CHAPTER V.

In Tresilyan’s faceFault finds no grace.So, when the sick man cried out to her, through his sobs, to kiss him and forgive him, the dreary, monotonous voice only answered, “I can kiss you, father;” and when she had laid her icicles of lips on his forehead, she glided11out of the room like a ghost that has accomplished its mission and hastens away to its own place. Sir Ewes never tried to call her back; he scarcely spoke at all intelligibly after that; but lay, for the few remaining hours of life, moaning to himself, his face turned to the wall.For a very short time after her father’s death, Mabel seemed to take a pleasure in roaming about the gardens and woods from which she had been debarred so long; but the walks grew gradually shorter, and she soon shut herself up in the house entirely, seeing only a few of her near relatives. It was one of these who, at her own request, painted the second portrait—a rude performance, but it must have been a likeness. She seemed to feel an odd sort of satisfaction in looking at the two and comparing them. Her brain was somewhat clouded and unsteady; but I fancy she was counting up all the harm and wrong the hard world had done to her, and calculating what amends would be made in the next. I doubt not they were kind and pitiful and indulgent enough there; but on earth she found no source of comfort strong enough to banish from her eyes that terrible look which haunted them within five minutes of her end.When spirits assemble from the four corners of heaven, how many thousand companions, think you, will greet the Gileadite’s daughter?Before you saw Cecil Tresilyan’s face, the curve of her neck, and the way her head was set on it, told you that she was by no means exempt from the family failing which had laid its hand so heavily on her ancestors. Yet it was not a hard or habitually haughty, or even a very decided face. There was nothing alarmingly severe about the slight aquiline of the nose; the chin did not look as if it were “carved in marble,” or “clasped in steel,” or as if it were made of any thing but soft flesh prettily dimpled; the delicate scarlet lip, when it curled, rarely went beyond sauciness; though the splendid violet eyes could well express disdain, this was not their favorite expression—and they had many. The head would certainly have been too small had it not been for the glossy masses of dark chestnut hair sweeping down low all round it, smooth and unbroken as a deep river in its first curl over a cataract. Candid friends said her complexion was not bright enough; perhaps they were right; but the color had not forgotten how to come and go there at fitting seasons; at any rate, the grand clear white could never be mistaken for an unhealthy pallor. An extraordinarily good constitution was ever part of a Tresilyan’s inheritance; and if you doubted whether her blood circulated freely you had only to compare her cheek on a bitter March day with some red-and-white ones, when a sharp east wind had forced those last to mountallthe stripes of the tricolor. By the way, are not the “roses dipped in milk” going out of fashion just now? A humble but stanch adherent of the house of York, I like to think—how many battle-fields, since Towton, our Flower has won!But if Cecil’s face was not faultless, her figurewas. Had one single proportion been exaggerated or deficient, she could never have carried off her height so lithely and gracefully. She might take twentyposesin a morning, and people always thought they would choose the last one to have her painted in. Here, she was quite inimitable. For instance, women, I believe, used to practice in their own room for hours to catch her peculiar way of half-reclining in an armchair; but the most painstaking of them all never achieved any thing beyond a caricature. Yet no one could accuse her of studying stage-effects. If a trifle of theIncedo Reginamarked her walk and carriage, it was à l’Eugénie, not à la Statira.Indeed, she was thoroughly natural all over; cleverer and more fascinating, certainly, than ninety-nine women out of every hundred; but not one bit more strong-minded, or heroic, or self-denying. She had been very well brought up, and had undeniably good principles; but she would yield to occasional small temptations with perfect grace and facility. Great ones she had never yet encountered; for Cecil, if not quite fancy-free, had only read and perhaps dreamed of passions. She had known one remorse, of which you may hear hereafter (not a heavy allowance, considering her opportunities), and one grief—the death of her mother. She entertained a remarkable reverence for all ministers of the Established Church; yet she was about the last woman alive to have married a clergyman, and would have considered the charge of the old women and schools of a country parish as a lingering and unsatisfactory martyrdom. There never was a more constant attendant at all sorts of divine service; though perhaps the most casual of worshipers had never been more bored than she was by some of the discourses to which she listened so patiently. She would confess this to you at luncheon, and then start for the same church in the afternoon, with an edifying but rather comic expression of resignation. I am sure she would not deliberately have vexed the smallest child; and yet the number of athletic men who ascribed the loss of their peace of mind to her, was, as the Yankees have it, “a caution.” Some