CHAPTER XVIII.
STRANGE TALK
She ran up the street and into the house, and up the stairs to her own room, her heart beating fast. Locking the door first, she opened the little wooden box, and took out the pendant, a glimpse of which she had caught as she stood beside the duke.
But though the glitter of the diamonds pleased her as it will every woman, the few words in his handwriting were more precious to her than the costly gems.
Can any one ever tell what her first love letter means to a young girl who is in love with the writer?
Leslie gazed at one line in Yorke's awful scrawl as a Moslem might regard a verse from the Koran, and not once or twice only did her sweet lips kiss the scrap of paper. Then she examined the pendant more minutely, and though her experience of jewelry was of a very limited character, she knew that the gift was an expensive one.
"It is too good, too grand for me," she said, and yet with a sensation of pleasure in its worth. "I should have been as pleased if he had sent me a bunch of flowers bought in the London streets. But, oh, how good of him! And, after all, it is not too grand for his wife. He would think nothing too rare, too costly for her. Oh, my love, my love! If I were only more worthy of you!"
She found a piece of ribbon and put the pendant on it, and hung it around her white throat, and the fire and glitter of the diamonds almost startled her.
"It is just as well that I may not wear it openly – yet," she said to herself with a soft, shy laugh. "I should feel as if every one was staring at me. I wonder whether I shall ever get used to wearing beautiful things like this? He would say 'Yes,' but I feel now as if I never should be able to do so without being conscious of my splendor. But I must hide you for the present, you beautiful thing," and she arranged the pendant so that it nestled over her heart, and buttoned her dress over it, and there it seemed to glow with a soft, consuming fire, as if it knew that it had come from the hand of the man she loved.
Several times during the day she stole up to her room and drew the pendant from its hiding-place, and looked at it with glistening eyes; and if Francis Lisle had not been blind to everything but his awful pictures, he could not but have been startled by the expression on her face after one of these visits.
But if her father was blind the children were not, and as they clustered around her they looked up at her, frank wonder in their wide-open orbs, and one mite lisped:
"What makth 'oo sthmile so, Mith Lethlie. Have 'oo been a dood girl, and got a penny diven 'oo?"
"Yes, I've got a penny given to me, Trottie," said Leslie, taking the child up in her lap and kissing it. "Such a beautiful shining penny."
"Thow it me," said the little one.
But Leslie put her hand on her bosom with a jealous smile.
"No, no; I can't show it even to you, Trottie," she said; "not to any one. And I am not going to buy anything with it, but going to keep it as long as ever I live."
She did not see Mr. Temple again that day, and did not even think of him or the hard, unjust things he had said of Yorke; and if she had, it would only have been to laugh at them. Yorke fickle and false! With that gift of his rising and falling on her heart, she would not have believed an angel if he had come to tell her anything against her beloved.
The duke missed her all that afternoon, missed her very much. He had got used to having her standing or sitting by his chair, and her sweet, low-pitched voice had been as a soothing balm in his moments of pain. And yet he could not wholly trust her, or believe that she was better and less mercenary and self-seeking than the rest of her sex.
His keen eyes had seen the change in her face when he had spoken of Yorke, and he had told himself that what he had prophesied was coming true; this artless-looking girl with the clear, guileless eyes was already aiming at a ducal coronet. It did not occur to him that she might love Yorke for himself alone; or, if it did, he put the thought away from him and hugged his old cynical mistrust of her sex.
The next day passed and no Yorke appeared, but on the morning of the following one he got into the train at Paddington on his way to Portmaris.
As he did so, with a sigh of relief and expectant happiness, he noticed a tall lady dressed in black with a veil over her face pass his carriage and enter the next, and he was struck in an absent kind of way by the grace of her figure; but she disappeared from his mind the moment she passed the window, and he gave himself up to picturing his meeting with Leslie.
A few hours, and then – . He lit a cigar, and stretched his long legs on to the opposite seat and thought.
The few days he had been absent from her had taught this young man how very completely he was in love, and he was actually asking himself why they should not be married at once!
