and sometimes he reproached himself that he was by natural habit of
such reserve that in all their converse together he had never felt that
he could speak his thoughts to his kinsman on the one subject they had
dwelt most upon. During the last two years he had realised how few
words he had uttered on this subject even in the days before he had
known the reason for his tendency to silence. At times when
Dunstanwolde had spoken with freedom and at length of circumstances
which attracted the comments of all, he himself had been more
frequently listener than talker, and had been wont to sit in attentive
silence, making his reflections later to himself when he was alone.
After the day on which he had lost himself upon Sir Christopher
Crowell's land and, lying among the bracken, had heard the talk of the
sportsmen below, he had known why he had been so reticent, and during
his last two years he had realised that this reticence had but
increased. Despite his warm love for my Lord Dunstanwolde there had
never come an hour when he felt that he could have revealed even by the
most distant allusion the tenor of his mind. In his replies to his
lordship's occasional epistles he had touched more lightly upon his
references to the household of Wildairs than upon other things of less
moment to him. Of Court stories he could speak openly, of country,
town, and letters, with easy freedom, but when he must acknowledge news
from Gloucestershire, he sate grave before his paper, his pen idle in
his hand, and found but few sentences to indite.
"But later," he would reflect, "I shall surely feel myself more
open--and his kind heart is so full of sympathy that he will understand
my silence and not feel it has been grudging or ungenerous to his noble
friendship."
And even now as he rode to the home of this gentleman whose affection
he had enjoyed with so much of appreciation and gratitude, he consoled
himself again with this thought, knowing that the time had not yet come
when he could unbosom himself, nor would it come until all the world
must be taken into his confidence, and he stand revealed an exultant
man whose joy broke all bonds for him since that he had dreamed of he
had won.
When he had made his last visit to Warwickshire he had thought my lord
looking worn and fatigued, and had fancied he saw some hint of new
trouble in his eyes. He had even spoke with him of his fancy, trusting
that he had no cause for anxiousness and was not in ill-health, and had
been answered with a kindly smile, my lord averring that he had no new
thing to weary him, but only one which was old, with which he had borne
more than sixty years, and which was somewhat the worse for wear in
these days--being himself.
He thought of this reply as he passed through the lovely village where
every man, woman, and child knew him and greeted him with warmly
welcoming joy, and he was pondering on it as he rode through the park
gates and under the big beech-trees which formed the avenue.
"Somewhat had saddened him," he thought. "Pray God it has passed," and
was aroused from his thinking by a sound of horses' feet, and looking
up saw my lord cantering towards him on his brown hackney, and with
brightly smiling face.
They greeted each other with joyful affection, as they always did in
meeting, and my lord's welcome had a touch of even more loving warmth
than usual. He had come out to meet his guest and kinsman on the road,
and had thought to be in time to join him earlier and ride with him
through the village.
"On my soul, Gerald," he said, gaily, "'tis useless that you should
grow handsomer and taller each time you leave us. Surely, there is a
time for a man to be content. Or is it that when you are absent one
sees gentlemen of proportions so much more modest that when you return
we must get used to your looks again. Your sunburn is as becoming as
your laurels."
His own worn look had passed. Osmonde had never seen him so well and
vigorous, being indeed amazed by his air of freshness and renewed
youth. His finely cut, high bred countenance had gained a slight
colour, his sweet grey eyes were clear and full of light, and he bore
himself more strongly and erect. For the first time within his
remembrance of him, my lord Duke observed that he wore another colour
than black, though it was of rich, dark shade, being warm, deep brown,
and singularly becoming him, his still thick grey hair framing in
silver his fine, gentle face.
"And you," Osmonde answered him, marking all these things with
affectionate pleasure, "your weariness has left you. I have never seen
you look so young and well."
"Young!" said my lord, smiling, "at sixty-eight? Well, in truth, I feel
so. Let us pray it may not pass. 'Tis hope--which makes new summer."
They dined alone, and sitting over their wine had cheerful talk. A man
is not absent from his native land for two good years, even when they
are spent in ordinary travel, without on his return having much to
recount in answer to the questionings of his friends; but two years
spent in camp and Court during a great campaign may furnish hours of
talk indeed.
