Kitabı oku: «The Duke's Sweetheart: A Romance», sayfa 14
CHAPTER IV.
THE IMPENDING CORONET
The visitor drank a glass of the beer at a draught, broke and eat a biscuit with great deliberateness, and then bending forward solemnly over May, who sat on a low chair at his side, said:
"I have just been paying a visit to my grandmother at Wyechester, and a very stately and formal reception it was. How do you feel, Duchess?"
"Oh no, no, no! Don't say that, Charlie! For mercy's sake don't say that!" she cried piteously, covering her face with her hands, and dropping her head forward.
"What on earth is the matter, May?" he asked tenderly. He placed his hand on the rich brown hair of the bent head.
"I am terrified! Oh, I am terrified at that-at the thought that you are now-that you have become so rich; and still more, that other awful, awful thing!" she cried.
"What! The title? Why many women would give their right hands for it," he said, in a tone half soothing, half jocose.
"I hate it! I hate it!" she sobbed passionately. "I'd rather I was dead! I would indeed. Oh, oh, oh!" She sobbed and swayed herself to and fro.
"In the name of wonder, what am I to do? I can't get rid of it," he said, in a whimsical tone of voice, as he stroked her hair. "You know, May, the thing was not of my seeking. It was thrust upon me. I had no more notion it was coming than you had. I had no more notion I was related to those great Cheynes than you had. What am I to do? I don't know how to get rid of it. There is only one way, and that is, to commit high treason and get attainted; but in that case they take away one's head when they take away one's title. Of course, I shall no longer need what is inside my head, now that I am rich; still I am not sure that the treason would be a success. Can you suggest nothing that I could do, May?"
"No; nothing. But it is dreadful! Oh, so dreadful!"
He now saw that she was much more seriously distressed than he had at first imagined, and that her uneasiness could not be dispelled by badinage. He drew his chair as near as he could to hers, and taking one of her hands down from her face, held it in both his, and said, in a deep grave voice:
"May darling, I will not have you fret about this thing. It cannot be helped now, and we must only try and accommodate ourselves to circumstances in the best way we can. I'll tell you what I propose; that first all this legal business shall be disposed of, and that when I am getting near the end of that business you go over to Paris with your aunt, and that when I have taken the oath in the House I slip over quietly to Paris, and we get married at the Embassy there. We can then knock about the Continent for a year or two, until the town and country are done talking about us, and then come home, stay quietly for awhile at one of our country places before coming up to our house in Piccadilly, What do you think of that, darling?" He pressed her hand and raised it to his lips.
What did she think of that? It was worse and worse. Every word he said made it seem more dismal and hopeless. He was to go into the House of Lords, and she was to be married at the ambassador's in Paris. She was to stay at one of their country houses-stay there for awhile before coming up to their house in Piccadilly. Oh, it would never, never, do! She could not bear it! She was not suited to any such position. How cruel-how piteously cruel Fate was with her!
All she said was: "I cannot think of it now. I cannot think of it now. Do not ask me."
He saw that for the present it was useless to urge her further, and therefore changed the subject.
"You must know. May, that while I was in the doctor's books in the country-by-the-way, I had a most extraordinary doctor; I'll tell you more of him another time-I made up my mind to celebrate my return to town by spending part of my first day in London with you, and giving a supper to a lot of old pals in my old diggings in Long Acre."
She took down her hand from her face, and sat back in her chair.
"May, you are very pale? Are you unwell?"
"No; I am quite well. Shall you have many at the supper?"
"No; not very many. A dozen or so. Just the old fellows who knew me, and whom I liked when-I mean whom I have always liked." He had been near alluding to the great change, but had stopped in time. Then he gave her the names of those he expected. She knew of them all, and brightened up a little as he went on with his descriptive catalogue of his guests. At length he came to little Porson, the novelist and journalist.
