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Pro Honoria
by
“I can do nothing,” Ufford replied. “You have robbed him–as me–of what he most desired. You have made him the laughing-stock of England. He does not pardon any more than I would pardon.”
“And as God lives and reigns, I do not greatly blame him,” said young Calverley. “This man at least was wronged. Concerning you I do not speak, because of a false dream I had once very long ago. Yet Umfraville was treated infamously. I dare concede what I could not permit another man to say and live, now that I drink a toast which I must drink alone. For I drink to the honor of the Calverleys. I have not ever lied to any person in this world, and so I may not drink with you.”
“Oh, but you drink because you know your death to be the one event which can insure her happiness,” cried Ufford. “We are not much unlike. And I dare say it is only an imaginary Honoria we love, after all. Yet, look, my fellow-Ixion! for to the eye at least is she not perfect?”
The two men gazed for a long while. Amid that coterie of exquisites, wherein allusion to whatever might be ugly in the world was tacitly allowed to be unmentionable, Lady Honoria glitteringly went about the moment’s mirthful business with lovely ardor. You saw now unmistakably that “Light Queen of Elfdom, dead Titania’s heir” of whom Ufford writes in the fourth Satire. Honoria’s prettiness, rouged, frail, and modishly enhanced, allured the eye from all less elfin brilliancies; and as she laughed among so many other relishers of life her charms became the more instant, just as a painting quickens in every tint when set in an appropriate frame.
“There is no other way,” her husband said. He drank and toasted what was dearest in the world, smiling to think how death came to him in that wine’s familiar taste. “I drink to the most lovely of created ladies! and to her happiness!”
He snapped the stem of the glass and tossed it joyously aside.
“Assuredly, there is no other way,” said Ufford. “And armored by that knowledge, even I may drink as honorable people do. Pro honoria!” Then this man also broke his emptied glass.
“How long have I to live?” said Calverley, and took snuff.
“Why, thirty years, I think, unless you duel too immoderately,” replied Lord Ufford,–“since while you looked at Honoria I changed our glasses. No! no! a thing done has an end. Besides, it is not unworthy of me. So go boldly to the Earl of Bute and tell him all. You are my cousin and my successor. Yes, very soon you, too, will be a peer of England and as safe from molestation as is Lord Pevensey. I am the first to tender my congratulations. Now I make certain that they are not premature.”
The poet laughed at this moment as a man may laugh in hell. He reeled. His lean face momentarily contorted, and afterward the poet died.
“I am Lord Ufford,” said Calverley aloud. “The person of a peer is inviolable—-” He presently looked downward from rapt gazing at his wife.
Fresh from this horrible half-hour, he faced a future so alluring as by its beauty to intimidate him. Youth, love, long years of happiness, and (by this capricious turn) now even opulence, were the ingredients of a captivating vista. And yet he needs must pause a while to think of the dear comrade he had lost–of that loved boy, his pattern in the time of their common youthfulness which gleamed in memory as bright and misty as a legend, and of the perfect chevalier who had been like a touchstone to Robert Calverley a bare half-hour ago. He knelt, touched lightly the fallen jaw, and lightly kissed the cheek of this poor wreckage; and was aware that the caress was given with more tenderness than Robert Calverley had shown in the same act a bare half-hour ago.
Meanwhile the music of a country dance urged the new Earl of Ufford to come and frolic where every one was laughing; and to partake with gusto of the benefits which chance had provided; and to be forthwith as merry as was decorous in a peer of England.