"No, no, certainly not; yet not on that account, but for the peace of my own spirit, I would to Heaven this had not happened!" exclaimed the duke.
"Why? Everything went off most agreeably. Indeed, this was one of the most satisfactory meetings at which I ever a.s.sisted," said the colonel, comfortably.
"I wish to Heaven it had never taken place! I would give my right hand to undo its own deed to-day--if that were possible!" groaned the homicide.
"Why should you disturb yourself?--but perhaps this is your first affair of the kind?" calmly inquired the colonel.
"My first and last! I do not know how any one can engage in a second one after feeling what it is to kill a man."
"You feel so because it _is_ your first affair. You would not mind your second, and you would rather enjoy your third," suavely observed the colonel, who then drew a railway card from his pocket, examined it, looked at his watch, and said:
"We shall be in time to catch the morning"s express to Calais, and we may actually eat our dinners in London. When we arrive you can get some of your people to send a telegram to Tompkins, to order him to pay your hotel bill and bring your effects to London, or wherever else you may think of stopping."
"Thanks for your counsel. I leave myself entirely in your hands," said the duke, with a half-suppressed sigh.
They caught the express to Calais, connected with the Dover boat, and crossed the channel the same day. They ran up to London by the afternoon train, and arrived in good time for a dinner at "Morley"s."
Two telegrams were dispatched to Paris--one to the respectable Mr.
Tompkins, with orders to pay bills and return with his master"s effects; the other to the estimable Mr. Joyce, the groom of the colonel, with orders to perform the same services in behalf of his own employer.
Then the princ.i.p.al and his second separated--the duke to go to his town-house in Piccadilly and the colonel to join his regiment, then stationed at Brighton.
And as the extradition treaty had not at that day been thought of, both were perfectly safe.
CHAPTER XL.
AFTER THE STORM.
The Duke of Hereward only remained in town until the arrival of his servants with his effects from Paris.
He avoided looking at the newspapers, which, he knew, must contain exaggerated statements of the duel and its causes, if, indeed, any statement of such horrors could be exaggerated.
On the third day after his arrival in London, he went down to Greencombe, a small family estate in a secluded part of Suss.e.x, near the sea.
Here he hid himself and his humiliations from the world.
The primitive population around Greencombe had never seen the duke, or any of his family, who preferred to reside at Hereward Hold, in Devonshire, or their town-house in Piccadilly, leaving their small Suss.e.x place in charge of a land-steward and a few old servants.
They had never even heard of the marriage of the duke in Paris, much less the flight of the d.u.c.h.ess, or the duel with Volaski.
This neglect of his poor people at Greencombe had hitherto been a matter of compunction to the conscientious soul of the duke, but he now was satisfied with the course of conduct which had left them in total ignorance of himself and his unhappy domestic history.
The duke and his fine servants were received with mingled deference, gladness and embarra.s.sment by the aged and rustic couple who acted as land-steward and housekeeper at Greencombe, and who now bestirred themselves to make their unexpected master and his attendants comfortable.
The duke gave orders that he should be denied to all visitors, though there was little likelihood of any calling upon him, except perhaps the vicar of Greencombe church.
Here the duke vegetated until the meeting of Parliament, when he went up to London to inst.i.tute proceedings for a divorce.
At that time there was no divorce court, and little necessity for one.
Divorces were to be obtained by act of Parliament only.
The duke commenced proceedings immediately on his arrival in London. His case was a clear and simple one; there was no opposition; consequently he was soon, matrimonially considered a free man.
The Duke of Hereward was now nearly fifty years of age. Life was uncertain, and the laws of succession very certain.
If the present bearer of the coronet of Hereward should die childless, the t.i.tle would not descend to the son of his only and beloved sister, but would go to a distant relative whom the duke hated.
A speedy marriage seemed necessary.
The duke looked around the upper circle of London society, and fixed upon the Lady Augusta Victoria McDugald, the eldest daughter of the Earl of Banff, and a woman as little like his unhappy first wife as it was Possible for her to be.
"The daughter of an hundred earls" was tall and stately, cold and proud, embodying the child"s or the peasant"s very ideal of "a d.u.c.h.ess."
"Dukes," like monarchs, "seldom woo in vain."
After a short courtship the duke proposed for the lady, and after a shorter engagement, married her.
The newly-wedded pair went on a very unusually extended tour over Europe, into Asia and Africa, and then across the ocean and over North and South America.
After twelve months spent in travel, they returned to England only that the antic.i.p.ated heir of the dukedom might be born on the patrimonial estate of Hereward Hold.
There was the utmost fulfillment of hope. The expected child proved to be a fine boy, who was christened for his father, Archibald-Alexander-John, by courtesy styled Marquis of Arondelle.
Had the duke"s mind been as free from remorse for his homicide as his heart was free from regret for his first love, he would have been as happy a man as he was a proud father; but ah! the sense of blood-guiltiness, although incurred in the duel, under the so-called "code of honor," weighed heavily upon his conscience, and over-shadowed all his joys.
His d.u.c.h.ess was a prolific mother, and brought him other sons and daughters as the years went by; but, as if some spell of fatality hung over the family, these children all pa.s.sed away in childhood, leaving only the young Marquis of Arondelle as the sole hope of the great ducal house of Hereward.
So the time pa.s.sed in varied joys and sorrows, without bringing any tidings, good or bad, of the poor, lost girl who had once shared the duke"s t.i.tle and possessed his heart.
He believed her to be as dead to the world as she was to him. And so he gradually forgot even that she had ever lived! She had long been "out of mind" as "out of sight."
Fifteen years of married life had pa.s.sed over the heads of the Duke and d.u.c.h.ess of Hereward.
The d.u.c.h.ess at thirty-five was still a very beautiful woman, a reigning belle, a leader of fashion, a queen of society.
The duke at sixty-five was still a very handsome, stately and commanding old gentleman, with hair and beard as white as snow. He was a great political power in the House of Lords. Their son, the young Marquis of Arondelle, was a fine boy of fourteen.
It was very early summer in London. Parliament was in session, and the season was at its height.
The Duke and d.u.c.h.ess of Hereward were established in their magnificent town-house in Piccadilly.
The Marquis of Arondelle was pursuing his studies at Eton.
A memorable day was at hand for the duke.