IT has never been fully explained how it was that a person so thoroughly experienced in the world as Lady Germaine should have permitted an acquaintance between Lady Jane and Mr Winton to ripen under her roof. That she should have introduced them to each other was nothing, of course; for in society every gentleman is supposed the equal of every other gentleman, though he has not a penny and his next neighbour may be a millionaire; and Lady Jane was gracious in her high-minded, maidenly way, as a princess should be, to everybody, to the clergyman, and even to the clergyman’s sons, dangerous and detrimental young persons who have to be asked to country houses, a perpetual alarm to anxious parents who have daughters. No hauteur, no exclusiveness was in Lady Jane. She was as much withdrawn above the young squire as the young curate, and there was no reason why Mr Winton, who was very personable, very well thought of, and in no sense of the word detrimental, should not pay his homage to the Duke’s daughter. But there it should have stopped. When she saw that there was even the remotest chance that it might go further, Lady Germaine’s duty was plain. She should have said firmly, “Not in my house.” It was not to be supposed, indeed, that she could stop the course of mutual inclination, prevent Mr Winton from making love to Lady Jane, or Lady Jane from listening. But what she could, and indeed ought to, have done, was to say plainly, “Meet where they will, it must not be in my house.” Her duty to the Duke demanded this course of action. But it must be confessed that Lady Germaine was very independent—too independent for a woman—and that what she would not recognise was, that she had any duty at all to the Duke. He might be the head of society in the county, but what did Lady Germaine care? She laughed openly at the county society, and declared that she would as soon throw in her lot among the farmers of the district as among the squires, and that the Duke was an old—the pen of the historian almost refuses to record the language this daring lady used—an old humbug. She ventured to say this and lived. The Duke never knew how far she went, but he disapproved of her, and considered her an irreverent person. He would have checked his daughter’s intimacy with her had he been able. But the Duchess did not see any harm in it. Her Grace’s opinion was that a little enlivenment was what Jane wanted, and that even a slight exaggeration of gaiety would do her no harm. Lady Germaine’s set was unimpeachable though it loved diversion, and diversion was above everything the thing necessary for Lady Jane. And there was this to be said for Lady Germaine, that the Duchess herself had the opportunity of stopping the Winton affair had she chosen. She must have seen what was going on. Poor Mr Winton could not conceal the state of mind in which he was; and as for Lady Jane, there was a certain tremor in her retired and gentle demeanour, a little outburst of happiness now and then, a liquid expression about the eyes, a softening of manner and countenance, which no mother’s eyes could have overlooked. It was she who ought to have interfered. She could have controlled her own child no doubt, or she could have made it apparent to Mr Winton that his assiduities were disagreeable; but she did nothing of the sort. She had every appearance of liking the man herself. She talked to him apparently with pleasure, asked him his opinion, declared that he had excellent taste. After this why should Lady Germaine have been blamed? All she did was to form her society of the best materials she could collect. She was fond of nice people, and loved conversation. If men could talk pleasantly, and add to the entertainment of her household, when the time came for encountering the tedium of the country, she asked nothing about their grandfathers, nor even demanded whether they had a rent-roll, or money in the funds, or how they lived. Lively young barristers, literary men, artists, people who it was to be feared lived on their wits, not to speak of those younger sons who are the plague of society, came and went about her house; which made it a house alarming to mothers, it must be allowed, but extremely lively, cheerful, and full of “go,” which was what Lady Germaine liked. And as she openly professed that this was the principle upon which she went, the risks were at least patent and above-board which princesses royal were likely to meet with at her house.
It is now time to speak of the lover himself, who has hitherto been but hinted at. We must say, in the first place, that there was nothing objectionable about Mr Winton. He was not poor, nor was he roturier. He was a well-bred English gentleman, of perfectly good though not exalted family. On the Continent he would have been said to belong to the petite noblesse. But after all it only wants an accession of fortune to make la petite into la grande noblesse. He was as far descended as any prince (which, indeed, may be said for the most of us), and had ancestors reaching up into the darkness of the ages. At least he had the portraits of these ancestors hanging up in the hall at Winton House; and unless they had existed, how could they have had their portraits taken? which is an unanswerable argument. Winton House itself was but a small place, it is true; but when his Indian uncle died and left him all that money, it was immediately placed in Mr Winton’s power to make his house into a great one had he chosen; and for so rich a man to keep the old place intact was loyalty, or family pride, or at the worst eccentricity, and did by no means imply any shabbiness either of mind or means. To make up for this he had a very handsome house in town, and there was no doubt at all on the question that he was a rich man, and able to indulge his fancy as he pleased. He would have been a perfectly good match for Lady Germaine’s own daughter had she been old enough, or for Earl Binny’s young ladies, or for almost any girl in the county, excepting always Lady Jane. She was the one who was out of his sphere. It was perfectly well known that the Duke would not hear of any son-in-law whose rank, or at least whose family, was not equal to his own, and it had long been a foregone conclusion with society that it was very unlikely Lady Jane would ever marry at all. Perhaps had Mr Winton fully foreseen the position, he would have retired too, before, as people say, his feelings were too much interested. But it is to be feared that the idea did not occur to him until, unfortunately, it was too late.
