never happy; the plain truth is we ought not to have married. It was a family arrangement and it recoiled upon us. The Paringtons are an effete lot and the same can be said of us Dinnefords. Nature asked for something else."
Now that he had unlocked the doors of memory a growing emotion became too much for the Duke, and for a moment he could not go on. His sister, in the meantime, continued to hold him with pitiless eyes.
"One might say," he went on, "that it was the call of the blood. I remember her first as the factor's daughter, a long-legged creature in a red tam-o'-shanter, running about the woods of Ardnaleuchan. You haven't forgotten Donald Sanderson, the father?"
"No, I haven't forgotten him," said Charlotte.
"That was a fine fellow. 'Man Donald' as our father used to call him, helped me to stalk my first stag. We ranged the woods together days on end. I sometimes think I owe more to that man than to any other human being."
Again he was silent, but the eyes of his sister never left his face.
"Yes, it was the call of the blood." He sighed as he passed his handkerchief over his face which was now gray and glistening. "As I say, Rachel and I ought not to have married; we didn't suit each other. Our marriage was a family arrangement. It had almost ceased to be tolerable long before the end, but we kept our compact as well as we could, for we were determined that other people should not suffer. And then came Rachel's long illness, and the girl's wonderful devotion—do you remember how Rachel would rather have
