He might not have grudged her the last word, had she properly needed
it. Its utter superfluity--the perfection of her victory without it--was
what galled him. Yes, she had outflanked him, taken him unawares, and he
had fired not one shot. Esprit de l’escalier--it was as he went upstairs
that he saw how he might yet have snatched from her, if not the victory,
the palm. Of course he ought to have laughed aloud--“Capital, capital!
You really do deserve to fool me. But ah, yours is a love that can’t be
dissembled. Never was man by maiden loved more ardently than I by you,
my poor girl, at this moment.”
And stay!--what if she really HAD been but pretending to have killed her
love? He paused on the threshold of his room. The sudden doubt made his
lost chance the more sickening. Yet was the doubt dear to him ... What
likelier, after all, than that she had been pretending? She had already
twitted him with his lack of intuition. He had not seen that she
loved him when she certainly did love him. He had needed the pearls’
demonstration of that.--The pearls! THEY would betray her. He darted to
the fender, and one of them he espied there instantly--white? A rather
flushed white, certainly. For the other he had to peer down. There it
lay, not very distinct on the hearth’s black-leading.
He turned away. He blamed himself for not dismissing from his mind the
hussy he had dismissed from his room. Oh for an ounce of civet and a
few poppies! The water-jug stood as a reminder of the hateful visit
and of... He took it hastily away into his bedroom. There he washed
his hands. The fact that he had touched Zuleika gave to this ablution a
symbolism that made it the more refreshing.
Civet, poppies? Was there not, at his call, a sweeter perfume, a
stronger anodyne? He rang the bell, almost caressingly.
His heart beat at sound of the clinking and rattling of the tray borne
up the stairs. She was coming, the girl who loved him, the girl whose
heart would be broken when he died. Yet, when the tray appeared in the
doorway, and she behind it, the tray took precedence of her in his soul
not less than in his sight. Twice, after an arduous morning, had his
luncheon been postponed, and the coming of it now made intolerable the
pangs of his hunger.
Also, while the girl laid the table-cloth, it occurred to him how
flimsy, after all, was the evidence that she loved him. Suppose she
did nothing of the kind! At the Junta, he had foreseen no difficulty in
asking her. Now he found himself a prey to embarrassment. He wondered
why. He had not failed in flow of gracious words to Nellie O’Mora. Well,
a miniature by Hoppner was one thing, a landlady’s live daughter was
another. At any rate, he must prime himself with food. He wished Mrs.
Batch had sent up something more calorific than cold salmon. He asked
her daughter what was to follow.
“There’s a pigeon-pie, your Grace.”
“Cold? Then please ask your mother to heat it in the oven--quickly.
Anything after that?”
“A custard pudding, your Grace.”
“Cold? Let this, too, be heated. And bring up a bottle of champagne,
please; and--and a bottle of port.”
His was a head that had always hitherto defied the grape. But he thought
that to-day, by all he had gone through, by all the shocks he had
suffered, and the strains he had steeled himself to bear, as well as by
the actual malady that gripped him, he might perchance have been sapped
enough to experience by reaction that cordial glow of which he had now
and again seen symptoms in his fellows.
Nor was he altogether disappointed of this hope. As the meal progressed,
and the last of the champagne sparkled in his glass, certain things
said to him by Zuleika--certain implied criticisms that had rankled,
yes--lost their power to discommode him. He was able to smile at the
impertinences of an angry woman, the tantrums of a tenth-rate conjurer
told to go away. He felt he had perhaps acted harshly. With all her
faults, she had adored him. Yes, he had been arbitrary. There seemed to
be a strain of brutality in his nature. Poor Zuleika! He was glad for
her that she had contrived to master her infatuation... Enough for him
that he was loved by this exquisite meek girl who had served him at the
feast. Anon, when he summoned her to clear the things away, he would bid
her tell him the tale of her lowly passion. He poured a second glass
of port, sipped it, quaffed it, poured a third. The grey gloom of the
weather did but, as he eyed the bottle, heighten his sense of the rich
sunshine so long ago imprisoned by the vintner and now released to make
glad his soul. Even so to be released was the love pent for him in the
heart of this sweet girl. Would that he loved her in return!... Why not?
“Prius insolentem
Serva Briseis niveo colore
Movit Achillem.”
Nor were it gracious to invite an avowal of love and offer none in
return. Yet, yet, expansive though his mood was, he could not pretend to
himself that he was about to feel in this girl’s presence anything but
gratitude. He might pretend to her? Deception were a very poor return
indeed for all her kindness. Besides, it might turn her head. Some small
token of his gratitude--some trinket by which to remember him--was all
that he could allow himself to offer... What trinket? Would she like
to have one of his scarf-pins? Studs? Still more abs--Ah! he had it, he
literally and most providentially had it, there, in the fender: a pair
of ear-rings!
