The Duke's Children. Anthony TrollopeЧитать онлайн книгу.
Mary as her mother's dearest friend. It was therefore incumbent on him now to induce her to believe in him as the Duchess had believed.
He knocked at the door of Mrs. Finn's little house in Park Lane a few minutes before the time appointed, and found himself alone when he was shown into the drawing-room. He had heard much of this lady though he had never seen her, and had heard much also of her husband. There had been a kind of mystery about her. People did not quite understand how it was that she had been so intimate with the Duchess, nor why the late Duke had left to her an enormous legacy, which as yet had never been claimed. There was supposed, too, to have been something especially romantic in her marriage with her present husband. It was believed also that she was very rich. The rumours of all these things together had made her a person of note, and Tregear, when he found himself alone in the drawing-room, looked round about him as though a special interest was to be attached to the belongings of such a woman. It was a pretty room, somewhat dark, because the curtains were almost closed across the windows, but furnished with a pretty taste, and now, in these early April days, filled with flowers.
"I have to apologise, Mr. Tregear, for keeping you waiting," she said as she entered the room.
"I fear I was before my time."
"I know that I am after mine—a few minutes," said the lady.
He told himself that though she was not a young woman, yet she was attractive. She was dark, and still wore her black hair in curls, such as are now seldom seen with ladies. Perhaps the reduced light of the chamber had been regulated with some regard to her complexion and to her age. The effect, however, was good, and Frank Tregear felt at once interested in her.
"You have just come up from Matching?" he said.
"Yes; only the day before yesterday. It is very good of you to come to me so soon."
"Of course I came when you sent for me. I am afraid the Duke felt his loss severely."
"How should he not, such a loss as it was? Few people knew how much he trusted her, and how dearly he loved her."
"Silverbridge has told me that he is awfully cut up."
"You have seen Lord Silverbridge then?"
"Just at present I am living with him, at Carlton Terrace."
"In the Duke's house?" she asked, with some surprise.
"Yes; in the Duke's house. Silverbridge and I have been very intimate. Of course the Duke knows that I am there. Is there any chance of his coming to town?"
"Not yet, I fear. He is determined to be alone. I wish it were otherwise, as I am sure he would better bear his sorrow, if he would go about among other men."
"No doubt he would suffer less," said Tregear. Then there was a pause. Each wished that the other should introduce the matter which both knew was to be the subject of their conversation. But Tregear would not begin. "When I left them all at Florence," he said, "I little thought that I should never see her again."
"You had been intimate with them, Mr. Tregear?"
"Yes; I think I may say I have been intimate with them. I had been at Eton and at Christ Church with Silverbridge, and we have always been much together."
"I have understood that. Have you and the Duke been good friends?"
"We have never been enemies."
"I suppose not that."
"The Duke, I think, does not much care about young people. I hardly know what he used to do with himself. When I dined with them, I saw him, but I did not often do that. I think he used to read a good deal, and walk about alone. We were always riding."
"Lady Mary used to ride?"
"Oh yes; and Lord Silverbridge and Lord Gerald. And the Duchess used to drive. One of us would always be with her."
"And so you became intimate with the whole family?"
"So I became intimate with the whole family."
"And especially so with Lady Mary?" This she said in her sweetest possible tone, and with a most gracious smile.
"Especially so with Lady Mary," he replied.
"It will be very good of you, Mr. Tregear, if you endure and forgive all this cross-questioning from me, who am a perfect stranger to you."
"But you are not a perfect stranger to her."
"That is it, of course. Now, if you will allow me, I will explain to you exactly what my footing with her is. When the Duchess returned, and when I found her to be so ill as she passed through London, I went down with her into the country—quite as a matter of course."
"So I understand."
"And there she died—in my arms. I will not try to harass you by telling you what those few days were; how absolutely he was struck to the ground, how terrible was the grief of the daughter, how the boys were astonished by the feeling of their loss. After a few days they went away. It was, I think, their father's wish that they should go. And I too was going away—and had felt, indeed, directly her spirit had parted from her, that I was only in the way in his house. But I stayed at his request, because he did not wish his daughter to be alone."
"I can easily understand that, Mrs. Finn."
"I wanted her to go to Lady Cantrip who had invited her, but she would not. In that way we were thrown together in the closest intercourse, for two or three weeks. Then she told me the story of your engagement."
"That was natural, I suppose."
"Surely so. Think of her position, left as she is without a mother! It was incumbent on her to tell someone. There was, however, one other person in whom it would have been much better that she should have confided."
"What person?"
"Her father."
"I rather fancy that it is I who ought to tell him."
"As far as I understand these things, Mr. Tregear—which, indeed, is very imperfectly—I think it is natural that a girl should at once tell her mother when a gentleman has made her understand that he loves her."
"She did so, Mrs. Finn."
"And I suppose that generally the mother would tell the father."
"She did not."
"No; and therefore the position of the young lady is now one of great embarrassment. The Duchess has gone from us, and we must now make up our minds as to what had better be done. It is out of the question that Lady Mary should be allowed to consider herself to be engaged, and that the father should be kept in ignorance of her position." She paused for his reply, but as he said nothing, she continued: "Either you must tell the Duke, or she must do so, or I must do so."
"I suppose she told you in confidence."
"No doubt. She told it me presuming that I would not betray her; but I shall—if that be a betrayal. The Duke must know it. It will be infinitely better that he should know it through you, or through her, than through me. But he must be told."
"I can't quite see why," said Tregear.
"For her sake—whom I suppose you love."
"Certainly I love her."
"In order that she may not suffer. I wonder you do not see it, Mr. Tregear. Perhaps you have a sister."
"I have no sister as it happens."
"But you can imagine what your feelings would be. Should you like to think of a sister as being engaged to a man without the knowledge of any of her family?"
"It was not so. The Duchess knew it. The present condition of things is altogether an accident."
"It is an accident that must be brought to an end."
"Of course it must be brought to an end. I am not such a fool as to suppose