"I do," he smilingly affirmed. "Marjolaine, being her mother's
daughter, must be a charming gel."
Madame waved the compliment aside. He went on.
"And although Jack is my son, he is a thoroughly good fellow."
"But he is contracted to marry--" Madame interrupted.
"That is all upset," said Lord Otford; and the curious thing was that he
did not seem at all put out. "Carrie Thring has taken the bit between
her teeth and eloped with the curate."
Madame looked at him sharply. "And your hopes being dashed in that
quarter, you come--"
"No, you are not fair!" protested Lord Otford. "I think I should have
come in any case. Seeing you on Saturday has revived many memories--"
"It needed some such shock."
Lord Otford winced; but he continued bravely. "I made up my mind not to
act my own father over again. If Jack loved your daughter, he was to
marry her."
"That is no longer the question," said Madame with emphasis. "My
daughter refuses to marry your son."
"Why? Because she does not love him?" His voice was very grave and
very searching. Madame tried to answer. She would have given worlds to
have been able to say "Yes." But she could not say it, and she was
silent. Lord Otford was watching her keenly.
"No!" he said, almost severely. "No; but only because you tell her to
refuse. She simply obeys out of habit. You are undertaking a heavy
responsibility. Ah! Why punish these children because I behaved like a
fool years ago, when I knew no better?"
Madame sank on the seat under the elm. Was he right? Had she acted in
mere selfishness? Was she breaking Marjolaine's heart only to gratify
something very like spite?
Lord Otford leant over her, and now there was a ring of passion in his
voice. "And why punish me now, so late? Is it not possible for me to
atone--Lucy?"
"Lord Otford!" she cried, trying to rise.
"Don't stop me now! Don't go away!" he entreated, motioning her back.
"Ah! we are poor creatures at best! We go blindly past our happiness.
Let us hark back, Lucy, and try to find the trail we missed!"
"We!" cried Madame.
"I."
Madame was profoundly stirred. His voice had not changed at all in all
those years: just so had he murmured passionate words in the old
vicarage garden. She must take care, or she would fall under the spell
of it again--and that must not be. She must take care; harden her
heart; put on a panoply of steel.
"I have been quite happy," she said at last, very defiantly.
"I know it," he answered, "and I am glad to know it."
"But I purchased my happiness dearly." She turned on him with bitter
resentment. "You have never realised the suffering you inflicted on
me!"
"I can imagine it," he answered, almost voicelessly.
"No, you cannot," she retorted. "Only those who have gone through it
can imagine it. Ah! think of pride insulted; ideals smirched; faith
trampled on; tenderness turned back on itself!"
"I know it all," he murmured.
Madame went on, more as if she were communing with herself. "Nature is
very strong, very merciful. I had not forgotten! Never, for one
moment! But life covered the memory." She paused a moment, sunk in
thought. When she spoke again it was in a gentler voice. "Then Jules
came, and offered me his companionship. I gave him all I could, and he
was content. Oh! the good, true, generous man!"
Once more Lord Otford winced; but he contrived to say with genuine
feeling, "I honour him." After all, Jules was dead.
"And I honour his memory," said Madame, gravely.
Lord Otford spoke very earnestly. "We are quite frank, Lucy: you loved
your husband; I loved my wife--"
"And there is no more to be said," concluded Madame, rising, with a
little sigh.
"Ah! but there is!" he exclaimed, standing and facing her. "Face your
own soul, Lucy, and tell me: did the thought of the old vicarage garden
at Otford never haunt you?"
She looked straight into his eyes. "Never with any suggestion of
disloyalty to Jules," she said firmly.
"That I am sure of. But it came. I know." He dropped his voice, came
closer, and spoke with deep feeling. "Lucy, Lucy, it was always there!
It never left you, as it never left me! It was the fragrant refuge, into
which we crept in our solitary moments--never with disloyalty on your
side or mine--but for consolation, for rest. Is that true?"
"It was merely the echo of an old song--" she murmured, under her
breath.
"But how sweet! How tender!"
"And how sad!" Her strength was going. Every word he said seemed to
draw the strength out of her. Her heart yearned to him; her whole soul
cried out for him; and only her will resisted. She made one more
effort. "No! No!" she cried, "I banished the memories! I banish them
now!"
