"I Have Never Loved You"
Silverbridge had now been in town three or four weeks, and Lady Mabel
Grex had also been in London all that time, and yet he had not seen
her. She had told him that she loved him and had asked him plainly to
make her his wife. He had told her that he could not do so,--that he
was altogether resolved to make another woman his wife. Then she had
rebuked him, and had demanded from him how he had dared to treat her
as he had done. His conscience was clear. He had his own code of
morals as to such matters, and had, as he regarded it, kept within
the law. But she thought that she was badly treated, and had declared
that she was now left out in the cold for ever through his treachery.
Then her last word had been almost the worst of all, "Who can tell
what may come to pass?"--showing too plainly that she would not even
now give up her hope. Before the month was up she wrote to him as
follows:
DEAR LORD SILVERBRIDGE,
Why do you not come and see me? Are friends so plentiful
with you that one so staunch as I may be thrown over?
But of course I know why you do not come. Put all that
aside,--and come. I cannot hurt you. I have learned to
feel that certain things which the world regards as too
awful to be talked of,--except in the way of scandal, may
be discussed and then laid aside just like other subjects.
What though I wear a wig or a wooden leg, I may still be
fairly comfortable among my companions unless I crucify
myself by trying to hide my misfortune. It is not the
presence of the skeleton that crushes us. Not even that
will hurt us much if we let him go about the house as he
lists. It is the everlasting effort which the horror makes
to peep out of his cupboard that robs us of our ease. At
any rate come and see me.
Of course I know that you are to be married to Miss
Boncassen. Who does not know it? The trumpeters have been
at work for the last week.
Your very sincere friend,
MABEL.
He wished that she had not written. Of course he must go to her. And
though there was a word or two in her letter which angered him, his
feelings towards her were kindly. Had not that American angel flown
across the Atlantic to his arms he could have been well content to
make her his wife. But the interview at the present moment could
hardly be other than painful. She could, she said, talk of her own
misfortunes, but the subject would be very painful to him. It was
not to him a skeleton, to be locked out of sight; but it had been a
misfortune, and the sooner that such misfortunes could be forgotten
the better.
He knew what she meant about trumpeters. She had intended to signify
that Isabel in her pride had boasted of her matrimonial prospects.
Of course there had been trumpets. Are there not always trumpets
when a marriage is contemplated, magnificent enough to be called an
alliance? As for that he himself had blown the trumpets. He had told
everybody that he was going to be married to Miss Boncassen. Isabel
had blown no trumpets. In her own straightforward way she had told
the truth to whom it concerned. Of course he would go and see Lady
Mabel, but he trusted that for her own sake nothing would be said
about trumpets.
"So you have come at last," Mabel said when he entered the room.
"No;--Miss Cassewary is not here. As I wanted to see you alone I got
her to go out this morning. Why did you not come before?"
"You said in your letter that you knew why."
"But in saying so I was accusing you of cowardice;--was I not?"
"It was not cowardice."
"Why then did you not come?"
"I thought you would hardly wish to see me so soon,--after what
passed."
"That is honest at any rate. You felt that I must be too much ashamed
of what I said to be able to look you in the face."
"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 own
sins when I had shown that you too have not been innocent. Not think
of it! Do not men think of high titles and great wealth and power
and place? And if men, why should not women? Do not men try to get
them;--and are they not even applauded for their energy? A woman has
but one way to try. I tried."
"I do not think it was all for that."
"How shall I answer that without a confession which even I am not
hardened enough to make? In truth, Silverbridge, I have never loved
you."
He drew himself up slowly before he answered her, and gradually
assumed a look very different from that easy boyish smile which was
customary to him. "I am glad of that," he said.
"Why are you glad?"
"Now I can have no regrets."
"You need have none. It was necessary to me that I should have my
little triumph;--that I should show you that I knew how far you had
wronged me! But now I wish that you should know everything. I have
never loved you."
"There is an end of it then."
"But I have liked you so well,--so much better than all others! A
dozen men have asked me to marry them. And though they might be
nothing till they made that request, then they became--things of
horror to me. But you were not a thing of horror. I could have become
your wife, and I think that I could have learned to love you."
"It is best as it is."
"I ought to say so too; but I have a doubt I should have liked to
be Duchess of Omnium, and perhaps I might have fitted the place
better than one who can as yet know but little of its duties or its
privileges. I may, perhaps, think that that other arrangement would
have been better even for you."
"I can take care of myself in that."
"I should have married you without loving you, but I should have done
so determined to serve you with a devotion which a woman who does
love hardly thinks necessary. I would have so done my duty that you
should never have guessed that my heart had been in the keeping of
another man."
"Another man!"
"Yes; of course. If there had been no other man, why not you? Am I
so hard, do you think that I can love no one? Are you not such a one
that a girl would naturally love,--were she not preoccupied? That a
woman should love seems as necessary as that a man should not."
"A man can love too."
"No;--hardly. He can admire, and he can like, and he can fondle and
be fond. He can admire, and approve, and perhaps worship. He can know
of a woman that she is part of himself, the most sacred part, and
therefore will protect her from the very winds. But all that will
not make love. It does not come to a man that to be separated from
a woman is to be dislocated from his very self. A man has but one
centre, and that is himself. A woman has two. Though the second may
never be seen by her, may live in the arms of another, may do all for
that other that man can do for woman,--still, still, though he be
half the globe asunder from her, still he is to her the half of her
existence. If she really love, there is, I fancy, no end of it. To
the end of time I shall love Frank Tregear."
"Tregear!"
"Who else?"
"He is engaged to Mary."
"Of course he is. Why not;--to her or whomsoever else he might like
best? He is as true I doubt not to your sister as you are to your
American beauty,--or as you would have been to me had fancy held. He
used to love me."
"You were always friends."
"Always;--dear friends. And he would have loved me if a man were
capable of loving. But he could sever himself from me easily, just
when he was told to do so. I thought that I could do the same. But I
cannot. A jackal is born a jackal, and not a lion, and cannot help
himself. So is a woman born--a woman. They are clinging, parasite
things, which cannot but adhere; though they destroy themselves by
adhering. Do not suppose that I take a pride in it. I would give one
of my eyes to be able to disregard him."
"Time will do it."
"Yes; time,--that brings wrinkles and rouge-pots and rheumatism.
Though I have so hated those men as to be unable to endure them,
still I want some man's house, and his name,--some man's bread
and wine,--some man's jewels and titles and woods and parks and
gardens,--if I can get them. Time can help a man in his sorrow. If he
begins at forty to make speeches, or to win races, or to breed oxen,
he can yet live a prosperous life. Time is but a poor consoler for a
young woman who has to be married."
"Oh, Mabel."
"And now let there be not a word more about it. I know--that I can
trust you."
"Indeed you may."
"Though you will tell her everything else you will not tell her
this."
"No;--not this."
"And surely you will not tell your sister!"
"I shall tell no one."
"It is because you are so true that I have dared to trust you. I had
to justify myself,--and then to confess. Had I at that one moment
taken you at your word, you would never have known anything of all
this. 'There is a tide in the affairs of men--!' But I let the flood
go by! I shall not see you again now before you are married; but come
to me afterwards."