Chapter 18

A Night in which my Lord Duke Did Not Sleep

As they rolled over the roads on their way homeward, in the darkness of
their coach, my Lord Dunstanwolde spoke of his happiness and told its
story. There was no approach to an old lover's exultant folly in his
talk; his voice was full of noble feeling, and in his manner there was
somewhat like to awe of the great joy which had befallen him. To him
who listened to the telling 'twas a strange relation indeed, since each
incident seemed to reveal to him a blindness in himself. Why had he not
read the significance of a score of things which he could now recall? A
score of things?--a hundred! Because he had been in his early prime,
and full of the visions and passions of youth, he had not for one
moment dreamed that a man who was so far his senior could be a man
still, his heart living enough to yearn and ache, his eyes clear to see
the radiance others saw, and appraise it as adoringly. 'Twas the common
fault of youth to think to lead the world and to sweep aside from its
path all less warm-blooded, strong-limbed creatures, feeling their day
was done for them, and that for them there was naught left but to wait
quietly for the end. There was an ignobleness in it--a self-absorption
which was almost dishonour. And in this way he had erred as far as any
stripling with blooming cheeks and girlish love-locks who thought that
nine and twenty struck the knell of love and life. 'Twas thoughts like
these that were passing through his mind as they were driven through
the darkness--at least they were the thoughts upon the surface of his
mind, while below them surged a torrent into whose darkness he dared
not look. He was a man, and he had lost her--lost her! She had become a
part of his being--and she had been torn from his side. "Let me but
look into your eyes," he had said, and he had looked and read her
answering soul--too late!

"I have passed through dark days, Gerald," my lord was saying. "How
should I have dared to hope that she would give herself to me? I had
been mad to hope it. And yet a man in my case must plead, whether he
despairs or not. I think 'twas her gentleness to Mistress Anne which
has sustained me. That poor gentlewoman and I have the happiness to
know her heart as others do not. Thank God, 'tis so! When to-night I
said to her sadly, 'Madam, my youth is long past,' she stopped me with
a strange and tender little cry. She put her hand upon my shoulder. Ah,
its soft touch, its white, kind caress! 'Youth is not all,' she said.
'I have known younger men who could not bring a woman truth and
honourable love. 'Tis not I who give, 'tis not I,' and the full sweet
red of her mouth quivered. I--have not yet dared to touch it, Gerald."