Whatever claims Shon had upon the companionship of Sir Duke Lawless, he
knew there were other claims that were more pressing. After the toast
was finished, with an emphasised assumption of weariness, and a hint of
a long yarn on the morrow, he picked up his blanket and started for the
room where all were to sleep. The real reason of this early departure
was clear to Pretty Pierre at once, and in due time it dawned upon Jo
Gordineer.
The two Englishmen, left alone, sat for a few moments silent and smoking
hard. Then the Honourable rose, got his knapsack, and took out a small
number of papers, which he handed to Sir Duke, saying, “By slow postal
service to Sir Duke Lawless. Residence, somewhere on one of five
continents.”
An envelope bearing a woman’s writing was the first thing that met Sir
Duke’s eye. He stared, took it out, turned it over, looked curiously at
the Honourable for a moment, and then began to break the seal.
“Wait, Duke. Do not read that. We have something to say to each other
first.”
Sir Duke laid the letter down. “You have some explanation to make,” he
said.
“It was so long ago; mightn’t it be better to go over the story again?”
“Perhaps.”
“Then it is best you should tell it. I am on my defence, you know.”
Sir Duke leaned back, and a frown gathered on his forehead. Strikingly
out of place on his fresh face it seemed. Looking quickly from the fire
to the face of the Honourable and back again earnestly, as if the full
force of what was required came to him, he said: “We shall get the
perspective better if we put the tale in the third person. Duke Lawless
was the heir to the title and estates of Trafford Court. Next in
succession to him was Just Trafford, his cousin. Lawless had an income
sufficient for a man of moderate tastes. Trafford had not quite that,
but he had his profession of the law. At college they had been fast
friends, but afterwards had drifted apart, through no cause save
difference of pursuits and circumstances. Friends they still were
and likely to be so always. One summer, when on a visit to his uncle,
Admiral Sir Clavel Lawless, at Trafford Court, where a party of people
had been invited for a month, Duke Lawless fell in love with Miss Emily
Dorset. She did him the honour to prefer him to any other man--at
least, he thought so. Her income, however, was limited like his own. The
engagement was not announced, for Lawless wished to make a home before
he took a wife. He inclined to ranching in Canada, or a planter’s life
in Queensland. The eight or ten thousand pounds necessary was not,
however, easy to get for the start, and he hadn’t the least notion of
discounting the future, by asking the admiral’s help. Besides, he knew
his uncle did not wish him to marry unless he married a woman plus
a fortune. While things were in this uncertain state, Just Trafford
arrived on a visit to Trafford Court. The meeting of the old friends
was cordial. Immediately on Trafford’s arrival, however, the current
of events changed. Things occurred which brought disaster. It was
noticeable that Miss Emily Dorset began to see a deal more of Admiral
Lawless and Just Trafford, and a deal less of the younger Lawless. One
day Duke Lawless came back to the house unexpectedly, his horse having
knocked up on the road. On entering the library he saw what turned the
course of his life.” Sir Duke here paused, sighed, shook the ashes out
of his pipe with a grave and expressive anxiety which did not properly
belong to the action, and remained for a moment, both arms on his knees,
silent, and looking at the fire. Then he continued:
“Just Trafford sat beside Emily Dorset in an attitude of--say,
affectionate consideration. She had been weeping, and her whole manner
suggested very touching confidences. They both rose on the entrance of
Lawless; but neither tried to say a word. What could they say? Lawless
apologised, took a book from the table which he had not come for, and
left.”
Again Sir Duke paused.
“The book was an illustrated Much Ado About Nothing,” said the
Honourable.