Reginald Winton had been brought up in the most approved way at a public school, and at Oxford, and shaped into what was considered the best fashion of his time. It had been intended, as the old estate was insufficient to support two people, and his mother was then living, that he should go to the bar. But before he attained this end, the uncle’s fortune, of which he had not the least expectation, fell down upon him suddenly, as from the skies. Then, of course, it was not thought necessary that he should continue his studies. He was not only rich, but very rich, and at the same time had all the advantages of once having been poor. He had no expensive habits. He did not bet, nor race, nor gamble; nor did he on the other hand buy pictures or curiosities, or sumptuous furniture (at least no more than reason). He was full of intelligence, but he was not literary, nor over-learned, nor too clever. He was five feet ten, and quite sufficiently good-looking for a man of his fortune. He would have been favourably received in most families of gentry, nay, even of nobility, in England; but only not in the house of the Altamonts. Here was the perversity of fate. But he did not do it on purpose, nor fly at such high game solely because it was forbidden, as some people might have done. It is certain that he did not know who Lady Jane was when his heart was caught unawares. He took Lady Germaine aside and begged to be introduced to the young lady in white, without a suspicion of her greatness. It was at a moment when ladies wore a great deal of colour: when they had wreaths of flowers scrambling over their dresses and their heads, like a hedgerow in summer. Lady Jane’s dress was white silk, soft and even dull in tone. She had not a bow or a flower, but some pearls twisted in her smooth brown hair, which was not frizzy as nowadays, but shining like satin. She was seated a little apart with the children of the house, and to a man incapable of perceiving that this simple garment was of much superior value to many of the gayer fabrics round, she had the air of being economically as well as gracefully clothed. “How much better taste is that simple dress than all those furbelows!” he said. His opinion was, that she would turn out to be the rector’s daughter. Lady Germaine gazed at him for a moment with the contempt which a woman naturally entertains for a man’s mistake in this kind. “I like your simplicity,” she said with fine satire which he did not understand;—and presented him on the spot to Lady Jane Altamont.
How Winton opened his eyes! But there was no reason why he should withdraw, and acknowledge the Duke’s daughter to be out of his sphere. On the contrary, he did his best to make himself agreeable. And from that time to this, when everybody could see things were coming to a crisis, he had never ceased in the effort. It was the first time—except by Lord Rushbrook, who had done it politically—that this noble maiden had been personally wooed. The sense that she was as other women, had come into her heart with a soft transport of sweetness, emancipating her all at once from those golden bonds of high sacrifice and duty in which she had believed herself to be bound. She had not rebelled against them; but when it appeared now that life might be happiness as well as duty, and that all its delights and hopes were possible to her as to others, the melting of all those icicles that had been formed around her, flooded her gentle soul with tenderness. She was not easily wooed; for nothing could be less like the freedom of manners which makes it natural nowadays for a girl to advance a little on her side, and help on her lover, than the almost timid though always sweet stateliness with which Lady Jane received his devotion. It was a wonder to her, as it cannot be to young ladies who flirt from their cradles. Love! She regarded it with awe, mingled with a touched and surprised gratitude. She was older than a girl usually is when that revelation is first made to her, a fact which deepened every sentiment. Winton did not, could not, divine what was passing in that delicate spirit. But he felt the novelty, the exquisite, modest grace of his reception. He had not been without experience in his own person, and had known what it was to be “encouraged.” But here he was not encouraged. It was romance put into action for the first time, a love-making that was as new, and fresh, and miraculous, and incomprehensible, as if no one had ever made love before. And thus the flood of their own emotions carried the pair on; and if Winton had never paused to think how the Duke would receive his addresses, it may with still greater certainty be assumed that Lady Jane had never considered that momentous question. They went on, unawakened to anything outside their own elysium, which, like most other elysiums of the kind, was a fool’s paradise.
It was Lady Germaine at last, as she had been the means of setting the whole affair in motion, who brought it to a climax. He had not confided in her in so many words—for, indeed, he was too much elevated and carried away by this growing passion to bring it to the common eye; but he had so far betrayed himself on a certain occasion when reference had been made to Lady Jane, that his hostess and friend burst through all pretences and herself dashed into the subject. “Reginald Winton,” she said almost solemnly, “do you know what is before you? How are you going to ask the Duke of Billingsgate, that high and mighty personage, to give you his daughter? I wonder you are not ready to sink into the earth with terror.”
