“No; do not do that.”
“But there are fitnesses of things which such a one as you cannot disregard without preparing for yourself a whole life of repentance.”
“Look here, Mabel.”
“Well?”
“I will tell you the truth.”
“Well?”
“I would sooner lose all;—the rank I have; the rank that I am to have; all these lands that you have been looking on; my father’s wealth, my seat in Parliament—everything that fortune has done for me—I would give them all up, sooner than lose her.” Now at any rate he was a man. She was sure of that now. This was more, very much more, not only than she had expected from him, but more than she had thought it possible that his character should have produced.
His strength reduced her to weakness. “And I am nothing,” she said.
“Yes, indeed; you are Lady Mabel Grex—whom all women envy, and whom all men honour.”
“The poorest wretch this day under the sun.”
“Do not say that. You should take shame to say that.”
“I do take shame;—and I do say it. Sir, do you not feel what you owe me? Do you not know that you have made me the wretch I am? How did you dare to talk to me as you did talk when you were in London? You tell me that I am Lady Mabel Grex;—and yet you come to me with a lie on your lips—with such a lie as that! You must have taken me for some nursemaid on whom you had condescended to cast your eye! It cannot be that even you should have dared to treat Lady Mabel Grex after such a fashion as that! And now you have cast your eye on this other girl. You can never marry her!”
“I shall endeavour to do so.”
“You can never marry her,” she said, stamping her foot. She had now lost all the caution which she had taught herself for the prosecution of her scheme—all the care with which she had burdened herself. Now she was natural enough. “No—you can never marry her. You could not show yourself after it in your clubs, or in Parliament, or in the world. Come home, do you say? No, I will not go to your home. It is not my home. Cold;—of course I am cold;—cold through to the heart.”
“I cannot leave you alone here,” he said, for she had now turned from him, and was walking with hurried steps and short turns on the edge of the bank, which at this place was almost a precipice.
“You have left me—utterly in the cold—more desolate than I am here even though I should spend the night among the trees. But I will go back, and will tell your father everything. If my father were other than he is—if my brother were better to me, you would not have done this.”
“If you had a legion of brothers it would have been the same,” he said, turning sharp upon her.
They walked on together, but without a word till the house was in sight. Then she looked round at him, and stopped him on the path as she caught his eye. “Silverbridge!” she said.
“Lady Mabel.”
“Call me Mabel. At any rate call me Mabel. If I have said anything to offend you—I beg your pardon.”
“I am not offended—but unhappy.”
“If you are unhappy, what must I be? What have I to look forward to? Give me your hand, and say that we are friends.”
“Certainly we are friends,” he said, as he gave her his hand.
“Who can tell what may come to pass?” To this he would make no answer, as it seemed to imply that some division between himself and Isabel Boncassen might possibly come to pass. “You will not tell anyone that I love you?”
“I tell such a thing as that!”
“But never forget it yourself. No one can tell what may come to pass.”
Lady Mabel at once went up to her room. She had played her scene, but was well aware that she had played it altogether unsuccessfully.
LX
Lord Gerald in Further Trouble
When Silverbridge got back to the house he was by no means well pleased with himself. In the first place he was unhappy to think that Mabel was unhappy, and that he had made her so. And then she had told him that he would not have dared to have acted as he had done, but that her father and her brother were careless to defend her. He had replied fiercely that a legion of brothers, ready to act on her behalf, would not have altered his conduct; but not the less did he feel that he had behaved badly to her. It could not now be altered. He could not now be untrue to Isabel. But certainly he had said a word or two to Mabel which he could not remember without regret. He had not thought that a word from him could have been so powerful. Now, when that word was recalled to his memory by the girl to whom it had been spoken, he could not quite acquit himself.
And Mabel had declared to him that she would at once appeal to his father. There was an absurdity in this at which he could not but smile—that the girl should complain to his father because he would not marry her! But even in doing this she might cause him great vexation. He could not bring himself to ask her not to tell her story to the Duke. He must take all that as it might come.
While he was thinking of all this in his own room a servant brought him two letters. From the first which he opened he soon perceived that it contained an account of more troubles. It was from his brother Gerald, and was written from Auld Reikie, the name of a house in Scotland belonging to Lord Nidderdale’s people.
Dear Silver,
I have got into a most awful scrape. That fellow Percival is here, and Dolly Longstaff, and
