On the following morning Gervase was up betimes. It seemed to him that a new world had opened out before him with boundless possibilities of joy and hope. For weeks he had been dragging himself about like one bent under the infirmities of age; to-day the blood of youth ran quick in his veins. With a pride that was pardonable, he felt that he had done his task manfully and performed his share in a work as memorable as any in his time. He had won honour for0 himself, and he had found the one woman who realized his boyhood′s ideal. She was waiting for him now--waiting with that glad and joyous look in her steadfast eyes that had thrilled him at times when his grief had weighed upon him. She must know that the work he had undertaken was done for her sake, and that he would be with her presently to claim his reward.

Simon Sproule came to see him when he was seated at breakfast, a good deal shrunk and wasted, but bearing himself with his brave and confident 337air for all the troubles he had passed through. The young soldier was one of the linendraper′s heroes, and Simon had come this morning to offer abundant incense at the altar of his worship.

“We are both proud of you, Mr. Orme, Elizabeth and myself. I heard the whole story from Andrew Douglas last night, and it was done like an ancient Roman, sir, but in no foreign or pagan spirit. It was a great feat and should be remembered for many a day.”

“It will be forgotten in good time,” said Gervase cheerfully, “and was no very wonderful business after all. But I am glad for your sake the fighting is over, for yours and your wife′s and----”

“Do not mention them. Oh! I cannot bear it, sir. There were eight of them when you came back with the old captain, eight white-haired youngsters that gathered about the table and made music for me--and now there are but four of them. It was the judgment of God for their father′s cowardice.”

“I think you did your best, Simon,” Gervase said gently.

“I did all that I could, and that was nothing; but it was the pretending that was my sin. I, who was made for nothing but to measure lace and lawns, should not have given myself over as a man of war, and boasted of deeds that I knew that I could not perform. It has broken their mother′s heart, and I think it has broken mine. I cannot think they are gone; indeed I cannot. Why, I stood listening to their footsteps on the stairs even 338as I came into your room, and I heard them calling ‘Daddy,′ every one of them. But ′tis a sin to mourn.”

“Nay, nay, man, weep to your heart′s content, and tell them I said a man′s tears are as manly as his courage. We must all face it some day.”

“I cannot help it,” said Simon, drying his eyes, “but you do not know what it is for a father to part with the red-cheeked boys he loved: we have come through a great tribulation.”

“Thank God there is an end of it now. In a day or two there will not be an Irish Regiment north of the Boyne, and I hope we′ll get back to the works of peace again. I myself will turn husbandman and beat my sword into a pruning hook.”

“And marry the sweet lass by the Bishop′s-Gate, and nurse your brave boys on your knee. You see we have had eyes, Mr. Orme.”

“I do not know how that may be, but----”

“And,” Simon went on, “if you will do me the honour to let me furnish you with the wedding coat, I′ll warrant it of the finest--a free gift at my hands, for all your kindness to me and the boys.”

“We must first find the lady,” laughed Gervase.

“I think she is already found, and I know she is very sweet to look at.”

In the forenoon Gervase found himself in the wainscoted parlour that was for ever associated in his mind with Dorothy Carew. He had dressed himself with some care, and looked a handsome 339fellow as he stood by the window looking out on the grass plot that he remembered so well. It seemed to him years since he had stood there; a whole life was crowded between that time and this--a life in which he had seen many strange sights and come through some memorable fortunes. Dorothy, he did not doubt, was still the same, but Macpherson, so rugged and so kindly, was gone, and the tragedy of his death came vividly before him as he stood in the room where he had first met the man by whose hands he had fallen. He was determined that Dorothy should never know the secret which could only bring her grief; this was the one secret in which she should not share. It was hardly likely that Jasper Carew would ever cross his path again--if he did it would then be time enough to think in what manner he should deal with him. In the meantime here was Arcady with the pipe and the lute, with the springtime crowned with the sweetest love, and care and sorrow laid aside for a season. His heart seemed to rise into his throat and a mist to cloud his eyes, as he heard a light footstep behind him. The gallant speeches that he had been rehearsing vanished from his memory, and he stood with his mind all blank as Dorothy came softly into the room, with her hand extended, and her eyes cast down. Her manner was awkward and constrained, though he did not notice it. He would have held her hand in his but she withdrew it gently and seated herself by the window.

