"GONE, AND LEFT NO ADDRESS."
The ducal house in Grosvenor Square was not seldom referred to as an
instance of the extreme of luxury which this finish of the century
had attained to. It was an immense place, decorated by one of the
first authorities, with ceilings painted by a famous artist, and walls
draped by hangings for which the Orient had literally been ransacked.
The entrance hall was supposed to be the finest in the kingdom. It
was of marble and mosaic; a fountain plashed in the center, and the
light poured through ruby-tinted glass and warmed with a rose blush
the exquisite carvings and statuary. At the end of the hall rose
broad stairs of pure white marble, in the centre of which was laid a
Persian carpet of such thick pile that footsteps were hushed. Stately
palms stood here and there, relieving the whiteness of the marble and
'breaking the corners.' The staircase led to the first corridor, which
ran round the hall, and upon the walls of this corridor hung pictures
by the great English masters. The family portraits were at Rothbury.
The state rooms were on the ground floor, and were on a par in the way
of luxury and magnificence with the hall. Altogether it was a very
great contrast to Marine Villa, Portmaris.
Yorke followed Grey to the hall, and was ushered into a room behind the
state apartments.
It was a small room, and, compared with the rest of the house, plainly
furnished in oak. There were bookshelves and a large writing table,
and one of those invalid couches which are provided with bookrests and
an elaborate machinery which enables one to move the couch by merely
pressing a lever.
On this couch lay the Duke of Rothbury. Though the day was warm, a fire
burned in the grate, and a superb sable rug was tumbled on the couch as
if the invalid had pulled it off and on restlessly. Three or four books
lay on the floor, but he was not reading, and he looked up sharply as
Yorke entered, and did not speak until Grey had closed the door upon
them.
Then, as he held out his hand and his keen eyes scanned Yorke's face,
he said:
"Do you think I have sent for you to crow over you, Yorke?"
Yorke stood and looked down at him for a moment without replying; then
he said vaguely:
"Crow over me? What do you mean, Dolph?"
The duke raised himself on his elbow.
"Sit down," he said; "you look tired and knocked up. Is anything the
matter?"
Yorke sank into a chair and avoided the keen eyes.
"Matter? What should be the matter?" he said evasively. "You don't look
quite the thing; but I suppose the journey took it out of you?"
"Yes, it was the journey," said the duke dryly.
"Isn't it rather a pity that you left Portmaris?" said Yorke after a
slight pause. "It was a pretty place, and healthy and all that, and I
thought you rather liked it than otherwise."
"It's a pity I ever went there," responded the duke grimly.
Yorke looked up suddenly and caught the eyes fixed on him half
pityingly.
"Why so?" he asked. "I should say you were the better for the
change----."
"And I should say I was so much the worse," broke in the duke. "And now
we have fenced with each other and beat about the bush, Yorke, don't
you think we'd better be open and above board?"
"What do you mean?"
The duke raised himself a little higher, and worked the lever of the
couch so that he brought himself facing Yorke.
"Why do you look as if you were waiting for a sentence of life or
death, Yorke?" he said quietly. "You look as anxious and harried and
worn as a man might look who stood on the brink of ruin. Have you heard
from her?" he added quietly but sharply.
"Heard from whom?" said Yorke with averted eyes.
"From Miss Lisle--Leslie," said the duke.
Yorke raised his eyes quickly.
"You know----?" he said.
"Yes, I know all," said the duke gravely, almost sympathetically.
"And--yes, I am sorry for you, Yorke! No, I don't mean to crow over
you, though my prophesy has come true, and my estimate of her--and her
sex generally--has proved the correct one. I am not going to indulge
in the delicious luxury of remarking, 'I told you so!' I'll spare you
that. Indeed, I haven't the heart to do it, for to tell you the truth
I had been hoping all along that my prophesy would be falsified, and
that your faith in her would be established. But it wasn't to be. Who
is it says that a woman can be beautiful, lovable, magnanimous, clever,
everything--but true?"
Yorke looked at him with a harassed and perplexed frown.
"What the devil are you talking about, Dolph?" he said.
The duke sat up and scanned the face before him in silence for a moment
or two, then said:
"Is it possible that you don't know?"
"Don't know what?" demanded Yorke impatiently. "What are you talking
about? I beg your pardon, Dolph, but--but I'm rather worried and upset
about--something, and I'm short-tempered this morning. I've been
expecting an important telegram for the last two days and it hasn't
turned up, and--there, don't mind me, but go on and explain what you
were saying about Les--Miss Lisle. I can't make head or tail of it!"