"What's the use of waiting?" he mused; "I shall never be better off. We might just as well be married now – ." Then a reflection cut across his roseate visions, and, as Hamlet says, 'gave him pause;' he was fearfully in debt, and though Mr. Levison hadn't turned up with the bill, and seemed more inclined to lend him more money than take any from him, he, Yorke, knew the reason. The money lenders all depended upon his marrying an heiress, and he knew – and his face flushed as he thought of it – that they one and all expected him to marry Lady Eleanor Dallas, and relied upon it.
The moment they heard that he had married what they and the rest of the world, in its language of contempt, would call a pauper, they would swoop down upon him like a flock of kites, and – .
He sat up in the railway carriage and rubbed his forehead.
Couldn't he ask Dolph to lend – give – him the money to pay his debts? Well, he could ask him, and no doubt the duke would do it – if he approved of Yorke's marrying Leslie. But would he approve? Somehow Yorke felt doubtful.
"I might try him," he thought, and he pondered over it until the train reached Northcliffe, and then suddenly an alternative course occurred to him, an idea which flashed upon him suddenly, and sent the blood rushing to his face.
Why shouldn't he and Leslie be married secretly? They might go away, leave England, and settle down in some Continental place quietly until he had screwed enough money out of his income to pay his debts, and then they might proclaim their marriage to the whole world.
His heart beat hopefully, and he was so absorbed in his plans and schemes that he did not notice that the tall lady in black got out at Northcliffe; indeed, he could not have seen her unless he had looked back – which he did not do – for she did not get out until the rest of the passengers had alighted, and then kept in the background until the station was clear.
Yorke got a fly at once and had himself driven to Portmaris, and as the ancient vehicle rattled down the street he looked eagerly at the windows of Sea View. But Leslie was out, and with a little pang of disappointment Yorke ran up the stairs of Marine Villa.
The duke was sitting in his chair, his head resting on his hands, and Yorke saw at once that it was a 'bad afternoon' with the invalid. The duke raised his head, with a transient smile of welcome on his pale face.
"Well, Yorke, back again," he said, holding out his hand. "I was just on the point of telling Grey to pack up."
Yorke started.
"What, tired of Portmaris already, Dolph?" he said.
The duke sighed.
"About five minutes is long enough for me anywhere. There is only one place I shall not get weary of – the grave. But this isn't a very cheerful greeting, Yorke. What's the news?"
"Oh, nothing! I saw Lang" – this was the duke's agent – "and told him what you wanted done, and – ."
"Oh, thanks!" said the duke, indifferently; "and you have had a pleasant time, I hope? Did you see Eleanor?"
Yorke nodded.
"Yes, oh, yes; had luncheon there. She's very well. What a lovely sunset to-night! 'Pon my word, this is a jolly little place."
"Jolly, is it?" said the duke, eyeing him keenly.
"Hem! Well, perhaps it's jollier when you are here. It's been dull enough without you, any way. As I said, we have missed you very much, young man."
"'We'? Meaning you and Grey?" said Yorke, standing at the window and watching the opposite ones anxiously.
The duke smiled grimly.
"Well, I dare say Grey has missed you; but I was thinking, when I spoke, of – Miss Lisle."
"Oh, Miss Lisle," said Yorke, flushing like a schoolgirl. "I – I hope she is all right."
"Yes, I think so. The fact is, I have not seen very much of her since yesterday morning, when in the course of conversation I ventured to hint that your grace – ."
Yorke started.
"Your grace was not quite perfect."
Yorke laughed uneasily, and kept his back carefully turned to the duke.
"She seemed to think that you were more divine than human, and put out her claws in your defense like a woman – and a cat."
A spasm of pain shot through him and he groaned faintly, and so, though all Yorke's soul arose in horror at hearing his beloved likened to a cat, he held his tongue.
"In short," continued the duke, wearily, "I was quite correct in my surmise as to what would take place. The girl is dying to marry your grace and become a duchess."
