But this matter is so important to her as well as to me that I am compelled to lay aside all pretence. If she do not love me as I love her, then the whole thing drops to the ground. Then it will be for me to take myself off from out of your notice,--and from hers, and to keep to myself whatever heart-breaking I may have to undergo. But if she be as steadfast in this matter as I am,--if her happiness be fixed on marrying me as mine to marrying her,--then, I think, I am entitled to ask you whether you are justified in keeping us apart.
'I know well what are the discrepancies. Speaking from my own feeling I regard very little those of rank. I believe myself to be as good a gentleman as though my father's forefathers had sat for centuries past in the House of Lords. I believe that you would have thought so also had you and I been brought in contact on any other subject. The discrepancy with regard to money is, I own, a great trouble to me. Having no wealth of my own I wish that your daughter were so circumstanced that I could go out into the world and earn bread for her. I know myself so well that I dare say positively that her money,--if it be that she will have money,--had no attractions for me when I first became acquainted with her and adds nothing now to the persistency with which I claim her hand.
'But I venture to ask whether you can dare to keep us apart if her happiness depends on her lover for me? It is now more than six months since I called upon you in London and explained my wishes.
You will understand me when I say that I cannot be contented to sit idle, trusting simply to the assurance I have of her affection. Did I doubt it, my way would be more clear. I should feel in that case that she would yield to your wishes, and I should then, as I have said before, just take myself out of the way. But if it be not so, then I am bound to do something,--on her behalf as well as my own. What am I to do? Any endeavours to meet her clandestinely is against my instincts, and would certainly be rejected by her. A secret correspondence would be equally distasteful to both of us. Whatever I do in this matter, I wish you to know that I do it.
'Yours always, 'Most faithfully, and with the deepest respect,'
'FRANCIS TREGEAR.'
He read the letter very carefully, and was at first simply astonished by what he considered to be the unparalleled arrogance of the young man. In regard to rank this young gentleman thought himself to be as good as anybody else! In regard to money he did acknowledge some inferiority. But that was a misfortune, and could not be helped! Not only was the letter arrogant,--but the fact that he should dare to write any letter on such a subject was proof of most unpardonable arrogance. The Duke walked about the room thinking of it till he was almost in a passion. Then he read the letter again and was gradually pervaded by a feeling of manliness. Its arrogance remained, but with its arrogance there was a certain boldness which induced respect. Whether I am such a son-in-law as you would like or not, it is your duty to accept me, if by refusing to do so you will render your daughter miserable.
That was Mr Tregear's argument. He himself might be prepared to argue in answer that it was his duty to reject such a son-in-law, even though by rejecting him he might make his daughter miserable.
He was not shaken; but with his condemnation of the young man there was mingled something of respect.
He continued to digest the letter before the hour of dinner, and when the almanac was brought to him he fixed on certain days. The Boncassens he knew would be free from engagements in ten days' time. As to Lady Mabel, he seemed to think it almost certain that she would come. 'I believe she is always going about from one house to another at this time of the year,' said Mary.
'I think she will come to us if it be possible,' said the Duke.
'And you must write to Silverbridge.'
'And what about Mr and Mrs Finn?'
'She promised she would come again, you know. They are at their own place in Surrey. They will come unless they have friends with them. They have no shooting, and nothing brings people together now except shooting. I suppose there are better things here to be shot. And be sure you write to Silverbridge.'
