by Mrs. Neish [Rosalie Galsworthy Neish].
Originally published in The Novel Magazine (C. Arthur Pearson, Ltd.) vol.2 #9 (Dec 1905).
Mrs. Neish is the writer of charming character studies, some of which were recently published in a dainty little volume, under the title of "The Ways of Lady Isabel." Most of these stories deal with the doings of the "Smart Set," and the dialogue is particularly bright and witty. Mrs. Neish considers "The Duke's Daughter" (which originally appeared in the "Pall Mall Magazine") her best story, because it is the finest of the many character studies she has made.
I.
"My dear Mary," said Lady Rivington plaintively, "why do you ask people like that to call?"
"I didn't ask him, auntie; he asked me."
"Pah! it's the same thing; you must have enabled him to ask by encouraging him. What is he? A stockbroker, or an outside broker, or a bailiff, or something, isn't he?"
Her niece laughed. "You're getting rather mixed, dear, aren't you? Uncle Dick says he is a financier, whatever that is. At any rate, he is nice and agreeable, and he came to help me when Nell was so restive in the Park, and saved me from a nasty accident, and—"
"Where was James?" asked Lady Rivington laconically.
"Too far behind; and then he asked if he might call, and I said you would be in on Thursday."
Lady Rivington raised her delicate hand and suppressed an incipient yawn. "My dear child, I, being your sponsor and god-mother, have made promises and vows of every kind for you, but you mustn't promise things for me—you really mustn't, dear child. I shall be out on Thursday, and you must entertain your bailiff yourself."
Lady Mary was nettled. "By all means," she retorted coldly. "I am perfectly willing."
Lady Rivington rose. "That's all right, then, but don't let him come every Thursday, there's a dear. What's his name, by the way? Oh, yes, Montague—I remember. You know–or, rather, you don't know—what these people are when once they get a footing, so do be very careful."
She rustled out of the room, leaving Lady Mary to her own society and her own meditations.
Left alone, the girl took a letter out of her pocket, and, dismissing Mr. Montague from her mind, read and re-read it slowly.
It was a long, semi-illegible scrawl, beginning "My dearest Mary" and ending "your loving brother," and it was from her only brother, who was in the – Lancers and who wrote the letter from the little Indian station where he had been for the last nine months or so. It was a long letter of explanation rather than excuse, and telling her that he had been gambling heavily and was hopelessly in debt, and that unless she could cable him out £550 immediately he would have to resign his commission, and he advised her to go to the governor, as he called the old Duke, his father. "And, Mary, dear," he wrote, "see if you can't screw the money out of the old boy. Tell him I will give up cards if he will only pay up. Be sure and cable me by Friday, and get it somehow, for Heaven's sake, old girl, or I won't answer for the consequences, as I can't face leaving the regiment."
Lady Mary shuddered as she read this appealing scrawl. What did he mean by saying he could not answer for the consequences? There could be only one meaning—he would shoot himself. Her brother, her only brother, whom she adored, and who had taken the place in her heart that she would have shared with father and mother, had the latter been alive and the former not been an object of terror rather than love.
What was she to do?
She rose, and, walking over to the mantelpiece, took up her brother's photo, and looked at it with loving pity and a mind full of doubt and hopelessness. It was a handsome face, nearly as handsome as that of the girl who was looking down at it; the same blue eyes and straight nose and well-shaped head, but the chin and mouth were weak, where hers were strong, and the eyes, although the same colour, were bolder and yet less frank.
Lady Mary replaced the photo and sat down again to reconsider the situation. There was no help for it, she must appeal to the Duke. She had only her dress allowance, which, although large, was already overdrawn, almost the whole of the next quarter being forestalled. She must go to her father and persuade him to send the money.
It would not be the first time she had pleaded for her brother—yes, she would go at once; he would surely not refuse, but she would take the letter so that he could see how really sorry Leicester was. Suddenly she remembered the allusions to the Duke; no, on second thoughts she would not take the letter, she would only go herself—she could tell it far better than it had been written, for she could soften her father's heart with earnest additions and the promises of amendment that her brother had made.
* * * * * *
Lady Mary looked pleadingly up into the Duke's face. "And now, papa, if you will help him this once, just this once, I am sure he will never gamble again."
