in absence of Lady Boltons, who is ill. When the Chancellor proposes the Duchess, do you propose—yourself. She will decide against you on the spot.Appeal to the House; that will give us three months’ delay.’
THECHANCELLOR, a lady now advanced in years, was of humble origin—a fact to which she often alluded to at public meetings with a curious mixture of humility and pride: the former, because it did really humiliate her in a country where so much deference was paid to hereditary rank, to reflect that she could not be proud of her ancestors; the latter, because her position was really so splendid, and her enemies could not but acknowledge it. She had plenty of enemies—as was, of course, the case with every successful woman in every line of life—and these were unanimous in declaring that she proclaimed her humble origin only because, if she attempted to conceal it, other people would proclaim it for her. And, indeed, without attributing extraordinary malice to these ladies, the Chancellor’s unsuccessful rivals and enemies, this statement was probably true—nothing being more common, during an animated debate, than for the ladies to hurl at each other’s heads all such facts procurable as might be calculated to damage the reputation of a family: and this so much so, that after a lively night the family trees were as much scotched, broken, and loppedas a public pleasure-garden in the nineteenth century after the first Monday in August.
At this time the Chancellor had arrived at a respectable age—being, that is to say, in her sixty-sixth year. She was a woman of uneven temper, having been soured by a long life of struggle against rivals who lost no opportunity of assailing her public and private reputation. She had remained unmarried, because, said her foes, no man would consent to link his lot with so spiteful a person; she was no lawyer, they said, because her whole desire and aim had been to show herself a lawyer of the highest rank; she was partial—this they said for the same reason, because she wanted to be remembered as an upright judge. They alluded in the House to her ignorance of the higher culture—although the poor lady had taught herself half-a-dozen languages, and was skilled in many arts; and they taunted her with her friendship for, meaning her dependence upon, her patron, the Duchess of Dunstanburgh. The last accusation was the burr that stuck, because the poor Chancellor could not deny its truth. She was, in fact, the daughter of a very respectable woman—a tenant-farmer of the Duchess. Her Grace found the girl clever, and educated her. She acquired over her, by the force of her personal character, an extraordinary influence—having made her entirely her own creature. She found the money for her entrance at the Bar, pushed her at the beginning, watched her upward course, never let her forget that everything was owing to her own patronage at the outset, and,when the greatest prize of the profession was in her grasp, and the farmer’s girl became Chancellor, the Duchess of Dunstanburgh—by one of those acts of hers which upset the debates and resolutions of years—passed a Bill which made the appointment tenable for life, and so transferred into her own hands all the power, all the legal skill of the Chancellor. It was the most brilliant politicalcoupever made. Those who knew whispered that the Chancellor had no voice, no authority, no independent action at all; her patron regulated everything. While this terrible Duchess lived, the Court of Chancery belonged to her with all its manifold and complicated powers. She herself was, save at rare intervals, Prime Minister, Autocrat, and almost Dictator. Certainly it was notorious that whatever the Duchess of Dunstanburgh wanted she had; and it was also a fact not to be disputed, that there were many lawyers of higher repute, more dignified, more learned, more eloquent, and of better birth, who had been passed over to make room for this protégée of the Duchess—this ‘daughter of the plough.’
Lord Chester, accompanied by the Countess of Carlyon and Professor Ingleby, arrived at the Law Courts at twelve, the hour of the Chancellor’s appointment, and were shown into an ante-room. Here, with a want of courtesy most remarkable, considering the rank of the ward in Chancery whose future was to be decided at this interview, they were kept waiting for half an hour. When at length they were admitted to the presence, they were astonished to find that,contrary to all precedent, the Duchess of Dunstanburgh herself was with the Chancellor. In fact she had been directing her creature in the line she was to take: she intended to receive the hand of the Earl from her, and to push on the marriage without an hour’s delay. It was sharp practice; but her Grace was not a woman who considered herself bound by the ordinary rules. Any lesser person would have made her petition for the hand of a ward, and waited until she had received in due course official notification of acceptance, when an interview would have been arranged and the papers signed. All this, owing to the delays of Chancery, generally took from a twelvemonth upwards; and in the case of poor people who had no interest, perhaps their petitions were never decided at all, so that the unfortunate petitioner waited in vain, until she died of old age, still unmarried; and the unlucky ward lived on, hoping against hope, till his time for marriage went by. The Duchess possessed even more than the dignity which became her rank. She was rather a tall woman, with aquiline features; her age was sixty-five, and in her make-up she studiously affected, not the bloom and elasticity of youth, but the vigour and strength of middle life—say of fifty. All the resources of art were lavished upon her with this object: her hair showed a touch of gray upon the temples, but was still abundant, rich, and glossy, and was so beautifully arranged that it challenged the admiration even of those who knew that it was a wig; her eyebrows were dark and well defined—her enemies said she kept aspecial artist continually employed in making new eyebrows; her teeth were of pearly whiteness; her cheeks, just touched with paint, showed none of the wrinkles of time—though no one knew how that was managed; her forehead strong and broad, was crossed by three deep lines which could not be effaced by any artist. Some said they were caused by the successive deaths of three husbands, and therefore marked the Duchess’s profound grief and the goodness of her heart, because it was known that one of them at least—the third, youngest, and handsomest of all, upon whom the fond wife lavished all her affections—had given her the greatest trouble; indeed, it was even said that—and that—and that—with many other circumstances showing the blackest ingratitude, so that women held up their hands and wondered what men wanted. But her Grace’s enemies said that her famous wrinkles were caused by her three great vices of pride, ambition, and avarice; and they declared that if she developed another such furrow, it would represent her other great vice of vanity. As for that third husband—could one expect the poor young man to fall in love with a woman already fifty-eight when she married him?
The Duchess was richly but plainly dressed in black velvet and lace; her figure was still full. As she rose to greet the Chancellor’s ward, she leaned upon a gold-headed stick—being somewhat troubled with gout. Her smile was encouraging and kind towards the Earl; to Constance, as to a political enemy who was tobe treated with all external courtesy, she bowed low; and she coldly inclined her head in return to the profound act of deference paid to her by the Professor. The Chancellor, a fussy little woman with withered cheeks, wrinkled brow, and thin gray locks, sat at her table. She hardly rose to greet her ward, whom she motioned to a chair. Then she looked at Constance, and waited for her to explain her presence.
