第172章

He knew that she was willing to accept the coronet of a duchess as her consolation. That bloom of her maiden shame, of which she quite understood the sweetness of the charm, the value--was gone when she had brought herself to such a state that any human being should know that, loving one man, she should be willing to marry another. The sweet treasure was gone from her. Its aroma was fled.

It behoved her now to be ambitious, cautious,--and if possible successful.

When first she had so resolved, success seemed to be easily within her reach. Of all the golden youths that crossed her path no one was so pleasant to her eye, to her ear, to her feelings generally as this Duke's young heir. There was a coming manliness about him which she liked,---and she liked even the slight want of present manliness. Putting aside Frank Tregear she could go nearer to loving him than any other man she had ever seen. With him she would not be turned from her duties by disgust, by dislike, or dismay. She could even think that the time would come when she might really love him. Then she had all but succeeded, and she might have succeeded altogether had she been a little more prudent. But she had allowed her great prize to escape from her fingers.

But the prize was not yet utterly beyond her grasp. To recover it,--to recover even the smallest chance of recovering it, there would be need of great exertion. She must be bold, sudden, unwomanlike,--and yet with such display of woman's charms that he at least should discover no want. She must be false, but false with such perfect deceit, that he must regard her as a pearl of truth. If anything could lure him back it must be his conviction of her passionate love. And she must be strong;--so strong as to overcome not only his weakness, but all that was strong in him.

She knew that he did love that other girl,--and she must overcome even that. And to do this she must prostrate herself at his feet,--as, since the world began, it has been the man's province to prostrate himself at the feet of the woman he loves.

To do this she must indeed bid adieu to the sweet bloom of her maiden shame! But had she not done so already when, by the side of the brook at Killancodlem, she had declared to him plainly enough her despair at hearing that he loved that other girl?

Though she were to grovel at his feet she could not speak more plainly than she had done then; but--though the chances were small,--perchance she might tell it more effectually.

'Perhaps this will be our last walk,' she said. 'Come down to the seat over the river.'

'Why should it be the last? You'll be her tomorrow.'

'There are so many slips in such things,' she said laughing. 'You may get a letter from your constituents that will want all day to answer. Or your father may have a political communication to make to me. But at any rate come.' So they went to the seat.

It was a spot in the park from whence there was a distant view over many lands, and low beneath the bench, which stood at the edge of a steep bank, ran a stream which made a sweeping bend in this place, so that a reach of the little river might be seen both to the right and to the left. Though the sun was shining, the snow under their feet was hard with frost. It was an air such as one sometimes finds in England, and often in America. Though the cold was very perceptible, though water in the shade was freezing at this moment, there was no feeling of damp, no sense of bitter wind. It was a sweet and jocund air, such as would make young people prone to run and skip. 'You are not going to sit down with all the snow on the bench,' said Silverbridge.

On their way thither she had not said a word that would disturb him. She had spoken to him of the coming session, and had managed to display to him the interest which she took in his parliamentary career. In doing this she had flattered him to the top of his bent. If he would return to his father's politics, then would she too become a renegade. Would he speak in the next session? She hoped he would speak. And if he did, might she be there to hear him? She was cautious not to say a word of Frank Tregear, understanding something of that strange jealousy which could exist even when he who was jealous did not love the woman who caused it.

'No,' she said, 'I do not think we can sit. But still I like to be here with you. All that some day will be your own.' Then she stretched her hands out to the far view.

'Some of it, I suppose. I don't think it is all ours. As for that, if we cared for extent of acres, one ought to go to Barsetshire.'

'Is that larger?'

'Twice as large, I believe, and yet none of the family like being there. The rental is very well.'

'And the borough,' she said, leaning on his arm and looking up into his face. 'What a happy fellow you ought to be.'

'Bar Tifto,--and Mr Jawstock.'

'You have got rid of Tifto and all those troubles very easily.'

'Thanks to the governor.'

'Yes, indeed. I do love your father so dearly.'

'So do I--rather.'

'May I tell you something about him?' As she asked the question she was standing very close to him, leaning upon his arm, with her left hand crossed upon her right. Had others been there, of course she would not have stood in such a guise. She knew that,--and he knew it too. Of course there was something in it of declared affection,--of that kind of love which most of us have been happy enough to give and receive, without intending to show more than true friendship will allow at special moments.

'Don't tell me anything about him I shan't like to hear.'

'Ah;--that is so hard to know. I wish you would like to hear it.'

'What can it be?'

'I cannot tell you now.'

'Why not? And why did you offer?'

'Because,--Oh, Silverbridge.'

He certainly as yet did not understand it. It had never occurred to him that she would know what were his father's wishes. Perhaps he was slow of comprehension as he urged her to tell him what this was about his father. 'What can you tell me about him, that I should not like to hear?'