Yet though their conversation did not flag, and each found pleasure in
the other's company, Osmonde was conscious of a secret restlessness.
Throughout the whole passing of the repast it chanced not once that the
name was mentioned which had so often been spoke before when they had
been together; there had been a time when in no talk of the
neighbourhood could it well have been avoided, but now, strangely
enough, no new incident was related, no reference to its bearer made.
This might, perhaps, be because the heroine of that scandal, having
begun to live the ordinary life of womankind, there were no fantastic
stories to tell, the county having had time to become accustomed to the
change in her and comment on it no more. And still there was a
singularity in the silence. Yet for my lord Duke himself it was
impossible to broach the subject, he being aware that he was not calm
enough in mind to open it with a composure which would not betray his
interest.
He had come from town under promise to attend that night a birthday
ball in the neighbourhood, a young relative coming of age and
celebrating his majority. The kinship was not close, but greatly valued
by the family of the heir, and his Grace's presence had been so
ardently desired, that he, who honoured all claims of his house and
name, had given his word.
And 'twas at last through speech of this, and only as they parted to
apparel themselves for this festivity, my Lord Dunstanwolde touched
upon the thing one man of them, at least, had not had power to banish
from his mind throughout their mutual talk.
"Young Colin is a nice, well-meaning lad," said my lord as they passed
through the hall to mount the staircase. "He is plain featured and
awkward, but modest and of good humour. He will be greatly honoured
that the hero of his house should be present on the great night. You
_are_ the hero, you know, having been with Marlborough, and bearing
still the scar of a wound got at Blenheim, though 'twas 'not as deep as
a grave or as wide as a church door.' And with orders on your broad
chest and the scent of gunpowder in your splendid periwig you will make
a fine figure. They will all prostrate themselves before you, and when
you make your state bow to the beauty, Mistress Clorinda--for you will
see her--she will surely give you a dazzling smile."
"That I will hope for," answered my lord Duke, smiling himself; but his
heart leaped like a live thing in his breast and did not cease its
leaping as he mounted the stairway, though he bore himself with outward
calm.
When within his room he strode to and fro, his arms folded across his
breast. For some time he could not have composed himself to sit down or
go to rest. This very night, then, he was to behold her face to face;
in but a few hours he would stand before her bowing, and rise from his
obeisance to look into the great eyes which had followed him so
long--ay, so much longer than he had truly understood. What should he
read there--what thought which might answer to his own? It had been his
plan to go to my Lord Twemlow and ask that he might be formally
presented to his fair kinswoman and her parent. Knowing his mind, he
was no schoolboy who would trust to chance, but would move directly and
with dignity towards the object he desired. The representatives of her
family would receive him, and 'twas for himself to do the rest. But
now he need go to no man to ask to be led to her presence. The mere
chance of Fortune would lead him there. 'Twas strange how it had ever
been so--that Fate's self had seemed to work to this end.
The chamber was a huge one and he had paced its length many times
before he stopped and stood in deep thought.
"'Tis sure because of this," he said, "that I have so little doubt.
There lies scarce a shadow yet in my mind. 'Tis as if Nature had so
ordained it before I woke to life, and I but go to obey her law."
His eye had fallen upon a long mirror standing near, but he did not see
what was reflected there, and gazed through and beyond it as if at
another thing. And yet the image before him was one which might have
removed doubt of himself from any man's heart, it being of such
gracious height and manly strength, and, with its beauteous leonine eye
and brow, its high bearing, and the richness of its apparel, so noble a
picture.
He turned away unseeing, with a smile and half a sigh of deep and
tender passion. "May I ride home," he said, "as Hugh de Mertoun
did--four hundred years ago!"
When they arrived at their entertainer's house the festivities were at
full; brilliant light shone from every window and streamed from the
wide entrance in a flood, coaches rolled up the avenue and waited for
place before the door, from within strains of music floated out to the
darkness of the night, and as the steps were mounted each arrival
caught glimpses of the gay scene within: gentlemen in velvet and
brocade and ladies attired in all the rich hues of a bed of
flowers--crimson, yellow, white and blue, purple and gold and rose.
Their young host met them on the threshold and welcomed them with
boyish pride and ardour. He could scarce contain himself for pleasure
at being so honoured in his first hospitalities by the great kinsman of
his house, who, though but arrived at early maturity, was already
spoken of as warrior, statesman, and honoured favourite at Court.
