The Crimson Sign by S. R. Keightley - HTML preview

CHAPTER XXI.
 OF HOW THE VICOMTE MADE HIS GREAT RENUNCIATION.

On the following morning Gervase was up betimes. It seemed to him that a new world had opened out before him with boundless possibilities of joy and hope. For weeks he had been dragging himself about like one bent under the infirmities of age; to-day the blood of youth ran quick in his veins. With a pride that was pardonable, he felt that he had done his task manfully and performed his share in a work as memorable as any in his time. He had won honour for himself, and he had found the one woman who realized his boyhood´s ideal. She was waiting for him now--waiting with that glad and joyous look in her steadfast eyes that had thrilled him at times when his grief had weighed upon him. She must know that the work he had undertaken was done for her sake, and that he would be with her presently to claim his reward.

Simon Sproule came to see him when he was seated at breakfast, a good deal shrunk and wasted, but bearing himself with his brave and confident air for all the troubles he had passed through. The young soldier was one of the linendraper´s heroes, and Simon had come this morning to offer abundant incense at the altar of his worship.

“We are both proud of you, Mr. Orme, Elizabeth and myself. I heard the whole story from Andrew Douglas last night, and it was done like an ancient Roman, sir, but in no foreign or pagan spirit. It was a great feat and should be remembered for many a day.”

“It will be forgotten in good time,” said Gervase cheerfully, “and was no very wonderful business after all. But I am glad for your sake the fighting is over, for yours and your wife´s and----”

“Do not mention them. Oh! I cannot bear it, sir. There were eight of them when you came back with the old captain, eight white-haired youngsters that gathered about the table and made music for me--and now there are but four of them. It was the judgment of God for their father´s cowardice.”

“I think you did your best, Simon,” Gervase said gently.

“I did all that I could, and that was nothing; but it was the pretending that was my sin. I, who was made for nothing but to measure lace and lawns, should not have given myself over as a man of war, and boasted of deeds that I knew that I could not perform. It has broken their mother´s heart, and I think it has broken mine. I cannot think they are gone; indeed I cannot. Why, I stood listening to their footsteps on the stairs even as I came into your room, and I heard them calling ‘Daddy,´ every one of them. But ´tis a sin to mourn.”

“Nay, nay, man, weep to your heart´s content, and tell them I said a man´s tears are as manly as his courage. We must all face it some day.”

“I cannot help it,” said Simon, drying his eyes, “but you do not know what it is for a father to part with the red-cheeked boys he loved: we have come through a great tribulation.”

“Thank God there is an end of it now. In a day or two there will not be an Irish Regiment north of the Boyne, and I hope we´ll get back to the works of peace again. I myself will turn husbandman and beat my sword into a pruning hook.”

“And marry the sweet lass by the Bishop´s-Gate, and nurse your brave boys on your knee. You see we have had eyes, Mr. Orme.”

“I do not know how that may be, but----”

“And,” Simon went on, “if you will do me the honour to let me furnish you with the wedding coat, I´ll warrant it of the finest--a free gift at my hands, for all your kindness to me and the boys.”

“We must first find the lady,” laughed Gervase.

“I think she is already found, and I know she is very sweet to look at.”

In the forenoon Gervase found himself in the wainscoted parlour that was for ever associated in his mind with Dorothy Carew. He had dressed himself with some care, and looked a handsome fellow as he stood by the window looking out on the grass plot that he remembered so well. It seemed to him years since he had stood there; a whole life was crowded between that time and this--a life in which he had seen many strange sights and come through some memorable fortunes. Dorothy, he did not doubt, was still the same, but Macpherson, so rugged and so kindly, was gone, and the tragedy of his death came vividly before him as he stood in the room where he had first met the man by whose hands he had fallen. He was determined that Dorothy should never know the secret which could only bring her grief; this was the one secret in which she should not share. It was hardly likely that Jasper Carew would ever cross his path again--if he did it would then be time enough to think in what manner he should deal with him. In the meantime here was Arcady with the pipe and the lute, with the springtime crowned with the sweetest love, and care and sorrow laid aside for a season. His heart seemed to rise into his throat and a mist to cloud his eyes, as he heard a light footstep behind him. The gallant speeches that he had been rehearsing vanished from his memory, and he stood with his mind all blank as Dorothy came softly into the room, with her hand extended, and her eyes cast down. Her manner was awkward and constrained, though he did not notice it. He would have held her hand in his but she withdrew it gently and seated herself by the window.

