It was the face of one who lived in the past, and could find no pleasure in the present; and the expression in his eyes was that of the man to whom the gods have given everything but the one thing his heart desired.
As he leaned against the side, with his hands in his pockets, his yacht cap tilted over his eyes, he pondered on the vanity of human wishes.
Here he was, the Earl of Anglemere, owner of an historic title, the master of all the Angleford estates and wealth. Almost every man who heard his name envied him—some doubtless hated him—because of his wealth and rank. And yet he would have given it all if by so doing he could have been the "Drake Vernon" who had been loved by a certain Nell Lorton; and as he looked at the blue water, rippling in the sunlight round the stately yacht, his thoughts went back sadly to the Annie Laurie and its girl owner, and he sighed heavily.
He had intended to be absent from England for some years—perhaps forever, and even when the cable informing him of his uncle's death and his own succession to the title had reached him, he had clung to his resolution of remaining abroad, for when the news got to him his uncle had been long buried, and there seemed to him no need of his return. It was easier to forget, or to persuade himself that he forgot, Nell, while he was sailing from port to port, or shooting big game in the wild and desolate places of the earth, than it would be in England. If Nell had still been pledged to him, how differently he would have received this gift which the gods had bestowed on him! To have been able to go to her and say: "Nell, you will be the Countess of Angleford; take my hand, and let me show you the inheritance you will share with me!" That would have been a happiness which would have doubled and trebled the value of his title and estates. But now! Nell was no longer his; he had lost her, and, having lost her, all the good things which had fallen to him were of as little value as a Rubens to the blind, or a nocturne of Chopin to the deaf.
When the lawyers worried him he sent curt and evasive replies, telling them in so many words to do the best they could without him, and when Lady Angleford wrote, begging him to return and take up his duties, he answered with condolences on her loss, and vague assurances that he would be back—some time. Then she wrote again; the kind of letter a clever woman can write; the letter which, for all its gentleness, stings and irritates:
"Much as you may dislike it, much as it may interfere with your love of wandering, the fact remains that you are the Earl of Angleford, my dear Drake. And the Earl of Angleford has higher duties than ordinary men. The lawyers want you, the estate want you, the people—do you think they do not want you? And, most of all, I think, I want you. Do you remember our first meeting? It was thought that I had come between you and yours; but the fact that I have not done so, the consolation I find in the thought, is made of no avail by your absence. You are too good a fellow to inflict pain upon a lonely and sorrow-stricken woman, Drake. Come back and take your place among your peers and your people. Sometimes I think there must be some reason, some mysterious cause, for your prolonged absence, your reluctance to take up the duties and responsibilities of the position which has fallen to you; but if there should be, I beg of you to forget it, to set it aside. You are, you cannot help being, the Earl of Angleford. Come and play your part like a man."
It was the kind of letter which few men, certainly not Drake, could resist. Wondering bitterly whether she guessed at the reason, the cause of his reluctance to return to England, to take up the purple and ermine which had fallen from her husband's shoulders, he wrote a short note saying that he would "come back." In a second letter he asked her to get Angleford ready for him, not dreaming that she would take his request as a carte blanche, and turn the old place inside out and make it fit, as she considered fitness, for its new lord and master.
As the Seagull glided to her moorings, his expression grew harder and sterner. He was a man of the world, and he knew what would be expected of him. An earl, the owner of an historic title and vast estates, has a paramount duty—that of providing an heir to his title and lands.
Now that he had come back, he would be expected, would be hustled and goaded into marrying. Marrying! He swore under his breath, and began to pace up and down restlessly, so that Mr. Murphy, the yacht's master, thinking that his lordship was in a hurry to land, bustled the crew a bit. But when the dingy was lowered and the man-o'-warlike sailors were in their places, their lord and master lingered, for he was loath to leave the Seagull. How many nights had he paced her deck, thinking of Nell, calling up the vision of the clear, oval face, the soft, dark hair, the eyes that had grown violet-hued as they turned lovingly to him. That vision had sailed with him through many a stormy and sunlit sea, and he was loath to part with it. On shore, there he would have to plunge into his "duties," would have to sign leases, and read deeds, and listen to stewards and agents. There would be little time to think, to dream of Nell.