"We are but country gentry, your Grace," he said, reddening boyishly,
when he had at length led them up the great stairway to the ball-room,
"and most of us have seen little of the world. As for me, I have but
just come from Cambridge, where I fear I did myself small credit. In my
father's day we went but seldom to town, as he liked horses and dogs
better than fine company. So I know nothing of Court beauties, but
to-night--" and he reddened a little more and ended somewhat
awkwardly--"to-night you will see here a beauty who surely cannot be
outshone at Court, and men tell me cannot be matched there."
"'Tis Mistress Clorinda Wildairs he speaks of," said Sir Christopher
Crowell, who stood near, rubicund in crimson, and he said it with an
uncourtly wink; "and, ecod! he's right--though I am not 'a town man.'"
"He is enamoured of her," he added in proud confidence later when he
found himself alone for a moment by his Grace. "The youngsters are all
so--and men who are riper, too. Good Lord, look at me who have dandled
her on my knee when she was but five years old--and am her slave,"
chuckling. "She's late to-night. Mark the fellows loitering about the
doors and on the stairway. 'Tis that each hopes to be the first to
catch her eye."
'Twas but a short time afterward my lord Duke had made his way to the
grand staircase himself, it being his intention to go to a lower room,
and reaching the head of it he paused for a moment to gaze at the
brilliant scene. The house was great and old, and both halls and
stairway of fine proportions, and now, brilliant with glow of light and
the moving colour of rich costumes, presented indeed a comely sight.
And he had no sooner paused to look down than he heard near by a murmur
of low exclamation, and close at his side a man broke forth in rough
ecstacy to his companion.
"Clorinda, by Gad!" he said, "and crowned with roses! The vixen makes
them look as if they were built of rubies in every leaf."
And from below she came--up the broad stairway, upon her father's arm.
Well might their eyes follow her indeed, and well might his own look
down upon her, burning. The strange compellingness of her power, which
was a thing itself apart from beauty, and would have ruled for her had
she not possessed a single charm, had so increased that he felt himself
change colour at the mere sight of her. Oh! 'twas not the colour and
height and regal shape of her which were her splendour, but this one
Heaven-born, unconquerable thing. Her lip seemed of a deeper scarlet,
the full roundness of her throat rose from among her laces, bound with
a slender circlet of glittering stars, her eyes had grown deeper and
more melting, and yet held a great flame. Nay, she seemed a flame
herself--of life, of love, of spirit which naught could daunt or quell,
and on her high-held imperial head she wore a wreath of roses red as
blood.
"She will look up," he thought, "she will look up at me."
But she did not, though he could have sworn that which he felt should
have arrested her. Somewhat seemed to hold her oblivious of those who
were near her; she gazed straight before her as if expecting to see
something, and as she passed my lord Duke on the landing, a heavy
velvet rose broke from her crown and fell at his very foot.
He bent low to pick it up, the blood surging in his veins--and when he
raised himself, holding it in his hand, she was moving onward through
the crowd which closed behind to gaze and comment on her--and his
kinsman Dunstanwolde came forward from an antechamber, his gentle, high
bred face and sweet grey eyes glowing with greeting.