Yorke bit his lip.
"It's time that bit of nonsense came to an end," he said, with angry impatience. "I didn't like it from the first, Dolph, and I like it now less than ever."
The duke waved his hand with tired indifference.
"It was an idiotic idea," he said; "but it has served my purpose. I have been left alone here, and the rest and quiet have done me good. You can tell the Lisles, and whom else you like, at once if you choose. Stay," he said; "wait till to-morrow evening. I shall have gone by that time."
"Gone?" said Yorke. "You mean going?"
"Yes," said the duke, impatiently; "I am tired of it. I'll go and hide myself at Rothbury, I think; and I think you had better go, too."
"Why?" asked Yorke, but his voice faltered slightly.
"Well," responded the duke, grimly, "I've an idea – don't trouble to contradict me, it isn't worth while – that Miss Leslie has succeeded in making an impression on your grace – ."
"And that would be such an awful calamity, wouldn't it?" said Yorke, feeling his way.
The duke laughed cynically.
"No, I suppose not. You would ride away, like the man in the ballad, and leave her weeping. Not that the youngest and most unsophisticated girls weep much now, I believe; they dry their tears and look out for the next man."
"Dolph, for a man who loves and respects women – and I know you do – ."
"Oh, do you?" snarled the duke, or, rather, the demon of pain that had got possession of him.
"Yes," said Yorke. "For one who loves and respects them, you talk strangely."
"Well, well. We don't want to squabble about women in general or this young woman in particular. All I mean to say is that, though usually I think they are well punished for their mercenary scheming, I've a sneaking fondness and pity for Leslie Lisle, and I don't want you to let her think that she has a chance of being a duchess. In short – well, of course, you have been flirting with her; you always do, you know. Well, leave her alone, and go back to London." He sighed. "That's good advice. We'll let her off this time."
Yorke stood motionless, with stern face.
"If I were the duke I have been masquerading as," he said, "I could not find a better woman or one – ."
"More fitted by nature to adorn, etc. I know," interrupted the duke with peevish irritation. "But, unfortunately, you aren't the duke – I wish to Heaven you were, or anybody were but I! – and as you are not, and only Yorke Auchester, with not enough to keep yourself upon, to say nothing of a wife, you can't afford to do more than flirt with her. There! The subject is played out. You have got to marry Eleanor Dallas, my dear fellow. She is made for you, and you will be as happy as a man ever can be in this beastliest of all beastly worlds."
"You dispose of me very easily," said Yorke, his throat dry, his eyes flashing, but his back still turned.
"Yes, because I care for you, and am anxious for your future and happiness."
"Thanks," said Yorke, in a softer voice. "But – well, we are arguing. Suppose I do not care for Eleanor?"
The duke laughed quietly.
"My dear Yorke, no man could be loved by such a beautiful creature as Eleanor and, marrying her, help falling in love with her within the first fortnight. Oh, how tired I am! Don't let us spoil the pleasure I get out of your return by wrangling. Do as I say; leave this little girl with the gray eyes and dark hair – what eyes they are, by the way!" – and he sighed – "leave her alone. You can't marry her, and though you could punish her for wanting to marry you by flirting with her – well, I don't somehow want to see her punished. Seriously, Yorke, I ask you to do this as – as a favor."
Yorke left the window.
"You release me from my promise, from our arrangement regarding the title?" he said, quietly, and with a tone of decision in his voice which the duke would have remarked if he had not been in such intense pain.
"To-morrow – not till to-morrow," he said. "I'll tell Grey we are going to-morrow, and then, just before we go, you can tell the Lisles, explain the reason – anything. I care nothing. I shall be out of reach of the fuss the story will make even in this outlandish place."
"Good," said Yorke, and he drew a long breath. "I'm going out for a stroll – dinner as usual, I suppose?" And the duke heard him going down the stairs two steps at a time.
The duke's few decided, querulous words had fired Yorke. He was to marry Lady Eleanor, was he? Ha-ha! He laughed almost grimly. There was only one woman in the world he would marry, and, if she would have him, he would make her his wife at once.