"From whom are you expecting a telegram, Yorke? Shall I make a guess
and say the young lady herself?"
Yorke thought a moment, the color mounting to his face, then he looked
the duke straight in the eyes.
"Yes, it was from her, Dolph," he said. "I'd better make a clean breast
of it. You'd get it out of me somehow or other if I didn't own up, for
I'm too worried to keep on guard. It is from Leslie I'm expecting that
telegram, and--and--Well, look here, Dolph, take it quietly. I've asked
her to be my wife, and--and she's consented."
He waited a moment, expecting to see the duke start up and fly into one
of his paroxysms, but the duke leant upon his elbow and looked at him
with a grave and pitying regard.
"I know that," he said.
"You--knew--that--that I had asked her, that she had agreed to come up
to London and marry me on the quiet?" exclaimed Yorke, staring at him.
"She told you?"
"No, she did not tell me that you had arranged a clandestine marriage,"
said the duke quietly, "but she confessed that you had asked her to be
your wife. And so you were going to marry her secretly? Was that--was
that straight of you, Yorke?"
There was a touch of gentle reproach in the tone that made Yorke wince.
"Put it that way, it wasn't, Dolph," he said. "But look how I am
placed. I am up to my ears in debt. Yes, I know I ought to be
ashamed of myself, but there it is, you see! And if it got out that
I was marrying without money the blessed Jews would be down on me,
and--and--I knew you wanted me to--to marry someone else, and that I
couldn't count on you; and so--and so I thought Leslie and I would get
spliced quietly and wait till things had blown over, and----."
The duke dropped back on the couch, but kept his eyes fixed on the
harassed, anxious face.
"My poor Yorke! You must love her very much."
Yorke flushed red.
"Love her--!" he broke out, then he pulled himself up. "Look here,
Dolph, I love her so much that if I knew that by marrying her I should
have to drive a hansom cab or sweep a crossing for the rest of my life,
I'd marry her!"
He got up and strode to and fro, his eyes flashing.
"I tell you that life wouldn't be worth living without her. Why, why,"
his voice rang low and tremulous, "I cannot get her out of my thoughts
day or night. I see her face before my eyes, hear her voice always.
It's Leslie, Leslie, and nothing else with me! I know now, I can
understand now why a man cuts his throat or pitches himself off the
nearest bridge when he loses the woman he loves. I used to laugh at
the old stories, at the Othello and Romeo and Juliet business, but I
understand now! It's all true, every word of it! I'd rather die any day
and anyhow than lose her. And--and there you are! You see, Dolph," with
a kind of rueful smile, "I'm as far gone as a man can be; just raving
mad. But it's a madness that will last my life."
"I hope not," said the duke gravely. "Yorke, I am sorry for you. I did
not know that the thing had gone so far. I have bad news for you."
"Bad news!" echoed Yorke.
"Yes. As I said, I was right in my estimate of Leslie Lisle, and you
were wrong. She knows all, Yorke, and----." He paused and shrugged his
bent shoulders.
"She knows all?" said Yorke, almost stupidly. "What do you mean?"
"She discovered the deceit, the trick, we had played upon her. How,
I do not know. Perhaps she came across a peerage, or a society paper
referring to the 'crippled Duke of Rothbury,' or Grey may have let slip
a word in her hearing which revealed the secret. Who can say? After
all, it was wonderful that we succeeded in keeping up the deceit so
long. She was bound to discover the truth sooner or later."
Yorke gazed at him with a troubled face.
"You mean that she discovered that you were the duke and not I?" he
said.
The duke nodded.
"Yes. She came to me early in the morning, so pale and changed, so
thoroughly overwhelmed with disappointment----."
"Hold on," broke in Yorke. "Disappointment? Do you mean that she was
disappointed that I was not the duke, that she was cut up, that she
cared one straw?"
"My dear Yorke, if you had seen her you would have been as astonished
and as full of remorse as I was--though the trick was not yours, but
mine. I told her so, I took all the blame, but it was of no use to
plead for you. She was broken down with the agony of disappointment.
If, as you say, you had arranged a secret marriage with her, she looked
upon herself as already the Duchess of Rothbury, and to have the cup
dashed from her lips! My dear Yorke, one must make all allowance for
her. Human nature is human nature all the world over, especially
feminine human nature----."
Yorke's face went from white to red and from red to white again.