“Dorothy, Miss Carew,” he began, with an overmastering desire to take her in his arms, “my words have come true, the words I spoke that last afternoon when----”

“Yes,” she said, “I remember.”

“I said when we next met the joybells would be ringing. Listen, you can hear them now; the old time is all gone.”

“Yes, it is all gone--and--and, Mr. Orme, I cannot say all that is in my heart. The city is ringing with your great exploit, but I knew it all. All the night I watched you as you floated down the dark tide. Oh! it was a gallant deed; no man ever did a braver. You did not tell me what was in your mind, but I felt and knew it. I knew you would not fail.”

“I want no other reward but to hear you say that. But you must not praise me overmuch, for I have done nothing but my plain and simple duty. When I look back on it, it has seemed an easy thing to do. There was no risk like what I ran with Sarsfield´s troopers, when you--nay, I had not thought to have awakened that memory.”

“I have not forgotten that either,” she said, “I was a girl then, but I am a woman, and I think a very old woman, now,” she added with a sad smile. “I owe you a great deal since we first met. I shall never be able to repay you, but when we part, and perhaps I shall not see you again, I shall remember your kindness as long as I live.”

“We have not parted yet,” said Gervase, trying to take her hand. “Dorothy, I have come here to speak what I have not dared to say before. Nay, nay, you must listen to me, for all our life depends on it. From the first moment that we met, I have had one thought, one hope. I have watched you in silence, for it was not a time to talk of love. Every day on duty, every night on guard, you have been with me consoling and sustaining me. I have no words to tell you all that I would tell you. I have reproached myself for my selfishness. While others were overcome with their misery, I went about with a light and joyous heart; it was enough for me to be near you, to feel your presence, to serve you with my life. Dorothy, I love you.”

“Oh! I cannot hear you,” she cried, rising to her feet and hiding her face in her hands; “it is wrong for me to listen to you.”

“Nay, nay, my best beloved, you shall listen to me,” he went on, with all a lover´s gentle but fierce insistence. “You have spoken words that you cannot recall. All the night in the river and in the woods they rang like music in my ears, and kept my heart from failing in me. I knew you loved me.”

“I will not hear you,” she cried; “they were weak words and wicked. I had no right to speak them.”

“But they were true,” he said, with no clue to her meaning, “and I will hold you to your words. I dare not let you go; there is nothing stands between us and nothing will.”

“Everything stands between us.” Then with a great effort she calmed herself and went on gently, “My words were wrung from me, I should not have spoken them, but I stand by them--they were the truth. I do love you. Nay, you must hear me out; you must not come nearer, now nor ever again. When they were spoken I had no right to speak them; I was the betrothed wife of Victor De Laprade.”

He stared at her incredulously.

“I was alone; there was no one to whom I could go for advice. I was only a girl; I did not know my own heart. Then the Vicomte de Laprade was struck down unfairly by my brother to whom he had given back his fortune and--and I thought he was going to die. What reparation I could make, it was my duty and my will to make. I had not thought of love--or you. Oh! why did you speak to me?”

“Nay, but, Dorothy, this means the sacrifice of your life. De Laprade is generous. He will not ask----”

She turned to him with a look of pride in her tearful eyes. “He will never know, for I shall stand loyally by the word that I have given him. I shall school my feelings; I shall subdue myself; I shall rise above my wayward thoughts. And you will help me. You will say, ‘Farewell, my sister´, and think of me always as a sister you have loved and is dead.”

