General Harrington opened the book, and glanced at the passage which had just been read.
"Even here, she confesses her love; you have seen it in her own handwriting—the whole world shall see not only this passage, but the whole book. I will scatter its pages broadcast over the country. See, then, if your denial will shield her from universal scorn."
"You could not do this!"
"I can!"
"She would die under the first bitter sneer."
"Let her die, then! The woman who marries a Harrington, should at least learn not to commit herself."
James Harrington shrunk back in his seat, appalled by the vision of humiliation that opened itself before him. He saw Mabel's name bandied from lip to lip with pity or sneers, by the very society in which she had been held in so much honor. He saw her reputation, so spotless now, consigned to a thousand reckless presses, each tearing her secret forth with its cruel iron fingers, crushing it into some slanderous shape between its ponderous cylinders, and hurling it, blackened with lies and coarse jests, scoffingly to the world.
He saw the effect of this murderous publicity upon Mabel herself, when it should recoil back to her. She, so generous, so kindly, and yet so proud—how would she endure this outrage upon feelings held secret almost from her prayers—feelings struggled against and forced back without a word of utterance, save when they broke forth in the pages of a journal locked so vigilantly from all eyes but her own; that luckless journal to open which seemed like pillaging her proud heart.
Would she yield at once to the extreme delicacy of her nature, and shrinking away from notice, perish under this rude publicity?—or, struggling against it, go mad, and die like an eagle striving to keep its wings poised on high, though pierced with a thousand arrows. He knew that she would resist to the last. The exquisite sensitiveness which rendered her so unlike ordinary women, was matched with a strength of will which would give suffering its keenest power. It would not be death—that is the relief of weaker natures—but relentless life—life full of those torturing agonies that trample every upspringing joy from the heart. Compared to this life, poisoned in all its sources, death would be a sweet dream to a woman like Mabel. The intense vitality of her own nature, would be its torment.
As this picture rose upon his brain, James Harrington shrouded his face, silent and appalled. His strong heart was racked to the centre—a tortuous strain closed in upon his nerves, and for the time, that stout, brave man was helpless as a child.