Slowly they went on together, past lily-pool asleep in marble basin, through green boskages amid whose leafy shade marble dryads shyly peeped and fauns and satyrs sported; beneath the vast spread of mighty trees across smooth, gra.s.sy levels, by shady walks and so at last to the blazing glory of the rose-garden. Here my lady paused with an exclamation of delight.

"Indeed, indeed, 'tis lovely--lovelier than I had dreamed! Are you not proud of it?"

"Yes," he answered, "more especially since I never owned a foot of land till of late--or a roof to shelter me, for that matter."

"You were a soldier!"

"And a very poor one!" he added.

"And they called you 'Fighting d'Arcy!'" said she, looking into the grey eyes she had been wont to think almost too gentle.

"That sounds strange--on your lips," said he with his grave smile, "I perceive the Sergeant has been talking."

"He has been boasting to me of all your wounds, sir!" The Major laughed. "He is greatly proud of you, sir."

"He saved my life more than once."

"You must have been a very desperate soldier to have been wounded so very often, Major John!"

"Why you see, at that time," he answered, handing her down the steps into the garden, "I wished to die."

"To die?" she repeated. "O, prithee why?"

"This was twenty years ago, I was a boy then," he sighed. "To-day I am----"

"A man, and therefore wiser," said she as they went on together among the roses. "And pray why did you seek death?" she questioned softly.

"Because I had lost the woman I loved."

"So then you--have--loved?"

"As a boy of twenty may," he answered. "She--I was an ensign without influence and prospects and--they forced her to wed a wealthier than I."

"O! And she did?" Lady Betty stopped to stamp an angry foot.

"Indeed they--compelled her----"

"Major John sir, no woman that is a woman can be compelled in her affections!"

"She was very young."

"Pooh, sir! I am not yet a withered and wrinkled crone, yet no one shall or should compel me!" And here, with a prodigious flutter of her print gown, my lady seated herself on rustic bench beside the sundial.

"No indeed," said he, "you are--are different." At this she flashed him a swift up-glance and, meeting his gaze, dimpled, drew aside her garments' ample folds and graciously, motioned him beside her. The Major sat down.

"And was she happy?"

"No!"

"Which doth but serve her to her deserts!" The Major winced, perceiving which, my lady faced him. "How, do you love her yet?" she questioned.

"My lady, she is dead," he answered. Lady Betty turned and leaning to a rose that bloomed near by, touched it with gentle fingers.

"And--do you--love her yet, Major John?" she asked softly.

"I held her in my memory as the sweetest of all women until a few weeks ago," he answered simply. My lady's caressing fingers faltered suddenly.

"She was the third woman in your life?"

"Yes," he answered, "because of her memory I have lived a hard life and let love go by nor thought of it."

"Not once?"

"Not once, until of late." My lady was silent, and, leaning nearer, he continued: "Twenty years ago I gave my love and, being hopeless, sought for death and never found it. So, hating war, I made of war my life.

I became a soldier of fortune and wheresoever battle was, there was I; when one campaign ended I went in quest of others. So I have learned much of men, of foreign countries, and war in every shape, but of women and love--nothing whatever. Indeed I should be fighting yet but for this unexpected legacy. And now----" He sighed.

"And now?" she repeated softly.

"Now I find that youth has fled and left but emptiness behind!"

"Poor, O poor, decrepit, ancient man!" she sighed, "with your back so bent and your arms so feeble! So wrinkled, so toothless, and so blind!" And rising she turned away and leaned round elbows on the sundial. Now presently he came and stood beside her, looking into her lovely, down-bent face then pointed to the legend graven on the stone.

"Read," said he, "read and tell me--is't not wisdom?" And, very obediently, she read aloud:

"Youth is joyous; Age is melancholy: Age and Youth together is but folly."

"Indeed," she nodded, "'tis a very wise proverb and, like most other proverbs, sayeth very plainly that black is black and white is white.

And truly I do think you a great coward, Major 'Fighting d'Arcy'!"

"Betty?" said he, a little breathlessly.

"You may be very brave in battle but in--in other things you are a very coward!"

"My lady--O Betty! Do you mean ... is it possible that such miracle could be... You in the bloom of your youth and beauty, I----"

"So bent with years!" said she in tender mockery, "so feeble and so--very--blind!"

The Major's philosophic calm was shattered, his placid serenity gone all in a moment; he reached out sudden, pa.s.sionate arms but without attempting to touch her.

"Betty," he cried, "G.o.d knows if I'm presumptuous fool or blessed beyond my hopes, but hear me say--I love you, for all your dainty loveliness, your coquette airs and graces, but, most of all, for the sweet, white, womanly soul of you. And 'tis no flame of youthful pa.s.sion this, soon to fade, 'tis a man's enduring love desiring all, asking nothing.... I mean, Betty, whether you wed me or no, needs must I love you to the end of time!"

"E'en though I should love and wed another?" she questioned softly.

"Aye, truly!"

"Indeed, you are n.o.bler than I--because"--here she paused to trace out the time-worn lettering on the dial with pink finger-tip--"because if you should love, or wed another, then I--should die of rage and jealousy and grief and----"

The Major's long arms were close about her and, stooping, he kissed her again and again, her fragrant hair, her eyes, her tender mouth.