The Duke's Sweetheart: A Romance

Nothing!

Ah, yes, there was one thing. One last thing.

The consciousness that something remained for her to do roused her, and she got up and bathed her flushed, miserable face, and took down her little writing-case from its place on the shelf, and opened it on the dressing-table.

With deliberate hands she selected a sheet of paper, took up a pen, dipped it slowly into the ink, and wrote the address and date. Then she paused, bowed her head on her arm, and remained motionless. She was about to address her last letter to him. How should she begin it? Last month when she wrote she called him "My darling Charlie." That would not do now. And yet he was her darling more than ever. She never loved him so much as now. But she must not tell him so. She must let him think she had changed her mind, changed her heart towards him.

How should she begin?

She would set out without any formal beginning, and finish with no formal ending. She would say what she had to say without addressing him by name, and then just put her own name.

She waited a little while to think what she should say, and then wrote a few lines, and was surprised to find it so easy to dismiss finally all she held dear. She did not sigh or weep as she wrote, and nothing could be simpler or more direct than her words. They were:

"Ever since I heard of the great changes which have taken place with you of late, I have felt that all between us must be at an end. Even if I could bear the weight of your new position, I would not, and in any case I should be unworthy of the place. It is not you who have changed, but I. You must not write to me or come to me again. I will not see you if you call. I will not answer you if you write. I shall always have a most friendly feeling towards you, but we must not meet. If you do not want the ring you gave me, I should like to keep it in memory of you.

"Marion Durrant."

She finished the letter in a firm hand, and without any unusual effort. She wrote more as if she was putting down the words of someone else. When she spoke of keeping the ring, she never thought of looking at it. Indeed, she had forgotten it was on one of the fingers that held steady the sheet of paper on which she wrote. It seemed to her she was writing about another person's ring, and that in making the unusual request she was thinking of the person on whose behalf she wrote, and not of the foolish proprieties of the case.

When the letter was signed, she put it in an envelope. How should she address it? She had not directed an envelope to him since the wreck. All her notes and letters to him had gone under cover to Dr. Rowland. Still, she felt as if she was acting for another, and not for herself. And yet she could not write down his new title. No. For the last time, and out of regard to-to old times, she would address him as-as she had done before that day he went away on that journey which had changed her inward life and the outward look of all the world.

She always posted letters to him with her own hand. As soon as she had finished writing, she put on her hat and went downstairs. Her aunt was in the little breakfast-room as usual.

"I'm going to the post, aunt," said May, looking in from the doorway. "And I think I'll go for a short walk then."

"Is-is-" The woman paused. She did not like to say Charlie or Mr. Cheyne, and she could not yet bring herself to call him by his new name. "Is-is he going with you, or waiting for you? I hope all is pleasant between you. You are not looking very bright, Marion."

"I feel a little tired, that is all. The stir will do me good. Have you any letter for post, aunt?"

"You have not quarrelled? There is something wrong with you. I hope no difference has come between you?"

Miss Traynor's old views with regard to caste had not been changed in the least, but they had been placed in abeyance. It was not now a question of preordination. She knew Marion loved him better than all else on earth, and she loved Marion, and only Marion. It was therefore no longer an abstract question. The matter now concerned her darling girl, her only care, her only hope, her only joy, the one lamp that illumined the downward way of her life.

She need not think of him as a duke; she need think of him as Charles Cheyne only. He should be nothing more than that to her, if he might be everything else he had been to her darling Marion. She could not originate or adopt a new theory on the subject of caste, but she could hold her old one at arm's length when it threatened the happiness of the young girl round whose welfare all her hopes centered.

When Marion spoke, her voice was low, clear, and free from tremulousness.

"No, aunt, we have not quarrelled. A difference, without a quarrel, has come between us, but I have written a letter to him," holding it up; "and this will make it all right" – she added mentally-"for him."

"I am glad, my darling, there is no quarrel. Of course we must all have our differences, but need not have any quarrels. I wonder, if I asked him, would he come and dine with us to-morrow?"

"I am afraid he would not. I think you had better not write."

As she said these words, she went out of the room.

"I fear there is something more than a difference between them," thought Miss Traynor, as the door closed upon the girl.

Holding the letter in her hand, Marion went out into the bright warm weather. The post-pillar, in which she had posted every line she had ever written to him, was at the end of the street. She walked down listlessly to the end of the street, mechanically raised her hand to the hole, and dropped the letter in.

It had no sooner escaped her fingers, and fallen with a hollow rattle down the pillar, than she shuddered; made a convulsive clutch at the mouth of the pillar, as though to snatch it back, then drew her figure together and hurried away.

She walked on until she found herself in Hyde Park. She went west, thinking of nothing, feeling nothing but a dead numbed sensation at her heart. She passed into Kensington Gardens, and there, selecting a quiet retired seat under the trees, sat down.

