This is the country seat of Earl Grex,—which however he had not visited for some years. Gradually the place had got into such a condition that his absence is not surprising. An owner of Grex, with large means at his disposal and with a taste for the picturesque to gratify,—one who could afford to pay for memories and who was willing to pay dearly for such luxuries, might no doubt restore Grex. But the Earl had neither the money nor the taste.
Lord Grex had latterly never gone near the place, nor was his son Lord Percival fond of looking upon the ruin of his property. But Lady Mabel loved it with a fond love. With all her lightness of spirit she was prone to memories, prone to melancholy, prone at times almost to seek the gratification of sorrow. Year after year when the London season was over she would come down to Grex and spend a week or two amidst its desolation. She was now going on to a seat in Scotland belonging to Mrs. Montacute Jones called Killancodlem; but she was in the meanwhile passing a desolate fortnight at Grex in company with Miss Cassewary. The gardens were let,—and being let of course were not kept in further order than as profit might require. The man who rented them lived in the big house with his wife, and they on such occasions as this would cook and wait upon Lady Mabel.
Lady Mabel was at the home of her ancestors, and the faithful Miss Cass was with her. But at the moment and at the spot at which the reader shall see her, Miss Cass was not with her. She was sitting on a rock about twelve feet above the lake looking upon the black water; and on another rock a few feet from her was seated Frank Tregear. "No," she said, "you should not have come. Nothing can justify it. Of course as you are here I could not refuse to come out with you. To make a fuss about it would be the worst of all. But you should not have come."
"Why not? Whom does it hurt? It is a pleasure to me. If it be the reverse to you, I will go."
"Men are so unmanly. They take such mean advantages. You know it is a pleasure to me to see you."
"I had hoped so."
"But it is a pleasure I ought not to have,—at least not here."
"That is what I do not understand," said he. "In London, where the Earl could bark at me if he happened to find me, I could see the inconvenience of it. But here, where there is nobody but Miss Cass—"
"There are a great many others. There are the rooks, and stones, and old women;—all of which have ears."
"But of what is there to be ashamed? There is nothing in the world to me so pleasant as the companionship of my friends."
"Then go after Silverbridge."
"I mean to do so;—but I am taking you by the way."
"It is all unmanly," she said, rising from her stone; "you know that it is so. Friends! Do you mean to say that it would make no difference whether you were here with me or with Miss Cass?"
"The greatest difference in the world."
"Because she is an old woman and I am a young one, and because in intercourse between young men and young women there is something dangerous to the women and therefore pleasant to the men."
"I never heard anything more unjust. You cannot think I desire anything injurious to you."
"I do think so." She was still standing and spoke now with great vehemence. "I do think so. You force me to throw aside the reticence I ought to keep. Would it help me in my prospects if your friend Lord Silverbridge knew that I was here?"
"How should he know?"
"But if he did? Do you suppose that I want to have visits paid to me of which I am afraid to speak? Would you dare to tell Lady Mary that you had been sitting alone with me on the rocks at Grex?"
"Certainly I would."
"Then it would be because you have not dared to tell her certain other things which have gone before. You have sworn to her no doubt that you love her better than all the world."
"I have."
"And you have taken the trouble to come here to tell me that,—to wound me to the core by saying so; to show me that, though I may still be sick, you have recovered,—that is if you ever suffered! Go your way and let me go mine. I do not want you."
"Mabel!"
"I do not want you. I know you will not help me, but you need not destroy me."
"You know that you are wronging me."
"No! You understand it all though you look so calm. I hate your Lady Mary Palliser. There! But if by anything I could do I could secure her to you I would do it,—because you want it."
"She will be your sister-in-law,—probably."
"Never. It will never be so."
"Why do you hate her?"
"There again! You are so little of a man that you can ask me why!" Then she turned away as though she intended to go down to the marge of the lake.
But he rose up and stopped her. "Let us have this out, Mabel, before we go," he said. "Unmanly is a heavy word to hear from you, and you have used it a dozen times."
"It is because I have thought it a thousand times. Go and get her if you can;—but why tell me about it?"
"You said you would help me."
"So I would, as I would help you do anything you might want; but you can hardly think that after what has passed I can wish to hear about her."
"It was you spoke of her."
"I told you you should not be here,—because of her and because of me. And I tell you again, I hate her. Do you think I can hear you speak of her as though she were the only woman you had ever seen without feeling it? Did you ever swear that you loved any one else?"
"Certainly, I have so sworn."
"Have you ever said that nothing could alter that love?"
"Indeed I have."
"But it is altered. It has all gone. It has been transferred to one who has more advantages of beauty, youth, wealth, and position."
"Oh Mabel, Mabel!"
"But it is so."
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