Her father handed Lady Mary a chair with an inimitable air of old-world courtesy. "If you will allow me to say so, I think it is almost a pity to waste so much affection on a worthless object, Mary—"
"Your son, papa."
The Duke put up his eyeglass and regarded his daughter thoughtfully.
"Yes, my son," he agreed, "and your brother; unfortunately for me and unfortunately for you—my son, and your brother. Like you, too," he murmured critically; "and yet quite an inferior person compared with yourself, Mary. There is a bad strain somewhere, I am afraid," he added thoughtfully—"a very bad strain. It is strange how these weaknesses and vices arise, and—"
Lady Mary interrupted him with a pleading, passionate gesture. "Papa, are you going to help him? Will you send him the money?"
"No, I am afraid not, Mary; you must again excuse me; but it would really be a useless expense, quite an unnecessary expense, and, in fact, like pouring water through a sieve."
"Papa, you must help him; you can't let him be ruined; you can't—"
"My dear Mary," said the Duke politely, "I am afraid either Leicester must be ruined or you and I. It is really only a matter of time. I have already helped him, let me see, how many times? Is it five or six, or have I forgotten, and is it nearly a dozen?"
"Yes, but he was younger then, and more foolish."
The Duke raised his eyebrows. "More foolish? Est-il possible?" he ejaculated softly.
"And he has been steady for quite a long time, and he's so very unhappy," urged Lady Mary, ignoring the interruption, "and you can't let him be ruined. Do help him just this once, papa, do, please; please do, for my sake." She rose, and going over to her father laid her hand on his arm, and bent her sweet face in humble pleading towards him. "Oh, papa, do let me have the money: I know he will never play cards again; he has promised me."
"My dear Mary," said the Duke blandly, leaning back in his chair and looking critically at his daughter's flushed face and eager, shining eyes, "you are full of perverted emotions; now, what an amount of useless affection you have wasted on that young scapegrace since the time when you were his slave in the nursery! Directed in another and a worthier channel, such emotion would be really invaluable—quite invaluable. But it should be controlled, Mary; so openly expressed it is a little bourgeois!"
Lady Mary's eyes filled with tears. "Papa, do help him—do, papa, dear."
The Duke regarded her cynically. "Almost the stuff heroines are made of," he murmured, smiling, a smile that struck a chill to Mary's heart, and was the death-knell of any lingering hope she had of softening him. "Heroines," he continued, looking musingly into the fire, and away from his daughter's supplicating face, "heroines are invariably bourgeoise, even if they do not actually spring from the lower classes."
Lady Mary, realising his implacability, drew herself up sharply and looked at him with spirit. "So you refuse, papa?" Her voice held a note of desperation.
"Your request," said the Duke, "I gather is, that you wish me to send your brother—"
"And your son."
The Duke bowed. "And my son, you will pardon me if I say, and, alas! my son! a large sum of money, to put it crudely—and money matters are always crude, Mary—is not that what you wish?"
"Yes, papa, if you call it large."
"Well, my dear, only large because it would be the duplicate of so many other sums."
"And you refuse?"
"Absolutely," said the Duke softly, as though acceding pleasantly to a small request. "Absolutely, both now and in the future, my dear Mary."
"And you prefer him to go to the--"
"Deuce?" suggested her father, raising his eyebrows inquiringly.
"No," said Lady Mary coldly. "I was going to say to the Jews. I don't swear—I am not modern enough."
"On the contrary, my dear, you are too modern; you have passed the stage of swearing and cigarette smoking, and you now only imitate your inferiors in being so emotional."
No one would have called Lady Mary emotional at the moment, as she leisurely adjusted her veil, and equally leisurely readjusted the lace at her neck.
"Good-bye, papa—and thank you."
He bowed, receiving her ironical thanks with much graciousness.
"I shall find the money somehow," said Lady Mary defiantly.
He bowed again, smiling at her self-control. "The patrician strain, too," he murmured; "I am glad to see it. A hansom, did you say? Certainly; Martin will get you one; or, better still, take mine—I shall not want it for an hour or more."
II.