of the “regulars,” wary adventuresses of three seasons’ standing, had brought off several pretty good things by following her, and picking up the victims fluttering about helpless in their first despair, just as the keepers after a battue go round the covers with the retrievers.If there were any more antitheses in her character, they had better speak for themselves hereafter; nor is there much that need be told about her companions.Mrs. Danvers, or “Bessie,” as she liked to be called, had been Cecil’s last governess, and was retired on full-pay, which, she flattered herself, she earned in the capacity of traveling chaperone and censor; but, inasmuch as when she really held some tutelar authority, her pupil had never taken the slightest notice of her prohibitions, she could hardly be expected now to exercise any very salutary influence or control.Dick Tresilyan was absurdly proud and fond of his sister, and performed all her behests with a blind obedience; but when he heard that he was to attend her during a whole winter’s residence abroad, he did think that it was stretching her prerogative to the verge of tyranny. No wonder. A dragoon who has lost his horse, a goose on a turnpike-road, or any other popular type of helplessness, does not present so lamentable a picture as a Briton in a foreign land, without resources in himself, and with a rooted aversion to the use of any language except his12own. In this case, the victim actually attempted some feeble remonstrance and argument on the subject. Cecil was almost as much astonished as the Prophet was under similar circumstances; but she considered that habits of discussion in beasts of burden and the lower order of animals generally were inconvenient, and rather to be discouraged; so she cut it short, now, somewhat imperiously. Thereupon, Dick Tresilyan slid into a slough of despond, in which he had been wallowing ever since. A faint gleam of sunshine broke in when one of his intimates, hearing he was going to France, suggested “that’s where the brandy comes from;” but it was instantly overclouded by the remark which followed. “I suppose, though, you won’t be able to drink much more of it than you do here:” on realizing which crushing fact, his melancholy became, if possible, more profound than ever. Indeed, since he crossed the Channel, he had spent most of his leisure moments in a sort of chronic blasphemy, which, it is to be hoped, afforded him some slight relief and consolation, as it was wholly unintelligible to his audience; for, to do Dick justice, in his sister’s presence the door of his lips was always strictly guarded.However, to Dorade they came—hours after their time, of course, but perfectly safe: no accident ever does happen in France to any thing properly booked, except to luggage sent byroulage, to which there attaches the romantic uncertainty of Vanderdecken’s correspondence. Cecil rather liked traveling; it never tired her; so, by midnight she had seen Mrs. Danvers, weary and querulous, to bed—gone through a variety of gymnastics in the way ofaccolades, with Fanny Molyneux—taken some trouble in inquiring about shooting and other amusements likely to divert her brother from his sorrows—and yet did not feel very sleepy.They ignore shutters in these climes; and her reflection was still flitting backward and forward across the white window-blinds as Royston Keene came home from the Cercle. He knew the room, or guessed who the shadow belonged to; and as he moved away, after pausing a minute or two, he waved his hand toward it, with a gesture so unwarrantably like a salute that, weresilhouettessensitive or prudish, it might have proved an offense not easily forgiven.Chapter divisionCHAPTER V.Thenext morning was so soft and sunny that it tempted Miss Tresilyan out on the terrace of their hotel very soon after breakfast. She was waiting for her brother on the top of the steps leading down into the road, when Major Keene passed by again. If he had never heard of her before, the smooth sweeping outline of her magnificent form, and the careless grace of her attitude, as she stood leaning against the stone balustrade, were not likely to escape an eye that was wont to light on every point of feminine perfection, as a poacher’s does on a sitting hare. But he never got so far as her face then; and hardly had time to criticise her figure; for at that moment a brisk gust of themistralswept round the corner, and revealed a foot and ankle so marvelously exquisite, that they attracted his eyes, as long as he dared to fix them without risking a stare; and kept his thoughts busy till he saw her again. “Caramba!” he muttered, half aloud. “I don’t wonder at any one who has seenthatnot looking at a nautch-girl afterward.” And he quickened his pace toward Mr. Molyneux’s house. He met them before he reached their door.“I am going to Miss Tresilyan,” Fanny said. “Isn’t it lucky, her first morning here being such a delicious one?”“Ah! I thought that was your point,” answered Keene. “There must be a tremendous amount of ‘gushing’ to be got through still: the accumulation of—how many months? I suppose you only took the rough edge off last night. Don’t hurt her, please, that’s all. And, Hal, you were actually going to preside over the meeting of two young hearts, and gloat over their emotions, and spoil their innocent amusements? I wonder at you. Means well, Mrs. Molyneux; but he’ssothoughtless.”Fanny laughed. “I think I could do without him. But we mean to walk this afternoon, and he may come then; and you too, Major Keene, if you are good.”