IMPOSSIBLE, of course, that so important a case as the appeal of Lady Carlyon should be concealed. In fact Constance’s policy was evidently to give it as much publicity as possible. She rightly judged that although, in her own Order, and in the House, which has to look at things from many points of view, motives of policy might be considered sufficient to override sentimental objections, and it was not likely that much weight would be attached to a young man’s feelings; yet the Duchess had many enemies, even on her own side of the House—private enemies wounded by her pride and insolence—who would rejoice at seeing her meet with a check in her self-willed and selfish course. But, besides the House, there was the outside world to consider. There was never greater need on the part of the governing caste for conciliation and respect to public opinions than at this moment—a fact perfectly well understood by all who were not blind to the meaning of things current. The abolition of the Lower House, although of late years it had degenerated into something noisier than a vestry, something less decorous than a school-board in which every woman has her own hobby of educational methods, had never been a popular act. A little of the old respect for so ancient a House still survived,—a little of the traditional reverence for a Parliament which had once protected the liberties of the people, still lingered in the hearts of the nation. The immediate relief, it is true, was undoubtedly great when the noise of elections—which never ceased, because the House was continually dissolved—the squabbles about corruption, the scandals in the House itself, the gossip about the jobs perpetrated by the members, all ceased at once, and as if by magic the country became silent; yet the pendulum of opinion was going back again—women who took up political matters were looking around for an outlet to their activity, and were already at their clubs asking awkward questions about what they had gained by giving up all the power to hereditary legislators. Nor did the old plan of sending round official orators to lecture on the advantages of oligarchical and maternal government seem to answer any longer. The women who used to draw crowded audiences and frantic applause as they depicted and laid bare the scandals and miseries and ridiculous squabbles of the Lower House, who pointed to session after session consumed in noisy talk, now shouted to empty benches, or worse still, benches crowded with listless men, who only sat bored with details in which they were forbidden to take any part, and therefore had lost all interest. Sometimes the older women would attend and add a few words from their own experience; or they would suggest, sarcastically, that the Upper House was going the way of the Lower. As for the younger women, either they would not attend at all, or else they came to ask questions, shout denials, groan and hiss, or even pass disagreeable resolutions. Constance knew all this; and though she would have shrunk, almost as much as the Duchess, from lending any aid to revolutionary designs, she could not but feel that the popular sympathy awakened in her favour at such a moment as the present might assume such strength as to be an irresistible force.

How could the sympathies of the people be otherwise than on her side? These marriages of old or middle-aged women with young men, common though they had become, could never be regarded by the youth of either sex as natural. The young women bitterly complained that the lovers provided for them by equality of age were taken from them, and that times were so bad that in no profession could one look to marry before forty. The young men, who were not supposed to have any voice in the matter, let it be clearly known that their continual prayer and daily dream was for a young wife. The general discontent found expression in songs and ballads, written no one knew by whom: they passed from hand to hand; they were sung with closed doors; they all had the same motif; they celebrated the loves of two young people, maiden and youth; they showed how they were parted by the elderly woman who came to marry the tall and gallant youth; how the girl’s life was embittered, or how she pined away, or how she became misanthropic; and how the young man spent the short remainder of his days in an apathetic endeavour to discharge his duty, fortified on his deathbed with the consolations of religion and the hopes of meeting, not his old wife, but his old love, in a better and happier world. Why, there could be nothing but sympathy with Constance and Lord Chester. Why, all the men, old and young alike, whose influence upon women and popular opinion, though denied by some, was never doubted by Constance, would give her cause their most active sympathies.

She remained at home that day, taking no other step than to charge a friend with the task of communicating the intelligence to her club, being well aware that in an hour or two it would be spread over London, and, in fact, over the whole realm of England. The next day she went down to the House, and had the satisfaction of finding that the excitement caused by her resignation—a ministerial resignation was too common a thing to cause much talk—had given way altogether to the excitement caused by this great Appeal. No one even took the trouble of asking who was going to be the new Home Secretary. It was taken for granted that it would be some friend of the Duchess of Dunstanburgh. The lobbies were crowded—reporters, members of clubs, diners-out, talkers, were hurrying backwards and forwards, trying to pick up a tolerably trustworthy anecdote; and there was the va et vient, the nervous activity, which is so much more easily awakened by personal quarrels than by political differences. And here was a personal quarrel! The young and beautiful Countess against the old and powerful Duchess.

‘Yes,’ said Constance loudly, in answer to a whispered question put by one of her friends—she may have observed two or three listeners standing about with eager ears and parted lips—‘yes, it is all quite true; it was an understood thing—this match with my second cousin. The pretensions of the Duchess rest upon too transparent a foundation—the poor man’s money, my dear. As if she were not rich enough already! as if three husbands are not enough for any one woman to lament! Thank you; yes, I have not the slightest doubt of the result. In a matter of good feeling as well as equity one may always depend upon the House, whatever one’s political opinions.’

