CHAPTER XIV
HONOR VINCIT
His brain was working rapidly, the while he felt a curious leaden sensation at his heart. He had never even contemplated the possibility of the Duchessa living in the neighbourhood, though he now marvelled why he had never happened to question her as to the exact locality of Woodleigh.
Of course he knew, and assured himself that he knew, that the chances were all against any probability of their meeting. How was it likely they should meet, seeing that she was a grande dame, and he merely an under-gardener at the Hall? Of course it was not probable. Nevertheless there was just the faintest chance. He couldn’t deny that remote chance. And if they did meet, and she should recognize him?—There was the question.
Explanation would be impossible in view of his promise. And what would she think? Wouldn’t it be conceivable, nay, wouldn’t it be natural that she should be indignant at the thought that she had admitted to her friendship a man, who, to her eyes, would appear one of inferior birth? Wouldn’t his behaviour on the Fort Salisbury appear to her in the light of a fraud? Wouldn’t his letter appear to her as a piece of preposterous presumption on his part? How could it be expected that she should see beneath the surface of things as they seemed to be, and solve the riddle of appearances? It was such an inconceivable situation, such an altogether unheard of situation, laughable too, if it weren’t for the vague possibility of the—to him—tragedy he now saw involved in it. It was this, this vague sense of tragedy, that was causing that leaden sensation at his heart.
He tried to tell himself that he was being morbid, that he ran no possible risk of coming face to face with the Duchessa, in spite of the fact that the Manor House Woodleigh lay but two miles distant. But the assurances he heaped upon his soul, went a remarkably small way towards cheering it.
And yet, through the leadenness upon his soul, through that vague, almost indefinable sense of tragedy at hand, ran a curious little note of exultation. Though he had no smallest desire for her to set eyes on him, might not he set eyes on her? And yet, if he did, would the joy in the sight be worth the dull ache, the horrible sense of isolation in the knowledge that word with her was forbidden.
He realized now, for the first time in its fullest measure, what her advent into his life meant to him. Bodily separation for a year had been possible to contemplate. Even should it extend to a lifetime, he would still have three golden weeks of memory to his comfort. But should mental separation fall upon him, should it ever be his lot to read anger in her eyes, he felt that his very soul would die. Even memory would be lost to him, by reason of the unbearable pain it would hold. And then, with the characteristics of a man accustomed to face possibilities, to confront contingencies and emergencies beforehand, he saw himself face to face with a temptation. Should the emergency he contemplated arise, was there not a simple solution of it? She was quick-witted, she might quite conceivably guess at the existence of some riddle. Would not the tiniest hint suffice for her? The merest possible inflection of his voice?