DEAREST MARY,--
What a brick you are! All I asked for and £50 to the good. I really am going to give up this cursed gambling, if it's only out of gratitude to the governor for turning up trumps again. What a hold you must have on him to have persuaded him to give you the cheque, to say nothing of the extra fifty! Good-bye, old girl: my blessings on you.—Your scapegrace brother, LEICESTER.
It was almost a month since Lady Mary's interview with her father, and the above letter had only that morning arrived. How glad she was she had been able to help him, and how unexpected had been the source from which that help had come!
She remembered how she had first told Mr. Montague of her financial troubles, and how eagerly he had explained them away; and was glad her aunt had refused to stay in on the Thursday he had called on her. She hardly knew what had first made her mention her brother, but somehow it was done, and knowing Mr Montague was a financier, she had asked him if there was any way he could raise the money for her. She had no idea of being under any obligation to him personally; to her he was merely a business man, a person who might give her some practical and useful advice.
Lady Mary was in some ways ignorant of the world, even her world, and she had quite gravely asked Mr. Montague if he could borrow the money from the Jews. She knew Jews lent money, but where they lived or how they came to lend it she did not know. She did not even know if her father's estates were entailed or not, but couldn't her brother raise a mortgage, or raise something, she suggested vaguely, "she was sure he would pay it back, or she could do so."
It did not occur to her to offer any security. She had nothing to offer unless it were her diamonds, and these her aunt would have quickly missed. Mr. Montague had explained to her how easy it would be to raise the money. He was too wise to offer to lend it to her, but he told her he would get it for her if she would give him a paper signed by her father authorising his solicitors to raise a mortgage on one of his smaller estates.
This suggestion, he felt, was a triumph of diplomacy. The Duke, he knew, would never give it, and would even laugh at so foolish a proposal, nor would Lady Mary dare to ask him. He would then be able to offer her the money himself, and he would tell her how little it meant to him, and how small a trifle it was if in return she would give him a fragment of her friendship. However, to his extreme astonishment, and even consternation, Lady Mary had driven down to his office only the day following, bringing with her a few lines written by the Duke's private secretary, and signed by the Duke himself.
Lady Mary sat looking idly into the fire, and then slowly lifted and re-read the letter that lay on her knee. How thankful she was that she had been able to help dear Leicester! How she loved him! She was glad she had saved him from ruin, and perhaps from something terrible, more terrible than she dare contemplate. It had been so easy, the whole transaction, and she reckoned that in two years at the most she could save and refund the money herself, and, if necessary, defy the Duke.
Her meditations, happier than they had been for the last month, were broken in upon by the butler, who rather suddenly announced Mr. Montague, and then softly withdrew.
Ernest Montague came quickly towards Lady Mary.
"How do you do, Lady Mary? You got my note?"
She took refuge in the meaningless smile of conventionality. She had completely forgotten he had written to tell her that he was coming.
"Have some tea? No! Well, sit nearer the fire; it is colder than ever to-day, is it not? And such a wind."
Mr. Montague, ignoring the chair she had indicated, stood with his back to the fire, looking somewhat timidly down at his hostess.
"Well," said Lady Mary pleasantly, "and what do you want to see me about, Mr. Montague? By the way, I have not half thanked you for helping me out of my troubles," she added graciously, and with the air of one who has granted rather than accepted a favour.
Mr. Montague coughed nervously.
"Lady Mary, it is not on that subject at all that I have come to see you."
Lady Mary looked up in some surprise at the deeply earnest tone.
"The fact is, Lady Mary, I–I–er—have come to ask you to marry me." He seemed to gain sudden courage, either from her silence or from the sound of his own voice, and continued in a steadier tone: "I have loved you from the first moment I saw you, Lady Mary, and when your horse bolted, and I held you for a moment in my arms, I felt that I had had my first and only taste of Heaven, and that I would move earth and even Heaven itself to win you."
Lady Mary pushed back her chair and glanced at Mr. Montague with an air of the most intense astonishment, not unmixed with amusement and contempt. She could hardly have been more astonished if her hairdresser or the groom himself had made her a proposal of marriage. Her aunt had been right, then, and she had made a mistake in allowing this business man to come to the house.
She rose slowly and with much grace. "Mr. Montague," she said gently, and with what she felt was admirable forbearance, "you have done me a kindness, and I am not ungrateful—I am alluding to your help about my money affairs—but please do not mention anything so—so foolish to me again as this absurd proposal."