Those of reflective habit may indeed find cause for thought in
realising the power of small things over great, of rule over important
events, of ordinary social observance over the most powerful emotion a
man or woman may be torn or uplifted by. He whose greatest longing on
earth is to speak face to face to the friend whom ill fortune has
caused to think him false, seeing this same friend in a crowded street
a hundred yards distant, cannot dash the passers-by aside and race
through or leap over them to reach, before it is too late, the beloved
object he beholds about to disappear; he cannot arrest that object with
loud outcries, such conduct being likely to cause him to be taken for a
madman, and restrained by the other lookers-on; the tender woman whose
heart is breaking under the weight of misunderstanding between herself
and him she loves, is powerless to attract and detain him if he passes
her, either unconscious of her nearness or of intention coldly averting
his gaze from her pleading eyes. She may know that, once having
crossed the room where she sits in anguish, all hope is lost that they
may meet again on this side of the grave. She may know that a dozen
words would fill his heart with joy, and that all life would smile to
both henceforth, but she cannot force her way to his side in public;
she cannot desert without ceremony the stranger who is conversing
courteously; she cannot cry out, she may not even speak, it may be that
it is not possible that she should leave her place--and he who is her
heart's blood approaches slowly--is near--has passed--is gone--and all
has come to bitter, cruel end. In my lord Duke of Osmonde's mind there
was no thought of anguish or the need for it; he but realised that he
had felt an unreasonable pang when she whom he had so desired to behold
had passed him by unnoticed. 'Twas after all a mere trick of chance,
and recalled to him the morning two years before, when he had heard her
horse's feet splashing through the mire of the narrow lane, and had
drawn his own beast aside while she galloped past unaware of his
nearness, and with the strange, absorbed, and almost fierce look in her
eyes. He had involuntarily gathered his bridle to follow her and then
had checked his impulse, realising its impetuousness, and had turned to
ride homeward with a half smile on his lips but with his heart
throbbing hard. But what perchance struck him most to-night, was that
her eyes wore a look unlike, yet somehow akin, to that which he had
marked and been moved by then--as if storm were hid within their
shadows and she herself was like some fine wild thing at bay.
There would have been little becomingness in his hastening after her
and his Lordship of Dunstanwolde; his court to her must be paid with
grace and considerateness. If there were men who in their eagerness
forgot their wit and tact, he was not one of them.
He turned to re-enter the ball-room and approach her there, and on the
threshold encountered young Colin, who looked for the moment pale.
"Did you see her?" he asked. "She has but just passed through the room
with my Lord Dunstanwolde--Mistress Clorinda," he added, with a little
rueful laugh. "In Gloucestershire there is but one 'she.' When we speak
of the others we use their names and call them Mistress Margaret or my
Lady Betty--or Jane."
"I stood at the head of the stairway as she passed," answered Osmonde.
"It cannot be true," the lad broke forth; "it makes me mad even to hear
it spoke--though he is a courtly gentleman and rich and of high
standing--but he is old enough to be her grandfather. Though she is
such a woman, she is but seventeen, and my lord is near seventy."
Osmonde turned an inquiring gaze upon him, and the boy broke into his
confused half-laugh again.
"I speak of my Lord Dunstanwolde," he said. "Twice he has asked her to
be his Countess, and all say that to-night she is to give him her
answer. Jack Oxon has heard it and is mad enough. Look at him as he
stands by the archway there. His eyes are like blue steel and he can
scarce hide his rage. But better she should take Dunstanwolde than
Jack"--hotly.
The musicians were playing a minuet in the gallery, there was dancing,
slow, stately movements and deep obeisance going on in the room,
couples were passing to and fro, and here and there groups stood and
watched. My lord Duke stood and watched also; a little court had
gathered about him and he must converse with those who formed it, or
listen with gracious attention to their remarks. But his grace and
composure cost him an effort. There came back to him the story old Lady
Storms had told in Vienna and which he had not believed and had even
forgot. The memory of it returned to him with singular force and
clearness. He told himself that still it could not be true, that his
young host's repetition of it rose from the natural uneasy jealousy of
a boy--and yet the pageant of the brilliant figures moving before him
seemed to withdraw themselves as things do in a dream. He remembered
my Lord Dunstanwolde's years and his faithfulness to the love of his
youth, and there arose before him the young look he had worn when they
met in the avenue, his words, "'Tis hope which makes new summer," and
the music of the minuet sounded distant in his ears, while as it rang
there, he knew he should not forget it to his life's end. Yet no, it
could not be so. A gentleman near seventy and a girl of seventeen! And
still, to follow the thought honestly, even at seven and sixty years my
Lord had greater grace and charm than many a man not half his age. And
with that new youth and tenderness in his eyes no woman could shrink
from him, at least. And still it could not be true, for Fate herself
had driven him to this place--Nature and Fate.
[Illustration: "Your Grace, it is this lady who is to do me the great
honour of becoming my Lady Dunstanwolde"]
Sir John Oxon stood near the doorway, striving to smile, but biting his
lip; here and there his Grace vaguely observed that there seemed new
talk among the moving couples and small gathered groups. About the
entrance there was a stirring and looking out into the corridor, and in
a moment or so more the company parted and gave way, and his Lordship
of Dunstanwolde entered, with Mistress Clorinda upon his arm; he,
gracefully erect in bearing, as a conqueror returning from his victory.
