The Duke bade them all adieu and passed out into the garden, where its wild beauties attracted his eye. He wandered about, forgetting, in his admiration for the flowers, his daughter, who had lingered behind for one last farewell word—alone.
“And so, Mr. Burns,” she said thoughtfully, looking after Jean’s retreating figure, “you have never regretted taking the step that bound your life to that of Jean Armour’s? Regretted doing your duty?” There was a note of regret in the vibrating voice.
“Never, my lady,” he replied firmly. “It was the only really good thing I have ever done in my wretched life.”
She looked at him a moment with hungry eyes. “Do you never think of the old days in town?” she asked suddenly, and she was greatly surprised to see his face turn pale, his eyes flash and deepen.
“For God’s sake, madam, do not mention the past!” he said, turning away. “All that has passed out of my life forever,” he murmured after a pause, “never to return.”
“And you wish it so?” she asked faintly. He bowed his head slowly. She moistened her lips feverishly and drew near to him, her eyes filled with a light that would have startled him had he seen it. “Say not so! Must I give up the friendship of the only man I esteem and hold dear?” she panted breathlessly. “Oh, will you not renew the broken thread of our correspondence [he had written her several times since coming to Ellisland, but before Jean’s advent] and enjoy the sweet intercourse of thought, which will bring such gladness into my own life, and will brighten the gloom of your own, and will take naught from your wife’s peace of mind?”
He raised his head and regarded her thoughtfully. “How can ye ask me that, my lady,” he answered, “when ye declared to me in your last letter that you meant to preserve my epistles with a view, sooner or later, to expose them to the pillory of derision and the rocks of criticism?” And a look of resentment gleamed in his eyes.
“I protest, Mr. Burns,” she cried reproachfully. “I have, indeed, preserved your letters, but they will never leave my possession; they are cherished as the dearest treasures of my life.”
He sighed and remained silent for a space. From the kitchen came the sound of children’s voices. He listened to it a moment, then turned to Lady Nancy, a look of resolution in his face.
“Lady Nancy,” he said firmly, “I canna’ write to ye in sincerity. I have a wife and family, an’ I have given my word to Jean, and while I dare to sin, I dare not to lie, else madam I could perhaps too truly join grief with grief, and echo sighs to thine. But with one foot in the grave, I have no desire to stir up the old ashes of—friendship to find a living ember. ’Twould be but a weak, fitful burning at best. Nay, ’tis too late noo. Believe me, ’tis best, dear lady.” He rose to his feet and held out his hand again. “An’ noo farewell, Lady Nancy, farewell.”