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“Surely,” I cried, aghast, “you cannot deliberate acceptance of this iniquitous and inadvertent match!”

“What is your meaning, Captain Audaine?” says the boy, sharply. “What other course is possible?”‘

“O Lord!” said I, “after to-night’s imbroglio I have nothing to observe concerning the possibility of anything; but if this marriage prove a legal one, I am most indissuadably resolved to rectify matters without delay in the divorce court.”

Now Gerald’s brows were uglily compressed. “A divorce,” said he, with an extreme of deliberation, “means the airing of to-night’s doings in the open. I take it, ’tis the duty of a man of honor to preserve the reputation of his grandmother stainless; whether she be a housemaid or the Queen of Portugal, her frailties are equally entitled to endurance, her eccentricities to toleration: can a gentleman, then, sanction any proceeding of a nature calculated to make his grandmother the laughing-stock of England? The point is a nice one.”

“For, conceive,” said Lord Humphrey, with the most knavish grin I ever knew a human countenance to pollute itself with, “that the entire matter will be convoyed by the short-hand writers to the public press, and after this will be hawked about the streets; and that the venders will yell particulars of your grandmother’s folly under your very windows; and that you must hear them in impotence, and that for some months the three kingdoms will hear of nothing else. Gad, I quite feel for you, my dear.”

“I have fallen into a nest of madmen,” I cried. “You know, both of you, how profoundly I adore Mr. Gerald’s sister, the accomplished and bewitching Miss Allonby; and in any event, I demand of you, as rational beings, is it equitable that I be fettered for life to an old woman’s apron-strings because a doctor of divinity is parsimonious of his candles?”

But Gerald had drawn with a flourish. “You have repudiated my kinswoman,” says he, “and you cannot deny me the customary satisfaction. Harkee, my fine fellow, Dorothy will marry my friend Lord Humphrey if she will be advised by me; or if she prefer it, she may marry the Man in the Iron Mask or the piper that played before Moses, so far as I am concerned: but as for you, I hereby offer you your choice between quitting this apartment as my grandfather or as a corpse.”

“I won’t fight you!” I shouted. “Keep the boy off, Degge!” But when the infuriate lad rushed upon me, I was forced, in self-protection, to draw, and after a brief engagement to knock his sword across the room.

“Gerald,” I pleaded, “for the love of reason, consider! I cannot fight you. Heaven knows this tragic farce hath robbed me of all pretension toward your sister, and that I am just now but little better than a madman; yet ’tis her blood which exhilarates your veins, and with such dear and precious fluid I cannot willingly imbrue my hands. Nay, you are no swordsman, lad,–keep off!”

And there I had blundered irretrievably.

“No swordsman! By God, I fling the words in your face, Frank Audaine! must I send the candlestick after them?” And within the instant he had caught up his weapon and had hurled himself upon me, in an abandoned fury. I had not moved. The boy spitted himself upon my sword and fell with a horrid gasping.

“You will bear me witness, Lord Humphrey,” said I, “that the quarrel was not of my provokement.”

But at this juncture the outer door reopened and Dorothy tripped into the room, preceding Lady Allonby and Mr. George Erwyn. They had followed in the family coach to dissuade the Marchioness from her contemplated match by force or by argument, as the cat might jump; and so it came about that my dear mistress and I stared at each other across her brother’s lifeless body.

And ’twas in this poignant moment I first saw her truly. In a storm you have doubtless had some utterly familiar scene leap from the darkness, under the lash of lightning, and be for the instant made visible and strange; and I beheld her with much that awful clarity. Formerly ’twas her beauty had ensnared me, and this I now perceived to be a fortuitous and happy medley of color and glow and curve, indeed, yet nothing more. ‘Twas the woman I loved, not her trappings; and her eyes were no more part of her than were the jewels in her ears. But the sweet mirth of her, the brave heart, the clean soul, the girl herself, how good and generous and kind and tender,–’twas this that I now beheld, and knew that this, too, was lost;–and, in beholding, the little love of yesterday fled whimpering before the sacred passion which had possessed my being. And I began to laugh.