"She Must Be Made to Obey"
Lady Mary Palliser down at The Horns had as much liberty allowed
to her as is usually given to young ladies in these very free days.
There was indeed no restriction placed upon her at all. Had Tregear
gone down to Richmond and asked for the young lady, and had Lady
Cantrip at the time been out and the young lady at home, it would
have depended altogether upon the young lady whether she would have
seen her lover or not. Nevertheless Lady Cantrip kept her eyes open,
and when the letter came from Tregear she was aware that the letter
had come. But the letter found its way into Lady Mary's hands and
was read in the seclusion of her own bed-room. "I wonder whether you
would mind reading that," she said very shortly afterwards to Lady
Cantrip. "What answer ought I to make?"
"Do you think any answer ought to be made, my dear?"
"Oh yes; I must answer him."
"Would your papa wish it?"
"I told papa that I would not promise not to write to him. I think
I told him that he should see any letters that there were. But if I
show them to you, I suppose that will do as well."
"You had better keep your word to him absolutely."
"I am not afraid of doing so, if you mean that. I cannot bear to give
him pain, but this is a matter in which I mean to have my own way."
"Mean to have your own way!" said Lady Cantrip, much surprised by the
determined tone of the young lady.
"Certainly I do. I want you to understand so much! I suppose papa can
keep us from marrying for ever and ever if he pleases, but he never
will make me say that I will give up Mr. Tregear. And if he does not
yield I shall think him cruel. Why should he wish to make me unhappy
all my life?"
"He certainly does not wish that, my dear."
"But he will do it."
"I cannot go against your father, Mary."
"No, I suppose not. I shall write to Mr. Tregear, and then I will
show you what I have written. Papa shall see it too if he pleases. I
will do nothing secret, but I will never give up Mr. Tregear."
Lord Cantrip came down to Richmond that evening, and his wife told
him that in her opinion it would be best that the Duke should allow
the young people to marry, and should give them money enough to live
upon. "Is not that a strong order?" asked the Earl. The Countess
acknowledged that it was a "strong order," but suggested that for the
happiness of them all it might as well be done at first as at last.
The next morning Lady Mary showed her a copy of the reply which she
had already sent to her lover.
DEAR FRANK,
You may be quite sure that I shall never give you up. I
will not write more at present because papa does not wish
me to do so. I shall show papa your letter and my answer.
Your own most affectionate
MARY.
"Has it gone?" asked the Countess.
"I put it myself into the pillar letter-box." Then Lady Cantrip felt
that she had to deal with a very self-willed young lady indeed.
That afternoon Lady Cantrip asked Lady Mary whether she might be
allowed to take the two letters up to town with the express purpose
of showing them to the Duke. "Oh yes," said Mary, "I think it would
be so much the best. Give papa my kindest love, and tell him from me
that if he wants to make his poor little girl happy he will forgive
her and be kind to her in all this." Then the Countess made some
attempt to argue the matter. There were proprieties! High rank might
be a blessing or might be the reverse--as people thought of it;--but
all men acknowledged that much was due to it. "Noblesse oblige."
It was often the case in life that women were called upon by
circumstances to sacrifice their inclinations! What right had a
gentleman to talk of marriage who had no means? These things she said
and very many more, but it was to no purpose. The young lady asserted
that as the gentleman was a gentleman there need be no question as
to rank, and that in regard to money there need be no difficulty if
one of them had sufficient. "But you have none but what your father
may give you," said Lady Cantrip. "Papa can give it us without any
trouble," said Lady Mary. This child had a clear idea of what she
thought to be her own rights. Being the child of rich parents she
had the right to money. Being a woman she had a right to a husband.
Having been born free she had a right to choose one for herself.
Having had a man's love given to her she had a right to keep it.
"One doesn't know which she is most like, her father or her mother,"
Lady Cantrip said afterwards to her husband. "She has his cool
determination, and her hot-headed obstinacy."
