CHAPTER IV.
[THE IMPENDING CORONET.]
The visitor drank a glass of the beer at a draught, broke and eat a biscuit with great deliberateness, and then bending forward solemnly over May, who sat on a low chair at his side, said:
"I have just been paying a visit to my grandmother at Wyechester, and a very stately and formal reception it was. How do you feel, Duchess?"
"Oh no, no, no! Don't say that, Charlie! For mercy's sake don't say that!" she cried piteously, covering her face with her hands, and dropping her head forward.
"What on earth is the matter, May?" he asked tenderly. He placed his hand on the rich brown hair of the bent head.
"I am terrified! Oh, I am terrified at that--at the thought that you are now--that you have become so rich; and still more, that other awful, awful thing!" she cried.
"What! The title? Why many women would give their right hands for it," he said, in a tone half soothing, half jocose.
"I hate it! I hate it!" she sobbed passionately. "I'd rather I was dead! I would indeed. Oh, oh, oh!" She sobbed and swayed herself to and fro.
"In the name of wonder, what am I to do? I can't get rid of it," he said, in a whimsical tone of voice, as he stroked her hair. "You know, May, the thing was not of my seeking. It was thrust upon me. I had no more notion it was coming than you had. I had no more notion I was related to those great Cheynes than you had. What am I to do? I don't know how to get rid of it. There is only one way, and that is, to commit high treason and get attainted; but in that case they take away one's head when they take away one's title. Of course, I shall no longer need what is inside my head, now that I am rich; still I am not sure that the treason would be a success. Can you suggest nothing that I could do, May?"
"No; nothing. But it is dreadful! Oh, so dreadful!"
He now saw that she was much more seriously distressed than he had at first imagined, and that her uneasiness could not be dispelled by badinage. He drew his chair as near as he could to hers, and taking one of her hands down from her face, held it in both his, and said, in a deep grave voice:
"May darling, I will not have you fret about this thing. It cannot be helped now, and we must only try and accommodate ourselves to circumstances in the best way we can. I'll tell you what I propose; that first all this legal business shall be disposed of, and that when I am getting near the end of that business you go over to Paris with your aunt, and that when I have taken the oath in the House I slip over quietly to Paris, and we get married at the Embassy there. We can then knock about the Continent for a year or two, until the town and country are done talking about us, and then come home, stay quietly for awhile at one of our country places before coming up to our house in Piccadilly, What do you think of that, darling?" He pressed her hand and raised it to his lips.
What did she think of that? It was worse and worse. Every word he said made it seem more dismal and hopeless. He was to go into the House of Lords, and she was to be married at the ambassador's in Paris. She was to stay at one of their country houses--stay there for awhile before coming up to their house in Piccadilly. Oh, it would never, never, do! She could not bear it! She was not suited to any such position. How cruel--how piteously cruel Fate was with her!
All she said was: "I cannot think of it now. I cannot think of it now. Do not ask me."
He saw that for the present it was useless to urge her further, and therefore changed the subject.
"You must know. May, that while I was in the doctor's books in the country--by-the-way, I had a most extraordinary doctor; I'll tell you more of him another time--I made up my mind to celebrate my return to town by spending part of my first day in London with you, and giving a supper to a lot of old pals in my old diggings in Long Acre."
She took down her hand from her face, and sat back in her chair.
"May, you are very pale? Are you unwell?"
"No; I am quite well. Shall you have many at the supper?"
"No; not very many. A dozen or so. Just the old fellows who knew me, and whom I liked when--I mean whom I have always liked." He had been near alluding to the great change, but had stopped in time. Then he gave her the names of those he expected. She knew of them all, and brightened up a little as he went on with his descriptive catalogue of his guests. At length he came to little Porson, the novelist and journalist.
"Little Porson, too, will be there. You know little Porson? Well, no, but I have told you of him. He's a dapper, mild, conceited fellow, with the best heart and the most infernally restless tongue in the world. He has just got out a new novel. It's called 'A Maid of Chelsea,' and is doing very well, I believe. By-the-way, I have had a most polite letter from Blantyre and Ferguson, the firm that published my book. They say that of late the demand for the novel has been so great as to warrant them in getting out, in three volumes, a new edition four times as large as the first. Think of that!"
