THE DUKE’S DAUGHTER
AND
THE FUGITIVES
“Lady, you come hither to be married to this count?”
“I do.”
--_Much Ado about Nothing._
THE DUKE’S DAUGHTER
AND
THE FUGITIVES
BY
MRS OLIPHANT
IN THREE VOLUMES
VOL. II.
WILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND SONS
EDINBURGH AND LONDON
MDCCCXC
CONTENTS OF THE SECOND VOLUME.
THE DUKE’S DAUGHTER (CONTINUED)--
CHAP. PAGE
XI. A NEW AGENCY, 3
XII. HALF-MARRIED, 27
XIII. THE WEDDING-DAY, 54
XIV. IN PRISON, 87
XV. DELIVERANCE, 110
THE FUGITIVES, 145
THE DUKE’S DAUGHTER
(_CONTINUED_)
THE DUKE’S DAUGHTER.
CHAPTER XI.
A NEW AGENT.
The reader accustomed to the amenities of the highest social circles,
such as those which we are now compelled temporarily to leave, will no
doubt sensibly feel the shock of the descent from the mansion of the
Duke, and his sublime society, to a sphere and condition of life far
removed from these summits of existence. It is seldom that life can be
carried on solely upon those high levels; the necessities of every day
call for the aid of the more humbly born and placed, so that not even
dukes can suffice to themselves. We must then, without further apology,
proceed at once to a room as different as it is possible to conceive
from the halls of Billings--a small sitting-room in a small
rectory-house in the heart of London, belonging to one of the old parish
churches which have been abandoned there by the tide of habitation and
life. The church was close by, a fine one in its way, one of Wren’s
churches, adapted for a large Protestant congregation more solicitous
about the sermon than is usual nowadays--but left now without any
congregation at all. The rectory, a house of very moderate dimensions,
jammed in among warehouses and offices, had little air and less light in
the gloomy November days. The Rector and his wife had just returned
from their yearly holiday, and it was not a cheerful thing to come back
to the fog, and the damp, and the gas-lamps, and all the din of the
great carts that lumbered round the corner continually, and loaded and
unloaded themselves within two steps of the clergyman’s door. How was he
to write his sermons or meditate over his work in the midst of these
noises? his wife often asked indignantly. But, to be sure, the fifty
people or so who quite crowded St Alban’s when they all turned out, were
not very critical. Down in these regions there is not a Little Bethel
always handy, and the inhabitants must take what they can get and be
thankful: which it would be a good thing, Mrs Marston thought, if they
could be oftener obliged in other places to do.
Mr Marston was in his study. It was a small room on one side of the
door, chosen for its handiness that the parish people might be
introduced without trouble, to the Rector: but there were but few that
ever troubled him. At the present moment his verger had just brought him
the parish news, with an intimation of the fact that a marriage was to
take place to-morrow at eleven o’clock, at which Mr Sayers, who had
taken the duty in his absence, hoped the Rector himself would officiate.
The one parish duty that was occasionally necessary in St Alban’s was to
perform marriages, and accordingly the Rector was not surprised. He had
the gas lighted, though it was still early in the afternoon, that he
might look at the book in which the notice of the banns was kept, in
order to make sure that all had been done in order. The gas was lighted,
but the blind was not drawn down, and the upper part of the window was
full of a grey and dingy London sky, without colour in it at all, a
sort of paleness merely, against which the leafless branches of the poor
little tree which flourished in the little grass-plot stood out with a
desolate distinction. Inside the room was unpleasantly warm. The Rector
sat with his back to the fire; he read the entry of the banns in the
book, and saw that all was right. Then after he had closed the book and
put it away, a sudden thought struck him, and he opened it again. Where
had he seen that name before? It was a strange name, a name not at all
like the parish of St Alban’s, E.C. What could she want here, a person
with a name like that? He put down the book the second time, but again
turned back and opened it once more. Pendragon Plantagenet Fitz-Merlin
Altamont! One does not often hear such names strung one after another.
