"As there"s a heaven above us," wrote Lynborough that same night--having been, one would fain hope, telepathically conscious of the hand-kissing by the red lips, of the softly breathed "To-morrow!" (for if he were not, what becomes of Love"s Magic?)--"As there"s a heaven above us, I have succeeded! Her answer is more than a consent--it"s an appreciation.
The rogue knew how she stood: she is haughtily, daintily grateful. Does she know how near she drove me to the abominable thing? Almost had I--I, Ambrose Caverly--issued a writ! I should never, in all my life, have got over the feeling of being a bailiff! She has saved me by the rightness of her taste. "Knightly" she called it to old Cromlech. Well, that was in the blood--it had been my own fault if I had lost it, no credit of mine if to some measure I have it still. But to find the recognition! I have lit up the country-side to-night to celebrate that rare discovery.
"Rare--yes--yet not doubted. I knew it of her. I believe that I have broken all records--since the Renaissance at least. Love at first sight!
Where"s the merit in that? Given the sight be fine enough (a thing that I pray may not admit of doubt in the case of Helena), it is no exploit; it is rather to suffer the inevitable than to achieve the great. But unless the sight of a figure a hundred yards away--and of a back fifty--is to count against me as a practical inspection, I am so supremely lucky as never to have seen her! I have made her for myself--a few tags of description, a noting of the effect on Roger and on Cromlech, mildly (and very unimaginatively) aided my work, I admit--but for the most part and in all essentials, she, as I love her (for of course I love her, or no amount of Feast of St. John Baptist should have moved me from my path--take that for literal or for metaphorical as ye will!)--is of my own craftsmanship--work of my heart and brain, wrought just as I would have her--as I knew, through all delightful wanderings, that some day she must come to me.
"Think then of my mood for to-morrow! With what feelings do I ring the bell (unless perchance it be a knocker)! With what sensations accost the butler! With what emotions enter the presence! Because if by chance I am wrong--! Upon which awful doubt arises the question whether, if I be wrong, I can go back. I am plaguily the slave of putting the thing as prettily as it can be put (Thanks, Cromlech, for giving me the adverb--not so bad a touch for a Man of Tombs!), and, on my soul, I have put that homage of mine so prettily that one who was prudent would have addressed it to none other than a married lady--_vivente marito_, be it understood. But from my G.o.ddess her mortal mate is gone--and to explain--nay, not to explain (which would indeed tax every grace of style)--but to let it appear that the homage lingers, abides, and is confined within the letter of the bond--that would seem scarce "knightly." Therefore, being (as all tell me) more of a fool than most men, and (as I soberly hope) not less of a gentleman, I stand thus. I love the Image I have made out of dim distant sight, prosaic shreds of catalogued description, a vividly creating mind, and--to be candid--the absolute necessity of amusing myself in the country. But the Woman I am to see to-morrow? Is she the Image? I shall know in the first moment of our encounter. If she is, all is well for me--for her it will be just a question of her dower of heavenly venturousness. If she is not--in my humble judgment, you, Ambrose Caverly, having put the thing with so excessive a prettiness, shall for your art"s sake perish--you must, in short, if you would end this thing in the manner (creditable to yourself, Ambrose!) in which it has. .h.i.therto been conducted, w.i.l.l.y-nilly, hot or cold, confirmed in divine dreams or slapped in the face by disenchanting fact--within a brief s.p.a.ce of time, propose marriage to this lady. If there be any other course, the G.o.ds send me scent of it this night! But if she should refuse? Reckon not on that.
For the more she fall short of her Image, the more will she grasp at an outward showing of triumph--and the greatest outward triumph would not be in refusal.
"In my human weakness I wish that--just for once--I had seen her! But in the strong spirit of the wine of life--whereof I have been and am an inveterate and most incurable bibber--I rejoice in that wonderful moment of mine to-morrow--when the door of the shrine opens, and I see the G.o.ddess before whom my offering must be laid. Be she giant or dwarf, be she black or white, have she hair or none--by the powers, if she wears a sack only, and is well advised to stick close to that, lest casting it should be a change for the worse--in any event the offering must be made. Even so the Prince in the tales, making his vows to the Beast and not yet knowing if his spell shall transform it to the Beauty! In my stronger moments, so would I have it. Years of life shall I live in that moment to-morrow! If it end ill, no human being but myself shall know.
If it end well, the world is not great enough to hold, nor the music of its spheres melodious enough to sound, my triumph!"