"Little Porson, too, will be there. You know little Porson? Well, no, but I have told you of him. He's a dapper, mild, conceited fellow, with the best heart and the most infernally restless tongue in the world. He has just got out a new novel. It's called 'A Maid of Chelsea,' and is doing very well, I believe. By-the-way, I have had a most polite letter from Blantyre and Ferguson, the firm that published my book. They say that of late the demand for the novel has been so great as to warrant them in getting out, in three volumes, a new edition four times as large as the first. Think of that!"
She looked up brightly, and cried: "Oh, Charlie, that is good news!"
"I should have thought it great news a month ago, but it does not make much difference now."
"Ah, I forgot," she said sadly. All the light left her face suddenly, and during the rest of the time they were together that day she never called him Charlie again.
When he left she went, up to her own room, feeling wretched, and cold, and broken-hearted. She locked herself in once more, and drew down the blind.
Ah, what a change! What an awful change! Not in him; there was no change in his kind nature. And yet there was a change. Of old he thought and spoke of two only things; he seemed to have had only two things to think of-his work and herself.
Now he had to think of the House of Lords, for he was a great lord; and of foreign cities, for he was rich and must travel; and of business of vast importance, for he owned wide tracts of land, with castles, and villages, and towns. By the side of all these things how wretchedly insignificant she seemed! In their presence she was dwarfed into nothing. She could not recognise herself, and surely he could not recognise her. She would be invisible to him, unless, indeed, she happened to be in his way.
Yes, in so far as she might be anything to him, she should be in his way. He was a strong man, who knew the world and was very clever. He would take his place among all these great things naturally. He would be invited to assist in the government of the country, and in course of time add the dignities and honours his intellect would bring him to those he had just inherited. By the side of a man in such a career was not the place for such as she.
Her aunt had always said one should keep in the sphere of life into which one was born, and now the justice of this saying was plain; nothing could be plainer. If he had not come into this thing, if his book had been a success while he was still simple Mr. Cheyne, and if he had got on as a writer, and became famous and rich, she would willingly share his triumph and prosperity with him. In that case all would come gently, softly. Even if he had leaped into fame and fortune it would be no more than they had been dreaming about, hoping for. But in the present case an intolerable burden had been thrust upon her shoulders. She could not, she would not, bear it.
No. She would never marry. Never. She could never marry anyone but him, and now he had been taken from her as much as though the grave had opened and swallowed him. She should only be in his way. He had always been heir to the honours which had now come upon him, and no doubt her aunt had always been right in saying that people were born to high state, although at their birth, and for some time after, it might seem they had been intended for humbler places. Was not the present a case in point? Here was he perfectly at his ease about the new position into which he had come, to which he had been born, but of which he knew nothing until a few days ago. Here was she overwhelmed, appalled by the mere thought of the honours and responsibilities. Why? Why was she so frightened by the phantoms of things which he took as easily as the ordinary events of everyday life? Because he had been born to them, and she had not. Nothing could be plainer. Ah, nothing!
No, she would never marry anyone now. He should marry; marry a lady born; marry one whose whole life had been spent among such things as were to surround him all the days of his life. He should marry someone who was not only accustomed to such things, but who expected their presence always, and would feel uncomfortable if they were withdrawn from her. He should marry such a wife and be happy, and she herself would be happy, knowing she had done her duty by him in refusing to marry him.
Her duty, ay; but what of her love?
Then she threw herself on her bed and sobbed passionately.
Her love! Was all her love for him to count as nothing in this bitter case? Were all her hopes and dreams to vanish? She had been faithful to him with her whole nature; she would be faithful to him until her death. But had the end of all come so soon? So soon, that the end had come while she was only picturing to herself the beginning? Had the love-chambers of her heart to be locked for ever upon merely an image? Were all the sweet thoughts of the future which used to haunt her to fade away for ever? Should she never minister to him, or cheer him, or help him? Of old he had said she should read his proofs to him, for the ear is quicker to catch an error or an unhappy phrase than the writer's eyes. Should she not share his troubles and hear his plans? She had a little money, and he was able to make a little. In the old days their united incomes seemed enough for a quiet pair to start on. Now he would hardly miss their joint incomes multiplied a hundred times. All was over with her. Come, night and darkness! Come, oh grave, for life was over!
