"Any telegram for me?" he asked, almost confidently.
"No, my lord," was the reply.
Yorke's face clouded, then it cleared.
"Look here," he said, "I forgot to tell you that it would be addressed to Yorke."
The porter looked in the 'Y' pigeon-hole and shook his head.
"Nothing for that name either, my lord."
Yorke stood at the door of the porter's glass box and stared at the man as if he could not believe his ears. Then he swung round, and jumping into a cab, told the man to drive to Arnheim's.
He met the dealer coming down the stairs.
"Oh, good morning, my lord," he said. "I have written to you."
"Yes, yes! Mr. Lisle – has he been here?"
"Yes, my lord," said Arnheim, looking at the handsome and palpably agitated face curiously. "He has been here."
"With – ."
"With his daughter, Miss Lisle. Yes. And he has left some pictures. Of course, your lordship knows best, but I am bound to tell you, it's only right, that the pictures are utterly – ."
"I know, I know," Yorke broke in quickly. "That's all right. I mean it doesn't matter. I'll explain afterward. What I want now is their address!"
"Port – ."
"Yes, yes, I know; I mean their London address, where they're staying."
The dealer thought a moment, while Yorke looked at him as if he could tear the answer from him.
"I – well, the fact is, I don't know it. I did not think to ask it!" said Arnheim.
Yorke flushed a dark red.
"Oh, nonsense! They must have given you their address, some place to write to!"
"You'd naturally think so, but as it happens they didn't!" said Arnheim. "I admit I ought to have asked Mr. Lisle, but – well, I didn't! I suppose I expected him to call again. And," with a faint smile, "of course he will do so, the man is an enthusiast – ."
"I know all about him, thanks," said Yorke sternly. "What I want is Lisle's address." He thought a moment, then said slowly and impressively – "When he calls next – he may do so to-day, any hour – be sure and get the address. Wire it to me at the Dorchester, and at once."
"Certainly, my lord," said Arnheim; "and about the pictures?"
"Buy two or three, give him his own price for them. But, mind, keep my name out of the business!" and he ran down the stairs and jumped into the cab again, telling the man to drive back to the club.
"I'll stick there till Leslie's telegram comes," he said between his teeth, "if I stay there till doomsday."
He was consumed by anxiety. Leslie in London, and he did not know where! Good Heavens, could the telegram have miscarried? Was anything wrong? He tried to remain cool and confident, but he looked as he got out of the cab like a man oppressed by a terrible presentiment.
On the steps of the club stood Grey.
"Hallo!" said Yorke. "Grey!"
Grey touched his hat.
"I've been to Bury Street, my lord, and Fleming sent me here. His grace is back, and would be glad if you could come and see him."
Yorke hesitated, and was on the point of sending a message to say that he would come presently – to-morrow; then it occurred to him that the duke had come from Portmaris, and that he might have some news of the Lisles.
"All right," he said, "I'll come at once. Keep the cab."
He ran up the steps to the porter.
"That telegram?"
"Nothing, my lord, for you as yet."
With something like a groan Yorke went slowly down the steps again and into the cab.
Leslie! Where was she? Why – why had she not wired as she promised?
CHAPTER XXVII.
"GONE, AND LEFT NO ADDRESS."
The ducal house in Grosvenor Square was not seldom referred to as an instance of the extreme of luxury which this finish of the century had attained to. It was an immense place, decorated by one of the first authorities, with ceilings painted by a famous artist, and walls draped by hangings for which the Orient had literally been ransacked. The entrance hall was supposed to be the finest in the kingdom. It was of marble and mosaic; a fountain plashed in the center, and the light poured through ruby-tinted glass and warmed with a rose blush the exquisite carvings and statuary. At the end of the hall rose broad stairs of pure white marble, in the centre of which was laid a Persian carpet of such thick pile that footsteps were hushed. Stately palms stood here and there, relieving the whiteness of the marble and 'breaking the corners.' The staircase led to the first corridor, which ran round the hall, and upon the walls of this corridor hung pictures by the great English masters. The family portraits were at Rothbury. The state rooms were on the ground floor, and were on a par in the way of luxury and magnificence with the hall. Altogether it was a very great contrast to Marine Villa, Portmaris.
