“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.”
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 forever 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.
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