Then for a long time she lay and sobbed as though her heart would break. No thoughts were clearly defined to her. She simply felt the great woe around her like a choking mist. There was hope nowhere. Her life was over. There was nothing for her to do.
Nothing!
Ah, yes, there was one thing. One last thing.
The consciousness that something remained for her to do roused her, and she got up and bathed her flushed, miserable face, and took down her little writing-case from its place on the shelf, and opened it on the dressing-table.
With deliberate hands she selected a sheet of paper, took up a pen, dipped it slowly into the ink, and wrote the address and date. Then she paused, bowed her head on her arm, and remained motionless. She was about to address her last letter to him. How should she begin it? Last month when she wrote she called him "My darling Charlie." That would not do now. And yet he was her darling more than ever. She never loved him so much as now. But she must not tell him so. She must let him think she had changed her mind, changed her heart towards him.
How should she begin?
She would set out without any formal beginning, and finish with no formal ending. She would say what she had to say without addressing him by name, and then just put her own name.
She waited a little while to think what she should say, and then wrote a few lines, and was surprised to find it so easy to dismiss finally all she held dear. She did not sigh or weep as she wrote, and nothing could be simpler or more direct than her words. They were:
"Ever since I heard of the great changes which have taken place with you of late, I have felt that all between us must be at an end. Even if I could bear the weight of your new position, I would not, and in any case I should be unworthy of the place. It is not you who have changed, but I. You must not write to me or come to me again. I will not see you if you call. I will not answer you if you write. I shall always have a most friendly feeling towards you, but we must not meet. If you do not want the ring you gave me, I should like to keep it in memory of you.
"Marion Durrant."
She finished the letter in a firm hand, and without any unusual effort. She wrote more as if she was putting down the words of someone else. When she spoke of keeping the ring, she never thought of looking at it. Indeed, she had forgotten it was on one of the fingers that held steady the sheet of paper on which she wrote. It seemed to her she was writing about another person's ring, and that in making the unusual request she was thinking of the person on whose behalf she wrote, and not of the foolish proprieties of the case.
When the letter was signed, she put it in an envelope. How should she address it? She had not directed an envelope to him since the wreck. All her notes and letters to him had gone under cover to Dr. Rowland. Still, she felt as if she was acting for another, and not for herself. And yet she could not write down his new title. No. For the last time, and out of regard to-to old times, she would address him as-as she had done before that day he went away on that journey which had changed her inward life and the outward look of all the world.
She always posted letters to him with her own hand. As soon as she had finished writing, she put on her hat and went downstairs. Her aunt was in the little breakfast-room as usual.
"I'm going to the post, aunt," said May, looking in from the doorway. "And I think I'll go for a short walk then."
"Is-is-" The woman paused. She did not like to say Charlie or Mr. Cheyne, and she could not yet bring herself to call him by his new name. "Is-is he going with you, or waiting for you? I hope all is pleasant between you. You are not looking very bright, Marion."
"I feel a little tired, that is all. The stir will do me good. Have you any letter for post, aunt?"
"You have not quarrelled? There is something wrong with you. I hope no difference has come between you?"
Miss Traynor's old views with regard to caste had not been changed in the least, but they had been placed in abeyance. It was not now a question of preordination. She knew Marion loved him better than all else on earth, and she loved Marion, and only Marion. It was therefore no longer an abstract question. The matter now concerned her darling girl, her only care, her only hope, her only joy, the one lamp that illumined the downward way of her life.
She need not think of him as a duke; she need think of him as Charles Cheyne only. He should be nothing more than that to her, if he might be everything else he had been to her darling Marion. She could not originate or adopt a new theory on the subject of caste, but she could hold her old one at arm's length when it threatened the happiness of the young girl round whose welfare all her hopes centered.
When Marion spoke, her voice was low, clear, and free from tremulousness.
"No, aunt, we have not quarrelled. A difference, without a quarrel, has come between us, but I have written a letter to him," holding it up; "and this will make it all right" – she added mentally-"for him."
"I am glad, my darling, there is no quarrel. Of course we must all have our differences, but need not have any quarrels. I wonder, if I asked him, would he come and dine with us to-morrow?"