‘I come with Lord Chester on this occasion,’ said Constance, ‘as his nearest female relation. As your ladyship is probably aware, I am his second cousin.’
The Chancellor bowed. Then the Professor spoke.
‘I ask your ladyship’s permission to appear in support of my pupil on this important occasion. His guardian, Lady Boltons, is unfortunately too ill to be present.’
‘There is no reason, I suppose,’ said the Chancellor, ungraciously, and with a glance of some anxiety at the Duchess, ‘why you should not be present, Professor Ingleby;—unless, that is, the Earl of Chester would rather see me alone. But the proceedings are most formal.’
Lord Chester, who was very grave, merely shook his head. Then the Chancellor shuffled about her papers for a few moments, and addressed her ward.
‘Your lordship will kindly give me your best attention,’ she began, with some approach to blandness. ‘I am glad, in the first place, to congratulate you on your health, your appearance, and your strength. I have received thebest reports on your moral and religious behaviour, and your docility, and—and—so on, from your guardian, Lady Boltons, and I am only sorry that she is not able to be here herself, in order to receive from me my thanks for the faithful and conscientious discharge of her duties, and from the Duchess of Dunstanburgh a recognition of her services in those terms which come from no one with more weight and more dignity than from her Grace.’ The Duchess held up a hand in deprecation; the Professor nodded, and lifted up her hands and smiled, as if a word of thanks from the Duchess was all she, for her part, wanted, in order to be perfectly happy. The Earl, one is sorry to say, sat looking straight at the Chancellor without an expression of any kind, unless it were one of patient endurance. The Chancellor went on.
‘You will shortly, you now know, pass from my guardianship to the hands and care of another far more able and worthy to hold the reins of authority than myself.’
Here Constance rose.
‘Before your ladyship goes any further, I beg to state to you that Lord Chester has only this morning informed me of a proposal made to you by her Grace of Dunstanburgh, which is now under your consideration.’
‘It certainly is,’ said the Chancellor, ‘and I am about——’
‘Before you proceed,’—Constance changed colour, but her voice was firm,—‘you will permit me also to make official and formal application in the presence of the Duchess herself, whowill, I am sure, be a witness, and Professor Ingleby, for the hand of Lord Chester. There is, I think, no occasion for me to say anything in addition to my simple proposal. What I could add would probably not influence your ladyship’s decision. You know me, and all that is to be known about me——’
‘This is most astonishing!’ cried the Duchess.
‘May I ask your Grace what is astonishing about this proposal? May I remind you that I have known Lord Chester all my life; that we are equals in point of rank, position, and wealth; that I am, if I may say so, not altogether undistinguished, even in the House of which your Grace is so exalted an ornament? But I have to do with the judgment of your ladyship, not the opinion of the Duchess.’
The Chancellor turned anxiously to her patroness, as if for direction. She replied with dignity.
‘Your ladyship is aware that, as the earlier applicant, my proposal would naturally take precedence in your ladyship’s consideration of any later ones. I might even demand that it be considered on its own merits, without reference at all to Lady Carlyon’s proposal, with regard to which I keep my own opinion.’
Constance remarked, coldly, that her Grace’s opinion was unfortunately, in most important matters, exactly opposite to her own and to that of her friends, and she was contented to disagree with her. She then informed the Chancellor that as no decision had been given as to the marriage of Lord Chester, the case was stillbefore her, and, she submitted, the proposals both of herself and of the Duchess should be weighed by her ladyship. ‘And,’ she added, ‘I would humbly submit that there are many other considerations, in the case of so old and great a House as that represented by Lord Chester, which should be taken account of. Higher rank than his own, for instance, need not be desired, nor greater wealth; nor many other things which in humbler marriages may be considered. I will go further: in this room, which is, as it were, a secret chamber, I say boldly that care should be taken to continue so old and illustrious a line.’
‘And why,’ cried the Duchess sharply, and dropping her stick—‘why should it not be continued?’
Here a remarkable thing happened. Lord Chester should have affected a complete ignorance of the insult which Constance had deliberately flung in her rival’s teeth: what he did do was to turn slowly round and stare, in undisguised wonder, at the Duchess, as if surprised at her audacity. Even her Grace, with all her pride and experience, could not sustain this calm, cold look. She faltered and said no more. Lord Chester picked up the stick, and handed it to her with a low bow.
‘I am much obliged to you, Lady Carlyon,’ said the Chancellor, tapping her knuckles with her glasses; ‘very much obliged to you, I am sure, for laying down rules formyguidance—MINE!—in the interpretation of the law and my duty. That, however, may pass. It is mybusiness—although I confess that this interruption is of a most surprising and unprecedented nature—to proceed with the case before me, which is that of the proposal made by the Duchess of Dunstanburgh.’
‘Do I understand,’ asked Lady Carlyon, ‘that you refuse to receive my proposal? Remember that youmustreceive it. You cannot help receiving it. This is a public matter, which shall, if necessary, be brought before the House and before the nation. I say that your ladyship must receive my proposal.’
‘Upon my word!’ cried the Chancellor. ‘Upon my word!’
‘Perhaps,’ said the Duchess, ‘if Lady Carlyon’s proposal were to be received—let me ask that it may be received, even if against precedent—the consideration of the case could be proceeded with at once, and perhaps your ladyship’s decision might be given on the spot.’
‘Very good—very good.’ The Chancellor was glad to get out of a difficulty. ‘I will take the second proposal into consideration as well as the first. Now then, my Lord. You have been already informed that the Duchess has asked me for your hand.’
