It will be remembered that Adelaide Palliser had accepted the hand of Mr Maule, junior, and that she and Lady Chiltern between them had despatched him up to London on an embassy to his father, in which he failed very signally. It had been originally Lady Chiltern’s idea that the proper home for the young couple would be the ancestral hall, which must be theirs some day, and in which, with exceeding prudence, they might be able to live as Maules of Maule Abbey upon the very limited income which would belong to them. How slight were the grounds for imputing such stern prudence to Gerard Maule both the ladies felt — but it had become essential to do something; the young people were engaged to each other, and a manner of life must be suggested, discussed, and as far as possible arranged. Lady Chiltern was useful at such work, having a practical turn of mind, and understanding well the condition of life for which it was necessary that her friend should prepare herself. The lover was not vicious, he neither drank nor gambled, nor ran himself hopelessly in debt. He was good-humoured and tractable, and docile enough when nothing disagreeable was asked from him. He would have, he said, no objection to live at Maule Abbey if Adelaide liked it. He didn’t believe much in farming, but would consent at Adelaide’s request to be the owner of bullocks. He was quite ready to give up hunting, having already taught himself to think that the very few good runs in a season were hardly worth the trouble of getting up before daylight all the winter. He went forth, therefore, on his embassy, and we know how he failed. Another lover would have communicated the disastrous tidings at once to the lady; but Gerard Maule waited a week before he did so, and then told his story in half-a-dozen words. “The governor cut up rough about Maule Abbey, and will not hear of it. He generally does cut up rough.”
“But he must be made to hear of it,” said Lady Chiltern. Two days afterwards the news reached Harrington of the death of the Duke of Omnium. A letter of an official nature reached Adelaide from Mr Fothergill, in which the writer explained that he had been desired by Mr Palliser to communicate to her and the relatives the sad tidings. “So the poor old man has gone at last,” said Lady Chiltern, with that affectation of funereal gravity which is common to all of us.
“Poor old Duke!” said Adelaide. “I have been hearing of him as a sort of bugbear all my life. I don’t think I ever saw him but once, and then he gave me a kiss and a pair of earrings. He never paid any attention to us at all, but we were taught to think that Providence had been very good to us in making the Duke our uncle.”
“He was very rich?”
“Horribly rich, I have always heard.”
“Won’t he leave you something? It would be very nice now that you are engaged to find that he has given you five thousand pounds.”
“Very nice indeed — but there is not a chance of it. It has always been known that everything is to go to the heir, Papa had his fortune and spent it. He and his brother were never friends, and though the Duke did once give me a kiss I imagine that he forgot my existence immediately afterwards.”
“So the Duke of Omnium is dead,” said Lord Chiltern when he came home that evening.
“Adelaide has had a letter to tell her so this afternoon.”
“Mr Fothergill wrote to me,” said Adelaide — “the man who is so wicked about the foxes.”
“I don’t care a straw about Mr Fothergill; and now my mouth is closed against your uncle. But it’s quite frightful to think that a Duke of Omnium must die like anybody else.”
“The Duke is dead — long live the Duke,” said Lady Chiltern. “I wonder how Mr Palliser will like it.”
“Men always do like it, I suppose,” said Adelaide.
“Women do,” said Lord Chiltern. “Lady Glencora will be delighted to reign — though I can hardly fancy her by any other name. By the bye, Adelaide, I have got a letter for you.”
“A letter for me, Lord Chiltern!”
“Well — yes; I suppose I had better give it you. It is not addressed to you, but you must answer it.”
“What on earth is it?”
“I think I can guess,” said Lady Chiltern, laughing. She had guessed rightly, but Adelaide Palliser was still altogether in the dark when Lord Chiltern took a letter from his pocket and handed it to her. As he did so he left the room, and his wife followed him. “I shall be upstairs, Adelaide, if you want advice,” said Lady Chiltern.