“The Duke of Billingsgate?” cried the young man, with a gasp of dismay.
“To be sure; but I suppose you never thought of that,” she said.
He grew paler and paler as he looked at her. “Do you know,” he said, “it never occurred to me till this moment. But what do I care for the Duke of Billingsgate? I think of nothing, since you will have it, but her, Lady Germaine.”
“Innocent! do you think I have not known that for the last two months? When you want to hide anything, you should not put flags up at all your windows.”
“Have I put flags up?” He looked at her with colours flying and an illumination in his eyes. He was pleased to think that he had exposed himself and proclaimed his lady’s charms in this way, like a knight-errant. “I hope I have not done anything to annoy her,” he added, in a panic. “Lady Germaine, you will keep my secret till I know my fate.”
“Oh, as for keeping your secret—but from whom are you to know your fate, if I may ask?” Lady Germaine said.
Reginald blushed like a girl all over his face—or rather he reddened like a man, duskily, half angrily, while his eyes grew more like illuminations than ever. He drew a long breath, making a distinct pause, as a devout Catholic would do to cross himself, before he replied, “From whom? from her; who else?” with a glow of excitement and hope.
Lady Germaine shook her head. “Oh, you innocent!” she cried; “oh, you baby! If there is any other word that expresses utter simplicity and foolishness, let me call you that. Her! that is all very well, that is easy enough. But what are you to say to her father?—oh, you simpleton!—her father,—that is the question.”
“I presume, Lady Germaine,” said the lover, assuming an air of superior knowledge and lofty sentiment—“I presume that if I am so fortunate as to persuade her to listen to me—which, heaven knows, I am doubtful enough of!—that in that case her father——”
“Would be easy to manage, you think?” she said, with scornful toleration of his folly.
The young man looked at her with that ineffable air of imbecility and vanity which no man can escape at such a crisis, and made her a little bow of acquiescence. Her tone, her air, made him aware that she had no doubt of his success in the first instance, and this gave him a sudden intoxication. A father! What was a father? If she once gave him authority to speak to her father, would not all be said?
“Oh, you goose!” said Lady Germaine again; “oh, you ignoramus! You are so silly that I am obliged to call you names. Do you know who the Duke of Billingsgate is? Simply the proudest man in England. He thinks there is nobody under the blood royal that is good enough for his child.”
“And he is quite right! I am of the same opinion,” said Winton; then he paused and gave her a look in which, notwithstanding his gravity and enthusiasm, there was something comic. “But then,” he added, “the blood royal, that is not always the symbol of perfection, and then——”
“And then——? You think, of course, that you have something to offer which a royal duke might not possess?”
“Perhaps,” said Winton, looking at her again with a sort of friendly defiance; and then his eyes softened with that in which he felt himself superior to any royal duke or potentate; the something which was worthy of Lady Jane, let all the noble fathers in the world do their worst against him. He was not alarmed by all that Lady Germaine had said. Most likely he did not realise it. His mind went away even while she was speaking. She had heart enough to approve of this, and to perceive that Winton felt as a true lover ought to feel, but she was half provoked all the same, and anxious how it was all to turn out.
“Do be a little practical,” she said; “try for a moment to leave her out of the question. What are you going to say to the Duke? That is what I want to know.”
“How can I tell you?” said Winton; “how can I speak at all on such a subject? If I am to be so happy as to have anything at all to say to the Duke:—why, then—the occasion will inspire me,” he added, after a pause. “I cannot even think now what in such circumstances I should say.”
Lady Germaine gave up with a sigh all attempt to guide him. “Then I must just wash my hands of you,” she said, with a sort of despair; “indeed, in any case I don’t know what I could have done for you. I shall be blamed, of course. The Duke will turn upon me, I know; but, thank heaven, I have nothing to fear from the Duke, and I don’t see what I can be said to have to do with the business. You met only in the ordinary way at my house. I never planned meetings for you, nor schemed to bring you together. Indeed I never thought of such a thing at all. Lady Jane, who has refused the first matches in the kingdom, what could have led me to suppose that she would turn her eyes upon you?”
Now, though Winton said truly that he thought the Duke quite right in expecting the very best and highest of all things for his child, yet it was not in the nature of man not to be somewhat piqued when he heard himself spoken of in this tone of slight, and almost contempt. True, he would have desired for her sake to have more and finer gifts to lay at her feet, but still such as he was, was not, after all, so contemptible as Lady Germaine seemed to imply. He could not help a little movement of self-vindication.
“I am not aware on what ground you can be blamed,” he said, coldly, “since you are good enough to admit me to your society at all. Perhaps that was a mistake; and yet I don’t know that I have done anything to shut the doors of my friends against me.”