With her delicate eyebrows still raised as though in utter astonishment and perplexity at his presumption, she stood half turning towards the door, her fine profile contemptuously averted from her rejected suitor.
The hot blood mounted to Mr. Montague's dark and somewhat coarse face, and he bit his under-lip in his fierce desire to control his emotions.
"Lady Mary," he stammered, "I—I love you—I adore you. I am rich, richer even than your father, and I will do my best to make you happy—and if you will only marry me I will see your brother never wants for money."
"The suggestion is worthy of you," said Lady Mary, with so fine an insolence that at the moment she looked strikingly like the Duke, "but I would not marry you—even to help my brother." She laughed lightly. "It's really too ridiculous," she said, "let us forget it. And now I will not detain you any longer."
She moved a little nearer the bell, but his voice stopped her.
"Wait a minute." The harsh, rough tone made her again raise her eyebrows, and she moved impatiently—but waited.
"Lady Mary," said Mr. Montague in a low, hoarse voice, "I have asked you to be my wife, and you have refused, and refused me with contempt."
She moved her head in slight acquiescence. "If you will excuse my saying so," she said, and she looked strangely like her father again, "I am only amazed, quite amazed that you should have asked me."
"It is unnecessary for us to bandy words," said Mr. Montague harshly. "I have only one thing more to say, I know the paper you brought me was not signed by your father nor written by his private secretary. It was written by yourself, and it would not have deceived even a child, for in the first place your father, if he had wished you to have the money, would have given it to you himself, and not have raised a mortgage, or done it through me at all. And secondly," he paused involuntarily and moved nearer, moistening his dry lips, "your father was in Monte Carlo the day he is alleged by you to have signed the paper."
"Pardon me," said, Lady Mary very coldly, and looking at Mr. Montague with growing scorn, "but my father signed it the night before he left."
"What! You deny it! You deny that the whole thing is a forgery, and that you not only wrote it but signed it yourself? You actually deny it, Lady Mary!" repeated Mr. Montague in genuine amazement; and he stared at her aghast, and advanced a shade closer to her side as he spoke.
"How dare you even suggest that I wrote it or signed it!" cried Lady Mary angrily. "You!"—this with infinite insolence—"You!" she repeated, "to dare to make such an accusation against me!"
The man, half-doubting, and yet half convinced, looked searchingly into the blue eyes that returned his gaze so fearlessly.
"Well, you or some clever tool of yours wrote it," he said sullenly. "At any rate, it is not the Duke's signature, it is only a poor imitation, and anyone would have known he would not have been likely to let a stranger transact his business. Come, Lady Mary," he added persuasively, "don't let us be enemies. Listen! If you'll only marry me, I'll never even mention the money to you again—never, upon my honour I won't, but if you refuse me," his face grew paler, and his voice hoarser, "by Heaven, I'll go to the Duke and tell him the whole story. Marry me, Mary, and I'll not only see you through, but give you all the money you want."
At the sound of her christian name, used so familiarly, and with such underlying passion, Lady Mary made a gesture of sudden great anger, and then controlling herself, laid her hand on the bell-rope and pulled it sharply twice in succession.
"That is my answer," she said, with her usual languid grace, and more than her usual insolence. "Pray go and see my father, you will find him at home any time between the hours of two and three, or after dinner to-night at about nine o'clock."
* * * * * *
It was nearly an hour later when Lady Mary opened the door of the Duke's library. He was sitting by the fire with a small table by his side, on which stood a cup of coffee and a basin of sugar.
"Good afternoon, Mary. I am just enjoying my coffee after my siesta. It should be tea, I know, but I have, as you may have noticed, a great weakness for coffee. I like it at tea-time with milk, and black, of course, after dinner."
He put down his cup with deliberation and looked thoughtfully at it, apparently deeply absorbed by its contents, but in reality noting every detail of his daughter's disturbed appearance.
"You are well, I hope, Mary?"
She seated herself in a low chair on the opposite side of the fireplace.
"Papa, I have something very unpleasant to say to you."
The Duke leant forward, and gently dropped a lump of sugar into his cup.
"Need it be said, my dear Mary?"