The letter was from Mr Spooner. He had left Harrington Hall after the uncourteous reception which had been accorded to him by Miss Palliser in deep disgust, resolving that he would never again speak to her, and almost resolving that Spoon Hall should never have a mistress in his time. But with his wine after dinner his courage came back to him, and he began to reflect once more that it is not the habit of young ladies to accept their lovers at the first offer. There was living with Mr Spooner at this time a very attached friend, whom he usually consulted in all emergencies, and to whom on this occasion he opened his heart. Mr Edward Spooner, commonly called Ned by all who knew him, and not unfrequently so addressed by those who did not, was a distant cousin of the Squire’s, who unfortunately had no particular income of his own. For the last ten years he had lived at Spoon Hall, and had certainly earned his bread. The Squire had achieved a certain credit for success as a country gentleman. Nothing about his place was out of order. His own farming, which was extensive, succeeded. His bullocks and sheep won prizes. His horses were always useful and healthy. His tenants were solvent, if not satisfied, and he himself did not owe a shilling. Now many people in the neighbourhood attributed all this to the judicious care of Mr Edward Spooner, whose eye was never off the place, and whose discretion was equal to his zeal. In giving the Squire his due, one must acknowledge that he recognised the merits of his cousin, and trusted him in everything. That night, as soon as the customary bottle of claret had succeeded the absolutely normal bottle of port after dinner, Mr Spooner of Spoon Hall opened his heart to his cousin.
“I shall have to walk, then,” said Ned.
“Not if I know it,” said the Squire. “You don’t suppose I’m going to let any woman have the command of Spoon Hall?”
“They do command — inside, you know.”
“No woman shall ever turn you out of this house, Ned.”
“I’m not thinking of myself, Tom,” said the cousin. “Of course you’ll marry some day, and of course I must take my chance. I don’t see why it shouldn’t be Miss Palliser as well as another.”
“The jade almost made me angry.”
“I suppose that’s the way with most of ’em. “ Ludit exultim metuitque tangi ‘’.” For Ned Spooner had himself preserved some few tattered shreds of learning from his school days. “You don’t remember about the filly?”
“Yes I do; very well,” said the Squire.
“{” Nuptiarum expers ‘’. That’s what it is, I suppose. Try it again.” The advice on the part of the cousin was genuine and unselfish. That Mr Spooner of Spoon Hall should be rejected by a young lady without any fortune seemed to him to be impossible. At any rate it is the duty of a man in such circumstances to persevere. As far as Ned knew the world, ladies always required to be asked a second or a third time. And then no harm can come from such perseverance. “She can’t break your bones, Tom.”
There was much honesty displayed on this occasion. The Squire, when he was thus instigated to persevere, did his best to describe the manner in which he had been rejected. His powers of description were not very great, but he did not conceal anything wilfully. “She was as hard as nails, you know.”
“I don’t know that that means much. Horace’s filly kicked a few, no doubt.”
“She told me that if I’d go one way, she’d go the other!”
“They always say about the hardest things that come to their tongues. They don’t curse and swear as we do, or there’d be no bearing them. If you really like her — ”
“She’s such a well-built creature! There’s a look of blood about her I don’t see in any of ’em. That sort of breeding is what one wants to get through the mud with.”
Then it was that the cousin recommended a letter to Lord Chiltern. Lord Chiltern was at the present moment to be regarded as the lady’s guardian, and was the lover’s intimate friend. A direct proposal had already been made to the young lady, and this should now be repeated to the gentleman who for the time stood in the position of her father. The Squire for a while hesitated, declaring that he was averse to make his secret known to Lord Chiltern. “One doesn’t want every fellow in the country to know it,” he said. But in answer to this the cousin was very explicit. There could be but little doubt that Lord Chiltern knew the secret already; and he would certainly be rather induced to keep it as a secret than to divulge it if it were communicated to him officially. And what other step could the Squire take? It would not be likely that he should be asked again to Harrington Hall with the express view of repeating his offer. The cousin was quite of opinion that a written proposition should be made; and on that very night the cousin himself wr............