A few moments later the Duke from his accustomed elevation was
conducting his erratic courtship.
It was not perhaps so much of a coincidence, that he seldom failed to
discover Alicia in the mornings. She was an enthusiastic gardener. It
was a hobby she had only recently taken up. It is said by the people of
70--their back windows overlooked the garden and they were notoriously
uncharitable--that the gardening craze, which rightly should come with
the spring, did not show in her until after the Duke's arrival; that
until then her visits to the garden had been few and far between, and
her interest of a perfunctory character.
This morning she was not as self-possessed as usual. Indeed she
appeared to be a little nervous, but she made no pretence of avoiding
him.
"How is the cat?" he asked.
It was his gambit.
"Poor Tibs is as serviceable as the weather," she smiled.
She saw his eyes shift to the conservatory.
"Don't be afraid," she bantered, "Mr. Slewer is not there; he came in
the other day without my knowledge," she hastened to add, "the servant
showed him into the drawing-room and he took the unpardonable liberty of
walking through into the garden."
"Bill has no drawing-room manners," he said regretfully, "he heard my
voice and it lured him: you'd never suspect me of being syrenish, would
you?"
She raised her grave eyes to his.
"You frightened me dreadfully," she said. "Were you men in earnest?"
"Not a bit," he lied cheerfully, "we were just rehearsing a little
play."
"But you were," she persisted, "you looked dreadful and that wretched
man's face was devilish."
"S-sh!" he reproved, "the poor chap was a bit upset, and very naturally.
One cannot lose one's wife without----"
"Please don't be horrid," she begged, flushing. "I thought that you
were not looking as happy as you are usually," she added with a touch of
malice.
"I was in the bluest of funks," he confessed, "especially when he pushed
you back. You see Hank was covering him and Hank is a terribly
short-tempered man. I was wondering how we could explain away Bill's
dead body without creating a scandal."
In spite of his matter-of-fact tone, she knew he was offering a true
explanation for his pallor--only she substituted his name for Hank's,
and felt she was nearer the truth.
"You're a strange man"--her pretty forehead was wrinkled with
perplexity--"suppose all this that happened here yesterday had occurred
in--Texas."
"It could not have occurred in Texas," he said instantly. "You would
have missed the light flow of talk and the interplay of pleasant
compliments. There would be only one thing to do. Down in Texas they
recognize that fact. Don't you know the story of the sheriff who tried
to arrest Black Ike of Montana? The sheriff pulled a gun on Ike, but
Ike got first shot. The sheriff was mightily popular, and the folks
were grieved but philosophical. They lynched Black Ike and put a
splendid monument over the sheriff. In one line they apostrophized his
life, ambition and splendid failure--and the inevitability of it all.
It ran--
"He did his damndest, angels could do no more."