Chapter 11

"It Might Have Been--It Might Have Been!"

The heavenly summer weeks he passed with his beloved parents at
Camylott before they set forth on their journey to the Continent
remained a sweet memory in the mind of the young Marquess so long as he
lived, and was cherished by him most tenderly. In those lovely June
days he spent his hours with his father and mother as he had spent them
as a child, and in that greater intimacy and closer communion which
comes to a son with riper years, if the situation is not reversed and
his maturity has not drifted away from such fondness. Both the Duke and
Duchess were filled with such noble pride in him and he with such noble
love of them. All they had hoped for in him he had given them, all his
manly heart longed for they bestowed upon him--tenderness,
companionship, sympathy in all he did or dreamed of doing.

After his leave of absence it was his intention to rejoin his Grace of
Marlborough on the Continent for a period, since his great friend had
so desired, but later he would return and give up his career of arms to
devote himself to the interests of his country in other ways, and of
this his mother was particularly glad, feeling all a woman's fears for
his safety and all her soft dread of the horrors of war.

"I would not have shown you my heart when you went away from England,
Gerald," she said. "'Twould not have been brave and just to do so since
'twas your desire to go. But no woman's heart can lie light in her
breast when her son is in peril every hour--and I could not bear to
think," her violet eyes growing softly dark, "that my son in winning
glory might rob other mothers of their joy."

In their rides and talks together he would relate to his father the
story of his campaign, describe to him the brilliant exploits of the
great Duke, whom he had seen in his most magnificent hours, as only
those who fought by his side had seen him; but with her Grace he did
not dwell upon such things, knowing she would not be the happier for
hearing of them. With her he would walk through the park, sauntering
down the avenue beneath the oak-trees, or over the green sward to visit
the deer, who knew the sound of her sweet voice, it seemed, and hearing
it as she approached would lift their delicate heads and come towards
her to be caressed and fed, welcoming her with the dewy lustrousness of
their big timorous dark eyes, even the shyest does and little fawns
nibbling from her fair and gentle hand, and following her softly a few
paces when she turned away. Together she and Roxholm would wander
through all the dear places he had loved in his childish years--into
the rose gardens, which were a riot of beauty and marvellous colours
and