"I am afraid he would not. I think you had better not write."
As she said these words, she went out of the room.
"I fear there is something more than a difference between them," thought Miss Traynor, as the door closed upon the girl.
Holding the letter in her hand, Marion went out into the bright warm weather. The post-pillar, in which she had posted every line she had ever written to him, was at the end of the street. She walked down listlessly to the end of the street, mechanically raised her hand to the hole, and dropped the letter in.
It had no sooner escaped her fingers, and fallen with a hollow rattle down the pillar, than she shuddered; made a convulsive clutch at the mouth of the pillar, as though to snatch it back, then drew her figure together and hurried away.
She walked on until she found herself in Hyde Park. She went west, thinking of nothing, feeling nothing but a dead numbed sensation at her heart. She passed into Kensington Gardens, and there, selecting a quiet retired seat under the trees, sat down.
It was better here in the bright clear air, than in the small house, where she could not get away from her aunt's questioning face. Yet that questioning face would have to be answered some time. And what would the answer be?
All at once, as she put this question to herself, the full effect of that letter rushed in upon her mind.
What! was it all over? Had the simple act of dropping that letter into the pillar put an end for ever to all that had been between her and Charlie?
Was it all over now? All over, as though it never had been, except that there was the tormenting memory of the pleasant hours and dreams that had been, all the delicious sense of protection and companionship now withdrawn. Oh, blank indeed had life become! That small act of dropping those few lines into the pillar had cut her off for ever from him. She could not get her letter back-she could not now withdraw her words. If she had only waited until now! If she had only kept that letter by her until now, for an hour! There had been no need to post it so soon. If she had kept it till night, and then posted it, he would have received it next morning. That would have been time enough. She had loved him so long she might have waited a few hours longer. Oh, it was hard, hard, hard to give up all she had set her heart upon!
The tears ran down her face, and she sobbed quietly for awhile before she turned homeward.
That day she avoided her aunt as much as possible, and would not speak any more about the position of affairs between her and him. She had a headache, and went to her room and lay down for awhile.
She could not sleep. She wept, and lay thinking of all that had been, and of that letter. It was broad daylight still when she got up. She thought the whole thing over again, and having come to the conclusion once more that she had done right, that she would not recall that letter if she could, and that her only chance of keeping her resolution was not to see him any more, she made up her mind to go away from home, and leave no trace of whither she had gone behind her. Then she opened her writing-case once more, wrote a few lines to her aunt, and went out.
CHAPTER V.
THE GLORIOUS PRIVILEGE
When the Duke of Shropshire left Miss Traynor's house in Tenby Terrace, Knightsbridge, he had the remainder of the afternoon at his disposal. None of the men he had invited would be at his place until nine o'clock. He had no plan for getting rid of the intervening time. When he set out for Tenby Terrace, he had intended staying longer with Marion, but in the mood he then found her, he considered it better not to remain long. He thought the great suddenness of the change had overcome her, and that a few hours to herself would be the best thing for her.
With regard to himself, he could not fully realise the difference recent events had made in his fate. He was now almost as well as he had been when he set out from London to Silverview. He had been detained in the country a few days beyond those necessary for the safety of his health; and his fine constitution, aided by the good air and the marvellous alteration in his fortune, had done wonders towards restoring him to his old fine physical condition.
Macklin and Dowell had promised that he should have little or no trouble in establishing his claim, and they backed their promise by placing their banking account, specially increased for the purpose, at his service. Each member of the firm had been down with him at Silverview, and the only trouble from which each seemed to suffer was the mere fear that he might in some way be inconvenienced.
The lawyers and all the servants at the Castle had been calling him "your grace" for many days; and although the title bestowed upon him by his old companions had protected him from shock in finding himself so addressed, he felt very uncomfortable and ill at ease. He had, while at Silverview, left strict word that he could see no one except those with whom he had made an appointment by letter. But although no unauthorised person was allowed past the lodges, the greatness of his position was continually thrust upon him as soon as he was able to move about, by the bowing servants in the house and the uncovered workmen out of doors.