"You are talking rot, utter rot, Dolph!" he said. "Leslie--Leslie
Lisle--cut up and knocked over because she was not going to be a
duchess! Ha, ha!" and he laughed scornfully. "How well you know her!
she wouldn't care a pin; I've told you so half a dozen times! Why, she
was shrinking from the idea of being a duchess; would have refused me
for being what I thought I was, if--if--well, if she hadn't cared for
me as she does, God bless her!"
He turned his head away and his eyes grew moist.
The duke watched him gravely.
"You doubt my word, Yorke?"
"No, no! But I say you are mistaken. There was something else."
"What else, what other cause could there be? No, I tell you that it was
the agony of disappointed ambition----."
Yorke laughed again.
The duke flushed.
"Come," he said, "you will not credit my statement, or rely on my
judgment. Perhaps you are right. A man should have faith in the purity
and single-mindedness of the woman he loves. But facts are stubborn
things."
"Facts?"
"Yes! She had arranged to come up to London to you--to send to you. I
don't know what plans you made, but I can imagine them. I know how I
should have arranged in your case. Well, she is in London, or has been,
and has she sent to you, has she met you as she promised?"
Yorke gazed at him with a half doubtful, half scornful expression.
"No," he said at last. "But--but there has been some mistake, blunder,
on somebody's part. The telegram has miscarried. She may not have been
able to send it. You know how closely she waits upon her father; she
may not have been able to get out----."
The duke shook his head.
"My dear Yorke, her last words to me were a distinct farewell to me
and to you. I've not the least doubt in the world that the person who
informed her that you were not the duke had also told her that you were
heavily in debt, and in Queer Street generally, and that she saw how
foolish it would be to throw herself away and ruin her whole life by
making an imprudent marriage."
Yorke uttered an oath.
"By heaven, Dolph, if it were anybody else but you who talked of her
like this I'd--I'd make him take his words back!"
The duke sighed.
"Even if I were your equal in strength, and we bashed each other, it
wouldn't alter the truth a hair's breadth," he said sadly and wearily.
"And the truth is as I prophesied weeks ago and state now. Leslie,
learning that you were not the Duke of Rothbury, has thrown you over!"
"The truth! It's a foolish and cruel lie!" exclaimed Yorke, his eyes
blazing, his hands clenched. "You always misjudged her, you were
prejudiced against her, from the first----."
The duke put his hand as if to stop him, but the passionately indignant
voice rang out:
"From the first! She is as pure and high-minded as--as an angel, but
you had made up your mind that she was a mercenary schemer, and not
even the being with her, and knowing her, and seeing her every day,
disabused your mind and opened your eyes to the wrong you were doing
her! Yes, you were against her from the first. You'd made your mind up.
That ridiculous idea of yours that all women are greedy and hungry for
wealth and a title has become a monomania with you, and your mind has
got as twisted as your body!"
He stopped aghast and breathless. The words--the cruel words--had
slipped out on the torrent of his indignation before be scarcely knew
or realized their cruel significance.
The duke sank back, and put his hand to his eyes, as if Yorke had dealt
him a physical blow.
Yorke hung his head.
"Forgive me, Dolph," he said in a low voice. "I--I did not mean----."
The duke dropped his hands from before his face.
"Let that pass," he said in a low voice. "You did not mean it. It is
the first unkind word you have ever----. But no matter! You say that I
was prejudiced, that I wronged her. Yorke, you have forced my hand, and
to show you that you have wronged me, I must tell you all. Yorke----,"
he paused, and his eyes dropped, then he raised them, and looked
steadily into Yorke's--"I loved her!"
Yorke started.
"You!"
The duke plucked at the sable rug for a moment to silence, then he went
on--
"Yes! I should not have told you, should never have confessed it,
even to myself, but for--what you said. It is the truth. I loved her!
What!" and he leant forward, his thin, wasted face flushed, his lips
trembling. "Do you think that it is given to you only to appreciate
such beauty and grace and sweetness as Leslie Lisle's? You remind me
that I am crooked, twisted, deformed----."
"Dolph!"
"But do you think, because I am what I am outwardly, that I have no
heart? God, who sees below the surface, knows that there beats in my
bosom a heart as tender, as hungry for love, as quick to love as yours!
Ah, and quicker, hungrier! And I loved her! Loved her with a love as
strong and passionate as yours!" He stopped for want of breath.
Yorke sank into a chair and turned his face away.
"And you did not guess it? Well, that is not surprising, for I strove
hard to hide it from even myself. I knew that it was madness to hope
that I might win her love! But I knew that if I had offered myself in
my right colors she would have accepted me, bent, twisted, deformed,
mockery of a man as I am!"
