“What career, in God’s name?” cries the astonished suitor. “Humiliated, Ethel? Who’s going to humiliate you? I suppose there is no woman in England who need be humiliated by becoming my wife. I should like to see the one that I can’t pretend to—or to royal blood if I like: it’s not better than mine. Humiliated, indeed! That is news. Ha! ha! You don’t suppose that your pedigree, which I know all about, and the Newcome family, with your barber-surgeon to Edward the Confessor, are equal to——”
“To yours? No. It is not very long that I have learned to disbelieve in that story altogether. I fancy it was an odd whim of my poor father’s, and that our family were quite poor people.
“I knew it,” said Lord Farintosh. “Do you suppose there was not plenty of women to tell it me?”
“It was not because we were poor that I am ashamed,” Ethel went on. “That cannot be our fault, though some of us seem think it is, as they hide the truth so. One of my uncles used to tell me that my grandfather’s father was a labourer in Newcome: but I was a child then, and liked to believe the prettiest story best.”
“As if it matters!” cries Lord Farintosh.
“As if it matters in your wife? n’est-ce pas? I never thought that it would. I should have told you, as it was my duty to tell you all. It was not my ancestors you cared for; and it is you yourself that your wife must swear before heaven to love.”
“Of course it’s me,” answers the young man, not quite understanding the train of ideas in his companion’s mind. “And I’ve given up everything—everything—and have broken off with my old habits and—and things, you know—and intend to lead a regular life—and will never go to Tattersall’s again; nor bet a shilling; nor touch another cigar if you like—that is, if you don’t like; for I love you so, Ethel—I do, with all my heart I do!”
“You are very generous and kind, Lord Farintosh,” Ethel said. “It is myself, not you, I doubt. Oh, I am humiliated to make such a confession!”
“How humiliated?” Ethel withdrew the hand which the young nobleman endeavoured to seize.
“If,” she continued, “if I found it was your birth, and your name, and your wealth that I coveted, and had nearly taken, ought I not to feel humiliated, and ask pardon of you and of God? Oh, what perjuries poor Clara was made to speak,—and see what has befallen her! We stood by and heard her without being shocked. We applauded even. And to what shame and misery we brought her! Why did her parents and mine consign her to such ruin! She might have lived pure and happy but for us. With her example before me—not her flight, poor child—I am not afraid of that happening to me—but her long solitude, the misery of her wasted years,—my brother’s own wretchedness and faults aggravated a hundredfold by his unhappy union with her—I must pause while it is yet time, and recall a promise which I know I should make you unhappy if I fulfilled. I ask your pardon that I deceived you, Lord Farintosh, and feel ashamed for myself that I could have consented to do so.”