340“Dorothy, Miss Carew,” he began, with an overmastering desire to take her in his arms, “my words have come true, the words I spoke that last afternoon when----”

“Yes,” she said, “I remember.”

“I said when we next met the joybells would be ringing. Listen, you can hear them now; the old time is all gone.”

“Yes, it is all gone--and--and, Mr. Orme, I cannot say all that is in my heart. The city is ringing with your great exploit, but I knew it all. All the night I watched you as you floated down the dark tide. Oh! it was a gallant deed; no man ever did a braver. You did not tell me what was in your mind, but I felt and knew it. I knew you would not fail.”

“I want no other reward but to hear you say that. But you must not praise me overmuch, for I have done nothing but my plain and simple duty. When I look back on it, it has seemed an easy thing to do. There was no risk like what I ran with Sarsfield′s troopers, when you--nay, I had not thought to have awakened that memory.”

“I have not forgotten that either,” she said, “I was a girl then, but I am a woman, and I think a very old woman, now,” she added with a sad smile. “I owe you a great deal since we first met. I shall never be able to repay you, but when we part, and perhaps I shall not see you again, I shall remember your kindness as long as I live.”

“We have not parted yet,” said Gervase, trying 341to take her hand. “Dorothy, I have come here to speak what I have not dared to say before. Nay, nay, you must listen to me, for all our life depends on it. From the first moment that we met, I have had one thought, one hope. I have watched you in silence, for it was not a time to talk of love. Every day on duty, every night on guard, you have been with me consoling and sustaining me. I have no words to tell you all that I would tell you. I have reproached myself for my selfishness. While others were overcome with their misery, I went about with a light and joyous heart; it was enough for me to be near you, to feel your presence, to serve you with my life. Dorothy, I love you.”

“Oh! I cannot hear you,” she cried, rising to her feet and hiding her face in her hands; “it is wrong for me to listen to you.”

“Nay, nay, my best beloved, you shall listen to me,” he went on, with all a lover′s gentle but fierce insistence. “You have spoken words that you cannot recall. All the night in the river and in the woods they rang like music in my ears, and kept my heart from failing in me. I knew you loved me.”

“I will not hear you,” she cried; “they were weak words and wicked. I had no right to speak them.”

“But they were true,” he said, with no clue to her meaning, “and I will hold you to your words. I dare not let you go; there is nothing stands between us and nothing will.”

342“Everything stands between us.” Then with a great effort she calmed herself and went on gently, “My words were wrung from me, I should not have spoken them, but I stand by them--they were the truth. I do love you. Nay, you must hear me out; you must not come nearer, now nor ever again. When they were spoken I had no right to speak them; I was the betrothed wife of Victor De Laprade.”

He stared at her incredulously.

“I was alone; there was no one to whom I could go for advice. I was only a girl; I did not know my own heart. Then the Vicomte de Laprade was struck down unfairly by my brother to whom he had given back his fortune and--and I thought he was going to die. What reparation I could make, it was my duty and my will to make. I had not thought of love--or you. Oh! why did you speak to me?”

“Nay, but, Dorothy, this means the sacrifice of your life. De Laprade is generous. He will not ask----”

She turned to him with a look of pride in her tearful eyes. “He will never know, for I shall stand loyally by the word that I have given him. I shall school my feelings; I shall subdue myself; I shall rise above my wayward thoughts. And you will help me. You will say, ‘Farewell, my sister′, and think of me always as a sister you have loved and is dead.”

“But consider----”

343“I consider all. When he lay there dying, faithful, loyal, as he is, I thought I loved him and I brought him back to life. My love, worthless as it is, is precious to him, and there is one Carew who keeps her word at any cost. Speak no more to me of love. You demean yourself and me. I belong to another.”

