“It’s a nightmare,” he replied. “That is Beaudelays! That is,” with bitterness, “the splendid seat of Philip, fourteenth Lord Audley—and a millstone about his neck! It is well, my dear, that you should see it! It is well that you should know what is before you! You see your home! And what you are marrying—if you think it worth while!”
If she had loved him she would have been strong to comfort him. If she had even fancied that she loved him, she would have known what to answer. As it was, she was dumb; she scarcely took in the significance of his words. Her mind—so much of it as she could divert from herself—was engaged with the sight before her, with the long rows of blank and boarded windows, the smokeless chimneys, the raw, unfinished air that, after eighty years, betrayed that this had never been a home, had never opened its doors to happy brides, nor heard the voices of children.
At last she spoke. “And this is Beaudelays?” she said.
“This is my home,” he replied. “That’s the place I’ve come to own! It’s a pleasant possession! It promises a cheerful homecoming, doesn’t it?”
“Have you never thought of—of doing anything to it?” she asked timidly.
“Do you mean—have I thought of completing it? Of repairing it?”
“I suppose I meant that,” she replied.
“I might as well think,” he retorted, “of repairing the Tower of London! All I have in the world wouldn’t do it! And I cannot pull it down. If I did, the lawyers first and the housebreakers afterwards, would pull down all I have with it! There is no escape, my dear,” he continued slowly. “Once I thought there was. I had my dream. I’ve stood on this lawn on summer days and I’ve told myself that I would build it up again, and that the name of Audley should not be lost. But I am a peer, what can I do? I cannot trade, I cannot plead. For a peer there is but one way—marriage. And there were times when I had visions of repairing the breach—in that way; when I thought that I could set the old name first and my pleasure second; when I dreamed of marrying a great dowry that should restore us to the place we once enjoyed. But—that is over! That is over,” he repeated in a sinking voice. “I had to choose between prosperity and happiness; I made my choice. God grant that we may never repent it!”
He sank into silence, waiting for her to speak; he waited with exasperation. She did not, and he looked down at her. Then, “I believe,” he said, “that you have not heard a word I have said!”
She glanced up, startled. “I am afraid I have not,” she answered meekly. “Please forgive me. I was thinking of my uncle, and wondering where he died.”