Part 35 (1/2)
He did not mention Mary Marriott, he said nothing of Lady Constance Camborne. Rose appeared to him then in a new light.
The apostle of Socialism, the caustic wit, the celebrated man of literature was as gentle and tender as a child. He seemed to know everything, to enter into the psychology of the situation with an intuition and understanding which were as delicate and sure as those of a woman. He said no single word to indicate it, but the duke felt more and more certain as the meal went on that this wonderful man had penetrated, more deeply than he could have thought possible, to the depths of his soul.
Rose knew that he loved Mary Marriott and must marry Constance Camborne. Twice during breakfast a swift gleam of sardonic but utterly kindly and sympathetic amus.e.m.e.nt flashed into the dark eyes of the pallid man. It was a gleam full of promise and understanding. But the duke never saw it, he did not see into the immediate future with the unerring certainty that the writer of plays and student of human life saw it.
The duke had no hint of his own deliverance, but the elder man saw it clear and plain, and he would say nothing. A martyr must undergo his martyrdom before he wins his proper peace, it is the supreme condition of self-sacrifice, and James Fabian Rose knew that very well.
The duke stood waiting in the bishop's library at Grosvenor Street.
”His lords.h.i.+p will be with you in a moment, your Grace,” the butler said, quietly closing the door of that n.o.ble room. It might have been imagination, but the young man thought that he saw a curious expression flit over the man's face, the half-compa.s.sionate, half-contemptuous look with which callous intelligence regards a madman.
”Ah!” he thought to himself, ”I suppose that sort of look is one to which I must become familiar in the future, it is part of the price that I must pay for living up to the truth that is in me. Very well, let it be so, I can keep a stiff upper lip, I believe. I must always remember the sort of people from whom I am descended. Many of them were robbers and scoundrels, but at least they were strong men.”
It was in this temper of mind that he waited in the splendid library, among all the hushed silence that a great collection of books seems to give a room, until the bishop should arrive.
The duke had not long to wait.
The distinguished and commanding old man entered, closed the door behind him, and walked straight up to him.
The bishop's face was very stern and the lines of old age seemed more deeply cut into it than usual. But there was a real pain in the steadfast and proud red eyes which added a pathos to his aspect and troubled the duke.
”John,” Lord Camborne began, ”when I saw you last night at that wicked and blasphemous play I trembled to think that most disquieting news which had reached me was true.”
”And what was that, my lord?”
”Suffer me to proceed in my own way, please, and bear with me if I am prolix. I am in no happy mind. I went to that play as a public duty, and I took my daughter that she might see for herself the truth about the Socialists and the G.o.dless anarchy they preach. You had made no mention of your intention to be present, and I was glad to think that you would be quietly at Oxford. I had heard from Gerald--than whom you have no greater friend--that you were a.s.sociating with disreputable and doubtful people, forsaking men of your own cla.s.s and living an extraordinary life.”
”It was a lie,” the duke answered shortly. ”Gerald has been ill in bed, he has been misinformed.”
”It was not only Gerald,” the old man went on, ”but letters reached me from other sources, letters full of the most disturbing details.”
”Do you set spies upon my actions, Lord Camborne?”
”That is unworthy of you, John,” the bishop answered gently, ”unworthy both of you and of me. You are well aware that I could not stoop to such a thing. Do you forget that in your high position, with all its manifold responsibilities to G.o.d, to your country, and to yourself, your movements and dispositions are the object of the most wise and watchful scrutiny on the part of your tutors?”
”I am sorry I spoke wrongly.”
”I make allowances for you. The word was nothing, but it is a far harder task to make allowances for you in another way. You seem to have committed yourself irrevocably.”
The old man's voice had become very stern. The duke saw at once that he had read the _Daily Wire_. He said nothing.
”You have been a traitor to your order,” the pitiless voice went on.
”You have publicly blasphemed against the wise ordinances of G.o.d. A great peer of England, pledged to support the Throne, you have cast in your lot with those who would destroy it. I say this in the full persuasion that the report of what occurred last night is correctly set forth in that pestilent news-sheet, the _Daily Wire_.”
”It is perfectly true,” said the duke.
”You intend to abide by it?”