“This is admirable,” said Lady Germaine; “you first, and the Duke afterwards. Never mind; you will probably come to yourself in half an hour or so, and beg my pardon. I give it you beforehand. But at the same time, let me advise you for your own good, to think a little what you are going to say to the Duke when you ask him for his daughter. It will not be so easy a matter as you seem to think. Oh yes, of course you are sorry for being rude to me—I was aware of that. Yes, yes, I forgive you. But pay attention to what I say.”
Winton thought over this conversation several times in the course of the next twenty-four hours, but his mind was very much occupied with another and much more important matter. He thought so much of Lady Jane that he had little time to spare for any consideration of her father. True, he himself was only a commoner of an undistinguished family; but he had the sustaining consciousness of being very well off—and dukes’ daughters had been known to marry commoners before now without any special commotion on the subject. He was a great deal more occupied with the first steps in the matter than with any subsequent ones. He had to find out where Lady Jane was going, and to contrive to get invitations to the same places, for it was the height of the season, and they were all in London. The Duchess did not throw herself into the vortex. She went only to the best houses; she gave only stately entertainments, which the Duke made a point of; therefore it was more difficult to go where Lady Jane was going than is usually the case with the ordinary Lady Janes of society. It took her lover most of his time to arrange these opportunities of seeing her, and at each successive one he made up his mind to determine his fate. But it is astonishing how many accidents intervene when such a decision has been come to. Sometimes it was an impertinent spectator who would obtrude himself or herself upon them. Sometimes it was the impossibility of finding a nook where any such serious conversation could be carried on. Sometimes the frivolity of the surrounding circumstances kept him silent; for who would, if he could help it, associate that wonderful moment of his existence with nothing better than the chatter of the ball-room? And once when every circumstance favoured him, his heart failed and he did not dare to put his fortune to the touch. How could he think of the father while in all the agitation of uncertainty as to how his suit would be looked upon by the daughter? During this moment of hesitation the Duchess herself once asked him to dinner, and when he found himself set down in the centre of the table, far from the magnates who glittered at either end, and far from Lady Jane who was the star of the whole entertainment, Winton felt his humility and insignificance as he had never felt them before, and was conscious of such a chill of doubt and alarm as made his heart sink within him. But the Duchess was markedly kind, and a glance from Lady Jane’s soft eyes, suffused with a sort of liquid light, sent him up again into a heaven of hope. Next morning they met by chance in the Park, very early, before the world of fashion was out of doors. She was taking a walk attended by her maid, and explained, with a great deal of unnecessary embarrassment, that she missed her country exercise and had longed for a little fresh air. The consequence was, that the maid was sent away to do some small commissions, and, with a good deal of alarm but some guilty happiness, Lady Jane found herself alone with her lover. It did not require a very long time or many words to make matters clear between them. Did she not know already all that he had wanted so long to say? One word made them both aware of what they had been communicating to each other for months past. But though this explanation was so soon arrived at, the details took a long time to disentangle—and there was a terrible amount of repetition and comparison of feelings and circumstances. It was nearly the hour for luncheon when he accompanied her home, with a heart so full of exultation and delight and pride, that it had still no room for any thought of the Duke or fear of what he might say. Even after he had parted from his love, Winton could not withdraw his mind from its much more agreeable occupation to think of the Duke. Jane had begged that she might tell her mother first, and that he should wait to hear from them before taking any further step. But he was to meet them that evening at one of the parties to which he had schemed to be invited on her account. And with every vein thrilling with his morning’s happy work, and the anticipation of seeing her who was now his, in the evening, how could any young lover be expected to turn from his happiness to the thought of anything less blessed? The day passed like a dream; everything in it tended towards the moment in which he should see her again. It would be like a new world to see her again. When they met in the morning she was almost terrible to him, a queen who could send him into everlasting banishment. When he met her now, he would see in her his wife, wonderful thought, his own! The place of meeting was in one of the crowds of London society, where all the world is; but Winton saw nothing except those soft eyes which were looking for him. How their hands met, in what seemed only the ordinary greeting to other people, clasping each other as if they never could part again! They did not say much, and she did not even venture, except by momentary glance now and then, to meet his eye. There was scarcely even opportunity for a whisper on his part to ask what he was to do; for as he stooped for this purpose to Lady Jane’s ear, the Duchess, who was looking very serious, but who had not refused to shake hands with him, laid a finger upon his arm.
“Mr Winton,” she said, “I should like to see you to-morrow about twelve. I have something to say to you.” She had looked very grave, but at the end brightened into a smile, yet shook her head. “I don’t know what to say to you,” she added hurriedly; “there will be dreadful difficulties in the way.”
To-morrow at twelve! He seemed to tread upon difficulties and crush them under his feet as he went home that evening; but with the morning a little thrill of apprehension came.