'twas torment. So she died very slowly, did Alison,—and always I was at hand with my kisses, my pet names, and my paddlings,—killing her, you observe, always urging her graveward. Yes, and yet there is nothing in these letters to show how much she must have loathed me!' he said, in a mild sort of wonder. He appeared senile now, the shrunken and calamitous shell of the man he had been within the moment.
The Duke of Ormskirk put an arm about him. 'Old friend, old friend!' said he.
'Why did you not tell me?' the Earl said. 'I loved you, Jack. I worshipped her. I would never willingly have seen you two unhappy.'
'Her parents would have done as you planned to do,—they would have given their daughter to the next richest suitor. I was nobody then. So the wisdom of the aged slew us, Harry,—slew Alison utterly, and left me with a living body, indeed, but with little more. I do not say that body has not amused itself. Yet I too, loved her, Harry Heleigh. And when I saw this new Alison—for Marian is her mother, face, heart, and soul,—why, some wraith of emotion stirred in me, some thrill, some not quite forgotten pulse. It seemed Alison come back from the grave. Love did not reawaken, for youth's fervor was gone out of me, yet presently I fell a-dreaming over my Madeira on long winter evenings,—sedate and tranquil dreams of this new Alison flitting about Ingilby, making the splendid, desolate place into a home. Am old man's fancies, Harry,—fancies bred of my loneliness, for I am lonely nowadays. But my dreams, I find, were not sufficiently comprehensive; for they did not anticipate April,—and nature,—and Lord Humphrey Degge. We must yield to that triumvirate, we sensible old men. Nay, we are wise as the world goes, but we have learned, you and I, that to be sensible is not the highest wisdom. Marian is her mother in soul, heart, and feature. Don't let the old tragedy be repeated, Harry. Let her have this Degge! Let Marian have her chance of being happy, for a year or two….'
But Lord Brudenel had paid very little attention. 'I suppose so,' he said, when the Duke had ended. 'Oh, I suppose so. Jack, she was always kind and patient and gentle, you understand, but she used to shudder when I kissed her,' he repeated, dully,—'shudder, Jack.' He sat staring at his sword lying there on the ground, as though it fascinated him.
'Ah, but,—old friend,' the Duke cried, with his hand upon Lord Brudenel's shoulder, 'forgive me! It was the only way.'
Lord Brudenel rose to his feet. 'Oh, yes! why, yes, I forgive you, if that is any particular comfort to you. It scarcely seems of any importance, though. The one thing which really matters is that I loved her, and I killed her. Oh, beyond doubt, I forgive you. But now that you have made my whole past a hideous stench to me, and have proven the love I was so proud of—the one quite clean, quite unselfish thing in my life, I thought it, Jack,—to have been only my lust vented on a defenceless woman,—why, just now, I have not time to think of forgiveness. Yes, Marian may marry Degge if she cares to. And I am sorry I took her mother away from you. I would not have done it if I had known.'
Brudenel started away drearily, but when he had gone a little distance turned back.
'And the point of it is,' he said, with a smile, 'that I shall go on living just as if nothing had happened, and shall probably live for a long, long time. My body is so confoundedly healthy. How the deuce did you have the courage to go on living?' he demanded, enviously. 'You loved her and you lost her. I'd have thought you would have killed yourself long ago.'
The Duke shrugged. 'Yes, people do that in books. In books they have such strong emotions—'
Then Ormskirk paused for a heart-beat, looking down into the gardens. Wonderfully virginal it all seemed to Ormskirk, that small portion of a world upon the brink of renaissance: a tessellation of clean colors, where the gravelled walkways were snow beneath the sun, and were in shadow transmuted to dim violet tints; and for the rest, green ranging from the sober foliage of yew and box and ilex to the pale glow of young grass In the full sunlight; all green, save where the lake shone, a sapphire green-girdled. Spring triumphed with a vaunting pageant. And in the forest, in the air, even in the unplumbed sea-depths, woke the mating impulse,—irresistible, borne as it might seem on the slow-rising tide of grass that now rippled about the world. Everywhere they were mating; everywhere glances allured and mouth met mouth, while John Bulmer went alone without any mate or intimacy with anyone.
Everywhere people were having emotions which Ormskirk envied. He had so few emotions nowadays. Even all this posturing and talk about Alison Heleigh in which he had just indulged began to savor somehow of play- acting. He had loved Alison, of course, and that which he had said was true enough—in a way,—but, after all, he had over-colored it. There had been in his life so many interesting matters, and so many other women too, that the loss of Alison could not be said to have blighted his existence quite satisfactorily. No, John Bulmer had again been playing at the big emotions which he heard about and coveted, just as at this very moment John Bulmer was playing at being sophisticated and
'A great deal of me did die,' the Duke heard this John Bulmer saying,—'all, I suppose, except my carcass, Harry. And it seemed hardly worth the trouble to butcher that also.'
'No,' Lord Brudenel conceded, 'I suppose not. I wonder, d'ye know, will anything ever again seem really worth the trouble of doing it?'
The Duke of Ormskirk took his arm. 'Fy, Harry, bid the daws seek their food elsewhere, for a gentleman may not wear his heart upon his sleeve. Empires crumble, and hearts break, and we are blessed or damned, as Fate elects; but through it all we find comfort in the reflection that dinner is good, and sleep, too, is excellent. As for the future—eh, well, if it mean little to us, it means a deal to Alison's daughter. Let us go to them, Harry.'
VII
IN THE SECOND APRIL
'This passion is in honest minds the strongest incentive that can move the soul of man to laudable accomplishments. Is a man just? Let him fall in love and grow generous. It immediately makes the good which is in him shine forth in new excellencies, and the ill vanish away without the pain of contrition, but with a sudden amendment of heart.'
DRAMATIS PERSONAE
DUKE OF ORMSKISK.
DUC DE PUYSANGE, a true Frenchman, a pert, railing fribble, but at bottom a man of parts.
MARQUIS DE SOYECOURT, a brisk, conceited rake, and distant cousin to de Puysange.
CAZAIO, captain of brigands.
DOM MICHEL FREGOSE, a lewd, rascally friar.
GUITON, steward to de Puysange.
PAWSEY, Ormskirk's man.
ACHON, a knave.
MICHAULT, another knave.
DUCHESSE DE PUYSANGE.
CLAIRE, sister to de Puysange, a woman of beauty and resolution, of a literal humor.
ATTENDANTS, BRIGANDS, and DRAGOONS; and, in the Proem, LORD HUMPHREY DEGGE and LADY MARIAN HELEIGH.
SCENE
First at Dover, thence shifting to Bellegarde-en-Poictesme and the adjacent country.