Here the Duchess made a gesture, and slowly rose, as if about to speak. ‘A proposition of this kind,’ she said, in a clear and firm voice, ‘naturally brings with it, to any young man, and especially a young man of our Order, some sense of embarrassment. He has been taught—that is’ (here she bent her brows and put on her glasses at the Professor, who was bowingher head at every period, keeping time with her hands, as if in deference to the words of the Duchess, and as if they contained truths which could not be suffered to be forgotten), ‘if he has been properly taught—the sacredness of the marriage state, the unworthiness of man, the duties of submission and obedience, which, when rightly carried out, lead to the higher levels. And in proportion to the soundness of his training, and the goodness of his heart, is he embarrassed when the time of his great happiness arrives.’ The Professor bowed, and spread her hands as if in agreement with so much wisdom so beautifully expressed. ‘Lord Chester,’ continued the Duchess, ‘I have long watched you in silence; I have seen in you qualities which, I believe, befit a consort of my rank. You possess pride of birth, dexterity, skill, grace; you know how to wield such authority as becomes a man. You will exchange your earl’s coronet for the higher one of a duke. I am sure you will wear it worthily. You will——’ Here Constance interrupted.
‘Permit me, your Grace, to remind you that the Chancellor’s decision has not yet been given.’
The Duchess sat down frowning. This young lady should be made to feel her resentment. But for the moment she gave way and scowled, leaning her chin upon her stick. It was a hard face even when she smiled; when she frowned it was a face to look upon and tremble.
The Chancellor turned over her papers impatiently.
‘I see nothing,’ she said.—‘I see nothing atall in the proposition made by Lady Carlyon to alter my opinion, previously formed, that the Duchess has made an offer which seems in every way calculated to promote the moral, spiritual, and material happiness of my ward.’
‘May I ask,’ said Lord Chester quietly, ‘if I may express my own views on this somewhat important matter?’
‘You?’ the Chancellor positively shrieked. ‘You? The ignorance in which boys are brought up is disgraceful! A ward in Chancery to express an opinion upon his own marriage! Positively a real ward in Chancery! Is the world turning upside down?’
The audacity of the remark, and the happy calmness with which it was proffered, were irresistible. All the ladies, except the Chancellor, laughed. The Duchess loudly. This little escapade of youth and ignorance amused her. Constance laughed too, with a little pity. The Professor laughed with some show of shame, as if Lord Chester’s ignorance reflected in a manner upon herself.
Then the Chancellor went on again with some temper.
‘Let me resume. It is my duty to consider nothing but the interests of my ward. Very good. I have considered them. My Lord Chester, in giving your hand to the Duchess of Dunstanburgh, I serve your best and highest interests. The case is decided. There is no more to be said.’
‘There is, on the contrary, much more to be said,’ observed Constance. ‘I give your ladyshipnotice of appeal to the House of Peeresses. I shall appeal to them, and to the nation through them, whether your decision in this case is reasonable, just, and in accordance with the interests of your ward.’
This was, indeed, a formidable threat. An appeal to the House meant, with such fighting-power as Constance and her party, although a minority, possessed, and knew how to direct, a delay of perhaps six months, even if the case came on from day to day. Even the practised old Duchess, used to the wordy warfare of the House, shrank from such a contest.
‘You will not, surely, Lady Carlyon,’ she said, ‘drag your cousin’s name into the Supreme Court of Appeal.’
‘I certainly will,’ replied Constance.
‘It will cost hundreds of thousands, and months—months of struggle.’
‘As for the cost, that is my affair; as for the delay, I can wait—perhaps longer than your Grace.’
The Duchess said no more. Twice had Lady Carlyon insulted her. But her revenge would wait.
‘We have already,’ she said, ‘occupied too much of the Chancellor’s valuable time. I wish your ladyship good morning.’
Lord Chester offered his arm.
‘Thank you,’ she said accepting it, ‘as far as the carriage-door only,for the present. I trust, my lord, that before long you will have the right to enter the carriage with me. Meanwhile, believe me, that it is not through my fault thatyour name is to be made the subject of public discussion. Pending the appeal, let us not betray, by appearing together, any feeling other than that of pure friendship. And I hope,’ viciously addressing Constance, ‘that you, young lady, will observe the same prudence.’
Constance simply bowed and said nothing. The Chancellor rose, shook hands with her ward, and retired.
The Duchess leaned upon the strong arm which led her to her carriage, and kissed her hand in farewell to the young man with so much affection and friendly interest that it was beautiful to behold. After this act of politeness, the young man returned to Constance.
‘Painted——’ he began.
‘Edward, I will not allow it. Silence, sir! We part here for the present.’
‘Constance,’ he whispered, ‘you will not forget—allthat I said?’
‘Not one word,’ she replied with troubled brow. ‘But we must meet no more for a while.’
‘Courage!’ cried the Professor, ‘we have gained time.’
IMPOSSIBLE, of course, that so important a case as the appeal of Lady Carlyon should be concealed. In fact Constance’s policy was evidently to give it as much publicity as possible. She rightly judged that although, in her own Order, and in the House, which has to look at things from many points of view, motives of policy might be considered sufficient to override sentimental objections, and it was not likely that much weight would be attached to a young man’s feelings; yet the Duchess had many enemies, even on her own side of the House—private enemies wounded by her pride and insolence—who would rejoice at seeing her meet with a check in her self-willed and selfish course. But, besides the House, there was the outside world to consider. There was never greater need on the part of the governing caste for conciliation and respect to public opinions than at this moment—a fact perfectly well understood by all who were not blind to the meaning of things current. The abolition of the Lower House, although of late years it had degenerated into something noisier than a vestry, something less decorous than a school-board in which every woman has her own hobby of educational methods, had never beena popular act. A little of the old respect for so ancient a House still survived,—a little of the traditional reverence for a Parliament which had once protected the liberties of the people, still lingered in the hearts of the nation. The immediate relief, it is true, was undoubtedly great when the noise of elections—which never ceased, because the House was continually dissolved—the squabbles about corruption, the scandals in the House itself, the gossip about the jobs perpetrated by the members, all ceased at once, and as if by magic the country became silent; yet the pendulum of opinion was going back again—women who took up political matters were looking around for an outlet to their activity, and were already at their clubs asking awkward questions about what they had gained by giving up all the power to hereditary legislators. Nor did the old plan of sending round official orators to lecture on the advantages of oligarchical and maternal government seem to answer any longer. The women who used to draw crowded audiences and frantic applause as they depicted and laid bare the scandals and miseries and ridiculous squabbles of the Lower House, who pointed to session after session consumed in noisy talk, now shouted to empty benches, or worse still, benches crowded with listless men, who only sat bored with details in which they were forbidden to take any part, and therefore had lost all interest. Sometimes the older women would attend and add a few words from their own experience; or they would suggest, sarcastically, that the Upper House was going theway of the Lower. As for the younger women, either they would not attend at all, or else they came to ask questions, shout denials, groan and hiss, or even pass disagreeable resolutions. Constance knew all this; and though she would have shrunk, almost as much as the Duchess, from lending any aid to revolutionary designs, she could not but feel that the popular sympathy awakened in her favour at such a moment as the present might assume such strength as to be an irresistible force.
