He had borne himself throughout with a cheerful gaiety, never once complaining or reproaching her, but placing himself in the wrong as though he were to blame for her inconstancy. She knew that he was only playing a part and that he was suffering while he jested; that he was making his sacrifice in such a way as to avoid giving her pain. She reproached herself bitterly that she had been unable to control her heart and guide her wayward feelings. It was true she had been loyal in outward act but her heart had been a traitor to her vow. She was not worthy of so much heroic sacrifice; she was but a Carew after all, with the taint and sin of her race; she, who had cried out for loyalty and truth. She had boasted of her strength and constancy, and this man who had laughed at virtue had shown a sovereign strength that put her quite to shame. What had been done would never be undone; her weakness, her want of faith, her treachery of affection, had been made plain to the two men whose regard she esteemed the most in the world. Yet all the time she had tried to follow the path of duty; she had striven to do what was right and trample her inclinations under foot.
And so she sat and thought while De Laprade went out to complete the great work of his renunciation. He smiled bitterly to himself as he passed down the street, wondering what sudden change had taken place within himself that he had surrendered so easily what he had so earnestly desired to obtain. He knew that he loved Dorothy Carew as he had never loved before, and that he had never loved her half so well as that moment when he bade her farewell. He was unable to recognize himself or the new spirit that had prompted this stupendous sacrifice. “If,” he thought, “I was inviting him under the walls to a repast of steel, I should be acting like a sensible fellow anxious to cure my wounded honour. But that is not my humour. I think I have lost all my manhood. Oh! my cousin, you have taken from me more than you will ever dream of. It was hard to bear, but now that it is done it will not have to be done again. A year ago I had not given up so easily, but the battle is to the strong. Orme will make her happy.”
Gervase was surprised to see De Laprade entering his room, and though he bore him no ill will, he would have preferred that he should not meet him. He had not yet faced his bitter disappointment and resigned himself to the sudden fall of his house of cards. He had come home to realize what his rejection meant for him, for he had been so certain, so blindly certain, of Dorothy´s love, that she had seemed a part, and a great part, of his life. The cup of happiness had been dashed from his hand when it was already at his lips; he was still smarting and sore, and it would be idle for him to attempt to offer congratulations to his successful rival. He was not magnanimous enough for that. But he wished him well and wished that he would leave him in peace. He took De Laprade´s hand without ill-will but with no great show of cordiality.
“I could not leave your city, Monsieur Orme,” said De Laprade, “without bidding you farewell. We have been friends, I think, and done one another some service in our time.”
“Your departure is sudden; I had not heard----”
“Only an hour ago I found that I must leave. We strolling players live at large, and shift our booth a hundred times a year.”
“When do you return?”
“I disappear for ever,” answered Victor with a laugh. “Your country suits me not; your speech is barbarous, your manners are strange, and your climate dries the marrow in my bones. I want sunshine and life and pleasure. Your blood runs slowly here.”
“It has been running fast enough for nine weeks,” said Gervase, with a grim humour, though feeling in no mood for jesting.