The Duke's Sweetheart: A Romance. Dowling Richard
not care to work under invalids and recluses.
Personally the Duke spent little or nothing of his large income. On Sundays his head-gardener was much better dressed than his master. The only luxury the Duke demanded was solitude, and for this solitude he was willing to give up nine-tenths of his fortune. He kept servants at all his seats, and any of his friends of thirty-five years ago was welcome to a loan of one, servants, shooting, fishing included. But no friend was to drive up to Silverview Castle and claim hospitality.
For upwards of thirty years the Duke had not gone into society, nor had he received any guest at Silverview Castle. His wife died soon after his heir was born, and he had gone very little into society since. When not on board his yacht Seabird, she lay moored under the windows of the Castle, and nothing was easier than, upon receiving a notice from So-and-so saying he would call upon the Duke on a certain day, for the Duke to write, saying he was very sorry that he intended leaving on a cruise that very day.
There was no general agreement as to the cause of the Duke's avoidance of society. Some said it was owing to grief at the death of his wife; others declared he had done some dire wrong in his young days; and others that it was all the result of whim.
Although he interfered in politics he did not take an active part in them. He merely intimated to his agent which candidates had won his favour. For years he had not made an appearance in the House of Lords. On the rare occasions when he went there it was to record a silent vote on some measure of great importance.
It so happened one of those big questions arose in June, and that his grace had made up his mind to visit London for a few days, and record his vote against some Radical measure which had been sent up from the Lower Chamber. It was of course an event in the great world when the rich Duke of Shropshire came up to London even for an hour.
It was known he did not intend marrying again. But then who knows anything for certain? And then there was the Marquis. Of course he would marry some day. It wasn't probable the present owner of the dukedom would like to think there was a chance of that magnificent collection of properties being broken up amongst an unknown number of remote cousins, and the fine old title dying out; for everyone knew there was no heir to the dukedom, however, looking back beyond the seven dukes, the property might be found settled. One thing was clear, namely, that all the property which had come into the family since the first duke must go goodness knew whither, for there was absolutely no heir. It was also perfectly clear that the title would become extinct; for, with but one exception, from the first to the sixth duke, the title and entailed estates had descended through a single file of sons, and, though many children may have been born, when each duke came into possession he was the last member of the ducal house. The one exception was that of the present Duke, for when he inherited the title he had a younger brother, who, however, died unmarried.
Such was the talk of general society about the Duke of Shropshire. Of course there were people who knew everything that would happen if the line of dukes failed; but then that was, after all, a very remote contingency, and the great question was: Would the Duke marry again? and whom would the Marquis marry?
Shropshire House is in Piccadilly. Cheyne had seen in one of the morning papers that the Duke was in town, and as he and Marion Durrant walked through Piccadilly that bright June noon, they met a bandy-legged common-looking man emerging from a crowd in the roadway.
"What is the matter?" asked Marion of Cheyne.
Cheyne raised himself on his toes and answered: "There's been a smash of some kind. I can see now. The pole of a 'bus has gone through the door of a brougham. That sort of thing comes of shaving corners too fine. I'll bet any money it is the brougham that was in fault."
Marion Durrant, the orphan of Captain Durrant of the Fusiliers, was three-and-twenty years of age, and lived with an invalid maiden aunt in a very quiet street in Knightsbridge. There Miss Traynor, Marion Durrant's aunt, had a neat little house, possessing all reasonable comforts, and even modest luxuries. She and her dead sister had each settled upon her by their father two hundred a year, and as May had inherited her mother's two hundred a year, their joint income was four hundred pounds. Although Miss Traynor was an invalid she was an excellent housekeeper, and, with the aid of a bright handy little maid-of-all-work, the small house in Knightsbridge was as well managed, as well kept, and as comfortable as any other in London.
To this home Charles Cheyne was free as the acknowledged lover of Marion Durrant. Miss Traynor was one of those good, genial, generous old souls who, while keeping a dignified reserve upon her feelings, thought nothing on earth too good for those whom she loved. At the threshold of the snug little home at Knightsbridge Cheyne laid aside all his grand airs. He never carried into that home the oppressive atmosphere of dukes and earls. Here he was simply the lively and kindly gentleman who loved his love with all his loyal heart, and did all in his power to enliven and amuse the guardian angel of his sweetheart.
Towards that quiet comfortable home he was conducting Miss Durrant when they encountered the crowd and the injured brougham. As they arrived at the door she said: "Won't you come in, Charlie?"
"I really can't," he answered. "I am already very late with my copy, and I must go home and attend to my duke. Otherwise I shall get into awful trouble with the proprietor of my duke. You cannot be hasty with your duke. You must treat him as if he was fat and scant of breath. You may have noticed that in my present duke I make him say 'hem,' 'hum,' very often. This is just to spread out the ducal speech. You can't expect to get as many articulate words out of a duke as out of an ordinary mortal, and the hem-hums are wonderfully efficacious."
Having taken leave of Marion, he turned his face east, and began walking back at a rapid rate towards his lodgings in Long Acre.
In the meantime the brougham, through which the pole of the omnibus had gone, had been driven along Piccadilly through Leicester Square to Long Acre. "Take the number of that omnibus," the occupant of the injured vehicle had said to the coachman as he stepped to the ground, "and then drive to Whiteshaw's in Long Acre, and tell him to repair that door."
The coachman had done as he was told, and by the time Cheyne got back to Long Acre the brougham had arrived, the horses had been unharnessed, and the coachman had got a man to lead the horses home.
When Cheyne arrived at the place he lived in he found Mr. Whiteshaw, with whom he was friendly, examining the injured brougham.
"That was an ugly smash," said the carriage-builder. "Nearly killed the Duke."
"What Duke?" asked Cheyne, with great interest.
"The Duke of Shropshire. See the arms on the other panel. He had a very narrow escape. The pole went slap through the door, and when the 'bus-driver threw his horses on their haunches the pole made a plunge up, and just barely missed the chin of the Duke."
"By Jove, I am very sorry for poor Regi."
"Who's Regi? the 'bus-driver? Is the 'bus-driver a friend of yours?"
"No, my dear friend, but the Duke, Reginald Francis Henry Cheyne, seventh Duke of Shropshire. He is a most particular friend of mine. The other day-let me see, how long ago is it? A fortnight? Well, say eighteen days ago, I had a letter from him asking me to go down to Silverview and stay a week or ten days with him. But, Whiteshaw, although it was excessively kind of his grace, you see, I tell you in confidence, I can't afford to go to such places. I am really only a poor man, although people will say the other thing, and it runs away with an awful lot of money to go to such places."
"I daresay it does. But I thought the Duke of Shropshire was a queer kind of moody man, who never had anyone at his house?" said the carriage-builder maliciously.
"You are quite right. He lives the life of a recluse. But he now and then will see an old friend. You must know he has rather a fancy for the stories I write-no accounting for tastes, you know-and when I go to him he always insists on my reading my manuscripts to him before they go to the printer. Very flattering, you know."
"But he never lives ashore. He is nearly always in his yacht with his son the Marquis of Southwold."
"Of course. It is aboard ship I always read to Regi and Southwold. Reading is all very well in the day, but I tell you it is no little difficulty to read by the light of a swinging lamp when a ship is lying