"Yes, papa, it need—it must be said—if not by me by somebody else."
The Duke with much care lifted another piece of sugar, and looked contemplatingly at it.
"Too small," he murmured. "Coffee with milk should be sweet, without milk I prefer it--"
"Papa," said Lady Mary, trembling and yet defiant, "listen to me—please listen a moment. You refused to give me the money for Leicester. I could not see him ruined, and I had not got it, but—but I managed to get it from a man in the City. He–lent—it—to me."
The Duke's hand tightened on his chair, and he sat suddenly erect.
"At least he didn't exactly lend it," continued Lady Mary, "because I gave him your signature as a security."
The Duke's fingers relaxed as suddenly as they had tightened, and he leant leisurely back in his chair again. "Really, my dear Mary, you interest me enormously. Might I ask where you obtained a document to which my signature was attached?"
"I forged it, papa," said Lady Mary in a low voice. "I copied an old document I found here, only altering the name of one of your farms, and I signed it with your name."
"And were you really sufficiently simple to suppose any business man would advance you money on an obvious fraud?"
"He did," said Lady Mary eagerly. "He gave me the money at once, and said it was quite a good enough guarantee—yes, that was the word he used—guarantee. The paper I copied was something about a mortgage on a farm, but I knew he didn't really want to use it, because he explained he only wanted your signature to show some Jew or something—I didn't quite understand, but he said it would be all right."
The Duke stared at his daughter for a moment in silence.
"Really, my dear Mary, your simplicity is quite Arcadian. May I ask why you have come to me, and why should you have brought my attention to the matter at this particular moment?"
Lady Mary leant forward, and resting her elbow on her knee, bent her flushed face over it. "Because, papa, he came to me to-day and asked me to marry him. Such a cad!" She raised her head in a sudden access of reminiscent anger. "He even tried to insist on my marrying him, and when I refused--"
The Duke smiled.
"He threatened to come to you and tell you I had—" she faltered.
"Forged my name?" suggested the Duke blandly.
"Copied your signature," amended Lady Mary, "and then—"
"Well, and then, Mary?"
"Well, then, of course, I denied it, papa."
The Duke dropped his eyeglass. "And your reason for denying it!"
Lady Mary rose and stood looking down at her father. "I denied it because I hoped you would stand by me; you see, even if he knows it's a forgery he can't do anything if you deny it too. If you only will, I will promise never to do it again, not even for Leicester. I have been miserable enough over it, but all the same I am glad I did it, because it saved Leicester."
The Duke sat perfectly silent.
"Papa, will you forgive me, and stand by me?"
Her father rang the bell. "A hansom, Martin, for Lady Mary."
As the man turned towards the door, Lady Mary waited a minute before following him. "I shall marry whom I like and when I like—but I don't want to be disgraced, and he can't do anything if you say it is your signature, even if he knows it isn't. And if you do stand by me, will you get the paper from him, and then he cannot do any harm, and I promise faithfully I will never, never do it again—even for Leicester."
The Duke took up the poker and elaborately dislodged a small piece of coal. "I will not keep you standing any longer, my dear Mary—it is cold, and the hall door is open."
Lady Mary drew her furs about her and turned away. "Papa, I am very sorry," she said slowly, and with an evident effort. "I really do feel very sorry and very, very much ashamed; I—ought—not—to—have done—it—even—for—Leicester."
* * * * * *
The Duke was dining at home alone. "Put my coffee in the library, Martin."
"Yes, your Grace."
A few minutes later the bell rang, and a shade of annoyance passed over the Duke's face as Martin softly opened his library door.
"I beg your Grace's pardon," he said apologetically, "but there is a gentleman who wishes to see your Grace immediately on private business"—he handed the Duke a card as he spoke—"and he said, your Grace, it was a very urgent matter, so I thought--"
"You should not think, Martin—I must really strongly recommend you in the future never to think."
Martin, who had been many years in the Duke's service, accepted the rebuke humbly and waited. "Shall I send him away, your Grace?"
"No, send him here, Martin, and on no account let me be disturbed again this evening."
The Duke bowed faintly as Mr. Montague was ushered into his room.
