CHAPTER III.
[THE RETURN OF THE PRODIGAL.]
About a fortnight after the arrival of the letter and the documents which caused such a profound sensation at Miss Traynor's, and while the elder and younger women were idling over the end of a very late breakfast, a hansom cab drew up sharply at the hall-door, and a man ran quickly up the steps and knocked briskly.
Marion knew who it was in a moment, and hastened out of the room. Her aunt thought she had, as in the careless old times, gone to open the door for him; but she had fled up to her own room and locked the door, and thrown herself on her knees beside her bed and burst into tears.
In the meantime Anne had opened the door, and when she saw who it was, quiet Anne, who rarely spoke beyond her business, exclaimed:
"Oh Mr. Cheyne, they will be glad to see you!"
"Have the goodness," said he soberly, "to tell Miss Traynor that the Duke of Shropshire would be glad of the honour of a few words with her."
"Yes, my lord," said Anne, curtsying profoundly, blushing deeply, and then running off with a great want of dignity into the sitting room. She left his grace standing in the sunken porch with as little ceremony as if he had been the man for the gas account.
"If you please, my lord, will you walk into the room?" said Anne from the back of the hall, not daring to go near a man who had been so awfully changed in a few days from a plain Mr. to one of the greatest lords, as her mistress had informed her.
As the visitor came up to where she stood, he said:
"Anne, your grace."
"I beg your pardon," faltered timid Anne, "I do not know what you mean."
"That in future you are to call me 'your grace,' and not 'Mr. Charlie,' or 'Mr. Cheyne,' or 'my lord.'"
"But--but, my lord, I--couldn't think of calling you anything so familiar."
"Very well, Anne, I will excuse you. And how are you, Anne?"
"Quite well, thank you, my lord."
"And not married yet, Anne,--my little Anne?"
"No, my lord."
"Ah well, the man is making an awful fool of himself, that it is all I have to say."
Anne ran upstairs and knocked at Marion's door. She was too full of her own surprise and awe to take into consideration the position of her young mistress. Marion rose from her knees and opened the door. Anne exclaimed:
"Oh, Miss May, Mr. Cheyne is below, and he's so changed I hardly knew him."
"Changed, Anne!" cried May eagerly; "is he looking ill?"
"Oh no, miss, he's looking better than ever; but he's so changed and dark and distant-like."
"Is that all?" said May, relapsing into her old sad forlorn manner. "No wonder; you know, Anne, he has had a wonderful change of fortune since we saw him last."
"Yes, miss, I know he has; but, miss, when I called him my lord, as in duty bound, he now being a great lord, he told me I must not call him 'lord,' but 'grace.' The last place I was in I had a fellow-servant called Grace, and I used to call her Grace; and wouldn't it seem very presuming on my part to call him Grace, as it might be after her? So I begged to be excused, and he excused me."
"But, Anne, he is a duke now, and a duke has a right to be called 'your grace.'"
In the meanwhile the Duke had entered the tiny sitting-room, and, having bowed profoundly to Miss Traynor, went over to her, and took her hand and pressed it respectfully, and then drew a chair opposite to the one in which she sat.
She noticed he was dressed in the same clothes as he wore when he was last in that house. "What could a duke mean by wearing old clothes?"
He began speaking immediately.
"My dear Miss Traynor, since I had the pleasure of seeing you last, most extraordinary events have occurred in my career, as, to some extent, you are aware. I left London less than three weeks ago with a most unmanly and barbarous intent. A combination of circumstances, old and new, had almost goaded me into madness, and I went on an expedition of revenge. I am glad to say that I was saved the penalty of my anger; for I was able to give help instead of doing injury when the opportunity for striking the blow came. As you know, the seventh Duke of Shropshire was drowned in that awful storm, and his only son, the Marquis of Southwold, was saved. The Marquis of Southwold, as a matter of course, became, while in a dying condition, eighth Duke of Shropshire. On the death of the eighth duke, a few days ago, I became a claimant to the peerage and all the estates, and so on; and the best lawyers say there is no chance of my claim being even disputed. So that virtually I am now a very rich man, an enormously rich man. Well, when I was poor I offered all I had then to Marion--my heart and hand. I am now rich, and immediately upon my arrival in London this morning I have come to offer what has been added to my store since--riches. As to the title, I daresay if the Queen said I was to be called Tim it would not make much difference in my nature or my feelings towards May; though, as a matter of fact, I'd rather not be called Tim. This little speech of mine. Miss Traynor, may sound like a passage from a book; but talking like a book saves time often."
Poor Miss Traynor broke down and wept like a child.
"I always told her she ought to be proud of you--always; but I never felt it so much as now."
"There now. Miss Traynor, don't distress yourself. We shall all be good friends."
It was some time before he could quiet her. When he had done so he begged that he might be allowed a few moments alone with Marion.
The aunt rang the bell, and, when Anne appeared, told the servant to ask Miss Durrant to come down to the front room, if she pleased.
Aunt and niece met in the doorway, but neither spoke. The aunt looked at the girl, but the eyes of the latter were on the ground.
When the door was closed the girl stood inside it motionless, with her head slightly drooped on one side and her eyes still lowered.
He went over and took her silently into his arms, and held her lightly there awhile and then kissed her lightly. Then he drew her a little closer to him and kissed her again, and put his lips near her ear, whispered into it words which, though old and familiar, are always new as the odours of old springs and old flowers in the new spring and new flowers.
At last she looked up into his face, and, reaching high, put her small hands on his shoulders, and sobbing out, "Oh Charlie!" hid her head upon him.
He carried her across the room and placed her in a chair, and soothed her until he had won her back to her old bright self. When he had accomplished this, he stood up, and bending seriously over her, said:
"And now. May, I have made a long speech to your aunt, and said a lot to you, and I want you to do me a great favour. Will you?"
"Anything, anything, Charlie."
"Well, I want you to bring me up a jug of that delicious cool beer and a couple of biscuits; and if you love me, don't be long. I am ready to fall down from exhaustion. When I have drunk and eaten, I will tell you everything."
She went from the room, and as she walked about the kitchen and the cellar, half forgetting what she came for, she could see nothing clearly for her happy tears.