Was it perhaps some player-lady keeping the fine names of her _rôles_
in the theatre? Or was it--could it be?---- Mr Marston could not shake
off the impression thus made upon him. He had two churchings to-morrow
which ought to have occupied him still more, for new members of the
congregation were the most interesting things in the world to the
Rector. But he was haunted by the other intimation, and the churchings
sank into insignificance. He pondered for a long time, disturbed by the
questions which arose in his mind, and at length, not feeling capable of
containing them longer, he took the book in his hand and went across the
hall, which was still in the afternoon gloom, to his wife, whose little
drawing-room on the other side was lighted by the flickering firelight,
and not much more. She was very glad to see him come in. “Did you think
it was tea-time?” she said. “I am sure I don’t wonder, but it’s only
three o’clock. Dear, dear, to think of the fine sunset we were looking
at an hour later than this yesterday. But London is getting worse and
worse.”
“Why don’t you have the gas lighted?” the Rector asked in a querulous
tone. “I have brought something to show you, but there is no light to
see it by.”
“You shall have the light in a moment,” cried Mrs Marston; “that is the
one good thing of gas. It spoils your picture-frames and kills your
flowers; but you can have it instantly, and always clean and no trouble.
There!”
The gas leaping up dazzled them for a moment, and then Mr Marston opened
his book and pointed his finger to the entry. “Look here, Mary--look at
that; did you ever see a name like that before? What do you suppose it
can mean?”
Mrs Marston had to put on her spectacles first, and they had always to
be looked for before they could be put on. She had just adopted
spectacles, and did not like them, nor to have to make, even to herself,
the confession that she wanted them: and they were always out of the
way. The Rector was short-sighted, and had the exemption which such
persons enjoy. He looked upon the magnifying spectacles of his wife with
contempt, and it was always irritating to him to see her hunting about,
saying, “Where have I put my glasses?” as was her wont. “Can’t you tie
them round your neck,” he said, “or keep them in your pocket--or
something?” When, however, they were found at last, he spread the book
out upon the table and, with his finger on the place, waited while she
read. Their two heads stooping over the book under the gas, with the
pale sky looking in at the window, made a curious picture, he eager,
she still fumbling a little to get on her spectacles without further
comment. “‘Reginald Winton,’” she read hesitating, “‘bachelor, of this
parish.’ I never certainly heard of any one of that name in this parish:
stay, it might be the new care-taker perhaps at Mullins and
Makings--or----”
“That’s not the name,” cried the Rector. He would have liked to pinch
her, but refrained. “This is no care-taker, you may be sure; but it is
the other name--look at the other name. Where have you seen it before?
and what is the meaning of it?” Mr Marston cried with excitement. He had
worked himself up to this pitch, and he forgot that she was quite
unprepared. She read, stumbling a little, for the handwriting was
crabbed, “‘Jane Angela Pendragon Plantagenet Fitz-Merlin Altamont,
spinster, of the parish of Billings.’ Dear, dear,” was good Mrs
Marston’s first comment--“I hope she has names enough and syllables
enough for one person.”
“And is that all that strikes you?” her husband said.
“Well--it is an odd name--is that what you mean, William? Very silly, I
think, to give a girl all that to sign. I suppose if she uses it all, it
will be only in initials. She will sign, you know, Jane Angela, or very
likely only Angela, which is much prettier than Jane; Angela P. P.
F.--or F. M.--Altamont, that is how it will be. Angela Altamont; it is
like a name in a novel.”
“Ah, now we are coming to it at last!” cried the Rector; “names in
novels, when they are founded on anything, generally follow the names of
the aristocracy. Now here’s the question: Is this a secret marriage, and
the bride some poor young lady who doesn’t know what she is doing, some
girl running away with her brother’s tutor or some fiddler or other, to
her own ruin, poor thing, without knowing what she is about?”
“Dear me, William! what an imagination you have got!” said Mrs Marston,
and she sat down in her surprise and drew the book towards her; but then
she added, “Why should they come to St Alban’s in that case? There are
no musicians living in this parish. And poor people do give their
children such grand names nowadays. That poor shirtmaker in Cotton Lane,
don’t you remember? her baby is Ethel Sybil Celestine Constantia--you
recollect how we laughed?”
“Family Herald,” said the Rector with a careless wave of his hand, “and
all Christian names, which makes a great difference. It was her last
batch of heroines, poor soul; but do you think a poor needlewoman would
think of Pendragon and Plantagenet? No; mark my words, Mary, this is
some great person; this is some poor deceived girl, throwing away
everything for what she thinks love. Poor thing, poor thing! and all the
formalities complied with, so that I have no right to stop it. Sayers is
an idiot!” cried Mr Marston. “I should have inquired into it at once had
I been at home, with a name before my eyes like that.”
