Part 3 (2/2)
He smiled paternally at the young man, and there was a good deal of meaning in his smile. The duke, not ordinarily sensitive about such things, blushed a little now. He was quite aware to what Lord Camborne referred.
The bishop, astute courtier and diplomatist that he was, marked the blush, pretended not to notice it, and was secretly well pleased. He himself was earl as well as bishop, he was wealthy, he was certain of the Primacy. His daughter, whom he loved and admired more than any other living thing, was a match for any one with her rank and wealth and loveliness. He longed to see her happily married also. At the same time, good man as he was, he was by his very nature and training a worldly man.
If, therefore, the two young people fell in love with each other--well, it would be a very charming arrangement, to say the least of it, Lord Camborne thought. For, far and away above all other fortunate young n.o.blemen, the duke was the greatest _parti_ of the day; he stood alone.
”I've got three hours or more before the train goes,” said the duke, ”and I can dine on board; there's a car, I know. Now, do let's forget this troublesome business. I'm so sorry, Lady Constance, that it should have happened while you were here. Let's shut out this horrid afternoon.”
He spoke with light-hearted emphasis, with gaiety even. Despite what had happened he felt thoroughly happy, his blood ran swiftly in his veins, his pulses throbbed to exhilarating measures. Oh, how beautiful she was!
How gracious and lovely!
He went to the windows and pulled the heavy crimson curtains over them, shutting out the wan, grey light of the November afternoon.
He made Gardener bring candles--innumerable candles--to supplement the glow of the electric lights. More logs were cast upon the fire--logs of sawn cedar wood which gave flames of rose-pink and amethyst. The n.o.ble room was illuminated as if for a feast.
Lord Hayle entered into the spirit of the thing, _con amore_. His spirits rose with those of his friend, and his sister also caught the note, while Lord Camborne, smoking a cigar by the fire, watched the three young people with a benevolent smile.
Lady Constance had been sitting by the piano. ”Do you play, Lady Constance?” the duke asked.
”She's one of the best amateur pianists I've ever heard,” said Lord Hayle.
”Do play something, Lady Constance. What will you give us?”
”It depends on the sort of music you like. Do you like Chopin?”
”I am very fond of Chopin indeed.”
”I'll tell you what to play, Connie,” said Lord Hayle eagerly. ”Play that wonderful nocturne, I forget the number, where the bell comes in.
The one with the story about it.”
”A story?” said the duke.
”Yes; don't you know it, John? Chopin had just come back from his villa at Majorca--come back to Paris at a time when Georges Sand would have nothing more to do with him. He was living close to Notre Dame. He had a supper by appointment, but began to write his nocturne and forgot all about the time. He was nearing the end when the big bell of the cathedral began to toll midnight. He realised how late it was, and forced himself to finish the thing in a hurry. He wove the twelve great 'clangs' into the theme. It's marvellously romantic and Gothic. One seems to see Victor Hugo's dwarf, Quasimodo, upon the tower, drinking in the midnight air.”
Lady Constance sat down at the piano and began the nocturne. The beautiful hands flashed over the keys, whiter than the ivory on which they pressed, her face was grave with the joy of what she was doing.
And as the duke listened the time and place faded utterly away.
The pa.s.sionate and yet fantastic music pealed out into the room and destroyed its material appeal to the senses. His brain seemed suddenly aware of a larger and more fully-coloured life than he had ever known before, ever thought possible before. He stood upon the threshold of it; it held strange secrets, wonderful chances; there were pa.s.sionate moments for young blood awaiting!
Here was the agony that lurked in pleasure, the immedicable pain which allured--lights gleamed behind swaying veils.
Clang!
The deep resonance of the iron bell tolled into the dream.
Clang!
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