“Oh! this is madness.” Gervase cried, knowing in his heart that he could not change nor turn her. “There is no code of honour in the world to make you give your life to one you do not love. Such marriage is no true marriage. You are mine by every right, and I will not let you go.”

“There was a time when I should have liked to hear you talk like that, but it will never be again. I shall give him all duty and honour, and in time, perhaps--you will help me to bear my burden, Gervase Orme, nor make it heavier for me? I see my duty clearly, and all the world will not drive me from it.”

Gervase took her two hands, feverish and trembling in his own. He saw there was no need for further argument; he could not change her.

“I have no gift of speech to show you what you do. Your will has been my law and I shall try to obey you utterly. God knows I loved you, Miss Carew, and still love you. But you will hear no more of me nor my importunate love; there is room abroad for a poor soldier like myself. And De Laprade is a gallant gentleman and worthy of his splendid fortune. I can say no more than that I envy him with all my heart.”

344He drew her to him unresistingly, and kissed her on the forehead. There was nothing lover-like in the act; it was simply in token of sorrowful surrender, and she recognized it as such. She did not dare to raise her eyes to his but kept them bent upon the ground; he could see the lashes were trembling with unshed tears.

“I knew,” she said, “you would speak as you have spoken. It was my duty to see you; it is very hard. You will go now?”

“I will go, Miss Carew, and I ask you to remember that through life, in good and evil fortune, you have no more loving and loyal friend than Gervase Orme, your faithful servant. Time will not change nor alter me. It was too great fortune for me to deserve it.”

Before she could speak he was gone, and she heard in a dream the door close behind him. One of his gloves had fallen to the ground and was still lying at her feet. She caught it up and pressed it passionately against her bosom. She was now able to read her own heart in all its depth and fulness; standing there with her eyes fixed on the door through which he had departed, she saw the greatness of the sacrifice she had made. She felt that moment that she stood utterly alone, closed out from all love and sympathy. She had believed that she had become resigned, and that she had succeeded in mastering her feelings, but they had burst out afresh and with a fervour and passion that terrified herself. “Oh! God,” she cried, “how I love him!”

345Throwing herself in the chair from which she had risen, and burying her face in her hands, she gave way to her sorrow, feeling all the while that she dare not reason with herself, for however much she suffered she determined that she would not break her faith. She would bring herself to love De Laprade; love him as she honoured and admired him, the loyal and courteous gentleman, who treated her rather as a goddess than as a woman.

She did not hear the footsteps coming from the open window; she was thinking at the moment of how she could meet her betrothed with an air of gaiety. Then a hand was laid lightly on her shoulder and she looked up. De Laprade was standing over her, with a pleasant smile playing about his lips. His face was pale and his voice trembled a little when he spoke, but only for a moment; otherwise his manner was free and pleasant, with something of his old gaiety in it.

“I am a dull fellow, Cousin Dorothy,” he said, “but a dull fellow sometimes awakens, and I have aroused myself. I have been sleeping for weeks, I think, with dreams too, but poof! they are gone. You have been weeping--that is wrong. The eyes of beauty should ever be undimmed.”

She did not answer him, and he sat down on the chair beside her, taking Orme′s glove from her lap where it lay, and examining the embroidery critically. “Monsieur Orme is a pretty fellow, and I have much regard for him. I am going to make you very happy, my cousin.”

346“I am not----”

“Nay, I know what you would say. But I have a long story to tell, so long that I know not how to begin, nor how to make an end. It will be easier by what you call a parable.”

Dorothy looked at her lover curiously. For some time his old manner of jesting with something of gay cynicism about it had disappeared, but all at once it had returned with something else she did not recognize. He could not have learned her secret, for she had guarded that too carefully, but her woman′s instinct warned her that perhaps after all he had guessed the truth.

“There was once,” he went on, “a prodigal who spent his youth in his own way; he drank, he diced, he knew not love nor reverence; no law, but that poor thing that men call honour. But it was well he k............