“I knew that; — but could I have given him up?”
“He at any rate could not give you up. There were little prejudices; — you can understand that.”
“Oh yes.”
“We who wear black coats could not bring ourselves readily to put on scarlet garments; nor should we sit comfortably with our legs crossed like Turks.”
“I am your scarlet coat and your cross-legged Turk,” she said, with feigned self-reproach in her voice, but with a sparkle of mirth in her eye.
“But when I have once got into my scarlet coat I can be very proud of it, and when I am once seated in my divan I shall find it of all postures the easiest. Do you understand me?”
“I think so.”
“Not a shade of any prejudice shall be left to darken my mind. There shall be no feeling but that you are in truth his chosen wife. After all neither can country, nor race, nor rank, nor wealth, make a good woman. Education can do much. But nature must have done much also.”
“Do not expect too much of me.”
“I will so expect that all shall be taken for the best. You know, I think, that I have liked you since I first saw you.”
“I know that you have always been good to me.”
“I have liked you from the first. That you are lovely perhaps is no merit; though, to speak the truth, I am well pleased that Silverbridge should have found so much beauty.”
“That is all a matter of taste, I suppose,” she said, laughing.
“But there is much that a young woman may do for herself which I think you have done. A silly girl, though she had been a second Helen, would hardly have satisfied me.”
“Or perhaps him,” said Isabel.
“Or him; and it is in that feeling that I find my chief satisfaction, — that he should have had the sense to have liked such a one as you better than others. Now I have said it. As not being one of us I did at first object to his choice. As being what you are yourself, I am altogether reconciled to it. Do not keep him long waiting.”
“I do not think he likes to be kept waiting for anything.”
“I dare say not. I dare say not. And now there is one thing else.” Then the Duke unlocked a little drawer that was close to his hand, and taking out a ring put it on her finger. It was a bar of diamonds, perhaps a dozen of them, fixed in a little circlet of gold. “This must never leave you,” he said.
“It never shall, — having come from you.”
“It was the first present that I gave to my wife, and it is the first that I give to you. You may imagine how sacred it is to me. On no other hand could it be worn without something which to me would be akin to sacrilege. Now I must not keep you longer or Silverbridge will be storming about the house. He of course will tell me when it is to be; but do not you keep him long waiting.” Then he kissed her and led her up into the drawing-room. When he had spoken a word of greeting to Mrs. Boncassen, he left them to their own devices.
After that they spent the best part of an hour in going over the house; but even that was done in a manner unsatisfactory to Silverbridge. Wherever Isabel went, there Mrs. Boncassen went also. There might have been some fun in showing even the back kitchens to his bride-elect, by herself; — but there was none in wandering about those vast underground regions with a stout lady who was really interested with the cooking apparatus and the wash-houses. The bedrooms one after another became tedious to him when Mrs. Boncassen would make communications respecting each of them to her daughter. “That is Gerald’s room,” said Silverbridge. “You have never seen Gerald. He is such a brick.” Mrs. Boncassen was charmed with the whips and sticks and boxing-gloves in Gerald’s room, and expressed an opinion that young men in the States mostly carried their knick-knacks about with them to the Universities. When she was told that he had another collection of “knick-knacks” at Matching, and another at Oxford, she thought that he was a very extravagant young man. Isabel, who had heard all about the gambling in Scotland, looked round at her lover and smiled.
“Well, my dear,” said Mrs. Boncassen, as they took their leave, “it is a very grand house, and I hope with all my heart you may have your health there and be happy. But I don’t know that you’ll be any happier because it’s so big.”
“Wait till you see Gatherum,” said Silverbridge. “That, I own, does make me unhappy. It has been calculated that three months at Gatherum Castle would drive a philosopher mad.”
In all this there had been a certain amount of disappointment for Silverbridge; but on that evening, before dinner in Brook Street, he received compensation. As the day was one somewhat peculiar in its nature he decided that it should be kept altogether as a holiday, and he did not therefore go down to the House. And not going to the House of course he spent the time with the Boncassens. “You know you ought to go,” Isabel said to him when they found themselves alone together in the back drawing-room.
“Of course I ought.”
“Then go. Do you think I would keep a Briton from his duties?”
“Not though the constitution should fall in ruins. Do you suppose that a man wants no rest after inspecting all the pots and pans in that establishment? A woman, I believe, could go on doing that kind of thing all day long.”
“You should remember at least that the — woman was interesting herself about your pots and pans.”
“And now, Bella, tell me what the governor said to you.” Then she showed him the ring. “Did he give you that?” She nodded her head in assent. “I did not think he would ever have parted with that.”
“It was your mother’s.”
“She wore it always. I almost think that I never saw her hand without it. He would not have given you that unless he had meant to be very good to you.”
“He was very good to me. Silverbridge, I have a great deal to do, to learn to be your wife.”
“I’ll teach you.”