The Duchess certainly had not expected this resistance to her will. In fact, during the whole of her long life she had never known any resistance at all, except such as befalls every politician. But in her private life her will was law, which no one questioned or disputed. Nor did it even occur to her to inquire, before speaking to the Chancellor, whether there would be any rival in the field. Proud as she was, and careless of public opinion in a general way, it was far from pleasant, even for her, to reflect on the things which would be said of her proposal when the Appeal was brought before the House—on the motives which would be assigned or insinuated by her enemies; on the allusions to youth and age—the more keen the more skilfully they were disguised and wrapped in soft words; the open pity which would be expressed for the youth whose young life—she knew very well what would be said—was to be sacrificed; the sarcastic questions which would be asked about the increase of her property by the new marriage, and so forth. The plain speech of Peeresses in debate was well known to her. Yet pride forbade a retreat: she would fight it out; she could command, by ways and by methods only known to herself, a majority; yet she felt sure, beforehand, that it would be a cold and unsympathetic majority—even a reproachful majority. Nor was her temper improved by a visit from her old friend, once her schoolfellow, Lady Despard. She came with a long face, which portended expostulation.

‘You have quite made up your mind, Duchess?’ she began, without a word of explanation or preamble, but with a comfortable settlement in the chair, which meant a good long talk.

‘I have quite made up my mind,’ Between such old friends, no need to ask what was intended.

‘Lord Chester,’ said Lady Despard, thoughtfully, ‘who is, no doubt, all that you think him—worthy in every way, I mean, of this promotion and your name—is, after all, a very young man.’

‘That,’ replied the Duchess spitefully, ‘is my affair. His age need not be considered. I am not afraid of myself, Julia. With my experience, at all events, I can say so much.’

‘Surely, Duchess; I did not mean that. The most powerful mind, coupled with the highest rank,—how should that fail to attract and fix the affection and gratitude of a man? No, dear friend; what I meant was this: he is too young, perhaps, for the full development either of virtues—or their opposites,—too young, perhaps, to know the reality of the prize you offer him.’

‘I think not, Julia,’ the Duchess spoke kindly,—‘I think not. It is good of you to consider this possibility in so friendly a way; but I have the greatest reliance on the good qualities of Lord Chester. Lady Boltons is his guardian; who would be safer? Professor Ingleby has been his tutor; who could be more discreet?’

‘Yes,—Professor Ingleby. She is certainly learned; and yet—yet—at Cambridge there is an uneasy feeling about her orthodoxy.’

‘I care little,’ said the Duchess, ‘about a few wild notions which he may have picked up. On such a man, a little freedom of thought sits gracefully. A Duke of Dunstanburgh cannot possibly be anything but orthodox. Yes, Julia; and the sum of it all is that I am getting old, and I am going to make myself happy with the help of this young gentleman.’

‘In that case,’ said her friend, ‘I have nothing to say, except that I wish you every kind of happiness that you can desire.’

‘Thank you, Julia. And you will very greatly oblige me if you will mention, wherever you can, that you know, on the very best authority, that the match will be one of pure affection—on both sides; mind, on both sides.’

‘I will certainly say so, if you wish,’ replied Lady Despard. ‘I think, however, that you ought to know, Duchess, something of what people say—no, not common people, but people whose opinions even you are bound to consider.’

‘Go on,’ said the Duchess frowning.

‘They say that Lord Chester is so proud of his hereditary title and his rank that he would be broken-hearted to see it merged in any higher title; that he is too rich and too highly placed to be tempted by any of the ordinary baits by which men are caught; that you can give him nothing which he cannot buy for himself; and, lastly, that he is already in love,—even that words of affection have been passed between him and the Countess of Carlyon.’

Here the Duchess interrupted, vehemently banging the floor with the crutch which stood at her right hand.

‘Lord Chester in love? What nonsense is this, Julia? A young nobleman of his rank—almost my rank—in love! Are you mad, Julia? Are you softening in the brain? Are you aware that the boy has been properly brought up? Will you be good enough to remember that Lady Boltons is beyond all suspicion, and that he could never have seen Lady Carlyon alone since he was a boy?’

‘I answer your questions by one or two others,’ replied her friend calmly. ‘Are you, Duchess, aware that these two young people have had constant opportunities of being alone everywhere—coming from church, going to church, in conservatories, at morning parties, at dances, in gardens? Lady Boltons is all discretion; but still—but still—girls will be girls—boys love to flirt. My dear Duchess, we are still young enough to remember——’

The Duchess smiled: the Duchess laughed. Good humour returned.

‘What else, Julia? You are a retailer of horrid gossip.’

‘This besides. On the very morning when he waited on the Chancellor, he rode to Lady Carlyon’s——’

‘I know the exact particulars,’ said the Duchess. ‘Lady Boltons wrote to me on the subject to prevent misunderstanding. Professor Ingleby, his old tutor, was there. He rode there alone because his guardian could not go with him. Of course he was properly attended. Lady Carlyon is his second cousin. Properly speaking, perhaps he should have remained at home until the Professor came to him. But a man of Lord Chester’s rank may do things which smaller men cannot. And, besides, this impulsiveness—this apparent impatience of conventional restraint—seems to me only to prove the pride and dignity of his character. Is that all, Julia? Have you any more hearsays?’