How could the sympathies of the people be otherwise than on her side? These marriages of old or middle-aged women with young men, common though they had become, could never be regarded by the youth of either sex as natural. The young women bitterly complained that the lovers provided for them by equality of age were taken from them, and that times were so bad that in no profession could one look to marry before forty. The young men, who were not supposed to have any voice in the matter, let it be clearly known that their continual prayer and daily dream was for a young wife. The general discontent found expression in songs and ballads, written no one knew by whom: they passed from hand to hand; they were sung with closed doors; they all had the samemotif; they celebrated the loves of two young people, maiden and youth; they showed how they were parted by the elderly woman who came to marry the tall and gallant youth; how the girl’s life was embittered, or how she pined away, or how she became misanthropic; and how the young man spent the shortremainder of his days in an apathetic endeavour to discharge his duty, fortified on his deathbed with the consolations of religion and the hopes of meeting, not his old wife, but his old love, in a better and happier world. Why, there could be nothing but sympathy with Constance and Lord Chester. Why, all the men, old and young alike, whose influence upon women and popular opinion, though denied by some, was never doubted by Constance, would give her cause their most active sympathies.
She remained at home that day, taking no other step than to charge a friend with the task of communicating the intelligence to her club, being well aware that in an hour or two it would be spread over London, and, in fact, over the whole realm of England. The next day she went down to the House, and had the satisfaction of finding that the excitement caused by her resignation—a ministerial resignation was too common a thing to cause much talk—had given way altogether to the excitement caused by this great Appeal. No one even took the trouble of asking who was going to be the new Home Secretary. It was taken for granted that it would be some friend of the Duchess of Dunstanburgh. The lobbies were crowded—reporters, members of clubs, diners-out, talkers, were hurrying backwards and forwards, trying to pick up a tolerably trustworthy anecdote; and there was theva et vient, the nervous activity, which is so much more easily awakened by personal quarrels than by political differences. And here was a personal quarrel! The young and beautifulCountess against the old and powerful Duchess.
‘Yes,’ said Constance loudly, in answer to a whispered question put by one of her friends—she may have observed two or three listeners standing about with eager ears and parted lips—‘yes, it is all quite true; it was an understood thing—this match with my second cousin. The pretensions of the Duchess rest upon too transparent a foundation—the poor man’s money, my dear. As if she were not rich enough already! as if three husbands are not enough for any one woman to lament! Thank you; yes, I have not the slightest doubt of the result. In a matter of good feeling as well as equity one may always depend upon the House, whatever one’s political opinions.’
The Duchess certainly had not expected this resistance to her will. In fact, during the whole of her long life she had never known any resistance at all, except such as befalls every politician. But in her private life her will was law, which no one questioned or disputed. Nor did it even occur to her to inquire, before speaking to the Chancellor, whether there would be any rival in the field. Proud as she was, and careless of public opinion in a general way, it was far from pleasant, even for her, to reflect on the things which would be said of her proposal when the Appeal was brought before the House—on the motives which would be assigned or insinuated by her enemies; on the allusions to youth and age—the more keen the more skilfully they were disguised and wrapped in soft words; theopen pity which would be expressed for the youth whose young life—she knew very well what would be said—was to be sacrificed; the sarcastic questions which would be asked about the increase of her property by the new marriage, and so forth. The plain speech of Peeresses in debate was well known to her. Yet pride forbade a retreat: she would fight it out; she could command, by ways and by methods only known to herself, a majority; yet she felt sure, beforehand, that it would be a cold and unsympathetic majority—even a reproachful majority. Nor was her temper improved by a visit from her old friend, once her schoolfellow, Lady Despard. She came with a long face, which portended expostulation.
‘You have quite made up your mind, Duchess?’ she began, without a word of explanation or preamble, but with a comfortable settlement in the chair, which meant a good long talk.
‘I have quite made up my mind,’ Between such old friends, no need to ask what was intended.
‘Lord Chester,’ said Lady Despard, thoughtfully, ‘who is, no doubt, all that you think him—worthy in every way, I mean, of this promotion and your name—is, after all, a very young man.’
‘That,’ replied the Duchess spitefully, ‘is my affair. His age need not be considered. I am not afraid of myself, Julia. With my experience, at all events, I can say so much.’
‘Surely, Duchess; I did not mean that. The most powerful mind, coupled with the highest rank,—how should that fail to attract and fixthe affection and gratitude of a man? No, dear friend; what I meant was this: he is too young, perhaps, for the full development either of virtues—or their opposites,—too young, perhaps, to know the reality of the prize you offer him.’
‘I think not, Julia,’ the Duchess spoke kindly,—‘I think not. It is good of you to consider this possibility in so friendly a way; but I have the greatest reliance on the good qualities of Lord Chester. Lady Boltons is his guardian; who would be safer? Professor Ingleby has been his tutor; who could be more discreet?’
‘Yes,—Professor Ingleby. She is certainly learned; and yet—yet—at Cambridge there is an uneasy feeling about her orthodoxy.’
‘I care little,’ said the Duchess, ‘about a few wild notions which he may have picked up. On such a man, a little freedom of thought sits gracefully. A Duke of Dunstanburgh cannot possibly be anything but orthodox. Yes, Julia; and the sum of it all is that I am getting old, and I am going to make myself happy with the help of this young gentleman.’