“Yes; you’ll teach me. But will you teach me right? There is something almost awful in your father’s serious dignity and solemn appreciation of the responsibilities of his position. Will you ever come to that?”
“I shall never be a great man as he is.”
“It seems to me that life to him is a load; — which he does not object to carry, but which he knows must be carried with a great struggle.”
“I suppose it ought to be so with everyone.”
“Yes,” she said, “but the higher you put your foot on the ladder the more constant should be your thought that your stepping requires care. I fear that I am climbing too high.”
“You can’t come down now, my young woman.”
“I have to go on now, — and do it as best I can. I will try to do my best. I will try to do my best. I told him so, and now I tell you so. I will try to do my best.”
“Perhaps after all I am only a ‘pert poppet’,” she said half an hour afterwards, for Silverbridge had told her of that terrible mistake made by poor Dolly Longstaff.
“Brute!” he exclaimed.
“Not at all. And when we are settled down in the real Darby-and-Joan way I shall hope to see Mr. Longstaff very often. I daresay he won’t call me a pert poppet, and I shall not remind him of the word. But I shall always think of it; and remembering the way in which my character struck an educated Englishman, — who was not altogether ill-disposed towards me, — I may hope to improve myself.”
CHAPTER LXXIII
“I Have Never Loved You”
Silverbridge had now been in town three or four weeks, and Lady Mabel Grex had also been in London all that time, and yet he had not seen her. She had told him that she loved him and had asked him plainly to make her his wife. He had told her that he could not do so, — that he was altogether resolved to make another woman his wife. Then she had rebuked him, and had demanded from him how he had dared to treat her as he had done. His conscience was clear. He had his own code of morals as to such matters, and had, as he regarded it, kept within the law. But she thought that she was badly treated, and had declared that she was now
left out in the cold for ever through his treachery. Then her last word had been almost the worst of all, “Who can tell what may come to pass?” — showing too plainly that she would not even now give up her hope. Before the month was up she wrote to him as follows:
Dear Lord Silverbridge,
Why do you not come and see me? Are friends so plentiful with you that one so staunch as I may be thrown over? But of course I know why you do not come. Put all that aside, — and come. I cannot hurt you. I have learned to feel that certain things which the world regards as too awful to be talked of, — except in the way of scandal, may be discussed and then laid aside just like other subjects. What though I wear a wig or a wooden leg, I may still be fairly comfortable among my companions unless I crucify myself by trying to hide my misfortune. It is not the presence of the skeleton that crushes us. Not even that will hurt us much if we let him go about the house as he lists. It is the everlasting effort which the horror makes to peep out of his cupboard that robs us of our ease. At any rate come and see me.
Of course I know that you are to be married to Miss Boncassen. Who does not know it? The trumpeters have been at work for the last week.
Your very sincere friend,
Mabel.
He wished that she had not written. Of course he must go to her. And though there was a word or two in her letter which angered him, his feelings towards her were kindly. Had not that American angel flown across the Atlantic to his arms he could have been well content to make her his wife. But the interview at the present moment could hardly be other than painful. She could, she said, talk of her own misfortunes, but the subject would be very painful to him. It was not to him a skeleton, to be locked out of sight; but it had been a misfortune, and the sooner that such misfortunes could be forgotten the better.
He knew what she meant about trumpeters. She had intended to signify that Isabel in her pride had boasted of her matrimonial prospects. Of course there had been trumpets. Are there not always trumpets when a marriage is contemplated, magnificent enough to be called an alliance? As for that he himself had blown the trumpets. He had told everybody that he was going to be married to Miss Boncassen. Isabel had blown no trumpets. In her own straightforward way she had told the truth to whom it concerned. Of course he would go and see Lady Mabel, but he trusted that for her own sake nothing would be said about trumpets.
“So you have come at last,” Mabel said when he entered the room. “No; — Miss Cassewary is not here. As I wanted to see you alone I got her to go out this morning. Why did you not come before?”
“You said in your letter that you knew why.”
“But in saying so I was accusing you of cowardice; — was I not?”
“It was not cowardice.”
“Why then did you not come?”
“I thought you would hardly wish to see me so soon, — after what passed.”
“That is honest at any rate. You felt that I must be too much ashamed of what I said to be able to look you in the face.”
“Not that exactly.”
“Any other man would have felt the same, but no other man would be honest enough to tell me so. I do not think that ever in your life you have constrained yourself to the civility of a lie.”
“I hope not.”
“To be civil and false is often better than to be harsh and true. I may be soothed by the courtesy and yet not deceived by the lie. But what I told you in my letter, — which I hope you have destroyed — “
“I will destroy it.”
“Do. It was not intended for the partner of your future joys. As I told you then, I can talk freely. Why not? We know it, — both of us. How your conscience may be I cannot tell; but mine is clear from that soil with which you think it should be smirched.”
“I think nothing of the sort.”