It was better here in the bright clear air, than in the small house, where she could not get away from her aunt's questioning face. Yet that questioning face would have to be answered some time. And what would the answer be?

All at once, as she put this question to herself, the full effect of that letter rushed in upon her mind.

What! was it all over? Had the simple act of dropping that letter into the pillar put an end for ever to all that had been between her and Charlie?

Was it all over now? All over, as though it never had been, except that there was the tormenting memory of the pleasant hours and dreams that had been, all the delicious sense of protection and companionship now withdrawn. Oh, blank indeed had life become! That small act of dropping those few lines into the pillar had cut her off for ever from him. She could not get her letter back-she could not now withdraw her words. If she had only waited until now! If she had only kept that letter by her until now, for an hour! There had been no need to post it so soon. If she had kept it till night, and then posted it, he would have received it next morning. That would have been time enough. She had loved him so long she might have waited a few hours longer. Oh, it was hard, hard, hard to give up all she had set her heart upon!

The tears ran down her face, and she sobbed quietly for awhile before she turned homeward.

That day she avoided her aunt as much as possible, and would not speak any more about the position of affairs between her and him. She had a headache, and went to her room and lay down for awhile.

She could not sleep. She wept, and lay thinking of all that had been, and of that letter. It was broad daylight still when she got up. She thought the whole thing over again, and having come to the conclusion once more that she had done right, that she would not recall that letter if she could, and that her only chance of keeping her resolution was not to see him any more, she made up her mind to go away from home, and leave no trace of whither she had gone behind her. Then she opened her writing-case once more, wrote a few lines to her aunt, and went out.

CHAPTER V.

THE GLORIOUS PRIVILEGE

When the Duke of Shropshire left Miss Traynor's house in Tenby Terrace, Knightsbridge, he had the remainder of the afternoon at his disposal. None of the men he had invited would be at his place until nine o'clock. He had no plan for getting rid of the intervening time. When he set out for Tenby Terrace, he had intended staying longer with Marion, but in the mood he then found her, he considered it better not to remain long. He thought the great suddenness of the change had overcome her, and that a few hours to herself would be the best thing for her.

With regard to himself, he could not fully realise the difference recent events had made in his fate. He was now almost as well as he had been when he set out from London to Silverview. He had been detained in the country a few days beyond those necessary for the safety of his health; and his fine constitution, aided by the good air and the marvellous alteration in his fortune, had done wonders towards restoring him to his old fine physical condition.

Macklin and Dowell had promised that he should have little or no trouble in establishing his claim, and they backed their promise by placing their banking account, specially increased for the purpose, at his service. Each member of the firm had been down with him at Silverview, and the only trouble from which each seemed to suffer was the mere fear that he might in some way be inconvenienced.

The lawyers and all the servants at the Castle had been calling him "your grace" for many days; and although the title bestowed upon him by his old companions had protected him from shock in finding himself so addressed, he felt very uncomfortable and ill at ease. He had, while at Silverview, left strict word that he could see no one except those with whom he had made an appointment by letter. But although no unauthorised person was allowed past the lodges, the greatness of his position was continually thrust upon him as soon as he was able to move about, by the bowing servants in the house and the uncovered workmen out of doors.

Although the gates of the demesne were carefully guarded, the castle-fortress was not impregnable. Through the post the new Duke was assailed day and night. After the newspapers had announced his succession to the property and title, he was inundated with letters from people and societies he had hitherto not heard of. The first intimation he received that the outer world knew anything of his altered circumstances, was from a circular about a voice lozenge, without which, it would appear, no public speakers could, with any chance of success, address an audience. Every member of the Houses of Lords and Commons was ready to bear enthusiastic testimony to the efficacy of these lozenges. The word "Lords" was underlined, and the circular was accompanied by two of the wonderful lozenges, and a manuscript request that his grace would give them an early trial.

"If I were a prima donna, getting a hundred a night for singing, they could not show a greater anxiety about my voice," said the Duke to Rowland.

"But you get ten times more for your silence than any prima donna ever got for her singing," said Rowland.

This set the Duke thinking.

Then came a hundred formal well and ill spelled letters from all kinds of people who had been in the employment of the old Duke, and wished to serve under the new one, and from those who had not served before, but were anxious to be of assistance to the family now. All the servants wanted instructions, and the new peer did not know how to give any instructions. Part of this business he handed over to the Silverview steward, and part to his lawyers, Macklin and Dowell.

He was obliged to give long interviews to the agents of the various estates; for although his claim to the title and property had not yet been legally confirmed, everyone connected with the property treated him as though he were in full possession.

From all kinds of charitable and pious bodies and institutions, and from all kinds of private people, begging letters came in showers upon him. On one day no fewer than four hundred letters were delivered at the Castle; upwards of three hundred of which were from unknown people, asking assistance of one kind or another.