“But consider----”

“I consider all. When he lay there dying, faithful, loyal, as he is, I thought I loved him and I brought him back to life. My love, worthless as it is, is precious to him, and there is one Carew who keeps her word at any cost. Speak no more to me of love. You demean yourself and me. I belong to another.”

“Oh! this is madness.” Gervase cried, knowing in his heart that he could not change nor turn her. “There is no code of honour in the world to make you give your life to one you do not love. Such marriage is no true marriage. You are mine by every right, and I will not let you go.”

“There was a time when I should have liked to hear you talk like that, but it will never be again. I shall give him all duty and honour, and in time, perhaps--you will help me to bear my burden, Gervase Orme, nor make it heavier for me? I see my duty clearly, and all the world will not drive me from it.”

Gervase took her two hands, feverish and trembling in his own. He saw there was no need for further argument; he could not change her.

“I have no gift of speech to show you what you do. Your will has been my law and I shall try to obey you utterly. God knows I loved you, Miss Carew, and still love you. But you will hear no more of me nor my importunate love; there is room abroad for a poor soldier like myself. And De Laprade is a gallant gentleman and worthy of his splendid fortune. I can say no more than that I envy him with all my heart.”

He drew her to him unresistingly, and kissed her on the forehead. There was nothing lover-like in the act; it was simply in token of sorrowful surrender, and she recognized it as such. She did not dare to raise her eyes to his but kept them bent upon the ground; he could see the lashes were trembling with unshed tears.

“I knew,” she said, “you would speak as you have spoken. It was my duty to see you; it is very hard. You will go now?”

“I will go, Miss Carew, and I ask you to remember that through life, in good and evil fortune, you have no more loving and loyal friend than Gervase Orme, your faithful servant. Time will not change nor alter me. It was too great fortune for me to deserve it.”

Before she could speak he was gone, and she heard in a dream the door close behind him. One of his gloves had fallen to the ground and was still lying at her feet. She caught it up and pressed it passionately against her bosom. She was now able to read her own heart in all its depth and fulness; standing there with her eyes fixed on the door through which he had departed, she saw the greatness of the sacrifice she had made. She felt that moment that she stood utterly alone, closed out from all love and sympathy. She had believed that she had become resigned, and that she had succeeded in mastering her feelings, but they had burst out afresh and with a fervour and passion that terrified herself. “Oh! God,” she cried, “how I love him!”

Throwing herself in the chair from which she had risen, and burying her face in her hands, she gave way to her sorrow, feeling all the while that she dare not reason with herself, for however much she suffered she determined that she would not break her faith. She would bring herself to love De Laprade; love him as she honoured and admired him, the loyal and courteous gentleman, who treated her rather as a goddess than as a woman.

She did not hear the footsteps coming from the open window; she was thinking at the moment of how she could meet her betrothed with an air of gaiety. Then a hand was laid lightly on her shoulder and she looked up. De Laprade was standing over her, with a pleasant smile playing about his lips. His face was pale and his voice trembled a little when he spoke, but only for a moment; otherwise his manner was free and pleasant, with something of his old gaiety in it.

“I am a dull fellow, Cousin Dorothy,” he said, “but a dull fellow sometimes awakens, and I have aroused myself. I have been sleeping for weeks, I think, with dreams too, but poof! they are gone. You have been weeping--that is wrong. The eyes of beauty should ever be undimmed.”

She did not answer him, and he sat down on the chair beside her, taking Orme´s glove from her lap where it lay, and examining the embroidery critically. “Monsieur Orme is a pretty fellow, and I have much regard for him. I am going to make you very happy, my cousin.”

“I am not----”

“Nay, I know what you would say. But I have a long story to tell, so long that I know not how to begin, nor how to make an end. It will be easier by what you call a parable.”

Dorothy looked at her lover curiously. For some time his old manner of jesting with something of gay cynicism about it had disappeared, but all at once it had returned with something else she did not recognize. He could not have learned her secret, for she had guarded that too carefully, but her woman´s instinct warned her that perhaps after all he had guessed the truth.