It will be observed that Lord Lynborough, though indeed no novice in the cruel and tender pa.s.sion, was appreciably excited on the Eve of the Feast of St. John Baptist. In view of so handsome a response, the Marchesa"s kiss of the hand and her murmured "To-morrow" may pa.s.s excused of forwardness.
It was, nevertheless, a gentleman to all seeming most cool and calm who presented himself at the doors of Nab Grange at eleven fifty-five the next morning. His Amba.s.sadors had come in magnificence; humbly he walked--and not by Beach Path, since his homage was not yet paid--but round by the far-stretching road and up the main avenue most decorously.
Stabb and Roger had cut across by the path--holding the Marchesa"s leave and license so to do--and had joined an excited group which sat on chairs under sheltering trees.
"I wish she hadn"t made the audience private!" said Norah Mountliffey.
"If ever a keyhole were justifiable--" sighed Violet Dufaure.
"My dear, I"d box your ears myself," Miss Gilletson brusquely interrupted.
The Marchesa sat in a high arm-chair, upholstered in tarnished fading gold. The sun from the window shone on her hair; her face was half in shadow. She rested her head on her left; hand the right lay on her knee.
It was stripped of any ring--unadorned white. Her cheeks were pale--the olive reigned unchallenged; her lips were set tight, her eyes downcast.
She made no movement when Lord Lynborough entered.
He bowed low, but said nothing. He stood opposite to her some two yards away. The clock ticked. It wanted still a minute before noon struck.
That was the minute of which Lynborough had raved and dreamed the night before. He had the fruit of it in full measure.
The first stroke of twelve rang silvery from the clock. Lynborough advanced and fell upon his knee. She did not lift her eyes, but slowly raised her hand from her knee. He placed his hand under it, pressing it a little upward and bowing his head to meet it half-way in its ascent.
She felt his lips lightly brush the skin. His homage for Beach Path and his right therein was duly paid.
Slowly he rose to his feet; slowly her eyes turned upward to his face.
It was ablaze with a great triumph; the fire seemed to spread to her cheeks.
"It"s better than I dreamed or hoped," he murmured.
"What? To have peace between us? Yes, it"s good."
"I have never seen your face before." She made no answer. "Nor you mine?" he asked.
"Once on Sandy Nab you pa.s.sed by me. You didn"t notice me--but, yes, I saw you." Her eyes were steadily on him now; the flush had ceased to deepen, nay, had receded, but abode still, tingeing the olive of her cheeks.
"I have rendered my homage," he said.
"It is accepted." Suddenly tears sprang to her eyes. "And you might have been so cruel to me!" she whispered.
"To you? To you who carry the power of a world in your face?"
The Marchesa was confused--as was, perhaps, hardly unnatural.
"There are other things, besides gates and walls, and Norah"s head, that you jump over, Lord Lynborough."
"I lived a life while I stood waiting for the clock to strike. I have tried for life before--in that minute I found it." He seemed suddenly to awake as though from a dream. "But I beg your pardon. I have paid my dues. The bond gives me no right to linger."
She rose with a light laugh--yet it sounded nervous. "Is it good-by till next St. John Baptist"s day?"
"You would see me walking on Beach Path day by day."
"I never call it Beach Path."
"May it now be called--Helena"s?"
"Or will you stay and lunch with me to-day? And you might even pay homage again--say to-morrow--or--or some day in the week."
"Lunch, most certainly. That commits me to nothing. Homage, Marchesa, is quite another matter."
"Your chivalry is turning to bargaining, Lord Lynborough."
"It was never anything else," he answered. "Homage is rendered in payment--that"s why one says "Whereas."" His keen eager eyes of hazel raised once more the flood of subdued crimson in her face. "For every recognition of a right of mine, I will pay you homage according to the form prescribed for St. John Baptist"s Feast."
"Of what other rights do you ask recognition?"
"There might be the right of welcoming you at Scarsmoor to-morrow?"
She made him a little curtsy. "It is accorded--on the prescribed terms, my lord."
"That will do for the twenty-fifth. There might be the right of escorting you home from Scarsmoor by the path called--Helena"s?"
"On the prescribed terms it is your lordship"s."
"What then of the right to see you daily, and day by day?"
"If your leisure serves, my lord, I will endeavor to adjust mine--so long as we both remain at Fillby. But so that the homage is paid!"
"But if you go away?"
"I"m bound to tell you of my whereabouts only on St. John Baptist"s Feast."
"The right to know it on other days--would that be recognized in return for a homage, Marchesa?"
"One homage for so many letters?"
"I had sooner there were no letters--and daily homages."
"You take too many obligations--and too lightly."
"For every one I gain the recognition of a right."