Some of these people who asked aid for what seemed to them meritorious purposes, had sought to force their way through the lodge-gates, and one lady of more perseverance than good taste had bribed a child of one of the lodge-keepers to open a wicket and let her into the grounds. This occurred when the new owner of Silverview was able to take exercise in the grounds. He saw her before any of the servants about the place. She came up to him, and, not knowing who he was, asked him how she was to obtain an interview with the Duke.

"May I ask," said he, with a smile, "what you want to see him about? You know, I suppose, that he sees nobody?"

"Oh yes, I know that," answered the lady, looking up into his face. She was small and had dark hair and eyes. He thought she was about the same size as Marion. "But I got in by fraud, and I hope you will help me if you can, to see his grace. You have some authority here?" she asked.

She was not nearly so bright or so pretty as Marion, but she reminded him strongly of her. He was now thinking of the little house in Tenby Terrace, and wishing to be there. He answered gravely:

"Yes, I have some influence here."

"Then, like a good Christian, get me just a few minutes with the Duke. You will be doing an act of charity, you will indeed. I have come here to beg in the interest of a most worthy charity. It is for the purpose of keeping up the Barnardstown Home for Decayed Spinsters."

He smiled again, thinking how far Marion would be removed from the condition of a decayed spinster.

"If you go to the Castle now you will most certainly not see the Duke there. The orders are very strict that no one is to be admitted, and I am sure you would have no chance of seeing him there. But if you give me any message, I promise it shall reach him as though you had seen him yourself."

"Perhaps," she said vivaciously, "you are the Duke yourself."

"I am," he said simply; "I am the Duke." He felt glad that the first person of the outside world who knew him as the Duke, should have reminded him of Marion. "If you give me your name and address, you may count on a subscription from me, on one condition."

"And what is the condition, your grace?"

"That you say nothing about this meeting; for if you did, the place would so swarm with good people like yourself, that we should have to fly. Stay, I'll enlist you in my defence. I will give you a subscription every year. I have promised you the subscription with a condition, and I will impose no fresh condition now. But if between this and the time I leave the Castle for town, no one else gets into the grounds, I'll give you a donation as well as a subscription."

He had spoken playfully, and she laughed.

"If that is so, I will paint your grace in the most atrocious colours."

"But that will be telling of our meeting."

"Oh no! I will paint as though from hearsay."

It pleased him greatly that the first promise he made of help to a benevolent object was made through one who reminded him of Marion.

All these little things had gradually accustomed him to the dignities which had lately fallen upon him, so that by the time he got to London, he neither blushed nor laughed on being called by his title or spoken to as his title demanded. Still there was much that was new and disturbing; and, before setting out for London, he resolved not to carry up his title with him, except among those from whom he could not hide it. One of the titles that went with the dukedom was Baron Ashington; and when he got to his hotel in London, he gave his name as Ashington, and was entered on the books as " – Ashington, Esq."

This day he had arrived in London was the first one of freedom he had enjoyed since the wreck. He was now staying at an hotel where they could have no suspicion of who he was. He had not given this address to anyone, and all letters were to be forwarded to him at his lawyers'. He was free to go where he liked-do what he chose.

In the old days he should have thought himself fortunate if he could afford five shillings a day for pocket-money; now he had in his pocket two hundred pounds, and at his hotel three hundred more. He had not yet opened a bank account, but he drew on Macklin and Dowell for any money he wanted.

He had known what the want of money was. He had often been obliged to walk to offices with his MSS., for want of pence to buy postage-stamps for them. He had been without tobacco, without a dinner, without the means of getting his shoes mended. Now here he was in this rich fine weather, with the sense of strength in his limbs, and the feeling of youth in his heart, and the consciousness of money in his pocket. In his poor days, one of the things he most yearned for was travel. Now the four ends of the world lay open to him, with every comfort and luxury of each.

He found himself in Regent Street. He lit a cigar. The day was very warm. The cigar was excellent. He was in the finest humour. He looked at the carriages whirling by. He counted a score of coronets, but not one had the eight strawberry leaves. He saw one with four leaves and four pearls round the band, and six with four leaves round the band and four pearls supported on pyramids. These were the carriages of a marquis and six earls; the other coronets belonged to barons. And he who had lately wanted a smoke, a dinner, a pair of shoes, had now, in all likelihood, an income as great as the whole twenty peers put together. It was incredible! incredible!

He looked away from the carriages to the shop-windows. Any of these things exposed for sale were his if he willed it so. There was not one single article from end to end of the street which he could not have for raising his finger.

Not a soul in Regent Street knew him. None of his friends ever came that way. Journalists seldom get west of Charing Cross, unless they happen to live at the aristocratic side of St. Martin's Lane. He was to see all his old friends that night at Long Acre, and he had seen May, and now he was enjoying for the first time the pleasure of an incognito. He had not ever been well enough off to keep an account in Regent Street, and consequently there was no chance of the shop-people recognising him.