“There was once,” he went on, “a prodigal who spent his youth in his own way; he drank, he diced, he knew not love nor reverence; no law, but that poor thing that men call honour. But it was well he knew even that. So far, he did not think, for he had no mind nor heart. He only lived for pleasure. Then he found that he had spent his fortune, burst like a bubble, gone like a dream, and his friends--they were many--left him to beg with his outstretched hands, and turned their faces as he passed them on the way. But he had grown old, and loved pleasure and the delights of riotous living. Then there came to him a great good fortune--to him unworthy, beggared, disgraced. He seized it eagerly and he thought--what will men think?--that he would again be happy. It was not to be. He carried with him the stain of his early riot, the shame of his sinful life, the thoughts that will not die, the habits, even, he could not alter. His fortune hung heavily about his neck and pressed him down to the ground. He knew that it was of priceless value, but it was not for him. Then being a wise prodigal, he said: ‘I am selfish. This cannot make me happy. I will place it in the hands of another who will know how to use it rightly, and so rid me of my load.´ And he gave the treasure to another, and then went away and the world saw him not any more. There, my cousin, is my story. Monsieur La Fontaine must look to his laurels.”

“You are jesting with me, Victor; I do not understand your parable.”

“It must be that I shall speak more plainly. My story must have its moral.”

He still held Orme´s glove upon his knee and was unconsciously plucking to pieces the lace with which it was embroidered. But neither of them noticed it. Dorothy was waiting breathlessly for what was to come, and determined on her part to refuse the generous offer De Laprade was about to make.

“It shames me to think I was an unwilling listener but now, and I heard, not all, but enough. The window was open and I heard before I could withdraw. But I had known it all before and was only waiting.”

“You shall not wait,” Dorothy cried impetuously. “I am true and loyal.”

“I never doubted you, but I am not. I am inconstant as the wind, and change my mind a hundred times a day. Fortune, not love, is my goddess, the fickle and the strange. I am out of humour already and long for change. Your city chokes me, a bird of prey mewed up among the sparrows. You must cut the silken thread and give me my freedom, ma belle.”

“I shall never,” Dorothy said, disregarding the words and thinking only of the spirit that prompted them, “I shall never forgive the weakness I have shown. Indeed you have my regard and my esteem, and some time I hope you will have my love. I shall keep my faith, truly and loyally. I shall not change.”

“Then I must help myself when you will not. You are cruel, my cousin, and force me to speak. I, Victor De Laprade, a poor gentleman, having found that in all honour I cannot marry Dorothy Carew, here declare that I am a pitiful fellow and leave her to go my own way, hoping that she will trouble me no further with her importunity. Now, that being done, let us be friends, which we should never have been had you married me.”

“This is like you, Victor,” she said sadly; “I am a pitiful creature when I measure myself with you.”

“You are a woman, my dear; I have served them long and bought my knowledge dearly. But you are better than most of them,” he added with a smile, “for some that I have known would have held me despite all that I have said. I was not made for your Shakespeare´s Benedict, I think it was.”

“Oh!” she said, “but I cannot treat your words as serious; you are but playing with my weakness. I will not let you--how can I, a woman, say what I should say?”

“You should say: Monsieur le Vicomte, I am happy that you have discovered yourself in time. You are free--go--farewell?”

“But I cannot say that.”

“Then I shall do it for you. My cousin,” he went on, more seriously, “my mind is made up. To-morrow I start again on my pilgrimage, and you are as free as air. Do not think that your words have pained me, for I have long known that I was unworthy and I myself almost desire to be free. We cannot live twice.”

“You are too generous.”

“By no means. I am only a prodigal; even this treasure I could not keep, but I must let it slip through my fingers with the rest. Now I shall leave you to think upon what I have said. Do not judge me hardly.”

“I shall think of you always as the best gentleman in the world. Oh! Victor,” she cried, as though interrogating herself, “why cannot I love you?”

“Because, my dear, I would not let you. There is but one thing more to do and then I leave your cold North for ever to seek my fortune elsewhere.