“A few hours after, Lawless had an interview with Emily Dorset. He
demanded, with a good deal of feeling, perhaps,--for he was romantic
enough to love the girl,--an explanation. He would have asked it of
Trafford first if he had seen him. She said Lawless should trust her;
that she had no explanation at that moment to give. If he waited--but
Lawless asked her if she cared for him at all, if she wished or intended
to marry him? She replied lightly, ‘Perhaps, when you become Sir Duke
Lawless.’ Then Lawless accused her of heartlessness, and of encouraging
both his uncle and Just Trafford. She amusingly said, ‘Perhaps she
had, but it really didn’t matter, did it?’ For reply, Lawless said her
interest in the whole family seemed active and impartial. He bade her
not vex herself at all about him, and not to wait until he became Sir
Duke Lawless, but to give preference to seniority and begin with the
title at once; which he has reason since to believe that she did. What
he said to her he has been sorry for, not because he thinks it was
undeserved, but because he has never been able since to rouse himself
to anger on the subject, nor to hate the girl and Just Trafford as
he ought. Of the dead he is silent altogether. He never sought an
explanation from Just Trafford, for he left that night for London, and
in two days was on his way to Australia. The day he left, however, he
received a note from his banker saying that L8000 had been placed to his
credit by Admiral Lawless. Feeling the indignity of what he believed was
the cause of the gift, Lawless neither acknowledged it nor used it,
not any penny of it. Five years have gone since then, and Lawless has
wandered over two continents, a self-created exile. He has learned much
that he didn’t learn at Oxford; and not the least of all, that the world
is not so bad as is claimed for it, that it isn’t worth while hating and
cherishing hate, that evil is half-accidental, half-natural, and that
hard work in the face of nature is the thing to pull a man together and
strengthen him for his place in the universe. Having burned his ships
behind him, that is the way Lawless feels. And the story is told.”
Just Trafford sat looking musingly but imperturbably at Sir Duke for a
minute; then he said:
“That is your interpretation of the story, but not the story. Let us
turn the medal over now. And, first, let Trafford say that he has the
permission of Emily Dorset--”
Sir Duke interrupted: “Of her who was Emily Dorset.”
“Of Miss Emily Dorset, to tell what she did not tell that day five years
ago. After this other reading of the tale has been rendered, her letter
and those documents are there for fuller testimony. Just Trafford’s part
in the drama begins, of course, with the library scene. Now Duke Lawless
had never known Trafford’s half-brother, Hall Vincent. Hall was born
in India, and had lived there most of his life. He was in the Indian
Police, and had married a clever, beautiful, but impossible kind of
girl, against the wishes of her parents. The marriage was not a very
happy one. This was partly owing to the quick Lawless and Trafford
blood, partly to the wife’s wilfulness. Hall thought that things might
go better if he came to England to live. On their way from Madras
to Colombo he had some words with his wife one day about the way she
arranged her hair, but nothing serious. This was shortly after tiffin.
That evening they entered the harbour at Colombo; and Hall going to his
cabin to seek his wife, could not find her; but in her stead was her
hair, arranged carefully in flowing waves on the pillow, where through
the voyage her head had lain. That she had cut it off and laid it there
was plain; but she could not be found, nor was she ever found. The large
porthole was open; this was the only clue. But we need not go further
into that. Hall Vincent came home to England. He told his brother the
story as it has been told to you, and then left for South America, a
broken-spirited man. The wife’s family came on to England also. They did
not meet Hall Vincent; but one day Just Trafford met at a country seat
in Devon, for the first time, the wife’s sister. She had not known
of the relationship between Hall Vincent and the Traffords; and on a
memorable afternoon he told her the full story of the married life and
the final disaster, as Hall had told it to him.”
Sir Duke sprang to his feet. “You mean, Just, that--”
“I mean that Emily Dorset was the sister of Hall Vincent’s wife.”
Sir Duke’s brown fingers clasped and unclasped nervously. He was about
to speak, but the Honourable said: “That is only half the story--wait.
