“Do earls’ sons sink their degree in a country like this, and come sober
and decent to sue for the hand of a born child of poverty when they can
go drunk, profane, and steeped in dishonorable debt and buy the pick and
choice of the millionaires’ daughters of America? You an earl’s son!
Show me the signs.”
“I thank God I am not able–if those are the signs. But yet I am an
earl’s son and heir. It is all I can say. I wish you would believe me,
but you will not. I know no way to persuade you.”
She was about to soften again, but his closing remark made her bring her
foot down with smart vexation, and she cried out:
“Oh, you drive all patience out of me! Would you have one believe that
you haven’t your proofs at hand, and yet are what you say you are?
You do not put your hand in your pocket now–for you have nothing there.
You make a claim like this, and then venture to travel without
credentials. These are simply incredibilities. Don’t you see that,
yourself?”
He cast about in his mind for a defence of some kind or other–hesitated
a little, and then said, with difficulty and diffidence:
“I will tell you just the truth, foolish as it will seem to you–
to anybody, I suppose–but it is the truth. I had an ideal–call it
a dream, a folly, if you will–but I wanted to renounce the privileges
and unfair advantages enjoyed by the nobility and wrung from the nation
by force and fraud, and purge myself of my share of those crimes against
right and reason, by thenceforth comrading with the poor and humble on
equal terms, earning with my own hands the bread I ate, and rising by my
own merit if I rose at all.”
The young girl scanned his face narrowly while he spoke; and there was
something about his simplicity of manner and statement which touched her
–touched her almost to the danger point; but she set her grip on the
yielding spirit and choked it to quiescence; it could not be wise to
surrender to compassion or any kind of sentiment, yet; she must ask one
or two more questions. Tracy was reading her face; and what he read
there lifted his drooping hopes a little.
“An earl’s son to do that! Why, he were a man! A man to love!–oh,
more, a man to worship!”
“Why?”
“But he never lived! He is not born, he will not be born. The self-
abnegation that could do that–even in utter folly, and hopeless of
conveying benefit to any, beyond the mere example–could be mistaken for
greatness; why, it would be greatness in this cold age of sordid ideals!
A moment–wait–let me finish; I have one question more. Your father is
earl of what?”
“Rossmore–and I am Viscount Berkeley!”
The fat was in the fire again. The girl felt so outraged that it was
difficult for her to speak.
“How can you venture such a brazen thing! You know that he is dead,
and you know that I know it. Oh, to rob the living of name and honors
for a selfish and temporary advantage is crime enough, but to rob the
defenceless dead–why it is more than crime, it degrades crime!”
“Oh, listen to me–just a word–don’t turn away like that. Don’t go–
don’t leave me, so–stay one moment. On my honor–”
“Oh, on your honor!”
“On my honor I am what I say! And I will prove it, and you will believe,
I know you will. I will bring you a message–a cablegram–”
“When?”
“To-morrow-next day–”
“Signed ‘Rossmore’?”
“Yes–signed Rossmore.”
“What will that prove?”
“What will it prove? What should it prove?”
“If you force me to say it–possibly the presence of a confederate
somewhere.”
This was a hard blow, and staggered him. He said, dejectedly:
“It is true. I did not think of it. Oh, my God, I do not know any way
to do; I do everything wrong. You are going?–and you won’t say even
good-night–or good-bye? Ah, we have not parted like this before.”
“Oh, I want to run and–no, go, now.” A pause–then she said, “You may