“I’ll enter into all sorts of recognizances to keep the peace,” was the reply; “but I should have thought you might trust me by this time. It’s that excitable husband of yours that wants disciplining. I’ll give him some soda-water by way of a precaution. Then, when you have sacrificed to friendship sufficiently, you will lionize Miss Tresilyan? The Castle first, of course. Shall we meet you there at two?”Harry did not quite see the thing in this light, and looked slightly disappointed; but he yielded the point, as he always did, and went away dutifully with his superior officer.“Describe the brother,” the latter said, abruptly, when they had gone a few steps.“Well, I believe he’s the most ignorant man in Great Britain,” answered Molyneux: “that’s hisspécialité. He never had much education; and he has been trying to forget that little, ‘hard all,’ ever since he was eighteen. You remember how our fellows used to laugh at me about my epistles? I could give him 21lb., and a beating any day. They say, two men have to stand over him whenever he tries to write a letter, for nooneis strong enough to keep him straight in his spelling and grammar. If he tries it on alone, he gets bewildered in the second sentence, and wanders up and down, knocking his head against particles and parts of speech, like the man in the Maze; and throws up the sponge at last, utterly beat. Helplessly devoted to his sister, but rather obstinate with other people, and apt to be sulky sometimes; but good-natured on the whole; and drinksveryfair.”“Oh, he drinks fair, does he?” Royston said, meditatively. “Has that any thing to do with his brotherly affection? Every body who is fond of Miss Tresilyan seems to take to liquor. Annesley was pretty sober till he knew her. It’s rather odd. I don’t suppose she encourages them?”“Certainly not; at least, I know she has tried to stint Dick in his brandy very often. It’s the only point she has never been able to carry.”“A man must be firm about some one thing,”13the other remarked, “or there’s an end of free-agency altogether. He has no intellects to be affected by it apparently; and I dare say his health does not suffer much yet. It’s a question of constitution, after all.”He dropped the subject then, and was very silent all the rest of the morning, till they came to the place of meeting. Somehow or another, it did not occur to him to mention to Harry what he had seen on the terrace.They had not waited long before the three women came slowly up the zigzags of the path that wound round the Castle-hill. Dick Tresilyan had “got his pass signed” for the day, and had started off, with his courier, to make the lives of several natives a burden to them, on the subject ofbécassesandbécassines.Cecil might have been known by her walk among ten thousand. She seemed to float along without any visible exertion, as if her dress were buoyant, and bore her up in some mysterious fashion; but, looking closer, and marking how straight and firmly and lightly every footfall was planted, you gave the narrow arched instep, and the slender rounded ankle, the credit they well deserved; marveling only that so delicate a symmetry could conceal so much sinewy power. Upon this occasion, she was evidently accommodating her pace to that of Mrs. Danvers; and no racing man could have seen the two, without thinking of one of the Flyers of the turf walking down by the side of the trainer’s pony.Miss Tresilyan’s hat, of a soft black felt, shaded by a black cock’s feather, was decidedly in advance of her age: for that very provocative head-gear, with the many-coloredpanaches, had not then become so common; and even the Passionate Pilgrim might hope (with luck) to walk along a pier or a parade, without meeting a succession of Red Rovers—each capable of boarding him at a minute’s notice, and making all his affections walk the plank. Her tunic of iron-gray velvet, without fitting tightly to her figure, still did it fair justice; and, from the tie of her neck-ribbon, down to the wonderful boots that slid in and out from under the striped scarlet kirtle over which her dress was looped up, there was not the minutest detail that might not have challenged and baffled criticism.Royston Keene appreciated all this thoroughly. No man alive held the stale old adage of “Beauty when unadorned,” etc., in profounder scorn. A pair of badly-fitting gloves, a soiledcollerette, or a tumbled dress, had cured more than one of the fever fits of his younger days; and he was ten times as fastidious now.He drew a long, slow breath of intense enjoyment, as a thirsty cricketer may do after the first deep draught of claret-cup that rewards a two hours’ innings. “It’s very refreshing, after weeks of total abstinence, to see a woman who goes in for dress, and does it thoroughly well.” He had no time for more, for the others were almost within hearing.When the introductions were over, Mrs. Danvers said she was tired, and must rest a little. Very few words will do justice to her personal appearance. Brevity, and breadth, and bluntness were her chief characteristics, which applied equally to her figure, her face, and her extremities, and, not unfrequently, to her speech too. Her health was really infirm, but she never could attain the object of many an invalid’s harmless ambition—looking interesting. Illness made her cheeks