A DUCAL CARRIAGE.
Reginald Francis Henry Cheyne, seventh Duke of Shropshire, lived most
of the year at his splendid castle Silverview, on the German Ocean.
The Duke was an undersized man with a dingy dull complexion and bandy
legs. He looked more like an ostler than anything else; and yet he was
not only a duke, but a duke of the bluest blood, owner of Silverview
Castle, three other country seats, a palatial town-house, and an
income of three to four hundred thousand a year. Fate paid him every
day for waking upwards of five hundred pounds, and upwards of five
hundred pounds on that same day for going to bed again.
He owned one whole city, four parliamentary boroughs, and sixty-four
villages. He wasn't the richest peer in England, for he had neither a
seventy-foot seam of coal nor a few hundred acres in the West End of
London. But against the unpleasant feeling of not being the richest
peer in England he had two things to cheer him. In the first place,
his city and four parliamentary boroughs were docile, and elected men
whom he suggested; and in the second place, beyond his son and heir,
the Marquis of Southwold, he had no family, and therefore he had no
one to provide for. Consequently he could live up to his income. This
he did, but he went no farther; and in all England there was no
property more free from encumbrance. He was sixty-three years of age,
a widower, and extremely fond of yachting. Although he had a house or
castle in each of the three kingdoms and in Wales, he rarely left
Silverview, except in his yacht. He was passionately fond of the sea,
and had spent as much of his time afloat as ashore. Another thing that
wedded him to the sea was the delicacy of his son, who, although now
eight-and-thirty years of age, had been from almost his birth obliged
to live much at sea, owing to general weakness, and an affection of
the eyes, which the doctors said would inevitably end in blindness if
he lived permanently on shore.
The reason why the Duke preferred Silverview Castle to any of his
other houses or castles was because it stood on a height at the top of
a narrow bay. For miles on each side of this bay the land belonged to
the Duke, and in his castle above his bay he was as far out of the
world as if he had been in the Zaraha, and yet so close to his yacht
riding at anchor that he could see from his bedroom-window when he got
up if the brasses had been polished and the decks holystoned that
morning.
The Duke and his son rode as every Englishman must, but he rode as
little as any Englishman may. But neither the sea nor riding had bowed
the Duke's legs. From generation to generation the house of Cheyne had
been noted, with two exceptions, for its bowed legs. Of course, in the
family portraits you saw no sign of this, for the family had taken
care never to have any more extended counterfeit presentment than a
kit-cat. Whenever, even while he was on land, the Duke encountered a
gale he invariably threw out his sea-legs, and straddled, as though
the road or field was, while rolling horribly, mounting a mighty
swell.
There was nothing particularly interesting about the Duke of
Shropshire. He was a commonplace-looking little man with very
commonplace ideas. He was an excellent man of business, and every day,
when he was at the Castle, gave two hours to his business folk. He was
a model landlord. The tenants said it would be impossible to find
better, but he was not popular among them. He was too dark and
reserved and taciturn. Every sailor wants to have a garden and grow
vegetables. Every farmer does not want to go a long sea-voyage. The
land is no mystery to the sailor, but the sea is a mystery to the
farmer. To people who have no dealings with the sea, those who
frequent its plains seem aliens in race. This may, in some way,
account for the fact that the Duke made no personal progress in the
affections of his tenantry.
The father was not popular, the son was partly pitied and partly
despised. His delicacy, and the fact that he could not live on land,
separated him still more effectually from the people than his father.
The people looked forward with no pleasure to the fact that this man
was heir, and would be duke some day. Another thing, too, that the
tenants did not like was the way father and son kept together. They
knew the marquis was not strong, but still he might have a little will
of his own. Why hadn't he a yacht of his own? not go about always with
his father, as though he was only twelve years of age instead of
thirty-eight. Surely one of the richest peers in the world could
afford an allowance to his only son which would enable that son to
keep a yacht! Men like men for masters. They do not care to work under
invalids and recluses.
