‘For which of the two people concerned was the ending not a happy one, Sir Frederick?’
Her coldly contemptuous tone touched him to the quick. A deep flush mounted to his face; for a moment or two he could not trust himself to answer her. ‘I thank you, Lady Dimsdale,’ he said at last. ‘The reproof implied by your words is a just one. To her, no doubt, the end was seen from the beginning—a dramatic effect to be worked up to from the opening of the comedy. To him it came as a thunder-clap, as a stab from a hand that a moment before had been pressed to his lips. Day after day he had been led on by eyes that seemed ever to brighten at his coming; by smiles that seemed ever to be those of welcome; by low-voiced replies; by a hundred pleasant lures, till at length the moment came when his silence found itself a tongue. A few burning words, and everything was told. The answer?—A mocking laugh, a scornful dismissal. His paradise had been the paradise of a fool. He had helped a pretty girl to pass away a few weeks in a dull country-house—and that was all!’ Sir Frederick spoke in low, almost impassioned accents. Any third person who might have chanced to overhear him would have been justified in assuming that he had been cruelly jilted.
But not a muscle of Lady Dimsdale’s face moved, and her answer came in tones as clear and incisive as those of a bell. ‘Were he here now of whom you speak, I would say to him: “You have an excellent memory for many things; is it possible that you can have forgotten Marietta Gray?”’
Sir Frederick started as if he had been stung. His face blanched suddenly. ‘Marietta Gray!’ he stammered out. ‘What do you, Lady Dimsdale, know of her?’
‘She was only a fisherman’s daughter, it is true,’ continued Lady Dimsdale in her clear cold accents. ‘A pretty toy for a fine gentleman to amuse himself with, and then to cast aside. I knew something of her, and I heard her story. When, a little later, one of the strange chances of life brought within my influence the man who had first won the affections of that poor girl and then basely deserted her, I resolved as far as lay in my power to avenge the cruel wrong. You have just told me, Sir Frederick, how well I succeeded in my object. I am happy to think, that the lesson has lingered so long in your memory.’
Sir Frederick rose and took one or two turns under the shade of the branching yew. Not for years had the still waters of his life been so deeply stirred. He took out his delicately perfumed handkerchief and wiped his forehead with it. His hands trembled a little—a thing that had rarely happened to him before. But through all his agitation and surprise, he felt that he had learned to care more for Laura Dimsdale during the last few minutes than he had ever cared for her before. If it were possible for him ever to really love a woman, here was that one woman. Even after all that had passed between them, he would ask her to become his wife. She was a generous, large-hearted creature, he felt sure; and now that she had stabbed him so cruelly, she would be the first to stoop and bind up his wounds. ‘It’s the way of her sex,’ he said to himself. Another reflection did not fail to impress itself upon him: Not to every one is given the chance of marrying a Baronet with six thousand a year. Women can forgive much under such circumstances.
Lady Dimsdale rose. ‘I must leave you now, Sir Frederick,’ she said.
‘One moment, if you please—just one moment,’ he urged.
She hesitated a little, and then sat down again. He spoke, standing in front of her. ‘The words you said to me just now, Lady Dimsdale, were very severe, but not more severe, perhaps, than the case warranted. I can only cry mea culpa, and throw myself on your mercy. I have not a word to urge in self-defence. But the past is the past; however much we may regret it, we cannot alter or amend it. The passion I felt for Laura Langton was sincere. There is proof of it in the fact that it exists undiminished to the present day. The flame is still alight—the ashes still glow with the fire that was first kindled fifteen years ago. Lady Dimsdale, here and to-day, I repeat the offer I made you once before—here and to-day I ask you once more to become my wife.’ His manner was dignified, his words impressive.
The answer came without a moment’s hesitation: ‘Lady Dimsdale is infinitely obliged to Sir Frederick Pinkerton. She will not answer him to-day after the fashion she answered him years ago. She will simply say to him as editors say of rejected contributions, “Declined with thanks.”’