He strode down the street, and on to the quay, and at a little distance on the beach saw Mr. Lisle, painting as usual.
He looked up impatiently as Yorke came crashing over the stones, and accosted him.
"Oh, how do you do – how do you do, your grace?" he said, in his thin voice, and with a hasty glance at him as if he begrudged every moment from his picture.
"Is – is Miss Lisle out with you?" said Yorke, trying to speak with nothing warmer in his voice than conventional politeness.
"Leslie?" looking around absently. "Yes, she was here a moment ago; but she has wandered off somewhere." And his manner and tone plainly added:
"And I wish to goodness you'd wander off, too."
"How is the picture getting on?" asked Yorke, looking at the daub which Lisle had painted over and over again, making it worse at each stroke.
"Very well – very well, I think," was the reply. "You like it?" and a faint red came into the pale thin cheeks. Somehow Yorke fancied that they had grown thinner and paler during the last few days. "I am going to make a masterpiece of it. I am working hard, very hard. Isn't it very hot and close this morning? I have a stupid headache – . Yes. Would you mind standing out of the light? Thank you."
Yorke left him; he knew it would be of no use to ask the dreamer in which direction Leslie had gone.
"Poor old fellow," he thought. "We'll take him with us, and look after him together. Give him his painting tools, and he'll be happy enough!"
He walked along the beach and on to the cliffs and suddenly he came upon Leslie. She was sitting in a cleft of the rocks, a book on her lap, but it was lying face downward, and she was looking out to sea. He stole behind her, and bent down and kissed her. She started, but not violently, and the blood rushed to her face.
"Yorke!" was all she said, but all her love, her joy on his return breathed in the single word.
He took both her hands, and sat down beside her.
"I startled you, dearest!" he said.
How lovely she looked! How sweet, and, ah, how pure and good! Not Eleanor herself could look more refined, more
spirituelle
than this love of his – his Leslie.
"No!" she said, with a faint smile, and a little shyness in her voice and eyes. "I ought to have been startled, but I was not. Perhaps it was because I was thinking of you. When did you come back?"
"A few minutes ago, dearest," he said. "Has it seemed long to you? I thought, perhaps, that you would have forgotten me."
She smiled at him.
"Well, I might have done so," she said, with delicious archness; "but you provided against that, did you not?"
He did not understand for a moment, then he laughed.
"You got it all right?"
"Ah, yes," she said, with a little sigh of gratitude and content. "I wish you could have seen me when it came! I was standing beside Mr. Temple when the postman brought it, and I cried out – well, like a schoolgirl!"
He looked at her, wrapt in delight at her delight.
"It was a happy thought of mine, then?" he said.
"Yes, but why did you send me so grand a present," she said in a low voice. "Anything would have done; but that – ." She laughed and colored. "It was too rich, too costly for such a simple person as I am!"
He laughed. So she thought the plain little locket rich and costly. What would she have considered the diamond pendant he had sent to Finetta? "God bless my darling! My modest pearl!" he thought.
"And you were pleased with it?" he said. "It occurred to me that you might like it; for a minute or two I feared that you might consider me conceited in sending it, that a ring – ."
She shook her head.
"It is beautiful – beautiful!" she said. "Its only fault is that it is too good, too costly. The merest trifle would have served to tell me that you had not – forgotten me! And, indeed, I did not need anything."
"You trusted me so completely, dearest?" he said.
"Yes," she said simply, with a faint wonder in her voice at the earnestness in his.
"You trusted me," he said, as earnestly as before. "And how if I were to ask you to trust me still, to trust me in a greater degree, Leslie?"
She looked at him, still smiling.
"What is it?" she asked; and the question was a good reply to his.
"It is just this," he said, taking her hand in both his and holding it tightly. "See, dearest, I hesitate to tell you – it is so much to ask you! And the worst of it is that I cannot give you the reason – ."
Her face paled, but she looked at him bravely.
"Are – are you going to leave me again? If you must go – ."