Yorke followed Grey to the hall, and was ushered into a room behind the state apartments.
It was a small room, and, compared with the rest of the house, plainly furnished in oak. There were bookshelves and a large writing table, and one of those invalid couches which are provided with bookrests and an elaborate machinery which enables one to move the couch by merely pressing a lever.
On this couch lay the Duke of Rothbury. Though the day was warm, a fire burned in the grate, and a superb sable rug was tumbled on the couch as if the invalid had pulled it off and on restlessly. Three or four books lay on the floor, but he was not reading, and he looked up sharply as Yorke entered, and did not speak until Grey had closed the door upon them.
Then, as he held out his hand and his keen eyes scanned Yorke's face, he said:
"Do you think I have sent for you to crow over you, Yorke?"
Yorke stood and looked down at him for a moment without replying; then he said vaguely:
"Crow over me? What do you mean, Dolph?"
The duke raised himself on his elbow.
"Sit down," he said; "you look tired and knocked up. Is anything the matter?"
Yorke sank into a chair and avoided the keen eyes.
"Matter? What should be the matter?" he said evasively. "You don't look quite the thing; but I suppose the journey took it out of you?"
"Yes, it was the journey," said the duke dryly.
"Isn't it rather a pity that you left Portmaris?" said Yorke after a slight pause. "It was a pretty place, and healthy and all that, and I thought you rather liked it than otherwise."
"It's a pity I ever went there," responded the duke grimly.
Yorke looked up suddenly and caught the eyes fixed on him half pityingly.
"Why so?" he asked. "I should say you were the better for the change – ."
"And I should say I was so much the worse," broke in the duke. "And now we have fenced with each other and beat about the bush, Yorke, don't you think we'd better be open and above board?"
"What do you mean?"
The duke raised himself a little higher, and worked the lever of the couch so that he brought himself facing Yorke.
"Why do you look as if you were waiting for a sentence of life or death, Yorke?" he said quietly. "You look as anxious and harried and worn as a man might look who stood on the brink of ruin. Have you heard from her?" he added quietly but sharply.
"Heard from whom?" said Yorke with averted eyes.
"From Miss Lisle – Leslie," said the duke.
Yorke raised his eyes quickly.
"You know – ?" he said.
"Yes, I know all," said the duke gravely, almost sympathetically. "And – yes, I am sorry for you, Yorke! No, I don't mean to crow over you, though my prophesy has come true, and my estimate of her – and her sex generally – has proved the correct one. I am not going to indulge in the delicious luxury of remarking, 'I told you so!' I'll spare you that. Indeed, I haven't the heart to do it, for to tell you the truth I had been hoping all along that my prophesy would be falsified, and that your faith in her would be established. But it wasn't to be. Who is it says that a woman can be beautiful, lovable, magnanimous, clever, everything – but true?"
Yorke looked at him with a harassed and perplexed frown.
"What the devil are you talking about, Dolph?" he said.
The duke sat up and scanned the face before him in silence for a moment or two, then said:
"Is it possible that you don't know?"
"Don't know what?" demanded Yorke impatiently. "What are you talking about? I beg your pardon, Dolph, but – but I'm rather worried and upset about – something, and I'm short-tempered this morning. I've been expecting an important telegram for the last two days and it hasn't turned up, and – there, don't mind me, but go on and explain what you were saying about Les – Miss Lisle. I can't make head or tail of it!"
"From whom are you expecting a telegram, Yorke? Shall I make a guess and say the young lady herself?"
Yorke thought a moment, the color mounting to his face, then he looked the duke straight in the eyes.
"Yes, it was from her, Dolph," he said. "I'd better make a clean breast of it. You'd get it out of me somehow or other if I didn't own up, for I'm too worried to keep on guard. It is from Leslie I'm expecting that telegram, and – and – Well, look here, Dolph, take it quietly. I've asked her to be my wife, and – and she's consented."
He waited a moment, expecting to see the duke start up and fly into one of his paroxysms, but the duke leant upon his elbow and looked at him with a grave and pitying regard.
"I know that," he said.