Yorke groaned.
"And--and--" he stopped, and seemed to be struggling with
something--"and I was tempted! Yes, I was tempted the morning she came
to me and told me that she knew, was tempted to tell her that she might
still be a duchess, that I loved her and would marry her!"
Yorke sprang to his feet.
"Sit--sit down," said the duke hoarsely, and Yorke sank down again.
"But I resisted the temptation. I left her without a word, without a
look or sign by which she could know the truth. I had to bear it. It is
a burden which crushes, which tortures me! Even since I left the cursed
place the temptation has assailed me at intervals, and once or twice I
have almost resolved to write--to go down to her--and offer her that
upon which she has set her woman's heart--the ducal coronet--for which
even a Leslie Lisle will sell herself!"
Yorke opened his lips, but the duke by a gesture stopped him again.
"Now you know the whole truth. If you have to suffer, so also have
I. And my lot will be worse than yours. You--" he looked at him, not
enviously, but with a sad admiration--"you will get over this--will
forget her----."
"No, no!"
"Yes. There are other women whose love you may win. There is one
already." He paused. "Yes, if one nail drives out another, so one love
may drive out, wipe out all remembrance of another. And so it is with
you. But I!" He dropped back and covered his face with his hands.
"For me there can be no such hope. The door of love, the gates of the
earthly paradise are shut against me, and will remain shut while I
live. To me the Fates say mockingly, 'Rank, wealth, station, we give
you, but the love of woman, that supreme gift of the gods to man, thou
shalt never know it!'"
There was silence for a moment, then he raised himself on his elbow.
"Yorke, you must bear your burden. Forget her. It will be hard. Don't
I know how hard? To forget Leslie--those sweet gray eyes, with their
melting tenderness, that low, musical voice! But you must forget her.
As I said, there are others. There is one. Eleanor----."
Yorke sprang to his feet.
"Forget her! Forget Leslie! What are you talking about? We must be
mad, both of us; you to talk as you have done, and I to listen! She's
as true as steel! I shall find a telegram waiting for me at the club,
and--and all will turn out right."
The duke regarded him gravely.
"Go and see," he said quietly. "If you do not find a message from her,
what will you do?"
Yorke looked at him.
"Though my body's twisted, my brain is straighter and more acute than
yours," said the duke with a smile, "and I will tell you what to do.
Wire to the landlady at the house they lived in, Sea View. What was the
woman's name?"
"Merrick," said Yorke.
"Yes, Merrick. Ask if the Lisles are there, and if not, for their
address. Pay for the return message and all charges. But I can tell you
the result at once."
"The result? What?"
"You will not find her. She does not intend that you should. With all
her beauty and grace and sweetness, she, even she, even Leslie! being
a woman, is too worldly wise to marry Yorke Auchester now that he is a
duke no longer."
Yorke caught up his hat and laughed hoarsely.
"I'll soon prove you wrong!" he said.
"And if you do not? If you prove that I am right?" asked the duke,
looking at him steadily.
Yorke stopped at the door and looked over his shoulder.
"Then--then--" he stopped and swore--"then you may do what you like
with me; marry me to whom you please, when you please, send me to the
devil----."
He strode through the marble hall and called a cab. He ran up the steps
of the Dorchester and confronted the patient Stephens.
"There's a telegram for me now, Stephens. Name of 'Yorke,' you know.
"No, sir, nothing for you," was the reply.
He turned at once, and going straight to the telegraph office in Regent
Street, sent the following telegram to Mrs. Merrick:
"If Miss Lisle is not at Portmaris, send her address to Yorke, Regent
Street Post Office. Reply, paid, at once."
"I'll wait," he said.
"It may be an hour, sir," said the young lady clerk.
"I'll wait if it's ten hours," he said.
He waited for an hour and a half, and then they handed him this:
"Mr. and Miss Lisle have gone and left no address."
He walked from the post office to Grosvenor Square with the telegram
crushed in his hand, and went straight to the duke's room. He was still
lying on the couch, and he did not lift his head as Yorke entered.
"Well?" he said. "But I need not ask. You are convinced?"
Yorke flattened out the telegram and dropped it into the duke's hand.
"No address! Here in London, and I do not know where to look for her!"
he said hoarsely.
"Convinced! No! No!"
Then his voice broke, and he sank into the chair by the table and
dropped his head upon his arms.
The duke sighed.
"My poor Yorke! Oh, woman, woman! God sent you as a blessing, and you
have proved a curse!"