She did show the letters to the Duke, and in answer to a word or two
from him explained that she could not take upon herself to debar her
guest from the use of the post. "But she will write nothing without
letting you know it."
"She ought to write nothing at all."
"What she feels is much worse than what she writes."
"If there were no intercourse she would forget him."
"Ah; I don't know," said the Countess sorrowfully; "I thought so
once."
"All children are determined as long as they are allowed to have
their own way."
"I mean to say that it is the nature of her character to be
obstinate. Most girls are prone to yield. They have not character
enough to stand against opposition. I am not speaking now only of
affairs like this. It would be the same with her in any thing. Have
you not always found it so?"
Then he had to acknowledge to himself that he had never found out
anything in reference to his daughter's character. She had been
properly educated;--at least he hoped so. He had seen her grow up,
pretty, sweet, affectionate, always obedient to him;--the most
charming plaything in the world on the few occasions in which he had
allowed himself to play. But as to her actual disposition, he had
never taken any trouble to inform himself. She had been left to her
mother,--as other girls are left. And his sons had been left to their
tutors. And now he had no control over any of them. "She must be made
to obey like others," he said at last, speaking through his teeth.
There was something in this which almost frightened Lady Cantrip. She
could not bear to hear him say that the girl must be made to yield,
with that spirit of despotic power under which women were restrained
in years now passed. If she could have spoken her own mind it would
have been to this effect: "Let us do what we can to lead her away
from this desire of hers; and in order that we may do so, let us tell
her that her marriage with Mr. Tregear is out of the question. But if
we do not succeed,--say in the course of the next twelve months,--let
us give way. Let us make it a matter of joy that the young man
himself is so acceptable and well-behaved." That was her idea, and
with that she would have indoctrined the Duke had she been able. But
his was different. "She must be made to obey," he said. And, as he
said it, he seemed to be indifferent as to the sorrow which such
enforced obedience might bring upon his child. In answer to this she
could only shake her head. "What do you mean?" he asked. "Do you
think we ought to yield?"
"Not at once, certainly."
"But at last?"
"What can you do, Duke? If she be as firm as you, can you bear to see
her pine away in her misery?"
"Girls do not do like that," he said.
"Girls, like men, are very different. They generally will yield to
external influences. English girls, though they become the most
loving wives in the world, do not generally become so riven by an
attachment as to become deep sufferers when it is disallowed. But
here, I fear, we have to deal with one who will suffer after this
fashion."
"Why should she not be like others?"
"It may be so. We will try. But you see what she says in her letter
to him. She writes as though your authority were to be nothing in
that matter of giving up. In all that she says to me there is the
same spirit. If she is firm, Duke, you must yield."
"Never! She shall never marry him with my sanction."
There was nothing more to be said, and Lady Cantrip went her way. But
the Duke, though he could say nothing more, continued to think of it
hour after hour. He went down to the House of Lords to listen to a
debate in which it was intended to cover the ministers with heavy
disgrace. But the Duke could not listen even to his own friends.
He could listen to nothing as he thought of the condition of his
children.
He had been asked whether he could bear to see his girl suffer, as
though he were indifferent to the sufferings of his child. Did he
not know of himself that there was no father who would do more for
the welfare of his daughter? Was he not sure of the tenderness of
his own heart? In all that he was doing was he governed by anything
but a sense of duty? Was it personal pride or love of personal
aggrandisement? He thought that he could assure himself that he was
open to no such charge. Would he not die for her,--or for them,--if
he could so serve them? Surely this woman had accused him most
wrongfully when she had intimated that he could see his girl suffer
without caring for it. In his indignation he determined--for
awhile--that he would remove her from the custody of Lady Cantrip.
But then, where should he place her? He was aware that his own
house would be like a grave to a girl just fit to come out into the
world. In this coming autumn she must go somewhere,--with someone.
He himself, in his present frame of mind, would be but a sorry
travelling companion.
