Gallantry. Dizain des Fetes Galantes

that I have tried to save her. I was not very much afraid. And it seemed the only way. So I came hither, my Lord, as you see me, to get back the letters before you, too, had come.'

'There is but one woman in the world,' the Duke said, quietly, 'for whom you would have done this thing. You and Marian were reared together. Always you have been inseparable, always you have been to each other as sisters. Is this not what you are about to tell me?'

'Yes,' she answered.

'Well, you may spare yourself the pains of such unprofitable lying. That Marian Heleigh should have been guilty of a vulgar liaison with, an actor is to me, who know her, unthinkable. No, madam! It was fear, not love, which drove you hither to-night, and now a baser terror urges you to screen yourself by vilifying her. The woman of whom you speak is yourself. The letters were written by you.'

She raised one arm as though a physical blow impended. 'No, no!' she cried.

'Madam,' the Duke said, 'let us have done with these dexterities. I have the vanity to believe I am not unreasonably obtuse—nor, I submit, unreasonably self-righteous. Love is a monstrous force, as irrational, I sometimes think, as the force of the thunderbolt; it appears neither to select nor to eschew, but merely to strike; and it is not my duty to asperse or to commend its victims. You have loved unworthily. From the bottom of my heart I pity you, and I would that you had trusted me—had trusted me enough—' His voice was not quite steady. 'Ah, my dear,' said Ormskirk, 'you should have confided all to me this afternoon. It hurts me that you did not, for I am no Pharisee and—God knows!—my own past is not immaculate. I would have understood, I think. Yet as it is, take back your letters, child,—nay, in Heaven's name, take them in pledge of an old man's love for Dorothy Allonby.'

The girl obeyed, turning them in her hands, the while that her eyes were riveted to Ormskirk's face. And in Aprilian fashion she began to smile through her tears. 'You are superb, my Lord Duke. You comprehend that Marian wrote these letters, and that if you read them—and I knew of it,—your pride would force you to break off the match, because your notions as to what is befitting in a Duchess of Ormskirk are precise. But you want Marian, you want her even more than I had feared. Therefore, you give me all these letters, because you know that I will destroy them, and thus an inconvenient knowledge will be spared you. Oh, beyond doubt, you are superb.'

'I give them to you,' Ormskirk answered, 'because I have seen through your cowardly and clumsy lie, and have only pity for a thing so base as you. I give them to you because to read one syllable of their contents would be to admit I had some faith in your preposterous fabrication.'

But she shook her head. 'Words, words, my Lord Duke! I understand you to the marrow. And, in part, I think that I admire you.'

He was angry now. 'Eh! for the love of God,' cried the Duke of Ormskirk, 'let us burn the accursed things and have no more verbiage!' He seized the papers and flung them into the fire.

Then these two watched the papers consume to ashes, and stood a while in silence, the gaze of neither lifting higher than the andirons; and presently there was a tapping at the door.

'That will be Benyon,' the Duke said, with careful modulations. 'Enter, man! What news is there of this Vanringham?'

'He will recover, your Grace, though he has lost much blood. Mr. Vanringham has regained consciousness and took occasion to whisper me your Grace would find the needful papers in his escritoire, in the brown despatch- box.'

'That is well,' the Duke retorted, 'You may go, Benyon.' And when the door had closed, he began, incuriously: 'Then you are not a murderess at least, Miss Allonby. At least—' He made a queer noise as he gazed, at the despatch-box in his hand. 'The brown box!' It fell to the floor. Ormskirk drew near to her, staring, moving stiffly like a hinged toy, 'I must have the truth,' he said, without a trace of any human passion. This was the Ormskirk men had known in Scotland.

'Yes,' she answered, 'they were the Jacobite papers. You burned them.'

'I!' said the Duke.

Presently he said: 'Do you not understand what this farce has cost? Thanks to you, I have no iota of proof against these men. I cannot touch these rebels. O madam, I pray Heaven that you have not by this night's trickery destroyed England!'

'I did it to save the man I love,' she proudly said.

'I had promised you his life.'

'But would you have kept that promise?'

'No,' he answered, simply.

'Then are we quits, my Lord. You lied to me, and I to you. Oh, I know that were I a man you would kill me within the moment. But you respect my womanhood. Ah, goodness!' the girl cried, shrilly, 'what very edifying respect for womanhood have you, who burned those papers because you believed my dearest Marian had stooped to a painted mountebank!'

'I burned them—yes, in the belief that I was saving you.'

She laughed in his face. 'You never believed that,—not for an instant.'

But by this time Ormskirk had regained his composure. 'The hour is somewhat late, and the discussion—if you will pardon the suggestion,—not likely to be profitable. The upshot of the whole matter is that I am now powerless to harm anybody—I submit the simile of the fangless snake,—and that Captain Audaine will have his release in the morning. Accordingly you will now permit me to wish you a pleasant night's rest. Benyon!' he called, 'you will escort Mr. Osric Allonby homeward. I remain to clear up this affair.'

He held open the door for her, and, bowing, stood aside that she might pass.

VIII

But afterward the great Duke of Ormskirk continued for a long while motionless and faintly smiling as he gazed into the fire. Tricked and ignominiously defeated! Ay, but that was a trifle now, scarcely worthy of consideration. The girl had hoodwinked him, had lied more skilfully than he, yet in the fact that she had lied he found a prodigal atonement. Whigs and Jacobites might have their uses in the cosmic scheme, he reflected, as house-flies have, but what really mattered was that at Halvergate yonder Marian awaited his coming. And in place of statecraft he fell to thinking of two hazel eyes and of abundant hair the color of a dead oak-leaf.

VI APRIL'S MESSAGE As Played at Halvergate House, April 9, 1750

'You cannot love, nor pleasure take, nor give,
But life begin when 'tis too late to live.
On a tired courser you pursue delight,
Let slip your morning, and set out at night.
If you have lived, take thankfully the past;
Make, as you can, the sweet remembrance last.
If you have not enjoyed what youth could give,
But life sunk through you, like a leaky sieve.'