"You – knew – that – that I had asked her, that she had agreed to come up to London and marry me on the quiet?" exclaimed Yorke, staring at him. "She told you?"
"No, she did not tell me that you had arranged a clandestine marriage," said the duke quietly, "but she confessed that you had asked her to be your wife. And so you were going to marry her secretly? Was that – was that straight of you, Yorke?"
There was a touch of gentle reproach in the tone that made Yorke wince.
"Put it that way, it wasn't, Dolph," he said. "But look how I am placed. I am up to my ears in debt. Yes, I know I ought to be ashamed of myself, but there it is, you see! And if it got out that I was marrying without money the blessed Jews would be down on me, and – and – I knew you wanted me to – to marry someone else, and that I couldn't count on you; and so – and so I thought Leslie and I would get spliced quietly and wait till things had blown over, and – ."
The duke dropped back on the couch, but kept his eyes fixed on the harassed, anxious face.
"My poor Yorke! You must love her very much."
Yorke flushed red.
"Love her – !" he broke out, then he pulled himself up. "Look here, Dolph, I love her so much that if I knew that by marrying her I should have to drive a hansom cab or sweep a crossing for the rest of my life, I'd marry her!"
He got up and strode to and fro, his eyes flashing.
"I tell you that life wouldn't be worth living without her. Why, why," his voice rang low and tremulous, "I cannot get her out of my thoughts day or night. I see her face before my eyes, hear her voice always. It's Leslie, Leslie, and nothing else with me! I know now, I can understand now why a man cuts his throat or pitches himself off the nearest bridge when he loses the woman he loves. I used to laugh at the old stories, at the Othello and Romeo and Juliet business, but I understand now! It's all true, every word of it! I'd rather die any day and anyhow than lose her. And – and there you are! You see, Dolph," with a kind of rueful smile, "I'm as far gone as a man can be; just raving mad. But it's a madness that will last my life."
"I hope not," said the duke gravely. "Yorke, I am sorry for you. I did not know that the thing had gone so far. I have bad news for you."
"Bad news!" echoed Yorke.
"Yes. As I said, I was right in my estimate of Leslie Lisle, and you were wrong. She knows all, Yorke, and – ." He paused and shrugged his bent shoulders.
"She knows all?" said Yorke, almost stupidly. "What do you mean?"
"She discovered the deceit, the trick, we had played upon her. How, I do not know. Perhaps she came across a peerage, or a society paper referring to the 'crippled Duke of Rothbury,' or Grey may have let slip a word in her hearing which revealed the secret. Who can say? After all, it was wonderful that we succeeded in keeping up the deceit so long. She was bound to discover the truth sooner or later."
Yorke gazed at him with a troubled face.
"You mean that she discovered that you were the duke and not I?" he said.
The duke nodded.
"Yes. She came to me early in the morning, so pale and changed, so thoroughly overwhelmed with disappointment – ."
"Hold on," broke in Yorke. "Disappointment? Do you mean that she was disappointed that I was not the duke, that she was cut up, that she cared one straw?"
"My dear Yorke, if you had seen her you would have been as astonished and as full of remorse as I was – though the trick was not yours, but mine. I told her so, I took all the blame, but it was of no use to plead for you. She was broken down with the agony of disappointment. If, as you say, you had arranged a secret marriage with her, she looked upon herself as already the Duchess of Rothbury, and to have the cup dashed from her lips! My dear Yorke, one must make all allowance for her. Human nature is human nature all the world over, especially feminine human nature – ."
Yorke's face went from white to red and from red to white again.
"You are talking rot, utter rot, Dolph!" he said. "Leslie – Leslie Lisle – cut up and knocked over because she was not going to be a duchess! Ha, ha!" and he laughed scornfully. "How well you know her! she wouldn't care a pin; I've told you so half a dozen times! Why, she was shrinking from the idea of being a duchess; would have refused me for being what I thought I was, if – if – well, if she hadn't cared for me as she does, God bless her!"
He turned his head away and his eyes grew moist.
The duke watched him gravely.
"You doubt my word, Yorke?"
"No, no! But I say you are mistaken. There was something else."