Lady Cantrip had said that the best hope of escape would lie in the
prospect of another lover. The prescription was disagreeable, but it
had availed in the case of his own wife. Before he had ever seen her
as Lady Glencora McCloskie she had been desirous of giving herself
and all her wealth to one Burgo Fitzgerald, who had been altogether
unworthy. The Duke could remember well how a certain old Lady
Midlothian had first hinted to him that Lady Glencora's property was
very large, and had then added that the young lady herself was very
beautiful. And he could remember how his uncle, the late Duke, who
had seldom taken much trouble in merely human affairs, had said a
word or two--"I have heard a whisper about you and Lady Glencora
McCloskie; nothing could be better." The result had been undoubtedly
good. His Cora and all her money had been saved from a worthless
spendthrift. He had found a wife who he now thought had made him
happy. And she had found at any rate a respectable husband. The idea
when picked to pieces is not a nice idea. "Let us look out for a
husband for this girl, so that we may get her married,--out of the
way of her lover." It is not nice. But it had succeeded in one case,
and why should it not succeed in another?
But how was it to be done? Who should do it? Whom should he select to
play the part which he had undertaken in that other arrangement? No
worse person could be found than himself for managing such an affair.
When the idea had first been raised he had thought that Lady Cantrip
would do it all; but now he was angry with Lady Cantrip.
How was it to be done? How should it be commenced? How had it been
commenced in his own case? He did not in the least know how he had
been chosen. Was it possible that his uncle, who was the proudest man
in England, should have condescended to make a bargain with an old
dowager whom everybody had despised? And in what way had he been
selected? No doubt he had been known to be the heir-apparent to a
dukedom and to ducal revenues. In his case old Lady Midlothian had
begun the matter with him. It occurred to him that in royal marriages
such beginnings are quite common.
But who should be the happy man? Then he began to count up the
requisite attributes. He must be of high rank, and an eldest son,
and the possessor of, or the heir to, a good estate. He did despise
himself when he found that he put these things first,--as a matter
of course. Nevertheless he did put them first. He was ejecting this
other man because he possessed none of these attributes. He hurried
himself on to add that the man must be of good character, and such as
a young girl might learn to love. But yet he was aware that he added
these things for his conscience's sake. Tregear's character was good,
and certainly the girl loved him. But was it not clear to all who
knew anything of such matters that Mr. Francis Tregear should not
have dared even to think of marrying the daughter of the Duke of
Omnium?
Who should be the happy man? There were so many who evidently were
unfit. Young Lord Percival was heir to a ruined estate and a beggared
peerage. Lord Glasslough was odious to all men. There were three or
four others of whom he thought that he knew some fatal objection. But
when he remembered Lord Popplecourt there seemed to be no objection
which need be fatal.
Lord Popplecourt was a young peer whose father had died two years
since and whose estates were large and unembarrassed. The late lord,
who had been a Whig of the old fashion, had been the Duke's friend.
They had been at Oxford and in the House of Commons together, and
Lord Popplecourt had always been true to his party. As to the son,
the Duke remembered to have heard lately that he was not given to
waste his money. He drove a coach about London a good deal, but had
as yet not done anything very foolish. He had taken his degree at
Oxford, thereby showing himself to be better than Silverbridge. He
had also taken his seat in the House of Lords and had once opened
his mouth. He had not indeed appeared often again; but at Lord
Popplecourt's age much legislation is not to be expected from a young
peer. Then he thought of the man's appearance. Popplecourt was not
specially attractive, whereas Tregear was a very handsome man. But
so also had been Burgo Fitzgerald,--almost abnormally beautiful,
while he, Plantagenet Palliser, as he was then, had been quite as
insignificant in appearance as Lord Popplecourt.
Lord Popplecourt might possibly do. But then how should the matter be
spoken of to the young man? After all, would it not be best that he
should trust Lady Cantrip?