HONOR VINCIT
His brain was working rapidly, the while he felt a curious leaden
sensation at his heart. He had never even contemplated the possibility of
the Duchessa living in the neighbourhood, though he now marvelled why he
had never happened to question her as to the exact locality of
Woodleigh.
Of course he knew, and assured himself that he knew, that the chances
were all against any probability of their meeting. How was it likely they
should meet, seeing that she was a _grande dame_, and he merely an
under-gardener at the Hall? Of course it was not probable. Nevertheless
there was just the faintest chance. He couldn't deny that remote chance.
And if they did meet, and she should recognize him?--There was the
question.
Explanation would be impossible in view of his promise. And what would
she think? Wouldn't it be conceivable, nay, wouldn't it be natural that
she should be indignant at the thought that she had admitted to her
friendship a man, who, to her eyes, would appear one of inferior birth?
Wouldn't his behaviour on the _Fort Salisbury_ appear to her in the light
of a fraud? Wouldn't his letter appear to her as a piece of preposterous
presumption on his part? How could it be expected that she should see
beneath the surface of things as they seemed to be, and solve the riddle
of appearances? It was such an inconceivable situation, such an
altogether unheard of situation, laughable too, if it weren't for the
vague possibility of the--to him--tragedy he now saw involved in it. It
was this, this vague sense of tragedy, that was causing that leaden
sensation at his heart.
He tried to tell himself that he was being morbid, that he ran no
possible risk of coming face to face with the Duchessa, in spite of the
fact that the Manor House Woodleigh lay but two miles distant. But the
assurances he heaped upon his soul, went a remarkably small way towards
cheering it.
And yet, through the leadenness upon his soul, through that vague, almost
indefinable sense of tragedy at hand, ran a curious little note of
exultation. Though he had no smallest desire for her to set eyes on him,
might not he set eyes on her? And yet, if he did, would the joy in the
sight be worth the dull ache, the horrible sense of isolation in the
knowledge that word with her was forbidden.
He realized now, for the first time in its fullest measure, what her
advent into his life meant to him. Bodily separation for a year had been
possible to contemplate. Even should it extend to a lifetime, he would
still have three golden weeks of memory to his comfort. But should mental
separation fall upon him, should it ever be his lot to read anger in her
eyes, he felt that his very soul would die. Even memory would be lost to
him, by reason of the unbearable pain it would hold. And then, with the
characteristics of a man accustomed to face possibilities, to confront
contingencies and emergencies beforehand, he saw himself face to face
with a temptation. Should the emergency he contemplated arise, was there
not a simple solution of it? She was quick-witted, she might quite
conceivably guess at the existence of some riddle. Would not the tiniest
hint suffice for her? The merest possible inflection of his voice?
* * * * *
He had reached his cottage by now. He went in and shut the door.
He sat down on the oak settle, staring at the little casement window
opposite to him, without seeing it. It appeared to him that there were
voices talking within his brain or soul,--he didn't know which,--while he
himself was answering one of them--the loudest.
The loudest voice spoke quite cheerfully, and was full of common sense.
It urged him to abandon the consideration of the whole matter for the
present; it told him that the probability of his meeting the Duchessa was
so extraordinarily remote, that it was not worth while torturing his mind
with considerations of what line of action he would take should the
emergency arise. Should it do so, he could act then as his conscience
prompted.
He found himself replying to this voice, speaking almost stubbornly. He
had got to fight the matter out now, he declared. He had got to decide
absolutely definitely what course of action he intended to pursue, should
the emergency he feared arise. He was not going to leave matters to
chance and be surprised into saying or doing something he might either
way afterwards regret. He knew the danger of not making up his mind
beforehand. To which the loud voice responded with something like a
sneer, telling him to have it his own way. And then it remained mockingly
silent, while another and more insidious voice began to speak.
The insidious voice told him quite gently that this emergency might
indeed arise; it pointed out to him the quite conceivable events that
might occur from it; it assured him that it had no possible desire that
he should break his promise in any way. He was not to dream of giving any
explanation to the Duchessa, but that he would owe it to himself, _and to
her_, to give her the faintest hint that at a future date he _could_ give
her an explanation. That was all. There would be no breaking of his
promise. She could not possibly even guess at what that explanation might
be. She would merely realize that _something_ underlay the present
appearances.
The proposition sounded perfectly reasonable, perfectly just. His own
common sense told him that there could be no harm in it. It was the
rightful solution of the difficulty, arrived at by silencing that first
loud voice,--the voice which had clearly wished him to abandon all
consideration of the matter, that he might be surprised into giving a
full explanation of the situation.
Antony drew a long breath of relief.
After all, he had been torturing himself needlessly. She herself had
spoken of trust. Should that trust totter for an instant, would not the
faintest possible hint be sufficient to re-establish it on a firm basis?
With the thought, the little square of casement window came back once
more to his vision. He saw through it an old-fashioned rose bush of
crimson roses in the garden; he heard a bird twitter, and call to its
mate. The abnormal had vanished, reduced itself once more to plain
wholesome common sense. And then suddenly, and without warning, a
sentence flashed through his brain.
* * * * *
Antony sat up, clenching his hands furiously between his knees. It was
absurd, preposterous. There was no smallest occasion to take those words
in such a desperately literal sense.
"In short, he will do all in his power to give the impression that he is
simply and solely Michael Field, working-man, and under-gardener at
Chorley Old Hall."
The words rang as clearly in his brain as if there were someone in the
room speaking them aloud. Once more the window vanished. There were no
voices speaking now; there was only a curious and rather horrible
silence, in which there was no need for voices.
The faintest little whine from Josephus aroused him. It was long past the
dinner hour, and racing the sands is exceedingly hungry work.
Antony's eyes came back from the window. His face was rather white, and
his mouth set in a straight line. But there was an oddly triumphant look
in his eyes.
"I think a meal will do us both good, old man," he said with a little
whimsical smile. And he began getting down plates from the dresser.