Although the gates of the demesne were carefully guarded, the castle-fortress was not impregnable. Through the post the new Duke was assailed day and night. After the newspapers had announced his succession to the property and title, he was inundated with letters from people and societies he had hitherto not heard of. The first intimation he received that the outer world knew anything of his altered circumstances, was from a circular about a voice lozenge, without which, it would appear, no public speakers could, with any chance of success, address an audience. Every member of the Houses of Lords and Commons was ready to bear enthusiastic testimony to the efficacy of these lozenges. The word "Lords" was underlined, and the circular was accompanied by two of the wonderful lozenges, and a manuscript request that his grace would give them an early trial.
"If I were a prima donna, getting a hundred a night for singing, they could not show a greater anxiety about my voice," said the Duke to Rowland.
"But you get ten times more for your silence than any prima donna ever got for her singing," said Rowland.
This set the Duke thinking.
Then came a hundred formal well and ill spelled letters from all kinds of people who had been in the employment of the old Duke, and wished to serve under the new one, and from those who had not served before, but were anxious to be of assistance to the family now. All the servants wanted instructions, and the new peer did not know how to give any instructions. Part of this business he handed over to the Silverview steward, and part to his lawyers, Macklin and Dowell.
He was obliged to give long interviews to the agents of the various estates; for although his claim to the title and property had not yet been legally confirmed, everyone connected with the property treated him as though he were in full possession.
From all kinds of charitable and pious bodies and institutions, and from all kinds of private people, begging letters came in showers upon him. On one day no fewer than four hundred letters were delivered at the Castle; upwards of three hundred of which were from unknown people, asking assistance of one kind or another.
Some of these people who asked aid for what seemed to them meritorious purposes, had sought to force their way through the lodge-gates, and one lady of more perseverance than good taste had bribed a child of one of the lodge-keepers to open a wicket and let her into the grounds. This occurred when the new owner of Silverview was able to take exercise in the grounds. He saw her before any of the servants about the place. She came up to him, and, not knowing who he was, asked him how she was to obtain an interview with the Duke.
"May I ask," said he, with a smile, "what you want to see him about? You know, I suppose, that he sees nobody?"
"Oh yes, I know that," answered the lady, looking up into his face. She was small and had dark hair and eyes. He thought she was about the same size as Marion. "But I got in by fraud, and I hope you will help me if you can, to see his grace. You have some authority here?" she asked.
She was not nearly so bright or so pretty as Marion, but she reminded him strongly of her. He was now thinking of the little house in Tenby Terrace, and wishing to be there. He answered gravely:
"Yes, I have some influence here."
"Then, like a good Christian, get me just a few minutes with the Duke. You will be doing an act of charity, you will indeed. I have come here to beg in the interest of a most worthy charity. It is for the purpose of keeping up the Barnardstown Home for Decayed Spinsters."
He smiled again, thinking how far Marion would be removed from the condition of a decayed spinster.
"If you go to the Castle now you will most certainly not see the Duke there. The orders are very strict that no one is to be admitted, and I am sure you would have no chance of seeing him there. But if you give me any message, I promise it shall reach him as though you had seen him yourself."
"Perhaps," she said vivaciously, "you are the Duke yourself."
"I am," he said simply; "I am the Duke." He felt glad that the first person of the outside world who knew him as the Duke, should have reminded him of Marion. "If you give me your name and address, you may count on a subscription from me, on one condition."
"And what is the condition, your grace?"
"That you say nothing about this meeting; for if you did, the place would so swarm with good people like yourself, that we should have to fly. Stay, I'll enlist you in my defence. I will give you a subscription every year. I have promised you the subscription with a condition, and I will impose no fresh condition now. But if between this and the time I leave the Castle for town, no one else gets into the grounds, I'll give you a donation as well as a subscription."
He had spoken playfully, and she laughed.
"If that is so, I will paint your grace in the most atrocious colours."
"But that will be telling of our meeting."
"Oh no! I will paint as though from hearsay."
It pleased him greatly that the first promise he made of help to a benevolent object was made through one who reminded him of Marion.