As he passed the various windows dear to ladies, he thought how he and May would stroll up this street some day soon-to-morrow or the day after-and she should select any things she liked, and he would have them sent home. Even now, as he walked, he fancied she was on his arm, and that he was drawing her attention to all the pretty and rich things.

For one moment he never felt his altered circumstances made any difference between her and him. He was no better now than ever he had been, and she was no worse. He had never loved anyone but her, and he had no intention of giving up any of his love for her, because he was now a rich man with a fine title. Of old he had, in his talk, been familiar with dukes, and thought them very wonderful beings. Since then he had seen and spoken to two dukes, and had become one himself. The latter fact ruined dukes for ever in his mind. If they could make a duke out of a newspaper and publisher's hack, the standard for dukes must not be very high.

He did not know what to do with himself. It was now four o'clock, and he had eaten nothing since breakfast, except the biscuits at Tenby Terrace. He did not care to do anything particular. It was sufficiently delightful to stroll about old familiar London, and look at the old things through the glass of his new fortune. He felt "the glorious privilege of being independent." He might hail a cab and be driven to Shropshire House, one of the most splendid dwelling-places in London. He might drive to any of the stations of the great railways, and be carried at the rate of forty miles an hour towards one of his country-seats. He might drive to London Bridge or the Docks, and there take passage for almost any land under the sun. Ay, that would not be a bad notion. Why not get into a cab, drive to London Bridge, take a steamboat to Greenwich, and come back by land? He had often done this before, and the excursion would be well within his present means!

He called a passing hansom and got in. In the old days he always thought a good many times before he took a cab. In fact he thought so often that he rarely took one. He got out at London Bridge and took the boat to Greenwich.

He took a seat and looked at the motley crowd around him. He sat between a private soldier and a young girl who looked like a poor milliner. Opposite him was a working-man, with a short clay pipe in his mouth, fast asleep. Forward of the sleeping man was a comely matron, with a rosy child at her side; and aft of the sleeping man was a nondescript long-shore man, half clerk, half tout, whole rogue.

What should he do when he reached Greenwich? Get something to eat at The Ship? Ay, that would be very good. The fresh air of the river cooled him, and he felt the gratifying assurance that when he got to The Ship he should be in a condition to dispose of a nice little dinner in a thoroughly workmanlike manner.

Was this the first time a duke had gone from London Bridge to Greenwich on the fore-deck of a steamboat? (He was smoking still; and no smoking is "allowed abaft the funnel.") He thought it most likely. Would this poor young milliner rather sit beside him or beside that fine young soldier? And what would that poor young milliner think if she knew she was sitting by the side of a real duke, who had a great desire to put his arm round the owner of that pallid face and limp figure, and support her in a fatherly way until they came to their journey's end?

"Will you allow me to offer you a cigar?" said the Duke to the soldier.

"Very much obliged to you, I'm sure, sir," said the soldier, taking one.

"Are you stationed down the river? A light? Here, strike it on the box."

"Thank you. No, sir. I am not stationed down the river. I am going down to see some friends at Greenwich."

"Lady friends, I have no doubt?" said the Duke, with a good-natured smile. The soldier was a fine honest-looking young fellow, and it pleased the Duke to think he had a sweetheart down at Greenwich, who would be glad to see him when he got there, as May was glad to see another person when that person got to Tenby Terrace.

"It's my mother and sister, sir. My mother is sixty-five years of age."

"Ah!" said the Duke, thinking of the poor, young, helpless, deserted mother who bore himself, and who died in an alien land years and years ago.

"Yes, sir. She's an old woman, and I'm going down to see her, and I don't count on seeing her. My sister writes to say the doctor says she can't hold out another few days."

"I am sorry to hear that, I am indeed. And do you think there is no hope?"

"There is no hope, sir. She has been bad a long time, and the doctor said all along she'd never be up and about again."

"Poor old soul!" said the Duke sympathetically. "Now," thought he, "the thing is, would this young soldier resent my offering him a present of a fiver? I am afraid he would. He looks as if he were a lad of the right sort, and I must not even run the chance of offending him. No, no; I mustn't offer him money." He paused awhile in thought, and then spoke:

"By-the-way, did you ever hear of a society called the Soldiers' Kith and Kin Society?"

"No, sir."

"Well, it is a very good society. I would strongly recommend you to join it. You're a young man, and you ought to be a member of it. I am connected with it, and if you will be so kind as to give me your name and the name of where you are quartered, I'll send you some information about the society, and then you can make up your mind about joining it or not."

The young soldier pulled his sister's letter out of the bosom of his jacket, and handed the envelope to the Duke.

"That's where I am quartered; and if you please to send the thing there, I'll get it."