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“If you are, indeed, the sort of person you describe,” said Marian, reflectively, “I do not at all blame April for having no communication with anyone possessed of such extremely unpleasant opinions. But for my own part, I shall never cease to wonder what it is that the woods whisper about.”

Appraising her, he hazarded a cryptic question, “Vase of delights, and have you never–cared?”

“Why, yes, I think so,” she answered, readily enough. “At least, I used to be very fond of Humphrey Degge,–that is the Marquis of Venour’s place yonder, you know, just past the spur of the forest,–but he was only a younger son, so of course Father wouldn’t hear of it. That was rather fortunate, as Humphrey by and by went mad about Dorothy’s blue eyes and fine shape,–I think her money had a deal to do with it, too, and in any event, she will be fat as a pig at thirty,–and so we quarrelled. And I minded it–at first. And now–well, I scarcely know.” Marian hesitated. “He was a handsome man, but that ridiculous cavalry moustache of his was so bristly–“

“I beg your pardon?” said the Duke.

“–that it disfigured him dreadfully,” said she, with firmness. She had colored.

His Grace of Ormskirk was moved to mirth. “Child, child, you are so deliciously young it appears a monstrous crime to marry you to an old fellow like me!” He took her firm, soft hand in his. “Are you quite sure you can endure me, Marian?”

“Why, but of course I want to marry you,” she said, naïvely surprised. “How else could I be Duchess of Ormskirk?”

Again he chuckled. “You are a worldly little wretch,” he stated; “but if you want my title for a new toy, it is at your service. And now be off with you,–you and your foolish woods, indeed!”

Marian went a slight distance and then turned about, troubled. “I am really very fond of you, Jack,” she said, conscientiously.

“Be off with you!” the Duke scolded. “You should be ashamed of yourself to practice such flatteries and blandishments on a defenceless old gentleman. You had best hurry, too, for if you don’t I shall probably kiss you,” he threatened. “I, also,” he added, with point.

She blew him a kiss from her finger-tips and went away singing.

Sang Marian:

“Blackbird and thrush, in every bush,
Stare, linnet, and cock-sparrow,
You pretty elves, amongst yourselves,
Sing my fair love good-morrow.
To give my love good-morrow,
Sing birds, in every furrow.”

II

Left to his own resources, the Duke of Ormskirk sat down beside the table and fell to making irrelevant marks upon a bit of paper. He hummed the air of Marian’s song. There was a vague contention in his face. Once he put out his hand toward the open despatch-box, but immediately he sighed and pushed, it farther from him. Presently he propped his chin upon both hands and stayed in the attitude for a long while, staring past the balustrade at the clear, pale sky of April.

Thus Marian’s father, the Earl of Brudenel, found Ormskirk. The Earl was lean and gray, though only three years older than his prospective son-in-law, and had been Ormskirk’s intimate since boyhood. Ormskirk had for Lord Brudenel’s society the liking that a successful person usually preserves for posturing in the gaze of his outrivalled school-fellows: Brudenel was an embodied and flattering commentary as to what a less able man might make of chances far more auspicious than Ormskirk ever enjoyed. All failure the Earl’s life had been; in London they had long ago forgotten handsome Harry Heleigh and the composure with which he nightly shoved his dwindling patrimony across the gaming-table; about Halvergate men called him “the muddled Earl,” and said of him that his heart died, with his young wife some eighteen years back. Now he vegetated in the home of his fathers, contentedly, a veteran of life, retaining still a mild pride in his past vagaries; [Footnote: It was then well said of him by Claridge, “It is Lord Henry Heleigh’s vanity to show that he is a man of pleasure as well as of business; and thus, in settlement, the expedition he displays toward a fellow-gambler is equitably balanced by his tardiness toward a too-credulous shoemaker.”] and kindly time had armed him with the benumbing, impenetrable indifference of the confessed failure. He was abstractedly courteous to servants, and he would not, you felt, have given even to an emperor his undivided attention. For the rest, the former wastrel had turned miser, and went noticeably shabby as a rule, but this morning he was trimly clothed, for he was returning homeward from the quarter-sessions at Winstead.