The love in her voice, in her eyes, made his heart actually ache.
"Leave you?" he said. "Well, yes; but it will be only for a few hours a day, if – if you consent to do what I am going to ask you?"
"What is it?" she asked, still calmly.
"I want you to marry me – at once, Leslie?" he said in a low voice, and almost solemnly.
She started, and her hand quivered in his.
"Marry – you – at once!" she whispered, her bosom heaving, her long dark lashes trembling.
"You are frightened, dearest?" he said, drawing her nearer to him.
She was silent a moment.
"No," she replied in a whisper, "not frightened, I think, but – ."
"And that isn't all," he said almost desperately. "I want our marriage to be a secret one."
She started now, and drew her hand from his, turning her pale face to him with almost pained surprise.
"Listen, Leslie," he said, getting her hand back again. "There are reasons why it is necessary – do you understand, my darling, necessary – that no one should know of our engagement. The other day, when – when I told you I loved you, and asked you to be my wife, I did not think of those reasons; I didn't think of anything but you. But they came home to me when I was in London. It sounds strange, almost incredible – ."
"No, not incredible," she murmured.
"You would believe anything I told you, you mean?" he asked, with bated breath.
Her clear eyes met his with her assent in them as plainly as if she had spoken.
"My darling! And I cannot tell you – . But, Leslie, in a word, I am not free – I mean that I am not my own master – ."
A faint smile chased the slightly troubled look from her face.
"It sounds so strangely," she said. "A duke and not your own master – ."
He reddened, and his eyes dropped before hers.
"Heaven and earth!" broke from him almost passionately. "Leslie – I beg of you not to – to call me that again – ."
"Not – ." She looked at him questioningly.
"Yes. Yes – I do beg of you, dearest. Not, we will say, for another day. After that – ," he drew a long breath, and brushed the hair from his forehead impatiently. "I will explain then why I ask you, dearest. I will explain everything. Don't – don't – be frightened, dearest! Don't think there is any real mystery! You will – yes, you will laugh, when you hear what it is!"
"Shall I?" she says, trustfully. "I am not frightened, I am not even – I think – very curious – ."
"Oh, my darling! And you do not even ask me why this secrecy, this concealment, is necessary?"
"No," she says, after a pause, and placing her other hand in his. "If you say so I am content. I suppose – ," she averts her face a little – "I suppose you do not wish your people to know that – that you are going to marry one so far beneath you, one so unfit to be a duchess – ."
He stifles a groan.
"It is not that," he says. But for his promise to the duke he could tell her all. Tell her that he is not a duke with lands and gold galore, but a poor man so incumbered and crippled by debt that he dare not let it be known that he is not going to marry a fortune! "Leslie, I cannot tell you! I am not free to tell you, till – yes, to-morrow! Will you not trust me?"
Her breath comes fast for a moment as she looks out to sea, then she turns to him.
"I cannot but trust you," she says almost piteously. "I could not doubt you if I tried."
"My angel, my dearest!" he says, fervently, reverently. "You shall never regret having trusted me, never! Now, listen, Leslie! There is one person, of all others, who must not know what we are going to do – Mr. Temple."
"Mr. Temple?" she says, not suspiciously, not even curiously but with faint surprise.
"Yes," he says. "He suspects, or half-suspects, already that I love you. It must be kept from him. You will understand why when I tell you all – when I clear up the mystery. Now, see – ." He stops and laughs. His face is flushed with excitement, and his eyes sparkling. "To-night I will go up to town – ."
"To-night – ," she breathes.
"Yes," he says. "There is no time to be lost – you will see that when you know all. To-morrow I will get a special license, and that same day you must come up to London – ."
She trembles.
"Alone?" she asks in a still voice.
"No, no," he says. "You must persuade your father – . Stay! I will manage that! I will get a well-known dealer I know to wire to him; some question about his pictures, something that will bring him up."
She trembled still.
"The moment you arrive you must telegraph your address to me. I will tell you where to wire – ." He tak