CHAPTER XXXVIII
THE HOME IN ENGLAND
The first words which milor uttered when presently consciousnessreturned were:
"The letter . . . Madonna . . . 'tis destroyed . . . I swear. . . ."
He was then lying in Jean Marie's best bed, between lavender-scentedsheets. On his right a tiny open window afforded a glimpse of sea andsky, and of many graceful craft gently lolling on the breast of thewaves, but on his left, when anon he turned his eyes that way, therewas a picture which of a truth was not of this earth, and vaguely,with the childish and foolish fancy of a sick man who hath gazed onthe dark portals, he allowed himself to think that all the old talesof his babyhood, about the first glimpse of paradise after death, mustindeed be true.
He was dead and this was paradise.
What he saw was a woman's face, with grave anxious eyes fixed uponhim, and a woman's smile which revealed an infinity of love andpromised an infinity of happiness.
"Madonna!" he murmured feebly. Then he closed his eyes again, for hewas weak from loss of blood and from days and nights of fever anddelirium, and he was so afraid that the vision might vanish if hegazed at it too long.
The leech--a kindly man--visited him frequently. Apparently the woundwas destined to heal. Life was to begin anew, with its sorrows, itsdisappointments, its humiliations, mayhap.
Yet a memory haunted him persistently--a vision, oh! 'twas a mereflash--of his madonna standing with her dear, white hand outstretched,betwixt him and death.
It was a vision, of course; such as are vouchsafed to the dying: andthe other picture?--nay! that was a fevered dream; there had been notender, grave eyes that watched him, no woman's smile to promisehappiness.
One day M. le Duc d'Aumont came to visit him. He had posted straightfrom Paris, and was singularly urbane and anxious when he pressed thesick man's hand.
"You must make a quick recovery, milor," he said cordially; "_parDieu!_ you are the hero of the hour. Mortemar hath talked his fill."
"I trust not," rejoined Eglinton gravely.
M. le Duc looked conscious and perturbed.
"Nay! he is a gallant youth," he said reassuringly, "and knows exactlyhow to hold his tongue, but Belle-Isle and de Lugeac had to be taughta lesson . . . and 'twas well learned I'll warrant you. . . . As forGaston. . . ."
"Yes! M. le Duc? what of M. le Comte de Stainville?"
"He hath left the Court momentarily . . . somewhat in disgrace . . .'twas a monstrous encounter, milor," added the Duke gravely. "HadGaston killed you it had been murder, for you never meant to shoot, sosays de Mortemar."
The sick man's head turned restlessly on the pillow.
"De Mortemar's tongue hath run away with him," he said impatiently.
"The account of the duel . . . nothing more, on my honour," rejoinedthe Duke. "No woman's name has been mentioned, but I fear me the Courtand public have got wind of the story of a conspiracy against theStuart prince, and connect the duel with that event--hence yourpopularity, milor," continued the older man with a sigh, "and Gaston'sdisgrace."
"His Majesty's whipping-boy, eh? the scapegoat in the abortedconspiracy?"
"Poor Gaston! You bear him much ill-will, milor, no doubt?"
"I? None, on my honour."
M. le Duc hesitated a while, a troubled look appeared on his handsomeface.
"Lydie," he said tentatively. "Milor, she left Paris that night alone. . . and travelled night and day to reach Le Havre in time to helpyou and to thwart Gaston . . . she had been foolish of course, but hermotives were pure . . . milor, she is my child and . . ."
"She is my wife, M. le Duc," interrupted Lord Eglinton gravely; "Ineed no assurance of her purity even from her father."
There was such implicit trust, such complete faith expressed in thosefew simple words, that instinctively M. le Duc d'Aumont felt ashamedthat he could ever have misunderstood his daughter. He was silent fora moment or two, then he said more lightly:
"His Majesty is much angered of course."
"Against me, I hope," rejoined Eglinton.
"Aye!" sighed the Duke. "King Louis is poorer by fifteen millionlivres by your act, milor."
"And richer by the kingdom of honour. As for the millions, M. le Duc,I'll place them myself at His Majesty's service. My chateau anddependencies of Choisy are worth that," added milor lightly. "As soonas this feeble hand can hold a pen, I'll hand them over to the crownof France as a free gift."
"You will do that, milor?" gasped the Duke, who could scarce believehis ears.
"'Tis my firm intention," rejoined the sick man with a smile.
A great weight had been lifted from M. le Duc's mind. Royaldispleasure would indeed have descended impartially on all the friendsof "le petit Anglais" and above all on milor's father-in-law, whosevery presence at Court would of a surety have become distasteful tothe disappointed monarch. Now this unparalleled generosity would morethan restore Louis' confidence in a Prime Minister whose chief virtueconsisted in possessing so wealthy and magnanimous a son-in-law.
Indeed we know that M. le Duc d'Aumont continued for some time afterthese memorable days to enjoy the confidence and gratitude of Louisthe Well-beloved and to bask in the sunshine of Madame de Pompadour'ssmiles, whilst the gift of the chateau and dependencies of Choisy byMilor the Marquis of Eglinton to the crown of France was made thesubject of a public fete at Versailles and of an ode by M. JolyotCrebillon of the Institut de France, writ especially for the occasion.
But after the visit of M. le Duc d'Aumont at his bedside in the"auberge des Trois Matelots" the munificent donor of fifteen millionslivres felt over-wearied of life.
The dream which had soothed his fevered sleep no longer haunted hiswaking moments, and memory had much ado to feed love of life with therememberance of one happy moment.
Milor the Marquis of Eglinton closed his eyes, sighing for that dream.The little room was so still, so peaceful, and from the tiny window agentle breeze from across the English Channel fanned his aching brow,bringing back with its soothing murmur the memory of that stately homein England, for which his father had so often sighed.
How peaceful it must be there among the hills!
The breeze murmured more persistently, and anon with its dreamlikesound there mingled the frou-frou of a woman's skirts.
The sick man ventured to open his eyes.
Lydie, his wife, was kneeling beside his bed, her delicate handsclasped under her chin, her eyes large, glowing and ever grave fixedupon his face.
"Am I on earth?" he murmured quaintly.
"Of a truth, milor," she replied, and her voice was like the mostexquisite music he had ever heard; it was earnest and serious like herown self, but there was a tremor in it which rendered it unspeakablysoft.
"The leech saith there's no longer any danger for your life," sheadded.
He was silent for awhile, as if he were meditating on a grave matter,then he said quietly:
"Would you have me live, Lydie?"
And as she did not reply, he repeated his question again:
"Do you wish me to live, Lydie?"
She fought with the tears, which against her will gathered in hereyes.
"Milor, milor, are you not cruel now?" she whispered through thosetears.
"Cruel of a truth," he replied earnestly, "since you would have savedme at peril of your own dear life. . . . Yet would I gladly die to seeyou happy."
"Will you not rather live, milor?" she said with a smile of infinitetenderness, "for then only could I taste happiness."
"Yet if I lived, you would have to give up so much that you love."
"That is impossible, milor, for I only love one thing."
"Your work in France?" he asked.
"No. My life with you."
Her hands dropped on to the coverlet, and he grasped them in his own.How oft had she drawn away at his touch. Now she yielded, drawingnearer to him, still on her knees.
"Would you come to England with me, Lydie? to my home in England,amongs
t the hills of Sussex, far from Court life and from politics?Would you follow me thither?"
"To the uttermost ends of the world, good milor," she replied.
THE END