‘Et je m´en vais chercher du repos aux enfers.´

I shall send you a peace-offering that I know you will receive as much for my sake as its own. And now I kiss your hand.”

He had borne himself throughout with a cheerful gaiety, never once complaining or reproaching her, but placing himself in the wrong as though he were to blame for her inconstancy. She knew that he was only playing a part and that he was suffering while he jested; that he was making his sacrifice in such a way as to avoid giving her pain. She reproached herself bitterly that she had been unable to control her heart and guide her wayward feelings. It was true she had been loyal in outward act but her heart had been a traitor to her vow. She was not worthy of so much heroic sacrifice; she was but a Carew after all, with the taint and sin of her race; she, who had cried out for loyalty and truth. She had boasted of her strength and constancy, and this man who had laughed at virtue had shown a sovereign strength that put her quite to shame. What had been done would never be undone; her weakness, her want of faith, her treachery of affection, had been made plain to the two men whose regard she esteemed the most in the world. Yet all the time she had tried to follow the path of duty; she had striven to do what was right and trample her inclinations under foot.

And so she sat and thought while De Laprade went out to complete the great work of his renunciation. He smiled bitterly to himself as he passed down the street, wondering what sudden change had taken place within himself that he had surrendered so easily what he had so earnestly desired to obtain. He knew that he loved Dorothy Carew as he had never loved before, and that he had never loved her half so well as that moment when he bade her farewell. He was unable to recognize himself or the new spirit that had prompted this stupendous sacrifice. “If,” he thought, “I was inviting him under the walls to a repast of steel, I should be acting like a sensible fellow anxious to cure my wounded honour. But that is not my humour. I think I have lost all my manhood. Oh! my cousin, you have taken from me more than you will ever dream of. It was hard to bear, but now that it is done it will not have to be done again. A year ago I had not given up so easily, but the battle is to the strong. Orme will make her happy.”

Gervase was surprised to see De Laprade entering his room, and though he bore him no ill will, he would have preferred that he should not meet him. He had not yet faced his bitter disappointment and resigned himself to the sudden fall of his house of cards. He had come home to realize what his rejection meant for him, for he had been so certain, so blindly certain, of Dorothy´s love, that she had seemed a part, and a great part, of his life. The cup of happiness had been dashed from his hand when it was already at his lips; he was still smarting and sore, and it would be idle for him to attempt to offer congratulations to his successful rival. He was not magnanimous enough for that. But he wished him well and wished that he would leave him in peace. He took De Laprade´s hand without ill-will but with no great show of cordiality.

“I could not leave your city, Monsieur Orme,” said De Laprade, “without bidding you farewell. We have been friends, I think, and done one another some service in our time.”

“Your departure is sudden; I had not heard----”

“Only an hour ago I found that I must leave. We strolling players live at large, and shift our booth a hundred times a year.”

“When do you return?”

“I disappear for ever,” answered Victor with a laugh. “Your country suits me not; your speech is barbarous, your manners are strange, and your climate dries the marrow in my bones. I want sunshine and life and pleasure. Your blood runs slowly here.”

“It has been running fast enough for nine weeks,” said Gervase, with a grim humour, though feeling in no mood for jesting.

“Ay, you fight very prettily, and you not among the worst, but phlegmatically. I have heard the story of your journey, but I did not come to talk of that.”

“I am glad of that at least. I have heard nothing else all day, and ´twas no great feat when all was said.”

“Perhaps. Your people are proud and cold and lack sympathy. But I want sympathy.”

“Vicomte de Laprade,” said Gervase, “I am in no mood for playing upon words. I tell you that I am but now bearing a great trial, the nature of which no man can know but myself, you, perhaps, least of all. I sincerely value your friendship; I have seen your goodness of heart, but it is best that you should shorten this interview. With all my heart I wish you all good fortune, though I shall not see it. I leave by the first ship for Holland.”

“We shall see, my friend, we shall see, but I think not.”

“How?”

