THE Duke did not call a hansom when he reached the street. The
interview to come was several times more trying to face than the last
had been; he preferred to walk the miles between the Equitable Building
and Murray Hill.
He reached the house in an hour. Miss Creighton was in the library
reading a novel by the fire, and looked up brightly as he entered.
“You are a very bad man,” she said, “I have waited in for you all day,
and it is now half-past four. I am reading Kenilworth. The love scenes
are too funny for words. Amy hangs upon Leicester’s neck and exclaims
‘My noble earl!’ Fancy if I called you ‘My noble duke.’ How perfectly
funny!”
The Duke took his stand on the hearth-rug--man’s immemorial citadel of
defence--and tapped his chin with his hat, regarding Mabel stolidly
with his fishy pale-blue gaze. He was cross and uncomfortable and hated
himself, but his face expressed nothing.
“I have seen your father,” he said.
“Oh--have you? What--what did he say?”
“When I asked you to marry me I explained how I was situated.”
“I know--won’t papa?--He’s very generous.”
“He can’t. He is very seriously embarrassed.”
The girl’s breath shortened painfully. She turned very white.
Unconsciously she twisted her hands together.
“Then we cannot marry?”
“How can we? Do you want to spend your life hounded by lawyers,
money-lenders, and financial syndicates, and unable to keep up your
position? You would die of misery, poor child. I am not a man to make a
woman happy on three hundred thousand pounds a year. Poor! It would be
hell.”
She did not look up, but sat twirling her rings.
“You know best,” she said, “I don’t know the conditions of life in
England. If you say that we should be miserable, you must know. I
suppose you did not love me very much.”
“Not much, Mabel. I have only the skeleton of a heart in me. I wonder
it does duty at all. You are well rid of me.”
“You certainly did not make any very violent protestations. I cannot
accuse you of hypocrisy.”
“One thing--I was not half good enough for you. As far as I can
remember this is the first time I have ever humbled myself. You are a
jolly little thing and deserve better luck.”
She made no reply.
“I shall cross almost immediately--shall give it out that you have
refused me.”
“You need not. I have told no one but Augusta. People will think
that we are merely good friends. We will treat each other in a frank
off-hand manner when we meet out.”
“You are a game little thing! You’d make a good wife, a good fellow to
chum with. I wish it could have come round our way.”
He was quick of instinct, and divined that she wanted to be alone.
“_Au revoir_,” he said. “We meet to-night at dinner, somewhere,
don’t we?”
“At the Burr’s.” She rose and held out her hand. She was very pale,
but quite composed, and her flower-like face had the dignity which
self-respect so swiftly conceives and delivers. He had never been so
near to loving her. She had bored him a good deal during the past
weeks, but he suddenly saw possibilities in her. They were not great,
but they would have meant something to him. He wanted to kiss her, but
raised her hand to his lips instead, and went out.
Mabel waited until she heard the front door close, then ran up to her
room and locked herself in.
“I mustn’t cry,” was her only thought for the moment.
“I mustn’t--mustn’t! My eyes are always swollen for four hours and my
nose gets such a funny pink. I remember Augusta once quoted some poetry
about it. I forget it.”
She looked at the divan. It exerted a powerful magnetism. She saw
herself lying face downward, sobbing. She caught hold of a chair to
hold herself back. “I can’t!” she thought. “I can’t! I must brace up
for that dinner. The girls must never know. Oh! I wish I were dead! I
wish I were dead!”
“I wish I were dead!” She said it aloud several times, thinking it
might lighten the weight in her breast. But it did not. She looked at
the clock and shuddered. “It is only five. What am I to do until Lena
comes to dress me? She won’t come until half-past six. I can’t go to
mamma; she would drive me distracted. Oh! I think I am going mad--but I
_won’t_ make a fool of myself.”
She walked up and down the room, clenching her hands until the nails
bit the soft palms. “I read somewhere,” she continued aloud, “that
the clever people suffered most, that their nerves are more developed
or something. I wonder what that must be like. Poor things! I am not
clever, and I feel as if I’d dig my grave with my own fingers if I
could get into it. Oh! Am I going to cry? I won’t. I’ll think about
something that will make me angry. Augusta. She’ll get him now. She’s
wanted him from the first. I’ve seen it. She was honourable enough not
to regularly try to cut me out, but there’s nothing in the way now. And
she will. I know she will. I hate her. I hate her. Oh, God! _What_
shall I do?”
She heard the front door open; a moment later her father ascend the
stair and enter his room. She ran across the hall, opened his door
without ceremony and caught him about the neck, but still without tears.
He set his lips and held her close. Then he kissed and fondled her
as he had not done for years. “Poor little girl,” he said. “I am a
terrible failure. God knows I should have been glad to have bought your
happiness for you. As it is, I am afraid I have ruined it.”
She noticed for the first time how worn and old he looked. Her
development had been rapid during the last hour. She passed on to a new
phase. “Poor papa,” she said, putting her hands about his face. “It
must be awful for you, and you have never told us. Listen. _He_
said I would make a plucky wife, a good fellow. I’ll take care of you
and brace you up. I’ll be everything to you, papa; indeed I will. Papa,
you are not crying! Don’t! I have to go out to dinner to-night! Listen.
I don’t care much. Indeed I don’t. I’m sure I often wondered why he
attracted me so much when I thought him over. Alex says that if he were
an American she wouldn’t take the trouble to reform him--that he isn’t
worth it. And Hal says he looks like a dough pudding, half baked. It’s
dreadful that we can’t control our feelings better--Papa, give me every
spare moment you can, won’t you? I can’t stand the thought of the
girls.”
“Yes,” he said, “every minute; and as soon as I can we’ll go off
somewhere together. It would be a great holiday for me. It is terrible
for me to see you suffer, but I am selfish enough to be glad that I
shall not lose you. Stay with me awhile. This will pass. You can’t
believe that now, but it will; and the next time you love, the man will
be more worthy of you. I don’t want to hurt you, my darling, but for
the life of me, I can’t think what you see in him.”