She looked up brightly, and cried: "Oh, Charlie, that is good news!"
"I should have thought it great news a month ago, but it does not make much difference now."
"Ah, I forgot," she said sadly. All the light left her face suddenly, and during the rest of the time they were together that day she never called him Charlie again.
When he left she went, up to her own room, feeling wretched, and cold, and broken-hearted. She locked herself in once more, and drew down the blind.
Ah, what a change! What an awful change! Not in him; there was no change in his kind nature. And yet there was a change. Of old he thought and spoke of two only things; he seemed to have had only two things to think of--his work and herself.
Now he had to think of the House of Lords, for he was a great lord; and of foreign cities, for he was rich and must travel; and of business of vast importance, for he owned wide tracts of land, with castles, and villages, and towns. By the side of all these things how wretchedly insignificant she seemed! In their presence she was dwarfed into nothing. She could not recognise herself, and surely he could not recognise her. She would be invisible to him, unless, indeed, she happened to be in his way.
Yes, in so far as she might be anything to him, she should be in his way. He was a strong man, who knew the world and was very clever. He would take his place among all these great things naturally. He would be invited to assist in the government of the country, and in course of time add the dignities and honours his intellect would bring him to those he had just inherited. By the side of a man in such a career was not the place for such as she.
Her aunt had always said one should keep in the sphere of life into which one was born, and now the justice of this saying was plain; nothing could be plainer. If he had not come into this thing, if his book had been a success while he was still simple Mr. Cheyne, and if he had got on as a writer, and became famous and rich, she would willingly share his triumph and prosperity with him. In that case all would come gently, softly. Even if he had leaped into fame and fortune it would be no more than they had been dreaming about, hoping for. But in the present case an intolerable burden had been thrust upon her shoulders. She could not, she would not, bear it.
No. She would never marry. Never. She could never marry anyone but him, and now he had been taken from her as much as though the grave had opened and swallowed him. She should only be in his way. He had always been heir to the honours which had now come upon him, and no doubt her aunt had always been right in saying that people were born to high state, although at their birth, and for some time after, it might seem they had been intended for humbler places. Was not the present a case in point? Here was he perfectly at his ease about the new position into which he had come, to which he had been born, but of which he knew nothing until a few days ago. Here was she overwhelmed, appalled by the mere thought of the honours and responsibilities. Why? Why was she so frightened by the phantoms of things which he took as easily as the ordinary events of everyday life? Because he had been born to them, and she had not. Nothing could be plainer. Ah, nothing!
No, she would never marry anyone now. He should marry; marry a lady born; marry one whose whole life had been spent among such things as were to surround him all the days of his life. He should marry someone who was not only accustomed to such things, but who expected their presence always, and would feel uncomfortable if they were withdrawn from her. He should marry such a wife and be happy, and she herself would be happy, knowing she had done her duty by him in refusing to marry him.
Her duty, ay; but what of her love?
Then she threw herself on her bed and sobbed passionately.
Her love! Was all her love for him to count as nothing in this bitter case? Were all her hopes and dreams to vanish? She had been faithful to him with her whole nature; she would be faithful to him until her death. But had the end of all come so soon? So soon, that the end had come while she was only picturing to herself the beginning? Had the love-chambers of her heart to be locked for ever upon merely an image? Were all the sweet thoughts of the future which used to haunt her to fade away for ever? Should she never minister to him, or cheer him, or help him? Of old he had said she should read his proofs to him, for the ear is quicker to catch an error or an unhappy phrase than the writer's eyes. Should she not share his troubles and hear his plans? She had a little money, and he was able to make a little. In the old days their united incomes seemed enough for a quiet pair to start on. Now he would hardly miss their joint incomes multiplied a hundred times. All was over with her. Come, night and darkness! Come, oh grave, for life was over!
Then for a long time she lay and sobbed as though her heart would break. No thoughts were clearly defined to her. She simply felt the great woe around her like a choking mist. There was hope nowhere. Her life was over. There was nothing for her to do.
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.