The door was opened to him by the same old woman, and he was shown, at a funereal pace, up into the drawing-room which he had known so well. He was told that Lady Mabel would be down to him directly. As he looked about him he could see that already had been commenced that work of division of spoil which is sure to follow the death of most of us. Things were already gone which used to be familiar to his eyes, and the room, though not dismantled, had been deprived of many of its little prettinesses and was ugly.
In about ten minutes she came down to him—with so soft a step that he would not have been aware of her entrance had he not seen her form in the mirror. Then, when he turned round to greet her, he was astonished by the blackness of her appearance. She looked as though she had become ten years older since he had last seen her. As she came up to him she was grave and almost solemn in her gait, but there was no sign of any tears. Why should there have been a tear? Women weep, and men too, not from grief, but from emotion. Indeed, grave and slow as was her step, and serious, almost solemn, as was her gait, there was something of a smile on her mouth as she gave him her hand. And yet her face was very sad, declaring to him too plainly something of the hopelessness of her heart. “And so the Duke has consented,” she said. He had told her that in his letter, but, since that, her father had died, and she had been left, he did not as yet know how far impoverished, but, he feared, with no pleasant worldly prospects before her.
“Yes, Mabel;—that I suppose will be settled. I have been so shocked to hear all this.”
“It has been very sad;—has it not? Sit down, Frank. You and I have a good deal to say to each other now that we have met. It was no good your going down to Brighton. He would not have seen you, and at last I never left him.”
“Was Percival there?” She only shook her head. “That was dreadful.”
“It was not Percival’s fault. He would not see him; nor till the last hour or two would he believe in his own danger. Nor was he ever frightened for a moment—not even then.”
“Was he good to you?”
“Good to me! Well;—he liked my being there. Poor papa! It had gone so far with him that he could not be good to anyone. I think that he felt that it would be unmanly not to be the same to the end.”
“He would not see Percival.”
“When it was suggested he would only ask what good Percival could do him. I did send for him at last, in my terror, but he did not see his father alive. When he did come he only told me how badly his father had treated him! It was very dreadful!”
“I did so feel for you.”
“I am sure you did, and will. After all, Frank, I think that the pious godly people have the best of it in this world. Let them be ever so covetous, ever so false, ever so hard-hearted, the mere fact that they must keep up appearances, makes them comfortable to those around them. Poor papa was not comfortable to me. A little hypocrisy, a little sacrifice to the feelings of the world, may be such a blessing.”
“I am sorry that you should feel it so.”
“Yes; it is sad. But you;—everything is smiling with you! Let us talk about your plans.”
“Another time will do for that. I had come to hear about your own affairs.”
“There they are,” she said, pointing round the room. “I have no other affairs. You see that I am going from here.”
“And where are you going?” She shook her head. “With whom will you live?”
“With Miss Cass—two old maids together! I know nothing further.”
“But about money? That is if I am justified in asking.”
“What would you not be justified in asking? Do you not know that I would tell you every secret of my heart—if my heart had a secret? It seems that I have given up what was to have been my fortune. There was a claim of £12,000 on Grex. But I have abandoned it.”
“And there is nothing?”
“There will be scrapings they tell me—unless Percival refuses to agree. This house is mortgaged, but not for its value. And there are some jewels. But all that is detestable—a mere grovelling among mean hundreds; whereas you—you will soar among—”
“Oh Mabel! do not say hard things to me.”
“No, indeed! why should I—I who have been preaching that comfortable doctrine of hypocrisy? I will say nothing hard. But I would sooner talk of your good things than of my evil ones.”
“I would not.”
“Then you must talk about them for my sake. How was it that the Duke came round at last?”
“I hardly know. She sent for me.”
“A fine high-spirited girl. These Pallisers have more courage about them than one expects from their outward manner. Silverbridge has plenty of it.”
“I remember telling you he could be obstinate.”
“And I remember that I did not believe you. Now I know it. He has the sort of pluck which enables a man to break a girl’s heart—or to destroy a girl’s hopes—without wincing. He can tell a girl to her face that she can go to the—mischief for him. There are so many men who can’t do that, from cowardice, though their hearts be ever so well inclined. ‘I have changed my mind.’ There is something great in the courage of a