"What else, what other cause could there be? No, I tell you that it was the agony of disappointed ambition – ."
Yorke laughed again.
The duke flushed.
"Come," he said, "you will not credit my statement, or rely on my judgment. Perhaps you are right. A man should have faith in the purity and single-mindedness of the woman he loves. But facts are stubborn things."
"Facts?"
"Yes! She had arranged to come up to London to you – to send to you. I don't know what plans you made, but I can imagine them. I know how I should have arranged in your case. Well, she is in London, or has been, and has she sent to you, has she met you as she promised?"
Yorke gazed at him with a half doubtful, half scornful expression.
"No," he said at last. "But – but there has been some mistake, blunder, on somebody's part. The telegram has miscarried. She may not have been able to send it. You know how closely she waits upon her father; she may not have been able to get out – ."
The duke shook his head.
"My dear Yorke, her last words to me were a distinct farewell to me and to you. I've not the least doubt in the world that the person who informed her that you were not the duke had also told her that you were heavily in debt, and in Queer Street generally, and that she saw how foolish it would be to throw herself away and ruin her whole life by making an imprudent marriage."
Yorke uttered an oath.
"By heaven, Dolph, if it were anybody else but you who talked of her like this I'd – I'd make him take his words back!"
The duke sighed.
"Even if I were your equal in strength, and we bashed each other, it wouldn't alter the truth a hair's breadth," he said sadly and wearily. "And the truth is as I prophesied weeks ago and state now. Leslie, learning that you were not the Duke of Rothbury, has thrown you over!"
"The truth! It's a foolish and cruel lie!" exclaimed Yorke, his eyes blazing, his hands clenched. "You always misjudged her, you were prejudiced against her, from the first – ."
The duke put his hand as if to stop him, but the passionately indignant voice rang out:
"From the first! She is as pure and high-minded as – as an angel, but you had made up your mind that she was a mercenary schemer, and not even the being with her, and knowing her, and seeing her every day, disabused your mind and opened your eyes to the wrong you were doing her! Yes, you were against her from the first. You'd made your mind up. That ridiculous idea of yours that all women are greedy and hungry for wealth and a title has become a monomania with you, and your mind has got as twisted as your body!"
He stopped aghast and breathless. The words – the cruel words – had slipped out on the torrent of his indignation before be scarcely knew or realized their cruel significance.
The duke sank back, and put his hand to his eyes, as if Yorke had dealt him a physical blow.
Yorke hung his head.
"Forgive me, Dolph," he said in a low voice. "I – I did not mean – ."
The duke dropped his hands from before his face.
"Let that pass," he said in a low voice. "You did not mean it. It is the first unkind word you have ever – . But no matter! You say that I was prejudiced, that I wronged her. Yorke, you have forced my hand, and to show you that you have wronged me, I must tell you all. Yorke – ," he paused, and his eyes dropped, then he raised them, and looked steadily into Yorke's – "I loved her!"
Yorke started.
"You!"
The duke plucked at the sable rug for a moment to silence, then he went on —
"Yes! I should not have told you, should never have confessed it, even to myself, but for – what you said. It is the truth. I loved her! What!" and he leant forward, his thin, wasted face flushed, his lips trembling. "Do you think that it is given to you only to appreciate such beauty and grace and sweetness as Leslie Lisle's? You remind me that I am crooked, twisted, deformed – ."
"Dolph!"
"But do you think, because I am what I am outwardly, that I have no heart? God, who sees below the surface, knows that there beats in my bosom a heart as tender, as hungry for love, as quick to love as yours! Ah, and quicker, hungrier! And I loved her! Loved her with a love as strong and passionate as yours!" He stopped for want of breath.
Yorke sank into a chair and turned his face away.
"And you did not guess it? Well, that is not surprising, for I strove hard to hide it from even myself. I knew that it was madness to hope that I might win her love! But I knew that if I had offered myself in my right colors she would have accepted me, bent, twisted, deformed, mockery of a man as I am!"
Yorke groaned.
"And – and – " he stopped, and seemed to be struggling with something – "and I was tempted! Yes, I was tempted the morning she came to me and told me that she knew, was tempted to tell her that she might still be a duchess, that I loved her and would marry her!"
