“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