“I said but now you were phlegmatic. I was wrong--you are too impetuous. There are many things which you must put in order before you set out, and perhaps you will never take ship at all.”

“I do not understand you, sir.”

“Mr. Orme, I know you think I am laughing at you, but it is only a trick that I have, and I am in no mood for jesting any more than yourself. I know you think me a coxcomb, a trifler who hath no depth or height of feeling. But I am come here to speak serious words. I had hoped to marry Miss Carew,” he continued softly, looking Gervase full in the face with his eyes fixed and bright, “but that is past. I found that she loved a better man and a worthier than myself, and that I--perhaps that I did not love her as she deserved to be loved. With a deep sense of honour, duty merely--mistaken duty--she would have remained steadfast and allowed me to mar her happiness. I tell you--why should I not speak it?--I loved her too well to marry her, and she is free to give herself to the man she loves. I owe this speech to her, for she hath suffered, and I would not add to her sorrow.”

The two men had risen to their feet, and before Gervase knew De Laprade was holding him by the hand, with the tears running down his face.

“God knows,” said Gervase, steadying his voice, for he felt himself visibly affected by the other´s excessive emotion, “you are a far better and stronger man than I am. I could not have given her up.”

“I am a weak fool,” said De Laprade, with a forced laugh. “But I know that you will make her happy. You must not tell her of my weakness else--There, the comedy is played out and the curtain having fallen, leaves me a sensible man again. As I have said, I depart to-morrow, to return never again, but I shall hope to hear that all goes well with you. And meantime remember Victor de Laprade, who will not forget you.”

“Why,” cried Gervase, “should my happiness be gained in your loss?”

“That is past,” the other said simply. “You will see Miss Carew when I leave you. She will reproach herself, and you will comfort her, for she is only a woman after all, and will find happiness and consolation. You will sometimes think of me when I am gone and perhaps--perhaps she may name one of her boys after her poor kinsman who by that time will have found rest.”

When the evening came down it found Gervase Orme alone with a great happiness and a great regret.

The curtain rings down and the players pass from view while the humble showman to whom this mimic stage has been a great reality, wakens from his dream, rubs his eyes and goes about his business. He has lived for a while in the stormy days of which he has written--days in which men made heroic sacrifices and performed most memorable deeds, the memory of which still stirs the languid pulses of the blood. Not the muse of history has been his companion; not his is the lofty task to write the story of his people with their valour, their endurance and their intolerant pride; it was only his to tell an idle tale for weary men by winter fires. The men and women of whom he has written did their work for good and evil, and in due time went the way of all flesh.

Simon Sproule again blossomed out in the sunshine of prosperity, and the archives of the city show that he was elected an Alderman, and did his duty faithfully, which cannot be said of all men. And though history is silent on the subject, there can be little doubt that his wife stimulated his civic ambition, inspired his speeches, and kept him in excellent order. There are still Sproules in the North Country who look to Simon as the head of the race, and when touched by family pride they tell the story of his gallant deeds in the memorable siege. But they will find the true history here.

Jasper Carew fell with many a better man on that day when the fate of the kingdom was decided on the banks of the Boyne. He was seen heading the gallant charge of Berwick´s horse on Hanmer´s men coming out of the river, and as the smoke and dust closed on the broken ranks, he went down and was never seen again.

Of Gervase Orme there is little more to tell. He married the woman he loved, and had sons and grandsons, and served his king like a good and loyal subject. There are certain manuscripts extant which speak of these things, and an escritoire filled with precious letters which came too late to hand to use in this narrative. Especially interesting are certain letters relating to the search after and discovery of a great treasure. But of all the memorials I think the most precious is that portrait in the gallery, of which I have spoken--the portrait of Dorothy Orme taken some two years after her marriage. Above the picture there hangs a rapier, whether by design or by accident I know not, which they tell you vaguely belonged to a kinsman of the lady, who had served in Ireland with Rosen, and fell a year or two afterwards, a gallant gentleman, on the slopes of Steinkirk. He had a history, but they do not remember it; not even his name. Sic nobis.

THE END.