Mr. Montague was not sure how to address him, dukes not ranking among his intimate friends. He was not sure whether to say, "Duke," which he felt would be familiar and impertinent, and yet "your Grace" he feared might perhaps sound obsequious. It would perhaps not be necessary to say anything; he decided to leave it to chance. He waited a moment awkwardly while the Duke took up his coffee and stirred it carefully, but made no attempt to open the conversation.
"I must apologise for intruding on you at this hour," said Mr. Montague, "but I have come on a little family matter, a little private family matter."
"Your family?" asked the Duke gently.
"No, your Grace, your family."
The Duke raised his cup. "You will excuse me drinking my coffee while it is hot. You have dined, I presume? Ah, then you will have had your coffee. I thought so." He stirred the fragrant mixture as he spoke, and with infinite care slowly added a small liqueur of brandy. "I beg your pardon, Mr. --" he glanced at the card—"Mr. Montague, you were saying?"
"I was saying that I had come to see you about Lady Mary," said Mr. Montague, who was beginning to feel hopelessly ill at ease, and hopelessly unable to proceed with his business.
"I did not hear you mention my daughter's name," said the Duke blandly.
"I—I lent Lady Mary a large sum of money some time ago," said Mr. Montague, turning scarlet before the Duke's expressively rising eyebrows.
"Really? I was quite unaware that Lady Mary had got into the hands of any money-lender." Mr. Montague winced and opened his lips to remonstrate, but the Duke continued even more blandly: "However, I am quite willing to free her from her debt. How much is it! But would it not have done to-morrow! It seems almost a pity"—he glanced at the half-empty coffee-cup—"to have disturbed me at so late an hour."
"Your—your Grace does not quite understand," stammered Mr. Montague. "I am not a money-lender. I obtained the money for Lady Mary as a favour on receipt of a note in your handwriting authorising me to do so, authorising me, in fact, to raise a mortgage on one of your farms. I did not like to refuse to help her"—the Duke frowned—"but of course I knew you would not be likely to let me do any such thing as that, and I saw it was not your document, nor dictated and signed by you, nor written by your secretary, for directly I saw your name—"
He was recovering his self-assurance when the Duke, who had finished his coffee, laid his cup carefully on the table, and interrupted him in his soft, slow voice:
"Can I see the document you speak of? I have a good many farms, and really my secretary and my steward attend to so much business that perhaps they have been acting for Lady Mary?"
With an air of triumph Mr. Montague drew a small document from his pocket book. "No, this has not been done by your secretary or your steward, your Grace; you will see at once that it is a forgery, and a poor one at that. Your own name is at the end of it."
The Duke held out his hand, and, fixing his eyeglass, took the paper somewhat gingerly out of Mr. Montague's hand. He looked at it for a moment in silence, then his face cleared, and dropping his eyeglass, he smiled with his usual blandness into Mr. Montague's disconcerted and astonished face, and said quietly, and with only lightly veiled insolence:
"My dear sir, what on earth put such an extraordinary notion into your head about Lady Mary? This document is correct—absolutely correct, and this, of course, is my own signature."
Before Mr. Montague had recovered himself sufficiently to make any protest, the Duke dropped the paper with slow precision into the fire. "I will send you a cheque in the morning," he said gently, "and as you have been unable to make any use of the document," with a slight emphasis on the word "use," "it will be needless for me to keep it." He laid his hand on the bell-rope. "Good evening," he added courteously, "I will ring for my man to get you a hansom. Good evening, Mr. Montague," and he sank leisurely back into the deep arm-chair from which he had only half risen.
* * * * * *
Lady Mary came down to breakfast restless and weary, after a night of acute suspense.
Had Mr. Montague been to see her father, and had the Duke stood by her, or had he declined to see Mr. Montague, and left her to face great discomfort if not actual scandal and disgrace? What had he done? She wished she knew.
She answered Lady Rivington's questions abstractedly, playing idly with her breakfast, which she made only a vain pretence of eating.
Presently there was a sharp knock at the front door, and a moment later the butler entered the room softly and handed her a telegram. Lady Mary's face grew a shade paler, as, with a murmured apology, she tore it open and then drew in her breath with a sharp sigh of relief. It was from the Duke, and contained merely the following unsigned words:
Have disposed of Mr. Montague at your request.