“She wishes to marry you?”
“I think she does.”
Mr. Creighton sighed heavily. He wheeled about and looked through the window.
“I wish she could,” he said,—“if she loves you. I don’t know you. I haven’t had time to think about you. I should prefer that she married an American, myself, but I should never have crossed her so long as she chose a gentleman and a man of honour. I know nothing of your record. Were the marriage possible, I should enquire into it. But I am afraid that it is not. I am well aware—pardon my abruptness—that no Englishman of your rank comes to America for a wife if his income is sufficient to enable him to marry in his own country.” He paused a moment. Then he resumed. The effort was apparent. “I must ask your confidence for a time—but it is necessary to tell you that I am seriously involved; in short, if things don’t mend, and quickly, I shall go to pieces.”
The Duke was sitting forward, staring at the carpet, his chin pressed hard upon the head of his stick. “I am sorry,” he said, “very sorry.”
“So am I. Mabel has two hundred thousand dollars of her own. I have as much more, something over, in land that is as yet unmortgaged; but that is not the amount you came for.”
The Duke of Bosworth was traversing the most uncomfortable moments of his life. He opened his mouth twice to speak before he could frame a reply that should not insult his host and show himself the exponent of a type for which he suddenly experienced a profound disgust.
“Aire Castle,” he said finally, “is half a ruin. All the land I have inherited which is not entailed is mortgaged to the hilt. I may add that I also inherited about half of the mortgages. My income is a pittance. It would cost two hundred thousand pounds to repair the castle—and until it is repaired, I have no home to offer a wife. In common justice to a woman, I must look out that she brings money with her. That is my position. It is a nasty one. It is good of you not to call me a fortune-hunter and order me out.”
“Well, well, at least you have not intimated that you are conferring an inestimable honour in asking me to regild your coronet. I appreciate your position, it is ugly. So is mine. Thank you for being frank.”
The Englishman rose. He held out his hand. “I hope you’ll come out all right,” he said, with a sudden and rare burst of warmth. “I do indeed. Good luck to you.”