Part 7 (2/2)

”Thank you,” he returned smiling.

The little cloud, which had momentarily dimmed the brightness of his sun, was dispelled. The merest inflection in the d.u.c.h.essa's voice had the power of casting him down to depths of heart-searching despair, or lifting him to realms of intoxicating joy. And it must be confessed that the past fortnight had been spent almost continuously in these realms.

Also, if he had sunk to the depths of despair, it was rather by reason of an ultra-sensitive imagination on his own part than by any fault of the d.u.c.h.essa's. But then, as Antony would have declared, the position of a subject to his sovereign is a very different matter from the position of the sovereign to the subject. The d.u.c.h.essa could be certain of his loyalty. It was for her to give or withhold favours as it pleased her. It was a different matter for him.

It is not easy for a man, who has lived a very lonely life, to believe in a reciprocal friends.h.i.+p where he himself is concerned. A curious admixture of shyness and diffidence, the outcome of his lonely life, prevented him from imagining that the d.u.c.h.essa could desire his friends.h.i.+p in the smallest degree as he desired hers. To him, the friends.h.i.+p she had accorded him had become the most vital thing in his existence, quite apart from that vague and intoxicating dream, which he scarcely dared to confess in the faintest whisper to his heart. He knew that her friends.h.i.+p appeared essential to his very life. But how could he for one moment imagine that his friends.h.i.+p was essential to her? It could not be, though he would cheerfully have laid down his life for her, have undergone torture for her sake.

Knowing, therefore, that his friends.h.i.+p was not essential to her happiness, yet knowing what her friends.h.i.+p meant to him, he was as ultra-sensitive as a lonely child. His soul sprang forward to receive her gifts, but the merest imagined hint of a rebuff would have sent him back to that loneliness he had learned to look upon as his birthright. Not that he would have gone back to that loneliness with a hurt sense of injury. That must be clearly understood to understand Antony. To have felt injury, would have been tantamount to saying that he had had a right to the friends.h.i.+p, and it was just this very right that Antony could not realize as in the least existent. He would have gone back with an ache, it is true, but with a brave face, and an overwhelming and life-long grat.i.tude for the temporary joy. That is at the present moment; of later, one cannot feel so certain.

To-day, however, loneliness seemed a thing unthinkable, unimaginable, with the d.u.c.h.essa by his side, and the golden day ahead of him. By skilled manoeuvring, and avoiding the recognized hours of meal-time, they managed to escape further contact with their fellow pa.s.sengers.

An exceedingly late luncheon hour found them the sole occupants of a small courtyard at the back of an hotel,--a courtyard set with round tables, and orange trees in green tubs. Over the roofs of the houses, and far below them, they could see the s.h.i.+ning water, and the _Fort Salisbury_, lying like a dark blob on its surface. Boats bearing coal were still putting out to her, and men were busy hauling it over her sides.

The d.u.c.h.essa looked down on the s.h.i.+p and the water.

”It is queer to think,” said she smiling, ”that little more than a week hence, I shall be in Scotland, and, probably, s.h.i.+vering in furs. It can be exceedingly chilly up there, even as late as May.”

”I thought you were going to your old home,” said Antony.

”So I am,” she replied, ”but not till nearly the end of June. I am going to stay with friends in Edinburgh first. Where are you going?”

Antony lifted his shoulders in the merest suspicion of a shrug.

”London first,” he responded. ”After that--well, it's on the knees of the G.o.ds.”

”Are you likely to stay in England long?” she asked. And then she added quickly, ”You don't think the question an impertinence, I hope.”

”Why should I?” he answered smiling. ”But I really don't know yet myself.

It will depend on various things.”

There was a little silence.

”In any case, I shall see you before I leave England again, if I may,” he said. ”That is, if I do leave.”

The d.u.c.h.essa was still looking at the water.

”I hope you will,” she replied. And then she turned towards him. ”I don't want our friends.h.i.+p to end completely with the voyage.”

Antony's heart gave a little leap.

”It--it really is a friends.h.i.+p?” he asked.

”Hasn't it been?” she asked him.

Antony looked at her.

”For me, yes,” he replied steadily.

<script>