Personally the Duke spent little or nothing of his large income. On
Sundays his head-gardener was much better dressed than his master. The
only luxury the Duke demanded was solitude, and for this solitude he
was willing to give up nine-tenths of his fortune. He kept servants at
all his seats, and any of his friends of thirty-five years ago was
welcome to a loan of one, servants, shooting, fishing included. But no
friend was to drive up to Silverview Castle and claim hospitality.
For upwards of thirty years the Duke had not gone into society, nor
had he received any guest at Silverview Castle. His wife died soon
after his heir was born, and he had gone very little into society
since. When not on board his yacht _Seabird_, she lay moored under the
windows of the Castle, and nothing was easier than, upon receiving a
notice from So-and-so saying he would call upon the Duke on a certain
day, for the Duke to write, saying he was very sorry that he intended
leaving on a cruise that very day.
There was no general agreement as to the cause of the Duke's avoidance
of society. Some said it was owing to grief at the death of his wife;
others declared he had done some dire wrong in his young days; and
others that it was all the result of whim.
Although he interfered in politics he did not take an active part in
them. He merely intimated to his agent which candidates had won his
favour. For years he had not made an appearance in the House of Lords.
On the rare occasions when he went there it was to record a silent
vote on some measure of great importance.
It so happened one of those big questions arose in June, and that his
grace had made up his mind to visit London for a few days, and record
his vote against some Radical measure which had been sent up from the
Lower Chamber. It was of course an event in the great world when the
rich Duke of Shropshire came up to London even for an hour.
It was known he did not intend marrying again. But then who knows
anything for certain? And then there was the Marquis. Of course he
would marry some day. It wasn't probable the present owner of the
dukedom would like to think there was a chance of that magnificent
collection of properties being broken up amongst an unknown number of
remote cousins, and the fine old title dying out; for everyone knew
there was no heir to the dukedom, however, looking back beyond the
seven dukes, the property might be found settled. One thing was clear,
namely, that all the property which had come into the family since the
first duke must go goodness knew whither, for there was absolutely no
heir. It was also perfectly clear that the title would become extinct;
for, with but one exception, from the first to the sixth duke, the
title and entailed estates had descended through a single file of
sons, and, though many children may have been born, when each duke
came into possession he was the last member of the ducal house. The
one exception was that of the present Duke, for when he inherited the
title he had a younger brother, who, however, died unmarried.
Such was the talk of general society about the Duke of Shropshire. Of
course there were people who knew everything that would happen if the
line of dukes failed; but then that was, after all, a very remote
contingency, and the great question was: Would the Duke marry again?
and whom would the Marquis marry?
Shropshire House is in Piccadilly. Cheyne had seen in one of the
morning papers that the Duke was in town, and as he and Marion Durrant
walked through Piccadilly that bright June noon, they met a
bandy-legged common-looking man emerging from a crowd in the roadway.
"What is the matter?" asked Marion of Cheyne.
Cheyne raised himself on his toes and answered: "There's been a smash
of some kind. I can see now. The pole of a 'bus has gone through the
door of a brougham. That sort of thing comes of shaving corners too
fine. I'll bet any money it is the brougham that was in fault."
Marion Durrant, the orphan of Captain Durrant of the Fusiliers, was
three-and-twenty years of age, and lived with an invalid maiden aunt
in a very quiet street in Knightsbridge. There Miss Traynor, Marion
Durrant's aunt, had a neat little house, possessing all reasonable
comforts, and even modest luxuries. She and her dead sister had each
settled upon her by their father two hundred a year, and as May had
inherited her mother's two hundred a year, their joint income was four
hundred pounds. Although Miss Traynor was an invalid she was an
excellent housekeeper, and, with the aid of a bright handy little
maid-of-all-work, the small house in Knightsbridge was as well
managed, as well kept, and as comfortable as any other in London.
To this home Charles Cheyne was free as the acknowledged lover of
Marion Durrant. Miss Traynor was one of those good, genial, generous
old souls who, while keeping a dignified reserve upon her feelings,
thought nothing on earth too good for those whom she loved. At the
threshold of the snug little home at Knightsbridge Cheyne laid aside
all his grand airs. He never carried into that home the oppressive
atmosphere of dukes and earls. Here he was simply the lively and
kindly gentleman who loved his love with all his loyal heart, and did
all in his power to enliven and amuse the guardian angel of his
sweetheart.
