Michael did not answer.
"I saw the body before it was moved," continued the duke. "It was still warm. I incline to think the marchese was murdered actually inside the garden, and that he fell on his face where he stood, and was dragged behind the hydrangeas. But the _delegato_ thought differently. You will remember, Carstairs, that the dead man had been dragged by the feet."
"Did I put him on the right side or the left of the door as you go in?"
"On the left."
"On his face?"
"Yes."
There was a pause.
"You had no quarrel with the marchese, I presume?" said the duke significantly.
"On the contrary," said Michael; "it is not known, but I had."
"Just so. Just so. About a woman?"
Michael winced.
"About a horse," he said.
"No," said the duke, with decision. "Think again. Your memory does not serve you. It was about a woman. Was it not a dancing-girl?"
"I am not like that," said Michael, colouring.
"It is of no account what you are like, or what you are not like. What matters is that which is quickly believed. A quarrel about a woman is always believed, especially by women who think all turns on them. Were you not in Paris at Easter?"
"I was."
"Was not the marchese in Paris at Easter?"
"He was. I saw him once at the Opera with the old Duke of Castelfranco."
"Just so. A quarrel about a dancing-girl at Paris at Easter. That was how it was."
"You are right," said Michael, regaining his composure with an effort.
"I owed him a grudge. You will be careful to mention this to no one?"
"I will mention it only to one or two women on whom I can rely," said the duke; "and to them only in the strictest confidence."
Michael nodded.
Silence fell between them, and he wondered why the duke did not go. The warder shifted his feet in the pa.s.sage.
Presently the duke began to speak in a low, even voice.
"I owe you an apology," he said. "I saw you standing behind the screen, reflected in a little mirror, and for one moment I thought you had done me a great injury. It was only for a moment. I regained myself quickly.
I would have saved you if I could. But I owe you an apology for a suspicion unworthy of either of us."
"It was natural," said Michael. He was greatly drawn to this man.
"I may in some matters be deceived," continued the duke, "for in my time I have deceived others, and have not been found out. I don"t know why you were in my wife"s rooms that night. Nevertheless, I clearly know two things: one, that you did not murder the marchese, and the other, that there was nothing wrong between you and my wife. With you her honour was safe. You and I are combining now to guard only her reputation before the world."
Michael did not answer. He nodded again.
"At the price," continued the duke, "probably of your best years."
"I am content to pay the price," said Michael. "It was the only thing to do." Then he coloured like a girl, and raised his eyes to the duke"s. "I went to her that night to say good-bye," he said. "That was why the garden door was unlocked. I love her. I have loved her for years."
It seemed as if everything between the two men had become transparent.
"I know it," said the duke. "She also, the d.u.c.h.ess, is in love with you."
Michael drew back perceptibly. His manner changed.
"A little--not much," continued the duke. "I watched her, when you gave up yourself. She could have saved you. She could save you still--by a word. But she will not speak it. She appeared to love me a little once.
I was not deceived. I knew. She loves you a little now. Why do you deceive yourself, my friend? There is only one person for whom she has a permanent and deep affection--for her very charming self."
The words fell into the silence of the bare room. Michael"s thin hands, tightly clenched, shook a little.
The duke bent towards him.
"Is she worth it?" he said, with sudden pa.s.sion.
No answer. Michael hid his face in his hands.
"Is she worth it?" said the duke again.
Michael looked up suddenly at the duke, and the elder man winced at the expression in his face. He looked through the duke, through his veiled despair and disillusion, beyond him.
"Yes, she is worth it," he said. "You do not understand her because you only love her in part. I meant to serve her by leaving Rome, but now I can"t leave it. What I can do for her I will. It is no sacrifice--I am glad to do it--to have the chance. I have always wished--to serve her--to put my hands under her feet."
The sudden radiance in Michael"s face pa.s.sed. He looked down embarra.s.sed, annoyed with himself.
"There remains then but one other person to be considered," said the duke, looking closely at him. "The beautiful heroine, the young lover, these are now accommodated. All is _en regle_. But that dull elderly person who takes the _role_ of husband on these occasions! Is there not a husband somewhere? What of him? Will he indeed fold his arms as on the stage? Will he indeed stand by as serenely as you suppose and suffer an innocent man to make this sacrifice for the sake of his--honour?"
"He will, only because he must," said Michael, catching his breath. "I had thought of that. He can do nothing. Have I not accused myself? And his honour is also hers. They stand and fall together."
[Ill.u.s.tration: ""IS SHE WORTH IT?" HE SAID WITH SUDDEN Pa.s.sION"]
"They stand and fall together," said the duke slowly. "Yes, that is true. And he is old. He is finished. He is the head of a great house.
His honour is perhaps the only thing that still means anything to him. Nevertheless, it is strange to me that you think he would consent to keep it at so great a cost, the cost perhaps of twenty years. That were impossible.... He could not permit _that_. But--one little year--at most. That perhaps his conscience might permit. One little year! You are young. Supposing he has within him," he laid his hand on his heart, "that of which his wife does not know, which means that his release is _sure_. Do you understand? Supposing it must come soon--very soon--her release--and yours. Perhaps then----" There was a long pause. "Perhaps then his conscience might suffer him to keep silence."
Michael"s hand made a slight movement. The duke took it in his, and held it firmly.
"Listen," he said at last. "Once when I was young, twenty years ago, I loved. I too would fain have served a woman, would have put my hands under her feet. There is always one such a woman in life, but only one.