Yorke sprang to his feet.
"Sit – sit down," said the duke hoarsely, and Yorke sank down again. "But I resisted the temptation. I left her without a word, without a look or sign by which she could know the truth. I had to bear it. It is a burden which crushes, which tortures me! Even since I left the cursed place the temptation has assailed me at intervals, and once or twice I have almost resolved to write – to go down to her – and offer her that upon which she has set her woman's heart – the ducal coronet – for which even a Leslie Lisle will sell herself!"
Yorke opened his lips, but the duke by a gesture stopped him again.
"Now you know the whole truth. If you have to suffer, so also have I. And my lot will be worse than yours. You – " he looked at him, not enviously, but with a sad admiration – "you will get over this – will forget her – ."
"No, no!"
"Yes. There are other women whose love you may win. There is one already." He paused. "Yes, if one nail drives out another, so one love may drive out, wipe out all remembrance of another. And so it is with you. But I!" He dropped back and covered his face with his hands. "For me there can be no such hope. The door of love, the gates of the earthly paradise are shut against me, and will remain shut while I live. To me the Fates say mockingly, 'Rank, wealth, station, we give you, but the love of woman, that supreme gift of the gods to man, thou shalt never know it!'"
There was silence for a moment, then he raised himself on his elbow.
"Yorke, you must bear your burden. Forget her. It will be hard. Don't I know how hard? To forget Leslie – those sweet gray eyes, with their melting tenderness, that low, musical voice! But you must forget her. As I said, there are others. There is one. Eleanor – ."
Yorke sprang to his feet.
"Forget her! Forget Leslie! What are you talking about? We must be mad, both of us; you to talk as you have done, and I to listen! She's as true as steel! I shall find a telegram waiting for me at the club, and – and all will turn out right."
The duke regarded him gravely.
"Go and see," he said quietly. "If you do not find a message from her, what will you do?"
Yorke looked at him.
"Though my body's twisted, my brain is straighter and more acute than yours," said the duke with a smile, "and I will tell you what to do. Wire to the landlady at the house they lived in, Sea View. What was the woman's name?"
"Merrick," said Yorke.
"Yes, Merrick. Ask if the Lisles are there, and if not, for their address. Pay for the return message and all charges. But I can tell you the result at once."
"The result? What?"
"You will not find her. She does not intend that you should. With all her beauty and grace and sweetness, she, even she, even Leslie! being a woman, is too worldly wise to marry Yorke Auchester now that he is a duke no longer."
Yorke caught up his hat and laughed hoarsely.
"I'll soon prove you wrong!" he said.
"And if you do not? If you prove that I am right?" asked the duke, looking at him steadily.
Yorke stopped at the door and looked over his shoulder.
"Then – then – " he stopped and swore – "then you may do what you like with me; marry me to whom you please, when you please, send me to the devil – ."
He strode through the marble hall and called a cab. He ran up the steps of the Dorchester and confronted the patient Stephens.
"There's a telegram for me now, Stephens. Name of 'Yorke,' you know.
"No, sir, nothing for you," was the reply.
He turned at once, and going straight to the telegraph office in Regent Street, sent the following telegram to Mrs. Merrick:
"If Miss Lisle is not at Portmaris, send her address to Yorke, Regent Street Post Office. Reply, paid, at once."
"I'll wait," he said.
"It may be an hour, sir," said the young lady clerk.
"I'll wait if it's ten hours," he said.
He waited for an hour and a half, and then they handed him this:
"Mr. and Miss Lisle have gone and left no address."
He walked from the post office to Grosvenor Square with the telegram crushed in his hand, and went straight to the duke's room. He was still lying on the couch, and he did not lift his head as Yorke entered.
"Well?" he said. "But I need not ask. You are convinced?"
Yorke flattened out the telegram and dropped it into the duke's hand.
"No address! Here in London, and I do not know where to look for her!" he said hoarsely.
"Convinced! No! No!"
Then his voice broke, and he sank into the chair by the table and dropped his head upon his arms.
The duke sighed.
"My poor Yorke! Oh, woman, woman! God sent you as a blessing, and you have proved a curse!"