After thinking over this for awhile, he dismissed the supposition with a contemptuous gesture. The idea of the great Shropshire house knowing anything of his humble history was absurd. The Marquis had shot a random shaft, which hit an old sore and rankled. But the very fact that it had been shot at random made the offence the more grievous. Why should the titled scoundrel be privileged to blast the name of a woman whom he had never seen, never heard of--that of a man of whose existence he had not known of until the publication of that novel?
It never occurred to Cheyne for a moment to think that, when the Marquis spoke of his possibly having no title to the name, the writer might have meant that the name Cheyne had merely been assumed for literary purposes, and that the man's real name was Brown, or Jones, or Robinson, or Smith, and that the Marquis did not intend the slightest imputation on the character of any woman who ever lived. Long brooding on the subject of his birth and parentage had made Cheyne's mind morbidly sensitive to any allusion of the kind; and one might as well try to talk down a storm, or to obtain practical results by expostulation with an earthquake, as to make him see the matter in any other than its very worst and most offensive light. Hence his wild homicidal fury.
When he became conscious, he was in Hyde Park. He never noticed the warm sweet sunshine, the bright-green, well-kept grass, the wholesome looking well-dressed people, the fair, slight, blue-eyed children, the brilliant equipages and stately footmen and coachmen, the trees in the pride of their full primal leafiness. He took no heed of all these; and yet they all contributed in an obscure way, in a way he could not trace, to bring his mind suddenly back to the one object which constituted the shining brightness of his own life. He thought of his bright and sprightly May.
Under the circumstances, the vision of her was anything but quieting. It was all very well for him who had no relative in the world to talk of killing this man, and being himself hanged to the nearest tree; but if he had no relatives in the world, there was a being with whom he purposed forming the closest of human ties. To the world it would not matter a fig whether he were hanged or died quietly in his bed. He was no cynic. There was not a flaw of cynicism in his large generous nature. Yes, he knew the boys would be sorry if he died in his bed or were hanged; but then May? How would it be with his little May, his bright, gay, winsome little sweetheart, who was to be his wife?
It was easy to ask that question, and easy to answer it. May would be heart-broken. What heart he ever had to give woman he had given her. He knew that what heart she had to give man she had given him. On neither heart had there been a previous mortgage. Each heart was perfectly unencumbered. Yes; it would break May's heart, as the saying went. That is, it would take all the brightness and hope out of her life; it would crush her for ever. She would never again be the same gay, animated, cheering darling she was now.
Then for a long time he walked about the Park, with eyes cast down, brooding over the image and the memories of May.
The question arose in his mind, whether he owed more to the name of his dead mother than to the happiness of his affianced wife? To him there could not be a moment's pause in answering this question. A man, whether married or single, engaged or free, was bound, if occasion demanded, to die in defence of his country, of his home, of the honour of his name--the last part of the code was growing a little obsolete now; but the man who could sit still while they blackened the memory of a dead mother must be that worst of all reptiles--a cowardly cad.
No; he had resolved not to go near May. Seeing her might jeopardise his revenge; and revenge his mother he would at any peril. How could a man who was not ready and able to defend his mother's name be considered capable of defending a sweetheart or a wife? It would be a poor rascally world for us, if men learned to sit still while evil tongues wagged over the fame of their womankind, mothers or sisters or wives.
So he set his back towards Knightsbridge and walked in the direction of Long Acre. When he arrived at his own place, he gathered up the papers which had been scattered on the floor, kicked the broken glasses into one corner, and then, taking some notepaper, wrote three notes, two of these being to editors, and one to Marion Durrant. The last was as follows:
"My darling May,