“Emily Dorset would have told Lawless all in due time, but women don’t
like to be bullied ever so little, and that, and the unhappiness of the
thing, kept her silent in her short interview with Lawless. She could
not have guessed that Lawless would go as he did. Now, the secret of her
diplomacy with the uncle--diplomacy is the best word to use--was Duke
Lawless’s advancement. She knew how he had set his heart on the ranching
or planting life. She would have married him without a penny, but she
felt his pride in that particular, and respected it. So, like a clever
girl, she determined to make the old chap give Lawless a cheque on his
possible future. Perhaps, as things progressed, the same old chap got an
absurd notion in his head about marrying her to Just Trafford, but that
was meanwhile all the better for Lawless. The very day that Emily Dorset
and Just Trafford succeeded in melting Admiral Lawless’s heart to the
tune of eight thousand, was the day that Duke Lawless doubted his friend
and challenged the loyalty of the girl he loved.”
Sir Duke’s eyes filled. “Great Heaven! Just--” he said.
“Be quiet for a little. You see she had taken Trafford into her scheme
against his will, for he was never good at mysteries and theatricals,
and he saw the danger. But the cause was a good one, and he joined
the sweet conspiracy, with what result these five years bear witness.
Admiral Lawless has been dead a year and a half, his wife a year. For
he married out of anger with Duke Lawless; but he did not marry Emily
Dorset, nor did he beget a child.”
“In Australia I saw a paragraph speaking of a visit made by him and Lady
Lawless to a hospital, and I thought--”
“You thought he had married Emily Dorset and--well, you had better read
that letter now.”
Sir Duke’s face was flushing with remorse and pain. He drew his hand
quickly across his eyes. “And you’ve given up London, your profession,
everything, just to hunt for me, to tell me this--you who would have
profited by my eternal absence! What a beast and ass I’ve been!”
“Not at all; only a bit poetical and hasty, which is not unnatural in
the Lawless blood. I should have been wild myself, maybe, if I had been
in your position; only I shouldn’t have left England, and I should have
taken the papers regularly and have asked the other fellow to explain.
The other fellow didn’t like the little conspiracy. Women, however, seem
to find that kind of thing a moral necessity. By the way, I wish when
you go back you’d send me out my hunting traps. I’ve made up my mind
to--oh, quite so--read the letter--I forgot!”
Sir Duke opened the letter and read it, putting it away from him now and
then as if it hurt him, and taking it up a moment after to continue the
reading. The Honourable watched him.
At last Sir Duke rose. “Just--”
“Yes? Go on.”
“Do you think she would have me now?”
“Don’t know. Your outfit is not so beautiful as it used to be.”
“Don’t chaff me.”
“Don’t be so funereal, then.”
Under the Honourable’s matter of fact air Sir Duke’s face began to
clear. “Tell me, do you think she still cares for me?”
“Well, I don’t know. She’s rich now--got the grandmother’s stocking.
Then there’s Pedley, of the Scots Guards; he has been doing loyal
service for a couple of years. What does the letter say?”
“It only tells the truth, as you have told it to me, but from her
standpoint; not a word that says anything but beautiful reproach and
general kindness. That is all.”
“Quite so. You see it was all four years ago, and Pedley--”
But the Honourable paused. He had punished his friend enough. He stepped
forward and laid his hand on Sir Duke’s shoulder. “Duke, you want to
pick up the threads where they were dropped. You dropped them. Ask me
nothing about the ends that Emily Dorset held. I conspire no more.
But go you and learn your fate. If one remembers, why should the other
forget?”
Sir Duke’s light heart and eager faith came back with a rush. “I’ll
start for England at once. I’ll know the worst or the best of it before
three months are out.” The Honourable’s slow placidity turned.
“Three months.--Yes, you may do it in that time. Better go from Victoria
to San Francisco and then overland. You’ll not forget about my hunting
traps, and--oh, certainly, Gordineer; come in.”
“Say,” said Gordineer. “I don’t want to disturb the meeting, but Shon’s
in chancery somehow; breathing like a white pine, and thrashing about!
He’s red-hot with fever.”
Before he had time to say more, Sir Duke seized the candle and entered
the room. Shon was moving uneasily and suppressing the groans that shook
him. “Shon, old friend, what is it?”
