What had hitherto been the result of this the reader knows,--and Tregear knew also. He had taken the privilege given to him, and had made so complete a use of it that he had in truth transferred his heart as well as his allegiance. Where is the young man who cannot do so;--how few are there who do not do so when their first passion has come on them at one-and-twenty? And he had thought that she would do the same. But gradually he found that she had not done so, did not do so, could not do so! When she first heard of Lady Mary she had not reprimanded him,--but she could not keep herself from showing the bitterness of her disappointment. Though she would still boast of her own strength and of her own purpose, yet it was too clear to him that she was wounded and very sore.
She would have liked him to remain single at any rate till she herself had married. But the permission had hardly been given before he availed himself of it. And then he talked to her not only of the brilliancy of his prospects,--which she would have forgiven,--but of his love--his love!
Then she had refused one offer after another, and he had known it all. There was nothing in which she was concerned that she did not tell him. Then young Silverbridge had come across her, and she had determined that he should be her husband. She had been nearly successful,--so nearly that at moments she felt sure of success.
But the prize had slipped from her through her own fault. She knew well enough that it was her own fault. When a girl submits to play such a game as that, she could not stand on too nice scruples. She had told herself this many a time since;--but the prize was gone.
All this Tregear knew, and knowing it almost dreaded the coming interview. He could not without actual cruelty have avoided her.
Had he done so before he could not have continued to do so now, when she was left alone in the world. Her father had not been much to her, but still his presence had enabled her to put herself before the world as being somebody. Now she would be almost nobody. And she had lost her rich prize, while he,--out of the same treasury as it were,--had won his!
The door 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 prettiness 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 she 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 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 to 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 any one. I think that he felt that it would be unmanly not to be the same till 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 own 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 twelve thousand pounds on Grex. But I have abandoned it.'
'And there is nothing?'