On their way thither she had not said a word that would disturb him. She had spoken to him of the coming Session, and had managed to display to him the interest which she took in his parliamentary career. In doing this she had flattered him to the top of his bent. If he would return to his father’s politics, then would she too become a renegade. Would he speak in the next Session? She hoped he would speak. And if he did, might she be there to hear him? She was cautious not to say a word of Frank Tregear, understanding something of that strange jealousy which could exist even when he who was jealous did not love the woman who caused it.
“No,” she said, “I do not think we can sit. But still I like to be here with you. All that some day will be your own.” Then she stretched her hands out to the far view.
“Some of it, I suppose. I don’t think it is all ours. As for that, if we cared for extent of acres, one ought to go to Barsetshire.”
“Is that larger?”
“Twice as large, I believe, and yet none of the family like being there. The rental is very well.”
“And the borough,” she said, leaning on his arm and looking up into his face. “What a happy fellow you ought to be.”
“Bar Tifto—and Mr. Jawstock.”
“You have got rid of Tifto and all those troubles very easily.”
“Thanks to the governor.”
“Yes, indeed. I do love your father so dearly.”
“So do I—rather.”
“May I tell you something about him?” As she asked the question she was standing very close to him, leaning upon his arm, with her left hand crossed upon her right. Had others been there, of course she would not have stood in such a guise. She knew that—and he knew it too. Of course there was something in it of declared affection—of that kind of love which most of us have been happy enough to give and receive, without intending to show more than true friendship will allow at special moments.
“Don’t tell me anything about him I shan’t like to hear.”
“Ah;—that is so hard to know. I wish you would like to hear it.”
“What can it be?”
“I cannot tell you now.”
“Why not? And why did you offer?”
“Because—Oh, Silverbridge.”
He certainly as yet did not understand it. It had never occurred to him that she would know what were his father’s wishes. Perhaps he was slow of comprehension as he urged her to tell him what this was about his father. “What can you tell me about him, that I should not like to hear?”
“You do not know? Oh, Silverbridge, I think you know.” Then there came upon him a glimmering of the truth. “You do know.” And she stood apart looking him full in the face.
“I do not know what you can have to tell me.”
“No;—no. It is not I that should tell you. But yet it is so. Silverbridge, what did you say to me when you came to me that morning in the Square?”
“What did I say?”
“Was I not entitled to think that you—loved me?” To this he had nothing to reply, but stood before her silent and frowning. “Think of it, Silverbridge. Was it not so? And because I did not at once tell you all the truth, because I did not there say that my heart was all yours, were you right to leave me?”
“You only laughed at me.”
“No;—no; no; I never laughed at you. How could I laugh when you were all the world to me? Ask Frank;—he knew. Ask Miss Cass;—she knew. And can you say you did not know; you, you, you yourself? Can any girl suppose that such words as these are to mean nothing when they have been spoken? You knew I loved you.”
“No;—no.”
“You must have known it. I will never believe but that you knew it. Why should your father be so sure of it?”
“He never was sure of it.”
“Yes, Silverbridge; yes. There is not one in the house who does not see that he treats me as though he expected me to be his son’s wife. Do you not know that he wishes it?” He fain would not have answered this; but she paused for his answer and then repeated her question. “Do you not know that he wishes it?”
“I think he does,” said Silverbridge; “but it can never be so.”
“Oh, Silverbridge;—oh, my loved one! Do not say that to me! Do not kill me at once!” Now she placed her hands one on each arm as she stood opposite to him and looked up into his face. “You said you loved me once. Why do you desert me now? Have you a right to treat me like that;—when I tell you that you have all my heart?” The tears were now streaming down her face, and they were not counterfeit tears.
“You know,” he said, submitting to her hands, but not lifting his arm to embrace her.
“What do I know?”
“That I have given all I have to give to another.” As he said this he looked away sternly, over her shoulder, to the distance.
“That American girl!” she exclaimed, starting back, with some show of sternness also on her brow.
“Yes;—that American girl,” said Silverbridge.
Then she recovered herself immediately. Indignation, natural indignation, would not serve her turn in the present emergency. “You know that cannot be. You ought to know it. What will your father say? You have not dared to tell him. That is so natural,” she added, trying to appease his frown. “How possibly can it be told to him? I will not say a