‘In that case,’ said her friend, ‘I have nothing to say, except that I wish you every kind of happiness that you can desire.’
‘Thank you, Julia. And you will very greatly oblige me if you will mention, wherever you can, that you know, on the very best authority, that the match will be one of pure affection—on both sides; mind, on both sides.’
‘I will certainly say so, if you wish,’ replied Lady Despard. ‘I think, however, that youought to know, Duchess, something of what people say—no, not common people, but people whose opinions even you are bound to consider.’
‘Go on,’ said the Duchess frowning.
‘They say that Lord Chester is so proud of his hereditary title and his rank that he would be broken-hearted to see it merged in any higher title; that he is too rich and too highly placed to be tempted by any of the ordinary baits by which men are caught; that you can give him nothing which he cannot buy for himself; and, lastly, that he is already in love,—even that words of affection have been passed between him and the Countess of Carlyon.’
Here the Duchess interrupted, vehemently banging the floor with the crutch which stood at her right hand.
‘Lord Chester in love? What nonsense is this, Julia? A young nobleman of his rank—almost my rank—in love! Are you mad, Julia? Are you softening in the brain? Are you aware that the boy has been properly brought up? Will you be good enough to remember that Lady Boltons is beyond all suspicion, and that he could never have seen Lady Carlyon alone since he was a boy?’
‘I answer your questions by one or two others,’ replied her friend calmly. ‘Are you, Duchess, aware that these two young people have had constant opportunities of being alone everywhere—coming from church, going to church, in conservatories, at morning parties, at dances, in gardens? Lady Boltons is all discretion; but still—but still—girls will be girls—boys love toflirt. My dear Duchess, we are still young enough to remember——’
The Duchess smiled: the Duchess laughed. Good humour returned.
‘What else, Julia? You are a retailer of horrid gossip.’
‘This besides. On the very morning when he waited on the Chancellor, he rode to Lady Carlyon’s——’
‘I know the exact particulars,’ said the Duchess. ‘Lady Boltons wrote to me on the subject to prevent misunderstanding. Professor Ingleby, his old tutor, was there. He rode there alone because his guardian could not go with him. Of course he was properly attended. Lady Carlyon is his second cousin. Properly speaking, perhaps he should have remained at home until the Professor came to him. But a man of Lord Chester’s rank may do things which smaller men cannot. And, besides, this impulsiveness—this apparent impatience of conventional restraint—seems to me only to prove the pride and dignity of his character. Is that all, Julia? Have you any more hearsays?’
They were brave words; but the Duchess felt uneasy.
‘I have; there is more behind, and worse. Still, in your present mood, I do not know that I ought to say what I should wish to say.’
‘Say on, Julia. You know that I wish to hear all. Perhaps there may be something after all. Hide nothing from me.’
‘Very good. They say that Lord Chester is, of all men, the least submissive, the least docile,the least manly—in the highest sense of the word. He habitually assumes authority which belongs to Us; he flies into violent rages; he horsewhips stable-boys; he presumptuously defies orders; he almost openly derides the laws which regulate man’s obedience. He questions—he actually questions—the fundamental principles on which society and government are based.’
‘Quite as it should be,’ said the Duchess, folding her hands. ‘I want my husband to obey no one in the world—except myself: he shall accept no teaching, except mine; no doctrine shall be sacred in his eyes—until it has received my authority.’
‘Would you like the Duke of Dunstanburgh to horsewhip stable-boys?’
The Duchess shrugged her shoulders.
‘Why not? No doubt the stable-boys deserve it. We cannot, of course, allow common men to use their strength in this way. But, my dear, in men of very high rank we should encourage—within proper limits—a masterfulness which is, after all, nothing but the legitimate expression of legitimate pride. What is crime in a clown or an artisan, is a virtue in Lord Chester; and, believe me, Julia, for my own part, I know how to tame the most obstinate of men.’
She folded her hands and set her teeth together. Julia thought of the late three dukes, and trembled.
‘No one should know better, dear Duchess. There remains one thing only. You tell me that the proposed match is to be one of pure affection—on both sides. I am truly rejoiced to hearit. Nothing is better calculated to allay these silly reports about Lady Carlyon and the Earl. Still you should know that outside people say that, should the Appeal go in your favour——’
‘ “Should!” Julia, do not be absurd. Itmustgo in my favour. “Should!” ’
‘In that case the Earl has declared before witnesses that he will absolutely refuse, whatever the penalty, to accept your hand. How am I to meet such stories as this? By your authorised statement of mutual affection?’
‘Idle gossip, Julia, may be left to itself. The Earl is only anxious to have the matter settled as soon as possible. Besides, is it in reason that he should have made such a declaration? Why, he knows—every man knows—that such a refusal would be nothing short of contempt—contempt of the Sovereign Majesty of the Realm. It is punishable—ay, and itshallbe punished—that is, it should be punished’—the face of the Duchess darkened—‘by imprisonment with hard labour for life—Earl or no Earl.’
‘Then, Duchess,’ said Lady Despard, with a smile, ‘I say no more. Of course, a marriage of affection should be encouraged; and we women are all match-makers. You will have the best wishes of all as soon as things are properly understood.’
‘Julia,’ the Duchess laid her hand upon her friend’s arm, ‘I am unfeignedly glad that you have told me all this. We have had an explanation which has cleared the air. I refuse to believe that my future husband has so lost all manly feeling as to fall in love. Imagine an Earl ofChester falling in love like a sentimental rustic! Yourcanardsabout private interviews trouble me not; I am well assured that so well-bred a man will obey the will of the House without a murmur—nay, joyfully, even without consideration of his own inclinations, which, as I have told you, are already decided. And, upon my honour as a peeress, Julia, I am certain that when you come to my autumn party at Dunstanburgh in November next, you will acknowledge that the new Duke is the handsomest bridegroom in the world, that I am the most indulgent wife, and that there is not a happier couple in all England.’
Nothing could be more gracious than the smile of the Duchess when she chose to smile. Lady Despard, although she knew by this time what the smile was worth, was nevertheless always carried away by it. For the moment she believed what her friend wished her to believe.
