My Lord Duke

by E. W. Hornung

"There's only one more thing, old man," Jack was saying, "and then I'm done. I don't want to load you up to the eyes with messages and all that. But I should like you to take care of this little bit of a key, and give it to her as soon as ever you think fit. It belongs to that chain bracelet business I got her for her birthday. As you know, I first wanted to give her a ring, but she wouldn't have it; and when I changed it for the bracelet, which cost about half as many shillings as the ring did pounds, I couldn't look poor Hopgood in the face. It was such a sell for him. So we were going back to-morrow to get that ring for our engagement, and to look old Hopgood in the face. That was one of our plans; we made so many when we were out this morning! I never knew a morning go at such a lick. But I remember it all—I remember everything. I've started going over every word we've said, so that I shan't forget anything. There's not such a vast lot to keep in your head. Only a day and a half of an engagement; but I've got to live on those thirty odd hours for the rest of my time."

Claude looked away; the drawing-room windows were a blur to his eyes; and Olivia's erratic rendering of Chopin filled in the pause. It was the incoherent expression of unutterable emotion. Jack listened also, nodding time with his head. The calmness and the nobility of despair had settled on his spirit, as on that of a captain going down with his ship.

He talked on, and his tone was entirely his own. It was neither bitter, querulous, nor wilfully pathetic; but chiefly contemplative, with a reminiscence here and the discovery of some consolation there. He recalled the humours of the situation, and laughed outright but staccato, as at remembered sayings of the newly dead. Beyond the loss of Olivia he had little to regret; even that would make another man of him for ever and a day. (So he talked.) And his English summer would be something to look back on always; it was pleasure to the good, which nothing could undo or take away; the experience of a second lifetime had been crammed into those few weeks. Let him remember that when he got back to the bush. Suppose he had never left the bush? Then he would never have seen the old country, and seen it (as he said) from the front seats; he would never have found his own soul, nor known the love of a lovely girl, nor the joy of life as he knew it now. So he was really to be congratulated to the end; there was no occasion to pity him at all.

Claude, however, was not comforted; he had never been so wretched in his life. And he showed it so plainly, and was withal so conscious of the display, that he felt quite sure that Jack's ingenious consolations were not meant entirely for Jack. He was ashamed of himself on this, as on every other score. He was to blame for the whole business, since it was he who had scoured Australia for the Red Marquis's son. Nor could he believe the other's protestations of personal solace and resignation; they had been made with wistful glances at the lighted windows, glances that Claude had seen as they both leant back against the balustrade.

"Aha!" said Jack suddenly. "Here are Mr. Sellwood and Lady Caroline coming to have it out with me. Better leave me to them, old man."

"All right," said Claude, "but we have lots more to talk about. Where can I find you, and when?"

Jack hesitated; the Sellwoods were within earshot as he whispered, "Twelve o'clock at the hut!" And Claude walked away, with his hand aching from a sudden and most crushing grip.

"My wife and I would like to speak to you," said the Home Secretary, halting in front of Jack with Lady Caroline on his arm. "My dear fellow, we are so very sorry for you: we know everything."

"Everything!" echoed Lady Caroline, with slow dramatic force.

"Thanks to Jack," put in her husband sharply; "it was he who gave instructions that we should be told at once. It was so very good of you, Jack, my boy, to think of us in your trouble. You have behaved splendidly all through; that's what makes us all feel this so keenly; and I am quite sure that you will behave nobly now. My dear fellow, it isn't the fact of your not being the Duke of St. Osmund's that forces me to take this tone; it's the unfortunate circumstances of your birth, which have now been proved, I am afraid, beyond the possibility of that doubt which nobody would welcome more thankfully than myself. We are all very fond of you. I for one have learned to admire you too. But this most miserable discovery must alter everything except our feeling towards you. We are bound to consider our daughter."