“Dear me!” said Mrs Marston; there is not much in it, but she repeated
the exclamation several times. “After all,” she said, “it must be true
love, or she would not go that length; and who knows, William, whether
that is not better than all their grandeur? Dear, dear me! I wish we
knew a little about the circumstances. If the gentleman is of this
parish couldn’t you send for him and inquire into it?” The Rector was
pacing up and down the room in very unusual agitation. It was such a
crisis as in his peaceful clerical life had never happened to him
before.
“You know very well he is not of this parish,” Mr Marston said. “I
suppose he must have slept here the requisite number of nights; and
besides, he knows I have no right to interfere. The banns are all in
order. I can’t refuse to marry them, and what right have I to send for
the man or to question him? No doubt he would have some plausible story.
It is not to be expected, especially if it is the sort of thing I think
it is, that he should tell me.”
“Dear, dear!” repeated Mrs Marston. “A clergyman should have more power;
what is the good of being a clergyman if you cannot stop a marriage in
your own church? I call that tyranny. Do you mean to tell me you will be
compelled to marry them, whether you approve of it or not?”
“Well, Mary, it is not usual to ask the clergyman’s consent, is it?” he
said with a laugh, momentarily tickled by the suggestion. But this did
not throw any light upon what was to be done, or upon the question
whether anything was to be done; and with a mind quite unsatisfied he
retired again to the study, seeing that it was out of all reason to ring
the bell at half-past three for tea. He drew down his blind with a sigh
as he went back to his room, shutting out the colourless paleness which
did duty for sky, and resigning himself to the close little room though
it was too warm. Mr Marston tried his best to compose himself, to take
up his work, such as it was, to put away from his mind the remembrance
of a world which was not wrapt in fog, and where wholesome breezes were
blowing. St Alban’s was a good living; it had endowments enough to
furnish two or three churches, and to get it had been a wonderful thing
for him; but sometimes he asked himself whether two hundred a-year and a
country parish with cottages in it instead of warehouses would not have
been better. However, all that was folly, and here was something
exciting to amuse his mind with, which was always an advantage. He had
laid down his book (for he thought it right to keep up his reading) for
the fourth or fifth time, to ask himself whether sending for the
bridegroom, as his wife suggested, or going out in search of him, might
not be worth his while, when Mrs Marston came suddenly bursting into the
study with, in her turn, a big volume in her arms. The Rector looked up
in surprise and put away his theology. She came in, he said to himself,
like a whirlwind; which was not, however, a metaphor at all adapted to
describe the movements of a stout and comfortable person of fifty, with
a great respect for her furniture. But she did enter with an assured,
not to say triumphant air, carrying her book, which she plumped down
before him on the table, sweeping away some of his papers. “There!” she
cried, breathless and excited. The page was blazoned with a big coat of
arms. It was in irregular lines like poetry, and ah, how much dearer
than poetry to many a British soul! It was, need we say, a Peerage, an
old Peerage, without any of the recent information, but still not too
old for the purpose. “There!” said Mrs Marston, again flourishing her
forefinger. The Rector, bewildered, looked and read. He read and he grew
pale with awe and alarm. He looked up in his wife’s face with a gasp of
excitement. He was too much impressed even to say, “I told you so,”
for, to be sure, a duke’s daughter was a splendour he had not conceived.
But his wife was more demonstrative in the delight of her discovery.
“There!” she cried, for the third time. “I felt sure, of course, it must
be in the Peerage, if it was what you thought; and there it is at full
length, ‘Lady Jane Angela Pendragon Plantagenet Fitz-Merlin Altamont.’
It fairly took away my breath. To think you should have made such a good
guess! and me talking about Mrs Singer’s baby! Why, I suppose it is one
of the greatest families in the country,” Mrs Marston said.
“There is no doubt about that,” said the Rector. “I have heard the
present Duke was not rich, but that would make it all the worse. Poor
young lady! poor misguided--for of course she can know nothing about
life nor what she is doing. And I wonder who the man is. He must be a
scoundrel,” said Mr Marston, hotly, “to take advantage of the ignorance
of a girl.”
“My dear,” said Mrs Marston, “all that may be quite true that you say,
but if you reckon up you will see that she must be twenty-eight.
Twenty-eight is not such a girl. And Reginald Winton is quite a nice
name.”