‘My dear Duchess,’ she cried with effusion, ‘youdeservehappiness for your part; and, upon my word, I think that the boy will get it, whether he deserves it or not.’
The smile died out from the Duchess’s face when she was left alone. A hard, stern look took its place. She took up a hand-glass, and intently examined her own face.
‘He is in love with the girl, is he?’ she murmured; ‘and she with him. Why, I saw it in their guilty stolen looks; her accents betrayed her when she spoke. It is not enough that she must cross me in the House,but she would rob me of a husband. Not yet, Lady Carlyon—not yet.’ ... She looked at herself again. ‘Oh, that I could be again what I was at one-and-twenty! It is true, as Julia said, that I have nothing to give the boy in return for what I ask of him—his affection. I am an old woman—sixty-five years of age. I suppose I have had my share of love. Harry loved me when I was young, because I was young. Poor Harry! I did not then know how much he loved me, nor the value of a man’s heart. Well ... as for the other two, they loved me after their fashion—but it was not like Harry’s love; they said they loved me, and in return I gave them all they wanted. They were happy, and I had to be contented.’ She mused in silence for a time; then she roused herself with an effort. ‘What then? Let them talk. I am the Duchess of Dunstanburgh. She shall have her whim; she shall have her darling, and if he chooses to sulk, she will punish him until he smiles again. Wait, my lord, only wait till you are safe on the Northumberland coast, and in my castle of Dunstanburgh.’
WOMEN, especially politicians, are (or rather were, until the Revolt) accustomed to the publicity of photographs, illustrated papers, paragraphs in society papers, and to the curiosity with which people stare after them wherever they show themselves. They used to like it. Men, who were, on the other hand, taught to respect modest retirement and that graceful obscurity becoming to the masculine hand which carries out the orders of the female brain, shrank from such notoriety. It was a curious sensation for young Lord Chester to feel, rather than to see and to hear, the people pointing him out, and talking about him.
‘Courage!’ whispered the Professor. ‘You will have to encounter a great deal more curiosity than this before long. Above all, do not show by any sign or change of expression that you are conscious of their staring.’
This was at the Royal Academy. The rooms were crowded with the usual mob, for it was early in June. There were the country ladies—rosy, fat, and jolly—catalogue and pencil in hand, dragging after them husbands, brothers, sons—ruddy, stalwart fellows—who wearily followedfrom room to room,—ignorant of art, and yet unwilling to be thought ignorant,—flocking to any picture which seemed to contain a story or a subject likely to interest them, such as a horse, or a race, or a match of some kind, and turning away with a half-conscious feeling that they ought to rejoice in not liking the much-praised picture, instead of being ashamed of it, so unlike a horse did they find it, so unfaithful a representation of figure or of action. There were artistic ladies with their new fashion of dress and pale languid airs, listlessly exchanging the commonplace of the fashionable school; there were professional ladies, lawyers, and doctors, ‘doing’ all the rooms between two consultations in an hour; there were schoolgirls from Harrow, yawning over the Exhibition, which it was a duty they owed to themselves to see early in the season, unless they could get tickets, which they all ardently desired, for the fortnight’s private view; there were shoals of men in little parties of two and four, escorted by some good-natured uncle or elderly cousin. The crowd squeezed round the fashionable pictures; they passed heedlessly before pictures of which nobody talked; they all tried to look critical; those who pretended to culture searched after strange adjectives; those who did not, said everything was pretty, and yawned furtively; the ladies whispered remarks to each other, with a quick nod of intelligence; and they received the feeble criticism of the men with the deferent smile due to politeness, or a half-concealed contempt.
This year there were more than the usual number of pictures—in fact, the whole of the five-and-twenty rooms were crowded. Fortunately, they were mostly small rooms, and it was remarkable that the same subjects occurred over and over again. ‘The same story,’ said the Professor, ‘every year. No invention; we follow like sheep. Here is Judith slaying Holofernes’—they were then in the Ancient History Department—‘here is Jael slaying Sisera; here are Miriam and Deborah singing their songs of triumph; here is Joan of Arc raising the siege of Orleans,—all exactly the same as when I was a girl forty years ago and more. Ancient History, indeed! What do they know about Ancient History?’
‘Why do you not teach them, then, Professor?’ asked Lord Chester.
‘I will tell you why, my lord, in a few weeks,—perhaps.’
There were a great many altar-pieces in the Sacred Department. In these the Perfect Woman was depicted in every attitude and occupation by which perfection may best be represented. It might have been objected, had any one so far ventured outside the beaten path of criticism, that the Perfect Woman’s dress, her mode of dressing her hair, and her ornaments were all of the present year’s fashion. ‘As if,’ said the Professor, the only one who did venture, ‘as if no one had any conception of beauty and grace except what fashion orders. Sheep! sheep! we follow like a flock.’
The pictures were mostly allegorical: the Perfect Woman directed Labour—representedby twenty or thirty burly young men with implements of various kinds; this was a very favourite subject. Or she led Man upwards. This was a series of pictures: in the first, Man was a rough rude creature, carrying a club with which he banged something—presumably Brother Man; he gradually improved, until at the end he was depicted as laying at the altar of womanhood flowers, fruit, and wine, from his own husbandry. By this time he had got his beard cut off, and was smooth shaven, save for a pair of curly moustaches; his dress was in the fashion of the day; his eyes were down-dropped in reverential awe; and his expression was delightfully submissive, pious, andbéate. ‘Is it,’ asked Lord Chester, ‘impossible to be religious without becoming such a creature asthat?’