All these little things had gradually accustomed him to the dignities which had lately fallen upon him, so that by the time he got to London, he neither blushed nor laughed on being called by his title or spoken to as his title demanded. Still there was much that was new and disturbing; and, before setting out for London, he resolved not to carry up his title with him, except among those from whom he could not hide it. One of the titles that went with the dukedom was Baron Ashington; and when he got to his hotel in London, he gave his name as Ashington, and was entered on the books as " – Ashington, Esq."
This day he had arrived in London was the first one of freedom he had enjoyed since the wreck. He was now staying at an hotel where they could have no suspicion of who he was. He had not given this address to anyone, and all letters were to be forwarded to him at his lawyers'. He was free to go where he liked-do what he chose.
In the old days he should have thought himself fortunate if he could afford five shillings a day for pocket-money; now he had in his pocket two hundred pounds, and at his hotel three hundred more. He had not yet opened a bank account, but he drew on Macklin and Dowell for any money he wanted.
He had known what the want of money was. He had often been obliged to walk to offices with his MSS., for want of pence to buy postage-stamps for them. He had been without tobacco, without a dinner, without the means of getting his shoes mended. Now here he was in this rich fine weather, with the sense of strength in his limbs, and the feeling of youth in his heart, and the consciousness of money in his pocket. In his poor days, one of the things he most yearned for was travel. Now the four ends of the world lay open to him, with every comfort and luxury of each.
He found himself in Regent Street. He lit a cigar. The day was very warm. The cigar was excellent. He was in the finest humour. He looked at the carriages whirling by. He counted a score of coronets, but not one had the eight strawberry leaves. He saw one with four leaves and four pearls round the band, and six with four leaves round the band and four pearls supported on pyramids. These were the carriages of a marquis and six earls; the other coronets belonged to barons. And he who had lately wanted a smoke, a dinner, a pair of shoes, had now, in all likelihood, an income as great as the whole twenty peers put together. It was incredible! incredible!
He looked away from the carriages to the shop-windows. Any of these things exposed for sale were his if he willed it so. There was not one single article from end to end of the street which he could not have for raising his finger.
Not a soul in Regent Street knew him. None of his friends ever came that way. Journalists seldom get west of Charing Cross, unless they happen to live at the aristocratic side of St. Martin's Lane. He was to see all his old friends that night at Long Acre, and he had seen May, and now he was enjoying for the first time the pleasure of an incognito. He had not ever been well enough off to keep an account in Regent Street, and consequently there was no chance of the shop-people recognising him.
As he passed the various windows dear to ladies, he thought how he and May would stroll up this street some day soon-to-morrow or the day after-and she should select any things she liked, and he would have them sent home. Even now, as he walked, he fancied she was on his arm, and that he was drawing her attention to all the pretty and rich things.
For one moment he never felt his altered circumstances made any difference between her and him. He was no better now than ever he had been, and she was no worse. He had never loved anyone but her, and he had no intention of giving up any of his love for her, because he was now a rich man with a fine title. Of old he had, in his talk, been familiar with dukes, and thought them very wonderful beings. Since then he had seen and spoken to two dukes, and had become one himself. The latter fact ruined dukes for ever in his mind. If they could make a duke out of a newspaper and publisher's hack, the standard for dukes must not be very high.
He did not know what to do with himself. It was now four o'clock, and he had eaten nothing since breakfast, except the biscuits at Tenby Terrace. He did not care to do anything particular. It was sufficiently delightful to stroll about old familiar London, and look at the old things through the glass of his new fortune. He felt "the glorious privilege of being independent." He might hail a cab and be driven to Shropshire House, one of the most splendid dwelling-places in London. He might drive to any of the stations of the great railways, and be carried at the rate of forty miles an hour towards one of his country-seats. He might drive to London Bridge or the Docks, and there take passage for almost any land under the sun. Ay, that would not be a bad notion. Why not get into a cab, drive to London Bridge, take a steamboat to Greenwich, and come back by land? He had often done this before, and the excursion would be well within his present means!
