In the evening about an hour before dinner Silverbridge and Lady Mabel were seated together on the bank of a little stream which ran on the other side of the road, but on a spot not more than a furlong from the hall-door. She had brought him there, but she had done so without any definite scheme. She had made no plan of campaign for the evening, having felt relieved when she found herself able to postpone the project of her attack till the morrow. Of course there must be an attack, but how it should be made she had never the courage to tell herself. The great women of the world, the Semiramises, the Pocohontas, the Ida Pfeiffers, and the Charlotte Cordays, had never been wanting to themselves when the moment for action came. Now she was pleased to have this opportunity added to her; this pleasant minute in which some soft preparatory word might be spoken; but the great effort should be made on the morrow.
'Is not this nicer than shooting with Mr Dobbes?' she asked.
'A great deal nicer. Of course I am bound to say so.'
'But in truth, I want to find out what you really like. Men are so different. You need not pay me any compliment; you know that well enough.'
'I like you better than Dobbes,--if you mean that.'
'Even so much is something.'
'But I am fond of shooting.'
'Only a man may have enough of it.'
'Too much, if he is subject to Dobbes, as Dobbes likes them to be.
Gerald likes it.'
'Did you think it odd,' she said after a pause, 'that I should ask you to come over again?'
'Was it odd?' he replied.
'That is as you may take it. There is certainly no other man in the world to whom I would have done it.'
'Not to Tregear?'
'Yes,' she said; 'yes,--to Tregear, could I have been as sure of a welcome for him as I am for you. Frank is in all respects the same as a brother to me. That would not have seemed odd;--I mean to myself.'
'And has this been--odd,--to yourself?'
'Yes. Not that anybody has felt it. Only I,--and perhaps you. You felt it so?'
'Not especially. I thought you were a good fellow. I have always thought that;--except when you made me take back the ring.'
'Does that still fret you?'
'No man likes to take back a thing. It makes him seem to have been awkward and stupid in giving it.'
'It was the value--'
'You should have left me to judge of that.'
'If I have offended you I will beg your pardon. Give me anything but that, and I will take it.'
'But why not that?' said he.
'Now that you have fitted it for a lady's finger it should go to your wife. No one else should have it.' Upon this he brought the ring once more out of his pocket and again offered it to her. 'No; anything but that. That your wife must have.' Then he put the ring back again. 'It would have been nicer for you had Miss Boncassen been here.' In saying this she followed no plan. It came rather from pique. It was almost as though she had asked him whether Miss Boncassen was to have the ring.
'What makes you say that?'
'But it would.'
'Yes it would,' he replied stoutly, turning round as he lay on the ground and facing her.
'Has it come to that?'
'Come to what? You ask me a question and I will answer it truly.'
'You cannot be happy without her?'
'I did not say so. You ask me whether I should like to have her here,--and I say Yes. What would you think of me if I said No?'
'My being here is not enough?' This should not have been said, of course; but the little speech came from the exquisite pain of the moment. She had meant to have said hardly anything. She had intended to be happy with him, just touching lightly on things which might lead to that attack which must be made on the morrow.
But words will often lead whither the speaker has not intended. So it was now, and in the soreness of her heart she spoke, 'My being here is not enough?'
'It would be enough,' he said jumping to his feet, 'if you would understand all and be kind to me.'
'I will at any rate be kind to you,' she replied, as she sat upon the bank looking at the running water.
'I have asked Miss Boncassen to be my wife.'
'And she has accepted?'
'No; not as yet. She is to take three months to think of it. Of course I love her best of all. If you will sympathise with me in that, then I will be as happy with you as the day is long.'
'No,' said she, 'I cannot. I will not.'
'Very well.'
'There should be no such marriage. If you have told me this in confidence--'
'Of course I have told you in confidence.'
'It will go no farther; but there can be no sympathy between us.
It--it--it is not,--is not--' Then she burst into tears.
'Mabel!'
'No, sir, no; no! What did you mean? But never mind. I have no question to ask, not a word to say. Why should I? Only this,--that such a marriage will disgrace your family. To me it is no more than to anybody else. But it will disgrace your family.'
How she got back to the house she hardly knew; nor did he. That evening they did not again speak to each other, and on the following morning there was no walk to the mountains. Before dinner he drove himself back to Crummie-Toddie, and when he was taking his leave she shook hands with him with her usual pleasant smile.