Again, the Perfect Woman sat alone, thinking for the good of the world. She had a star above her head; she tried, in the picture, not to look as if she were proud of that star. Or the Perfect Woman sat watching, in the dead of night, in the moonlight, for the good of the world; or the Perfect Woman was revealed to enraptured man rising from the waves, not at all wet, and clothed in the most beautifully-fashioned and most expensive modern garments. These two rooms, the Sacred and the Ancient History Departments, were mostly deserted. The principal interest of the Exhibition was in the remaining three-and-twenty, which were devoted to general subjects. Here were sweetnesses of flower and fruit, here were lovely creamy faces of male youth, here were full length figures of athletes, runners,wrestlers, jumpers, rowers, cricket-players, and others, treated with delicate conventionality, so that the most successful pictures represented man with no more expression in his face than a barber’s block, and the strongest young Hercules was figured with tiny hands or fingers like a girl’s for slimness, for transparency, and for whiteness, and beautifully small feet; on the other hand, his calves were prodigious. In fact, as was always maintained at the Academy dinner, the Exhibition was the great educator of the people in the sense of beauty. To know the beautiful, to recognise what should be delightful, and then take joy in it, was given, it was said, only to those women of culture who had been trained by a course of Academy exhibitions. Here men, for their part, who would never otherwise rise beyond the phenomenal to the ideal, learned what was the Perfect Man—the Man of woman’s imagination. Having learned, he might go away and try to resemble him. Women who could not feel, unhappily, the full sense of the beautiful, might learn from these models into what kind of man they should shape their husbands.
‘The drawing of this picture,’ said the Professor aloud, before a picture round which were gathered a throng of worshippers—for it was painted by a Royal Academician of great repute—‘is inaccurate. Did one ever see a man with such shoulders, and yet with such a waist and such a hand? As for the colouring, it is as false as it is conventional; and look at the peach-like cheek and the feeble chin! It is theflesh of a weakly baby, not of a grown man and an athlete.’
There were murmurs of dissent, but no one ventured to dispute the Professor’s opinion; and indeed most of the bystanders had already recognised Lord Chester, and were staring at the hero of so much talk.
‘He is better-looking,’ he overheard one schoolgirl whispering to another, ‘than the fellow on the canvas, isn’t he?’
The ‘fellow on the canvas’ was, in fact, the Ideal Man. He was meant by the artist to represent the noblest, tallest, strongest, straightest, and most dexterous of men. He carried a cricket-bat. It would have been foolish to figure him with book, pencil, or paper. Art, literature, science, politics, all belonged to the other sex. Only his strength was left to man, and that was to be expended by the orders of the superior sex, who were quite competent to exercise the functions for which they were born—namely, to think for the world.
Of course, all the artists were women. Once there was a man who, assuming a female name, actually got a picture exhibited in the Academy. He was a self-taught man it was afterwards discovered; he had never been in a studio; he had never seen a Royal Academy. He painted an Old Man from nature. There was a faithful ruggedness about his work which made artists scoff, and yet brought tears to the eyes of country girls who knew no better. When the trick was discovered, the picture was taken down and burnt, and the wretched man—who was discoveredin a little country cottage, painting two or three more in the same style—went mad, and was locked up for the rest of his days. Presently Lord Chester grew tired of the pictures and of the staring crowd. ‘I have seen enough, Professor, if you have. They are all exactly like those of last year—the gladiators, and the runners, and all. Are we always to go on producing the same pictures?’
‘I suppose so,’ she replied. ‘They say that the highest point of art has been reached. It would be a change if we were only to deteriorate for a few years. Meanwhile, one is reminded of the mole, who was asked why he did not invent another form of architecture.’
‘What did she reply?’
‘He, not she, my lord, replied that science could go no further; and so he goes on building the same shaped hill.’
The crowd gathered at the foot of the stairs of the Academy and made a lane for Lord Chester quite to his carriage. It was a crowd of the best people in England, composed of ladies and gentlemen. Yet was it no insignificant sign of the times that many a handkerchief was waved to him, that all hats were lifted, and that one girl’s voice was heard crying, ‘Young men for young wives!’ at which there was a general murmur of assent.
In the evening there were the usual engagements of the season, beginning with a lecture on the Arrival at the Highest Level. The lecturer—a young Oxford woman—was learned and eloquent, though the subject was, so to speak,wellnigh threadbare. Yet the discontent of the nation was so great, that it was necessary continually to raise the courage of the people by showing that if the Ministries failed, it was only because the right Cabinet had not yet been found. On this night, however, no one listened. All eyes were turned to the young lord, who, it was everywhere stated, had announced his rebellious intention not to obey the law if Lady Carlyon’s appeal went against her. The men whispered; the elderly ladies assumed airs of virtuous indignation; the younger ones looked at each other and laughed.
Then there was a dance, at which Lord Chester was seen, but only for a quarter of an hour, because the rush made by all the girls who could get an introduction for his name on their cards was almost unseemly. The Professor therefore took him home.
In the Park the next afternoon, at the theatre in the evening, the same curiosity of the multitude. Indeed the play, as happened very often in those days, was entirely neglected. Glasses were levelled at Lord Chester’s box; the whole audience with one consent fell to talking among themselves; the actors went on with the piece unregarded, and the curtain fell unnoticed.
Perhaps the perfection of the drama was the thing on which the new civilisation chiefly prided itself, unless, indeed, it was the perfection of painting and sculpture already described. The old tragedies, in which women played the secondary part, were long since consigned to oblivion. The old style of farce, which was simply brutal,raising laughter by the representation of situations in which one or more persons are made ridiculous, was absolutely prohibited; the once favourite ballet was suppressed, because it was below the dignity of woman to dance for the amusement of the people, and because neither men nor women wished to see men dancing; the comic man naturally disappeared with the farce, because no one ever wrote anything for him. It was resolved, after a series of letters and discussion in theAcademy, the only literary paper left—it owed its continued existence to the honourable associations of its early years—that laughter was for the most part vulgar; that it always rudely disturbed the facial lines; that to make merriment for others was quite beneath the notice of an educated woman; and that the drama must be severe, and even austere—a school for women and for men. Such it was sought to make it, with as yet unsatisfactory results, because the common people, finding nothing to laugh at, came no more to the theatre; and even the better class, who wanted to be amused, and were only instructed, ceased to attend.
When, therefore, the curtain fell, the scanty audience rushed to the doors of the house, and there was something very much like a demonstration, a report of which, the Professor felt with pleasurable emotion, could not fail to be carried to the Duchess.