He plucked the pink pearl and the black from where they lay, and rang
the bell.
His sense of dramatic propriety needed that the girl should, before he
addressed her, perform her task of clearing the table. If she had it
to perform after telling her love, and after receiving his gift and his
farewell, the bathos would be distressing for them both.
But, while he watched her at her task, he did wish she would be a little
quicker. For the glow in him seemed to be cooling momently. He wished
he had had more than three glasses from the crusted bottle which she was
putting away into the chiffonier. Down, doubt! Down, sense of disparity!
The moment was at hand. Would he let it slip? Now she was folding up the
table-cloth, now she was going.
“Stay!” he uttered. “I have something to say to you.” The girl turned to
him.
He forced his eyes to meet hers. “I understand,” he said in a
constrained voice, “that you regard me with sentiments of something more
than esteem.--Is this so?”
The girl had stepped quickly back, and her face was scarlet.
“Nay,” he said, having to go through with it now, “there is no cause for
embarrassment. And I am sure you will acquit me of wanton curiosity. Is
it a fact that you--love me?”
She tried to speak, could not. But she nodded her head.
The Duke, much relieved, came nearer to her.
“What is your name?” he asked gently.
“Katie,” she was able to gasp.
“Well, Katie, how long have you loved me?”
“Ever since,” she faltered, “ever since you came to engage the rooms.”
“You are not, of course, given to idolising any tenant of your
mother’s?”
“No.”
“May I boast myself the first possessor of your heart?”
“Yes.” She had become very pale now, and was trembling painfully.
“And may I assume that your love for me has been entirely
disinterested?... You do not catch my meaning? I will put my question in
another way. In loving me, you never supposed me likely to return your
love?”
The girl looked up at him quickly, but at once her eyelids fluttered
down again.
“Come, come!” said the Duke. “My question is a plain one. Did you ever
for an instant suppose, Katie, that I might come to love you?”
“No,” she said in a whisper; “I never dared to hope that.”
“Precisely,” said he. “You never imagined that you had anything to
gain by your affection. You were not contriving a trap for me. You were
upheld by no hope of becoming a young Duchess, with more frocks than
you could wear and more dross than you could scatter. I am glad. I
am touched. You are the first woman that has loved me in that way. Or
rather,” he muttered, “the first but one. And she... Answer me,” he
said, standing over the girl, and speaking with a great intensity. “If I
were to tell you that I loved you, would you cease to love me?”
“Oh your Grace!” cried the girl. “Why no! I never dared--”
“Enough!” he said. “The catechism is ended. I have something which I
should like to give you. Are your ears pierced?”
“Yes, your Grace.”
“Then, Katie, honour me by accepting this present.” So saying, he placed
in the girl’s hand the black pearl and the pink. The sight of them
banished for a moment all other emotions in their recipient. She forgot
herself. “Lor!” she said.
“I hope you will wear them always for my sake,” said the Duke.
She had expressed herself in the monosyllable. No words came to her
lips, but to her eyes many tears, through which the pearls were
visible. They whirled in her bewildered brain as a token that she was
loved--loved by HIM, though but yesterday he had loved another. It was
all so sudden, so beautiful. You might have knocked her down (she says
so to this day) with a feather. Seeing her agitation, the Duke pointed
to a chair, bade her be seated.
Her mind was cleared by the new posture. Suspicion crept into it,
followed by alarm. She looked at the ear-rings, then up at the Duke.
“No,” said he, misinterpreting the question in her eyes, “they are real
pearls.”
“It isn’t that,” she quavered, “it is--it is--”
“That they were given to me by Miss Dobson?”
“Oh, they were, were they? Then”--Katie rose, throwing the pearls on the
floor--“I’ll have nothing to do with them. I hate her.”
“So do I,” said the Duke, in a burst of confidence. “No, I don’t,” he
added hastily. “Please forget that I said that.”
It occurred to Katie that Miss Dobson would be ill-pleased that the
pearls should pass to her. She picked them up.
“Only--only--” again her doubts beset her and she looked from the pearls
to the Duke.
“Speak on,” he said.
“Oh you aren’t playing with me, are you? You don’t mean me harm, do you?
I have been well brought up. I have been warned against things. And it
seems so strange, what you have said to me. You are a Duke, and I--I am
only--”
“It is the privilege of nobility to condescend.”
“Yes, yes,” she cried. “I see. Oh I was wicked to doubt you. And love
levels all, doesn’t it? love and the Board school. Our stations are far
apart, but I’ve been educated far above mine. I’ve learnt more than most
real ladies have. I passed the Seventh Standard when I was only just
fourteen. I was considered one of the sharpest girls in the school. And
I’ve gone on learning since then,” she continued eagerly. “I utilise all
my spare moments. I’ve read twenty-seven of the Hundred Best Books. I
collect ferns. I play the piano, whenever...” She broke off, for she
remembered that her music was always interrupted by the ringing of the
Duke’s bell and a polite request that it should cease.