"You could not! You cannot!" he whispered, passionately. "No one
can!--Think of these two children: Marjolaine and Jack. Suppose we part
them now: suppose they go their different ways: do you think either of
them will forget the flowing river, the sheltering elm, or the words
they have whispered under it? Never!--Lucy, Lucy--" he was bending over
her where she sat, and his voice had all the old thrill--"though we go
astray from first love; though we undervalue it; yes! though we
desecrate it, it never dies!--On revient toujours a ses premiers
amours!"
But the years that had flown! the unrelenting years! what of them?
"We cannot retrace our steps," she said, sadly, "we cannot undo
suffering; we cannot win back innocence."
"We can!" he cried. "We started from the garden; we have been a long
journey with all its chances and adventures; and now we are at the
garden gate again: the flowers we loved are beckoning to us; the birds
we loved are calling us; we have but to lift the latch--Lucy, shall we
not open the gate and enter the garden?"
"We cannot recall the sunrise--"
"But the sunset can be as beautiful!"
"We are old," she said; but her voice had no conviction. As a matter of
fact, at that particular moment she felt she was eighteen.
"I deny it!" he laughed. He felt assured of victory. "Do I feel old?
Do you look old?--I can't vault a five-barred gate, but I can open it
and get on the other side just as quickly!"
She looked up at him with a wistful smile. "But--but there are other
things--"
"There is, above all, happiness! If we have no children of our own,
Lucy, we shall have our grandchildren."
"No!" she cried, rising, and shaking her head. "I have been too
persuasive. Marjolaine's love has been nipped in the bud. And besides,
Jack has run away from her."
"Not he, if I know the young rascal!" He took both her hands in his.
"You tell me Marjolaine is well and happy?"
"Yes; but hysterical. You saw for yourself, just now."
"Is she a flighty coquette?"
"Certainly not!"
"Then I 'll bet you a new hat--No! a diamond tiara!--she knows where
Jack is, and there 's an understanding between them!"
"Oh!" exclaimed Madame, as the possibility of this idea struck her.
"Lucy!" cried Lord Otford, drawing her to him, "both couples shall be
married on the same day!"
You have no idea how pretty Madame looked in her confusion and
happiness. You have no idea how young and handsome Lord Otford looked
in his victory. Love had set the clock back for both of them--and they
were young man and young maid again.
What had become of Madame's resentment? What had become of all the
arguments she had thought of when he first began to speak? His voice
had effaced them all. It was so natural to be loved by him and to love
him, that no other thing seemed possible. She had nothing to say. She
could only breathe a great sigh of contentment as he touched her: she
felt as if she had parted with him in the garden only last night; and
to-night he had come again; and all was as it should be; and all was
well.
But suddenly she started away from him.
"Jack!" she cried, with horror, "we shall have to tell them!"
"Oh, Lord!" exclaimed Otford with comic dismay.
"I can't face Marjolaine!" said Madame, with a pretty blush, which,
however, was wasted in the darkness.
"Jack'll roast me properly!" groaned Lord Otford.
"You see it's hopeless! We've been telling them how utterly impossible
their marriage is, and now we propose to get married ourselves! How they
'll laugh at us!"
"Let 'em!" cried Lord Otford. "By Gad, it shall be happy laughter!"
And therewith he drew Madame into his arms and kissed her; and I cannot
honestly say she resisted.
But they were interrupted by Doctor Sternroyd, who at that very moment
came stumbling out of his house. Also the Eyesore and Jim came round
the corner together, with their arms affectionately round each other's
necks and every symptom of having spent the larger part of Mrs.
Poskett's bribes. The Eyesore found his box with difficulty and sank on
it with relief. It was with a shaky hand he took up his rod and fell to
fishing again. Jim meandered deviously into the Admiral's house.
"Sh!" whispered Madame, warningly, as she saw the antiquary. She turned
to him with that preternatural calmness which ladies know so well how to
assume under such circumstances, and said, alluding to something he was
carrying in his hand, "Why, Doctor, are you fetching milk so late? I
can give you some."
"No, Ma'am," said the Doctor, with suppressed rage. "I am not seeking
the lacteal fluid. As you see me, I, the Reverend Jacob Sternroyd,
Doctor of Divinity and Fellow of the Society of Antiquaries, am on my
way to procure Ale!--" And with a face expressive of the utmost disgust
he held out a very diminutive white milk-jug.