Towards that quiet comfortable home he was conducting Miss Durrant
when they encountered the crowd and the injured brougham. As they
arrived at the door she said: "Won't you come in, Charlie?"
"I really can't," he answered. "I am already very late with my copy,
and I must go home and attend to my duke. Otherwise I shall get into
awful trouble with the proprietor of my duke. You cannot be hasty with
your duke. You must treat him as if he was fat and scant of breath.
You may have noticed that in my present duke I make him say 'hem,'
'hum,' very often. This is just to spread out the ducal speech. You
can't expect to get as many articulate words out of a duke as out of
an ordinary mortal, and the hem-hums are wonderfully efficacious."
Having taken leave of Marion, he turned his face east, and began
walking back at a rapid rate towards his lodgings in Long Acre.
In the meantime the brougham, through which the pole of the omnibus
had gone, had been driven along Piccadilly through Leicester Square to
Long Acre. "Take the number of that omnibus," the occupant of the
injured vehicle had said to the coachman as he stepped to the ground,
"and then drive to Whiteshaw's in Long Acre, and tell him to repair
that door."
The coachman had done as he was told, and by the time Cheyne got back
to Long Acre the brougham had arrived, the horses had been
unharnessed, and the coachman had got a man to lead the horses home.
When Cheyne arrived at the place he lived in he found Mr. Whiteshaw,
with whom he was friendly, examining the injured brougham.
"That was an ugly smash," said the carriage-builder. "Nearly killed
the Duke."
"What Duke?" asked Cheyne, with great interest.
"The Duke of Shropshire. See the arms on the other panel. He had a
very narrow escape. The pole went slap through the door, and when the
'bus-driver threw his horses on their haunches the pole made a plunge
up, and just barely missed the chin of the Duke."
"By Jove, I am very sorry for poor Regi."
"Who's Regi? the 'bus-driver? Is the 'bus-driver a friend of yours?"
"No, my dear friend, but the Duke, Reginald Francis Henry Cheyne,
seventh Duke of Shropshire. He is a most particular friend of mine.
The other day----let me see, how long ago is it? A fortnight? Well,
say eighteen days ago, I had a letter from him asking me to go down to
Silverview and stay a week or ten days with him. But, Whiteshaw,
although it was excessively kind of his grace, you see, I tell you in
confidence, I can't afford to go to such places. I am really only a
poor man, although people will say the other thing, and it runs away
with an awful lot of money to go to such places."
"I daresay it does. But I thought the Duke of Shropshire was a queer
kind of moody man, who never had anyone at his house?" said the
carriage-builder maliciously.
"You are quite right. He lives the life of a recluse. But he now and
then will see an old friend. You must know he has rather a fancy for
the stories I write--no accounting for tastes, you know--and when I go
to him he always insists on my reading my manuscripts to him before
they go to the printer. Very flattering, you know."
"But he never lives ashore. He is nearly always in his yacht with his
son the Marquis of Southwold."
"Of course. It is aboard ship I always read to Regi and Southwold.
Reading is all very well in the day, but I tell you it is no little
difficulty to read by the light of a swinging lamp when a ship is
lying at anchor and rolling. Where did this accident happen,
Whiteshaw?"
"In Piccadilly, at noon."
"By Jove, it must be this smash I saw. I was just passing along, but
took little or no notice, as at the time I was explaining some matters
of court etiquette to Lady Evelina de Lacy, who is to be presented
this year."
"It has never struck me before, Cheyne, that your name is the same as
that of the Shropshire family. Can it be that you are related to it?"
"No, no. It is merely a coincidence. The name is not uncommon. My
father was a poor gentleman, with no pretensions to blood-connection
with a ducal house. Good-day, Whiteshaw."
"Good-day, Cheyne," cried out the carriage-builder; adding mentally:
"There goes the greatest and the most harmless liar in London."