“Just the sort of name for a tutor, or a music-master, or something of
that sort,” said the Rector, contemptuously. He had been a tutor himself
in his day, but that did not occur to him at the moment. He got up from
his chair and would have paced about the room as he did in his wife’s
quarters had the study been big enough; but failing in this, he planted
himself before the fire, to the great danger of his coat-tails and
increase of his temperature, but in his excitement he paid no attention
to that. “And now the question is, what is to be done?” he said.
“I thought you told me there was nothing to be done. I shall come to
church myself to-morrow, William, and if you think I could speak to the
poor young lady----: perhaps if she had a woman to talk to--most likely
she has no mother. That’s such an old book, one can’t tell; but I don’t
think a girl would do this who had a mother. Poor thing! Do you think if
I were there a little before the hour and were to talk to her, and try
to get into her confidence, and say how wrong it was----”
“Talk to a bride at the altar!” said the Rector; the indecorum of the
idea shocked him beyond description. “No, no, something must be done at
once--there is no time to be lost. I must write to the Duke.”
“To the Duke!” This suggestion took away Mrs Marston’s breath.
“I hope,” said her husband, raising his head, “that we both know a duke
is but a man: and I am a clergyman, and I want nothing from him, but to
do him a service. It would be wicked to hesitate. The question is, where
is he to be found, and how can we reach him in time? He is not likely to
be in town at this time of the year; nobody is in town I suppose except
you and me, and a few millions more, Mary; but that doesn’t help us--the
question is, where is he likely to be? Thank heaven there is still time
for the post!” Mr Marston cried, and threw himself upon his chair, and
pulled his best note-paper out of his drawer.
But, alas! the question of where the Duke was puzzled them both.
Grosvenor Square; Billings Castle, ----shire; Hungerford Place, in the
West Riding; Cooling, N.B.; Caerpylcher, North Wales. As his wife read
them out one after another, with a little hesitation about the
pronunciation, the Rector wrung his hands. The consultation which the
anxious pair held on the subject ran on to the very limits of the
post-hour, and would take too long to record. Now that it had come to
this, Mrs Marston was inclined to hold her husband back. “After all, if
it was a real attachment,” she said, between the moments of discussing
whether it was in his seat in Scotland, or in Wales, or at his chief and
most ducal of residences that a duke in November was likely to be.
“After all, it might be really for her happiness--and what a dreadful
shock for them, poor things, if they came to be married, thinking they
had settled everything so nicely, and walked into the arms of her
father!” Her heart melted more and more as she thought of it. No doubt,
poor girl, she had been deprived early of a mother’s care; and, on the
other hand, at twenty-eight a girl ought to know her own mind. She
could not be expected to give in to her father for ever. And if it
should be that this was a real attachment, and the poor young lady’s
happiness was concerned----
The Rector made short work of these arguments. He pooh-poohed the real
attachment in a way which made Mrs Marston angry. What could she know of
poverty? he asked; and how was a duke’s daughter to scramble for herself
in the world? As for love, it was great nonsense in most cases. The
French system was just as good as the English. People got to like each
other by living together, and by having the same tastes and habits. How
could a fiddler or a tutor have the same habits as Lady Jane, “or Lady
Angela, if you like it better?” He went on, as Mrs Marston said, like
this, till she could have boxed his ears for him. And the fact was that
he had to pay an extra penny on each of his letters to get them off by
the post; for he wrote several letters--to Billings, to Hungerford, and
to Grosvenor Square. Scotland and Wales were hopeless; there was no
chance whatever that from either of these places his Grace could arrive
in time. Indeed, it would be something very like a miracle if he arrived
now. But the Rector felt that he had done his duty, which is always a
consolation. He retired to rest late and full of excitement, feeling
that no one could tell what the morrow might bring forth--a sentiment,
no doubt, which is always true, but which commends itself more to the
mind in a season when out-of-the-way events are likely. Mrs Marston had
been a little cool towards him all the evening, resenting much that he
had said. But it was not till all modes of communicating with the outer
world were hopeless that she took her revenge and planted a thorn in his
pillow. “If you had not been so disagreeable,” she said, “I would have
advised you not to trust to the post, but to telegraph. I dare say the
Duke would have paid you back the few shillings; then he would have been
sure to get the news in time. At present I think it very unlikely. And I
am sure, for the young people’s sake, I should be sorry. But I should
have telegraphed,” Mrs Marston said. And the Rector, strange to say, had
never thought of that.