"Oh!" said Madame, with a tinge of astonishment. Then, in order to
account for the presence of a stranger, she added, "This is Lord
Otford."
With a cry of "Good Heavens!" the conscience-stricken Doctor let the jug
fall. Happily it fell on the lawn and was not damaged.
With native courtesy Lord Otford picked it up and handed it to its
owner. "Allow me: your jug, I think." Then, as a sudden idea occurred
to him, "By the way, Doctor--" he cast a meaning glance at Madame--"can
you tell me anything about a marriage-licence?"
Madame looked down, with another very becoming blush: but the Doctor's
behaviour was quite extraordinary. He threw up his hands in guilty
despair. "I said so! I knew it would come out!--" He appealed to
Madame. "Miss Barbara told you!"
"Yes--but--" answered Madame, puzzled and astonished.
The Doctor continued rapidly, while the couple could only stare at him
in mute amazement.
"I wash my hands of it! Two whole days, one of which was the blessed
Sabbath, I have been up to my neck in cabals and intrigues! I have
done!--" He fumbled in his pockets and ultimately produced a
legal-looking document. "My Lord, it was very kind of you to approach
the subject so considerately, but here is what you ask for. His Grace
was very reluctant, but the pipe, which I now fear was not genuine, did
it." Then, as if he had unburdened himself of some oppressive load of
guilt, he cried, "Hah! My conscience is white again! I will tell the
young fire-brand!" And with that he hurried back into the house,
calling, "Jack! Jack!"
"But what is all this?" cried Lord Otford. He unfolded the paper and
took it under the lamp. As soon as he had read the first lines, he gave
a cry of amused surprise. "What do you say now, Lucy?"--Then he read
aloud, "John Sayle, of Pomander Walk, in the Parish of Chiswick,
bachelor, and Marjolaine Lachesnais, also of Pomander Walk, spinster--"
"Under our very noses!" exclaimed Madame, half vexed and half amused.
"And old Dryasdust has been harbouring Jack! And now he 's gone to tell
him!--Lucy, let's see what desperate thing they 'll do next. Come!" He
drew her gently into the Gazebo, and for a moment there was complete
silence in the Walk.
But suddenly this was shattered by a fierce outcry in Doctor Sternroyd's
passage. The door was flung open and the Doctor appeared, vainly trying
to bar Jack's way.
"But, my dear young friend--" the Doctor was protesting.
"Let me pass!" shouted Jack, livid, and thrusting his host aside. "For
five years I 've been a sailor, and I can't think of the words I want!"
"Dear, dear! Tut, tut!" said the Doctor; but he did not wait. The
conspiracy at any rate was off his mind. He retired into his house, and
carefully locked the door.
Jack rushed to Marjolaine's house and boldly performed a long rat-tat
with the brass knocker, muttering to himself all the time, "The old
fool! Oh, my stars! the silly old fool!"
Nanette appeared.
"Tell Miss Marjory that--" began Jack, violently.
"Plait-il?" said Nanette, impassively.
"Oh, hang!--Er--deet ah Madermerzell--"
But Marjolaine ran into the passage. "Jack!" she cried, much alarmed.
"Oh! What is it?"
"Come out! Come out!" cried Jack, seizing her hand and dragging her
hastily down the steps, to Nanette's horror and indignation.
"Ah, mais!" the latter exclaimed, "Ou est donc Madame?" and went in to
look for her.
Jack was incoherent. "Sternroyd!" he gasped. "He had the licence! Had
it! We were to be married to-morrow! And he 's gone and given it--to
whom do you think?--to my father!"
"Oh!" exclaimed poor Marjolaine, "then all is over!"
"No!" he cried, with magnificent determination. "All 's to begin again!
Take me to your mother. Then I 'll take you to my father."
Lord Otford and Madame Lachesnais had come out of the summer-house.
"That is what you should have done at first, sir!" said Lord Otford.
"Father!" cried Jack, amazed.
With a half-frightened cry of "Maman!" Marjolaine threw herself in her
mother's arms.
But Jack was not to be trifled with. He faced his father heroically.
"It's no use, sir! You can cut me off with a shilling, but I mean to
marry Marjory!"
Marjolaine was not to be outdone in courage. "Maman!" she said, with a
radiant face, "he came back; and I 'm going to marry him."