“Yes, Silverbridge, you do. You have said to yourself this; — That girl has determined to get me, and she has not scrupled as to how she would do it.”
“No such idea has ever crossed my mind.”
“But you have never told yourself of the encouragement which you gave me. Such condemnation as I have spoken of would have been just if my efforts had been sanctioned by no words, no looks, no deeds from you. Did you give me warrant for thinking that you were my lover?”
That theory by which he had justified himself to himself seemed to fall away from him under her questioning. He could not now remember his words to her in those old days before Miss Boncassen had crossed his path; but he did know that he had once intended to make her understand that he loved her. She had not understood him; — or, understanding, had not accepted his words; and therefore he had thought himself free. But it now seemed that he had not been entitled so to regard himself. There she sat, looking at him, waiting for his answer; and he who had been so sure that he had committed no sin against her, had not a word to say to her.
“I want your answer to that, Lord Silverbridge. I have told you that I would have no skeleton in the cupboard. Down at Matching, and before that at Killancodlem, I appealed to you, asking you to take me as your wife.”
“Hardly that.”
“Altogether that! I will have nothing denied that I have done, — nor will I be ashamed of anything. I did do so, — even after this infatuation. I thought then that one so volatile might perhaps fly back again.”
“I shall not do that,” said he, frowning at her.
“You need trouble yourself with no assurance, my friend. Let us understand each other now. I am not now supposing that you can fly back again. You have found your perch, and you must settle on it like a good domestic barn-door fowl.” Again he scowled. If she were too hard upon him he would certainly turn upon her. “No; you will not fly back again now; — but was I, or was I not, justified when you came to Killancodlem in thinking that my lover had come there?”
“How can I tell? It is my own justification I am thinking of.”
“I see all that. But we cannot both be justified. Did you mean me to suppose that you were speaking to me words in earnest when there, — sitting in that very spot, — you spoke to me of your love.”
“Did I speak of my love?”
“Did you speak of your love! And now, Silverbridge, — for if there be an English gentleman on earth I think that you are one, — as a gentleman tell me this. Did you not even tell your father that I should be your wife? I know you did.”
“Did he tell you?”
“Men such as you and he, who cannot even lie with your eyelids, who will not condescend to cover up a secret by a moment of feigned inanimation, have many voices. He did tell me; but he broke no confidence. He told me, but did not mean to tell me. Now you also have told me.”
“I did. I told him so. And then I changed my mind.”
“I know you changed your mind. Men often do. A pinker pink, a whiter white, — a finger that will press you just half an ounce the closer, — a cheek that will consent to let itself come just a little nearer — !”
“No; no; no!” It was because Isabel had not easily consented to such approaches!
“Trifles such as these will do it; — and some such trifles have done it with you. It would be beneath me to make comparisons where I might seem to be the gainer. I grant her beauty. She is very lovely. She has succeeded.”
“I have succeeded.”
“But — I am justified, and you are condemned. Is it not so? Tell me like a man.”
“You are justified.”
“And you are condemned? When you told me that I should be your wife, and then told your father the same story, was I to think it all meant nothing! Have you deceived me?”
“I did not mean it.”
“Have you deceived me? What; you cannot deny it, and yet have not the manliness to own it to a poor woman who can only save herself from humiliation by extorting the truth from you!”
“Oh, Mabel, I am so sorry it should be so.”
“I believe you are, — with a sorrow that will last till she is again sitting
close to you. Nor, Silverbridge, do I wish it to be longer. No; — no; — no. Your fault after all has not been great. You deceived, but did not mean to deceive me?”
“Never; never.”
“And I fancy you have never known how much you bore about with you. Your modesty has been so perfect that you have not thought of yourself as more than other men. You have forgotten that you have had in your hand the disposal to some one woman of a throne in Paradise.”
“I don’t suppose you thought of that.”
“But I did. Why should I tell falsehoods now? I have determined that you should know everything, — but I could better confess to you my own sins when I had shown that you too have not been innocent. Not think of it! Do not men think of high titles and great wealth and power and place? And if men, why should not women? Do not men try to get them; — and are they not even applauded for their energy? A woman has but one way to try. I tried.”
“I do not think it was all for that.”
“How shall I answer that without a confession which even I am not hardened enough to make? In truth, Silverbridge, I have never loved you.”
He drew himself up slowly before he answered her, and gradually assumed a look very different from that easy boyish smile which was customary to him. “I am glad of that,” he said.
“Why are you glad?”
“Now I can have no regrets.”
“You need have none. It was necessary to me that I should have my little triumph; — that I should show you that I knew how far you had wronged me! But now I wish that you should know everything. I have never loved you.”
“There is an end of it then.”
“But I have liked you so well, — so much better than all others! A dozen men have asked me to marry them. And though they might be nothing till they made that request, then they became — things of horror to me. But you were not a thing of horror. I could have become your wife, and I think that I could have learned to love you.”
“It is best as it is.”
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