“And everybody says I must marry too;—that the Castleton line must not be extinct! The Beaudeserts are a good old family eno,’—as old, for what I know, as the Castletons; but the British empire would suffer no loss if they sank into the tomb of the Capulets. But that the Castleton peerage should expire is a thought of crime and woe at which all the mothers of England rise in a phalanx! And so, instead of visiting the sins of the fathers on the sons, it is the father that is to be sacrificed for the benefit of the third and fourth generation!”
Despite my causes for seriousness, I could not help laughing; my companion turned on me a look of reproach.
“At least,” said I, composing my countenance, “Lord Castleton has one comfort in his afflictions,—if he must marry, he may choose as he pleases.”
“That is precisely what Sedley Beaudesert could, and Lord Castleton cannot do,” said the marquis, gravely. “The rank of Sir Sedley Beaudesert was a quiet and comfortable rank, he might marry a curate’s daughter, or a duke’s, and please his eye or grieve his heart as the caprice took him. But Lord Castleton must marry, not for a wife, but for a marchioness,—marry some one who will wear his rank for him; take the trouble of splendor off his hands, and allow him to retire into a corner and dream that he is Sedley Beaudesert once more! Yes, it must be so,—the crowning sacrifice must be completed at the altar. But a truce to my complaints. Trevanion informs me you are going to Australia,—can that be true?”
“Perfectly true.”
“They say there is a sad want of ladies there.”
“So much the better,—I shall be all the more steady.”
“Well, there’s something in that. Have you seen Lady Ellinor?”
“Yes,—this morning.”
“Poor woman! A great blow to her,—we have tried to console each other. Fanny, you know, is staying at Oxton, in Surrey, with Lady Castleton,—the poor lady is so fond of her,—and no one has comforted her like Fanny.”