“I am glad to hear of these accomplishments. They do you great credit, I
am sure. But--well, I do not quite see why you enumerate them just now.”
“It isn’t that I am vain,” she pleaded. “I only mentioned them because
... oh, don’t you see? If I’m not ignorant, I shan’t disgrace you.
People won’t be so able to say you’ve been and thrown yourself away.”
“Thrown myself away? What do you mean?”
“Oh, they’ll make all sorts of objections, I know. They’ll all be
against me, and--”
“For heaven’s sake, explain yourself.”
“Your aunt, she looked a very proud lady--very high and hard. I thought
so when she came here last term. But you’re of age. You’re your own
master. Oh, I trust you; you’ll stand by me. If you love me really you
won’t listen to them.”
“Love you? I? Are you mad?”
Each stared at the other, utterly bewildered.
The girl was the first to break the silence. Her voice came in a
whisper. “You’ve not been playing a joke on me? You meant what you said,
didn’t you?”
“What have I said?”
“You said you loved me.”
“You must be dreaming.”
“I’m not. Here are the ear-rings you gave me.” She pinched them as
material proof. “You said you loved me just before you gave me them.
You know you did. And if I thought you’d been laughing at me all the
time--I’d--I’d”--a sob choked her voice--“I’d throw them in your face!”
“You must not speak to me in that manner,” said the Duke coldly. “And
let me warn you that this attempt to trap me and intimidate me--”
The girl had flung the ear-rings at his face. She had missed her mark.
But this did not extenuate the outrageous gesture. He pointed to the
door. “Go!” he said.
“Don’t try that on!” she laughed. “I shan’t go--not unless you drag
me out. And if you do that, I’ll raise the house. I’ll have in the
neighbours. I’ll tell them all what you’ve done, and--” But defiance
melted in the hot shame of humiliation. “Oh, you coward!” she gasped.
“You coward!” She caught her apron to her face and, swaying against the
wall, sobbed piteously.
Unaccustomed to love-affairs, the Duke could not sail lightly over a
flood of woman’s tears. He was filled with pity for the poor quivering
figure against the wall. How should he soothe her? Mechanically he
picked up the two pearls from the carpet, and crossed to her side. He
touched her on the shoulder. She shuddered away from him.
“Don’t,” he said gently. “Don’t cry. I can’t bear it. I have been stupid
and thoughtless. What did you say your name was? ‘Katie,’ to be sure.
Well, Katie, I want to beg your pardon. I expressed myself badly. I was
unhappy and lonely, and I saw in you a means of comfort. I snatched
at you, Katie, as at a straw. And then, I suppose, I must have said
something which made you think I loved you. I almost wish I did. I don’t
wonder you threw the ear-rings at me. I--I almost wish they had hit
me... You see, I have quite forgiven you. Now do you forgive me. You
will not refuse now to wear the ear-rings. I gave them to you as a
keepsake. Wear them always in memory of me. For you will never see me
again.”
The girl had ceased from crying, and her anger had spent itself in sobs.
She was gazing at him woebegone but composed.
“Where are you going?”
“You must not ask that,” said he. “Enough that my wings are spread.”
“Are you going because of ME?”
“Not in the least. Indeed, your devotion is one of the things which make
bitter my departure. And yet--I am glad you love me.”
“Don’t go,” she faltered. He came nearer to her, and this time she did
not shrink from him. “Don’t you find the rooms comfortable?” she asked,
gazing up at him. “Have you ever had any complaint to make about the
attendance?”
“No,” said the Duke, “the attendance has always been quite satisfactory.
I have never felt that so keenly as I do to-day.”
“Then why are you leaving? Why are you breaking my heart?”
“Suffice it that I cannot do otherwise. Henceforth you will see me no
more. But I doubt not that in the cultivation of my memory you will find
some sort of lugubrious satisfaction. See! here are the ear-rings. If
you like, I will put them in with my own hands.”
She held up her face side-ways. Into the lobe of her left ear he
insinuated the hook of the black pearl. On the cheek upturned to him
there were still traces of tears; the eyelashes were still spangled. For
all her blondness, they were quite dark, these glistening eyelashes. He
had an impulse, which he put from him. “Now the other ear,” he said. The
girl turned her head. Soon the pink pearl was in its place. Yet the girl
did not move. She seemed to be waiting. Nor did the Duke himself seem to
be quite satisfied. He let his fingers dally with the pearl. Anon, with
a sigh, he withdrew them. The girl looked up. Their eyes met. He looked
away from her. He turned away from her. “You may kiss my hand,” he
murmured, extending it towards her. After a pause, the warm pressure
of her lips was laid on it. He sighed, but did not look round. Another
pause, a longer pause, and then the clatter and clink of the outgoing
tray.