The Path Of Duty | Page 3

young Britons of his class
he went to America, to see the great country, before he was twenty, and
he took a letter to my father, who had occasion, à propos of some
pickle of course, to render him a considerable service. This led to his
coming to see me--I had already been living here three or four
years--on his return; and that, in the course of time, led to our
becoming fast friends, without, as I tell you, the smallest philandering
on either side. But I must n't protest too much; I shall excite your
suspicion. "If he has made love to so many women, why should n't he
have made love to you?"--some inquiry of that sort you will be likely to
make. I have answered it already, "Simply on account of those very
engagements." He could n't make love to every one, and with me it
would n't have done him the least good. It was a more amiable
weakness than his brother's, and he has always behaved very well. How
well he behaved on a very important occasion is precisely the subject of
my story.
He was supposed to have embraced the diplomatic career; had been
secretary of legation at some German capital; but after his brother's
death he came home and looked out for a seat in Parliament. He found
it with no great trouble and has kept it ever since. No one would have
the heart to turn him out, he is so good-looking. It's a great thing to be
represented by one of the handsomest men in England, it creates such a
favorable association of ideas. Any one would be amazed to discover
that the borough he sits for, and the name of which I am always
forgetting, is not a very pretty place. I have never seen it, and have no
idea that it is n't, and I am sure he will survive every revolution. The
people must feel that if they should n't keep him some monster would

be returned. You remember his appearance,--how tall, and fair, and
strong he is, and always laughing, yet without looking silly. He is
exactly the young man girls in America figure to themselves--in the
place of the hero--when they read English novels, and wish to imagine
something very aristocratic and Saxon. A "bright Bostonian" who met
him once at my house, exclaimed as soon as he had gone out of the
room, "At last, at last, I behold it, the mustache of Roland Tremayne!"
"Of Roland Tremayne!"
"Don't you remember in A Lawless Love, how often it's mentioned, and
how glorious and golden it was? Well, I have never seen it till now, but
now I have seen it!"
If you had n't seen Ambrose Tester, the best description I could give of
him would be to say that he looked like Roland Tremayne. I don't know
whether that hero was a "strong Liberal," but this is what Sir Ambrose
is supposed to be. (He succeeded his father two years ago, but I shall
come to that.) He is not exactly what I should call thoughtful, but he is
interested, or thinks he is, in a lot of things that I don't understand, and
that one sees and skips in the newspapers,--volunteering, and
redistribution, and sanitation, and the representation of
minors--minorities--what is it? When I said just now that he is always
laughing, I ought to have explained that I did n't mean when he is
talking to Lady Vandeleur. She makes him serious, makes him almost
solemn; by which I don't mean that she bores him. Far from it; but
when he is in her company he is thoughtful; he pulls his golden
mustache, and Roland Tremayne looks as if his vision were turned in,
and he were meditating on her words. He does n't say much himself; it
is she--she used to be so silent--who does the talking. She has plenty to
say to him; she describes to him the charms that she discovers in the
path of duty. He seldom speaks in the House, I believe, but when he
does it's offhand, and amusing, and sensible, and every one likes it. He
will never be a great statesman, but he will add to the softness of
Dorsetshire, and remain, in short, a very gallant, pleasant, prosperous,
typical English gentleman, with a name, a fortune, a perfect appearance,
a devoted, bewildered little wife, a great many reminiscences, a great

many friends (including Lady Vandeleur and myself), and, strange to
say, with all these advantages, something that faintly resembles a
conscience.

II.
Five years ago he told me his father insisted on his marrying,--would
not hear of his putting it off any longer. Sir Edmund had been harping
on this string ever since he