An exclamation broke from the young Colin which was like a low cry.
"Tis true!" he said. "Yes, yes; 'tis in his eyes. 'Tis done--'tis
done!"
His Grace of Osmonde turned towards his kinsman, who he saw was
approaching him, and greeted him with a welcoming smile; the red rose
was still held in his hand. He stood drawn to his full height, a
stately, brilliant figure, with his orders glittering on his breast,
his fine eyes deeply shining--waiting.
The company parted before the two advancing figures--his lordship's
rich violet velvet, the splendid rose and silver making a wondrous wave
of colour, the wreath of crimson flowers on the black hair seeming like
a crown of triumph.
Before my lord Duke they paused, and never had the old Earl's gentle,
high bred face worn so tenderly affectionate a smile, or his grey eyes
so sweet a light.
"My honoured kinsman, his Grace the Duke of Osmonde," he said to her
who glowed upon his arm. "Your Grace, it is this lady who is to do me
the great honour of becoming my Lady Dunstanwolde."
And they were face to face, her great orbs looking into his own, and he
saw a thing which lay hid in their very depths--and his own flashed
despite himself, and hers fell; and he bowed low, and she swept a
splendid curtsey to the ground.
So, for the first time in their lives, he looked into her eyes.
_CHAPTER XVIII_
_A Night in which my Lord Duke Did Not Sleep_
As they rolled over the roads on their way homeward, in the darkness of
their coach, my Lord Dunstanwolde spoke of his happiness and told its
story. There was no approach to an old lover's exultant folly in his
talk; his voice was full of noble feeling, and in his manner there was
somewhat like to awe of the great joy which had befallen him. To him
who listened to the telling 'twas a strange relation indeed, since each
incident seemed to reveal to him a blindness in himself. Why had he not
read the significance of a score of things which he could now recall? A
score of things?--a hundred! Because he had been in his early prime,
and full of the visions and passions of youth, he had not for one
moment dreamed that a man who was so far his senior could be a man
still, his heart living enough to yearn and ache, his eyes clear to see
the radiance others saw, and appraise it as adoringly. 'Twas the common
fault of youth to think to lead the world and to sweep aside from its
path all less warm-blooded, strong-limbed creatures, feeling their day
was done for them, and that for them there was naught left but to wait
quietly for the end. There was an ignobleness in it--a self-absorption
which was almost dishonour. And in this way he had erred as far as any
stripling with blooming cheeks and girlish love-locks who thought that
nine and twenty struck the knell of love and life. 'Twas thoughts like
these that were passing through his mind as they were driven through
the darkness--at least they were the thoughts upon the surface of his
mind, while below them surged a torrent into whose darkness he dared
not look. He was a man, and he had lost her--lost her! She had become a
part of his being--and she had been torn from his side. "Let me but
look into your eyes," he had said, and he had looked and read her
answering soul--too late!
"I have passed through dark days, Gerald," my lord was saying. "How
should I have dared to hope that she would give herself to me? I had
been mad to hope it. And yet a man in my case must plead, whether he
despairs or not. I think 'twas her gentleness to Mistress Anne which
has sustained me. That poor gentlewoman and I have the happiness to
know her heart as others do not. Thank God, 'tis so! When to-night I
said to her sadly, 'Madam, my youth is long past,' she stopped me with
a strange and tender little cry. She put her hand upon my shoulder. Ah,
its soft touch, its white, kind caress! 'Youth is not all,' she said.
'I have known younger men who could not bring a woman truth and
honourable love. 'Tis not I who give, 'tis not I,' and the full sweet
red of her mouth quivered. I--have not yet dared to touch it, Gerald."
And his voice was sad as well as reverent. "Youth would have been more
bold."
In his dark corner of the coach his Grace checked breath to control a
start. In the past he had had visions such as all men have--and all was
lost! And to-morrow his kinsman would have gained courage to look his
new bliss in the face--the autumn of his days would be warmed by a late
glow of the sun, but that long summer which yet lay before himself
would know no flame of gold. The years he had spent in training his
whole being to outward self-control at least did service to him now,
and aided him to calm, affectionate speech.