“It’s the pain here, Lawless,” laying his hand on his chest.
After a moment Sir Duke said, “Pneumonia!”
From that instant thoughts of himself were sunk in the care and thought
of the man who in the heart of Queensland had been mate and friend and
brother to him. He did not start for England the next day, nor for many
a day.
Pretty Pierre and Jo Gordineer and his party carried Sir Duke’s letters
over into the Pipi Valley, from where they could be sent on to the
coast. Pierre came back in a few days to see how Shon was, and expressed
his determination of staying to help Sir Duke, if need be.
Shon hovered between life and death. It was not alone the pneumonia that
racked his system so; there was also the shock he had received in his
flight down the glacier. In his delirium he seemed to be always with
Lawless:
“‘For it’s down the long side of Farcalladen Rise’--It’s share and share
even, Lawless, and ye’ll ate the rest of it, or I’ll lave ye--Did ye
say ye’d found water--Lawless--water!--Sure you’re drinkin’ none
yourself--I’ll sing it again for you then--‘And it’s back with the ring
of the chain and the spur’--‘But burn all your ships behind you’--‘I’ll
never go back to Farcalladen more!’”
Sir Duke’s fingers had a trick of kindness, a suggestion of comfort,
a sense of healing, that made his simple remedies do more than natural
duty. He was doctor, nurse,--sleepless nurse,--and careful apothecary.
And when at last the danger was past and he could relax watching, he
would not go, and he did not go, till they could all travel to the Pipi
Valley.
In the blue shadows of the firs they stand as we take our leave of one
of them. The Honourable and Sir Duke have had their last words, and Sir
Duke has said he will remember about the hunting traps. They understand
each other. There is sunshine in the face of all--a kind of Indian
summer sunshine, infused with the sadness of a coming winter; and theirs
is the winter of parting. Yet it is all done quietly.
“We’ll meet again, Shon,” said Sir Duke, “and you’ll remember your
promise to write to me.”
“I’ll keep my promise, and I hope the news that’ll please you best is
what you’ll send us first from England. And if you should go to ould
Donegal--I’ve no words for me thoughts at all!”
“I know them. Don’t try to say them. We’ve not had the luck together,
all kinds and all weathers, for nothing.”
Sir Duke’s eyes smiled a good-bye into the smiling eyes of Shon. They
were much alike, these two, whose stations were so far apart. Yet
somewhere, in generations gone, their ancestors may have toiled,
feasted, or governed, in the same social hemisphere; and here in the
mountains life was levelled to one degree again.
Sir Duke looked round. The pines were crowding up elate and warm towards
the peaks of the white silence. The river was brawling over a broken
pathway of boulders at their feet; round the edge of a mighty mountain
crept a mule train; a far-off glacier glistened harshly in the lucid
morning, yet not harshly either, but with the rugged form of a vast
antiquity, from which these scarred and grimly austere hills had grown.
Here Nature was filled with a sense of triumphant mastery--the mastery
of ageless experience. And down the great piles there blew a wind of
stirring life, of the composure of great strength, and touched the four,
and the man that mounted now was turned to go. A quick good-bye from him
to all; a God-speed-you from the Honourable; a wave of the hand between
the rider and Shon, and Sir Duke Lawless was gone.
“You had better cook the last of that bear this morning, Pierre,” said
the Honourable. And their life went on.
........................
It was eight months after that, sitting in their hut after a day’s
successful mining, the Honourable handed Shon a newspaper to read. A
paragraph was marked. It concerned the marriage of Miss Emily Dorset and
Sir Duke Lawless.
And while Shon read, the Honourable called into the tent: “Have you any
lemons for the whisky, Pierre?”
A satisfactory reply being returned, the Honourable proceeded: “We’ll
begin with the bottle of Pommery, which I’ve been saving months for
this.”
The royal-flush toast of the evening belonged to Shon.
“God bless him! To the day when we see him again!”
And all of them saw that day.