The next day there came a letter to Lady Boltons—who was still confined to her room with gout—from no less a person than the Duchess of Dunstanburgh, suggesting that thepublicity thrust upon Lord Chester through the unconstitutional action of his cousin might produce an injurious effect upon a mind so young. In other words, her Grace was already sensible of the sympathy which was growing up for what was believed to be a love affair, cruelly blighted by herself. If Lord Chester was kept in retirement until the case was decided, he would, perhaps be forgotten. As for Lady Carlyon, the Duchess rightly judged that the sympathy which one woman gets from another in such cases is generally scant.
No doubt she was right, but unfortunately she was too late. The young Earl had been seen everywhere; his story, much altered and improved, was in everybody’s mouth; his likeness was in all the shop windows, side by side with that of Lady Carlyon, or, as if to give emphasis to the difference between the two suitors, he was placed with the Duchess on his left and Lady Carlyon on his right. The young men envied him because he was so rich, so handsome, and so gallant; the young ladies looked and sighed. He was nearer the Ideal Man than any they had ever seen; his bold and daring eyes struck them with a kind of awe, which they thought was due to his rank, ignorant of the manhood in those eyes, which attracted and yet daunted them. They bought his photograph by thousands, and spent their leisure hours, or even the hours of study, when they ought to have been ‘mugging bones,’ or drawing contracts, or reading theology, in gazing upon that remarkable presence. Older ladies—those who had established positions andcould think of marriage—wished that such young men were within their reach; and very old ladies, looking at the photograph with admiring eyes, would wag their heads, and tell their grandsons how their grandfather, dead and gone, had been just such another as Lord Chester—so handsome, so strong, so brave, and yet withal the most dutiful and obedient of husbands. They did not explain how the virtue of submission was compatible with such frank and fearless eyes.
The mischief, therefore, was done. So far as the sympathies of the people were concerned, Constance could rest content. There remained, however, the House.
Lord Chester appeared no more in public. He went to none of the cricket-matches and athletics which made the season so lively; nor was he seen at any balls or dinners; nor did he ride in the Row. He was kept in almost monastic seclusion, a few companions only being invited to play tennis on his own lawns. But the Professor was with him constantly—Lady Boltons continuing to be laid up with her gout—and they had long talks in the gardens, sitting beneath the shade of the trees, or walking on the lawns. During these conversations the young man would clench his fist and stamp his foot with rage; or his eyes would kindle, and he would stretch out his right hand as if moved beyond control. And he became daily more masterful, insomuch that the women were afraid of him, and the men-servants—whom he had cuffed until they respected him—laughed, seeing the dismay of the women. Never any man like him!‘Why,’ said the butler, a most respectable old lady, ‘if he goes on like this, he’ll be like the Duchess of Dunstanburgh herself. She’ll have a handful, whichever o’ their ladyships gets him. Beer, my lord? At twelve o’clock in the morning! It isn’t good for your lordship. Better wait—oh dear, dear! Yes, my lord, in one minute.’
One afternoon, towards the end of June, a little party had been made up for his amusement. It consisted of half a dozen young men of his own age, and a few ladies whose age more nearly approached that of the Professor. The young men played one or two matches of tennis, changed their flannels for morning dress, and joined the ladies at afternoon tea. The one topic of conversation possible at the moment was forbidden in that house: it was, of course, that of the great Appeal, and how some said that the Countess wanted it pushed on, so as to take advantage of the public sympathy, and the Duchess wanted it delayed, so as to give this feeling time to cool down; but the Duchess had sworn by everything dear to her that she would marry the young lord whether the House gave a decision in her favour or not; how Lady Carlyon declared that she would carry him off under the very nose of the Duchess; with a thousand othercanards, rumours, little secrets, whispers on the best authority, and so forth. As, of course, that could not be entered upon in Lord Chester’s own house, the afternoon was dull to the ladies. They pumped the Professor artfully, but learned nothing. She was enthusiastic in her praises of her pupil, but was reticent about his previousrelations, if any, with either of his suitors; nor would she reveal anything, if she knew anything, about his inclinations—if he had any preference. As for his character, she spoke openly; he was certainly,—well, say masterful—that could not be denied—in a way which would be unbecoming in a man below his rank; as for his religion, no one could more truly love and revere the Perfect Woman than did Lord Chester; as for his abilities, they were far beyond the common: and for his reading, ‘I have always considered,’ said the Professor, ‘his rank as of more importance than his sex; and though I have, perhaps, given him a wider and deeper education than is generally considered prudent for the masculine brain, I believe it will be found, in the long-run, a course productive of great good. In fact,’ she whispered, ‘I believe that Lord Chester is a man likely to be the father of daughters, illustrious not only by their birth, but also by their strength of intellect and force of character.’
‘No man,’ said one of the guests—one of those persons who always know how to find the right commonplace at the right time,—‘no man can have a more worthy object of ambition. To sink himself in the family, to work for them, to reproduce his own virtues in their higher feminine form in his own daughters,—I hope his lordship will obtain this happiness.’
‘But he can’t,’ cried another—one of those persons who always say the wrong things,—‘he can’t if he marries the Duc—’
‘Hush!’ said the Professor. ‘My dear madam, we were talking, I think, about Lord Chester’scharacter. Yes, he is in many respects a most remarkable young man.’
‘But is he,’ asked another lady, ‘is he quite—are you sure of what you say, Professor, about his orthodoxy?’
Professor Ingleby smiled. All smiled, indeed, because her own faith had been greatly suspected, as everybody knew.
‘As sure,’ she said, ‘as I am of my own. Oh! I know what wicked people have hinted at Cambridge. But wait; have patience; I will before long prove my religious convictions, and satisfy the world once for all, in a way that will perhaps astonish, but certainly convince everybody, what my faith really is, and how truly orthodox—and I will answer for my pupil.’
Then the young men appeared, and they began to talk about the games over their tea. Presently they pressed Lord Chester to sing. No one had a better voice, or sang with greater expression. He refused at first, on the ground of being tired of the words of all his songs, but gave way and sang, with a laughing protest at the sentiment of the song and the inanity of the words, the following ballad, just then popular:—