They were brave words; but the Duchess felt uneasy.

‘I have; there is more behind, and worse. Still, in your present mood, I do not know that I ought to say what I should wish to say.’

‘Say on, Julia. You know that I wish to hear all. Perhaps there may be something after all. Hide nothing from me.’

‘Very good. They say that Lord Chester is, of all men, the least submissive, the least docile, the least manly—in the highest sense of the word. He habitually assumes authority which belongs to Us; he flies into violent rages; he horsewhips stable-boys; he presumptuously defies orders; he almost openly derides the laws which regulate man’s obedience. He questions—he actually questions—the fundamental principles on which society and government are based.’

‘Quite as it should be,’ said the Duchess, folding her hands. ‘I want my husband to obey no one in the world—except myself: he shall accept no teaching, except mine; no doctrine shall be sacred in his eyes—until it has received my authority.’

‘Would you like the Duke of Dunstanburgh to horsewhip stable-boys?’

The Duchess shrugged her shoulders.

‘Why not? No doubt the stable-boys deserve it. We cannot, of course, allow common men to use their strength in this way. But, my dear, in men of very high rank we should encourage—within proper limits—a masterfulness which is, after all, nothing but the legitimate expression of legitimate pride. What is crime in a clown or an artisan, is a virtue in Lord Chester; and, believe me, Julia, for my own part, I know how to tame the most obstinate of men.’

She folded her hands and set her teeth together. Julia thought of the late three dukes, and trembled.

‘No one should know better, dear Duchess. There remains one thing only. You tell me that the proposed match is to be one of pure affection—on both sides. I am truly rejoiced to hear it. Nothing is better calculated to allay these silly reports about Lady Carlyon and the Earl. Still you should know that outside people say that, should the Appeal go in your favour——’

‘“Should!” Julia, do not be absurd. It must go in my favour. “Should!”’

‘In that case the Earl has declared before witnesses that he will absolutely refuse, whatever the penalty, to accept your hand. How am I to meet such stories as this? By your authorised statement of mutual affection?’

‘Idle gossip, Julia, may be left to itself. The Earl is only anxious to have the matter settled as soon as possible. Besides, is it in reason that he should have made such a declaration? Why, he knows—every man knows—that such a refusal would be nothing short of contempt—contempt of the Sovereign Majesty of the Realm. It is punishable—ay, and it shall be punished—that is, it should be punished’—the face of the Duchess darkened—‘by imprisonment with hard labour for life—Earl or no Earl.’

‘Then, Duchess,’ said Lady Despard, with a smile, ‘I say no more. Of course, a marriage of affection should be encouraged; and we women are all match-makers. You will have the best wishes of all as soon as things are properly understood.’

‘Julia,’ the Duchess laid her hand upon her friend’s arm, ‘I am unfeignedly glad that you have told me all this. We have had an explanation which has cleared the air. I refuse to believe that my future husband has so lost all manly feeling as to fall in love. Imagine an Earl of Chester falling in love like a sentimental rustic! Your canards about private interviews trouble me not; I am well assured that so well-bred a man will obey the will of the House without a murmur—nay, joyfully, even without consideration of his own inclinations, which, as I have told you, are already decided. And, upon my honour as a peeress, Julia, I am certain that when you come to my autumn party at Dunstanburgh in November next, you will acknowledge that the new Duke is the handsomest bridegroom in the world, that I am the most indulgent wife, and that there is not a happier couple in all England.’

Nothing could be more gracious than the smile of the Duchess when she chose to smile. Lady Despard, although she knew by this time what the smile was worth, was nevertheless always carried away by it. For the moment she believed what her friend wished her to believe.

‘My dear Duchess,’ she cried with effusion, ‘you deserve happiness for your part; and, upon my word, I think that the boy will get it, whether he deserves it or not.’

The smile died out from the Duchess’s face when she was left alone. A hard, stern look took its place. She took up a hand-glass, and intently examined her own face.

‘He is in love with the girl, is he?’ she murmured; ‘and she with him. Why, I saw it in their guilty stolen looks; her accents betrayed her when she spoke. It is not enough that she must cross me in the House, but she would rob me of a husband. Not yet, Lady Carlyon—not yet.’ ... She looked at herself again. ‘Oh, that I could be again what I was at one-and-twenty! It is true, as Julia said, that I have nothing to give the boy in return for what I ask of him—his affection. I am an old woman—sixty-five years of age. I suppose I have had my share of love. Harry loved me when I was young, because I was young. Poor Harry! I did not then know how much he loved me, nor the value of a man’s heart. Well ... as for the other two, they loved me after their fashion—but it was not like Harry’s love; they said they loved me, and in return I gave them all they wanted. They were happy, and I had to be contented.’ She mused in silence for a time; then she roused herself with an effort. ‘What then? Let them talk. I am the Duchess of Dunstanburgh. She shall have her whim; she shall have her darling, and if he chooses to sulk, she will punish him until he smiles again. Wait, my lord, only wait till you are safe on the Northumberland coast, and in my castle of Dunstanburgh.’