look pasty, but not pale; it could not fine down the coarsely moulded features, or purify their ignoble outline. Her voice was against her, certainly; perhaps this was the reason why, when she bemoaned herself, so many irreverent and hard-hearted reprobates called it “whining.” It was very unfortunate; for few could be found, even in the somewhat exacting class to which she belonged, more anxious and active in enlisting sympathy. She was looking especially ill-tempered just then, but Major Keene was not easily daunted, and he went in at her straight and gallantly—about the weather, it is needless to say, both being English. While Mrs. Danvers was disagreeing with him, Cecil took her turn at inspection. Royston’s name was familiar to her, of course, for no one ever talked to Mrs. Molyneux for ten minutes without hearing it. Though she had scarcely glanced at him in the morning, she had decided that the tall, erect figure and the enormous mustache, with itscrocs à la mousquetaire, could only belong to Fanny’s Household Word. It was very odd—she had not a shade of a reason for it—but neither hadshementioned that rencontre to her friend. Perhaps they had so many other things to talk about. She could scan him now more narrowly, for his face was turned away from her. The result was satisfactory: when Major Keene stood up on his feet, not even his habitual laziness could disguise the fair proportions and trained vigor of a stalwart man-at-arms; and be it known that Cecil’s eye, though not so professional as that of Good Queen Bess, loved to light upon such dearly.“Harry,” Mrs. Molyneux observed, “Mr. Fullarton called while I was at theLion d’Orthis morning, and staid half an hour. He is so very anxious to get Cecil to lead the singing in church.”“Yes; he has been, so to speak, throwing his hat up ever since he heard you were coming, Miss Tresilyan,” was the reply. “I suppose he calculated on your vocal talents; there’s the nuisance of having an European reputation, you are always expected to do something for somebody’s benefit. I hope you’ll indulge him, in charity to us. You have no idea what it has been. Two Sundays ago, for instance, a Mr. Rolleston and his wife volunteered to give us a lead. He didn’t look like a racing man; and yet he must have been. I never saw any thing more artistically done. He went off at score, and made the pace so strong that he cut them all down in the first two verses; and then the wife, who had waited very patiently, came and won as she liked—nothing else near her.”Cecil thought the illustration rather irreverent, and did not smile. Keene saw this as he turned round.“The turf slang has got into your constitution, I think, since you won that Garrison Cup. It’s very wrong of you not to cure yourself, when you know how it annoys Mrs. Molyneux. He is right, though, Miss Tresilyan; it is a case of real distress: our vocal destitution is pitiable; so, if you have any benevolence to spare, do bestow it upon us, and your petitioners will ever pray, etc.”Now it so happened that Fanny valued that same14cup above all her earthly possessions, as a mark of her husband’s prowess. No testimonial ever gave so much satisfaction to a popular rector’s wife as that little ugly mug afforded her, albeit it was the very wooden-spoon of racing plate. So she first smiled consolingly at the culprit, who was already contrite, and then looked up at the last speaker with amusement and wonder glittering in her pretty brown eyes. She did not see what interest the subject could have for Keene, who had only darkened the chapel doors once since they came. Mr. Fullarton, indeed, was supposed to have alluded to him several times—his discourses were apt to take a personal and individualizing turn—but he had never had the satisfaction of a “shot in the open” at that stout-hearted sinner.Royston caughtla mignonne’sglance, and understood it perfectly, but not a line of his face moved. He was waiting for Cecil’s reply very anxiously: he had not heard her speak yet.“Mr. Fullarton is rather rash,” she said, “for our acquaintance is slight, and I don’t think he ever heard me sing. But I shall do my best next Sunday. Every one ought to help in such a case as much as they can.”“Yes, and you will do it so beautifully, dearest!” Cecil bit her lip, and colored angrily. Nothing annoyed her like Mrs. Danvers’ obtrusive partisanship and uncouth flattery.The gleam of pleasure that shone out on Keene’s dark face for a moment, only Harry interpreted rightly. He had scarcely listened to the words, but he thought, “I knew I was right; I knew the voice would match the rest!” When they moved on again, he walked by Miss Tresilyan’s side, and “still their speech was song.”His first remark was, “I hope you condescend to ballads sometimes? I confess to not deriving much pleasure from those elaborate performances where the voice tries dangerous feats of strength and agility: even at the Opera they make one rather uncomfortable. Some of the very scientific pieces suggest ideas of homicide or suicide, as the case may be, according to my temper at the moment. Of course, I know less than nothing about music; but I don’t think this quite accounts for it. I really believe that unsophisticated human nature revolts at thebravura.”It was rare good fortune, so early in their acquaintance, to tempt forth the brilliant smile that always betrayed when Cecil was well pleased.“Mrs. Molyneux has told you what my tastes are?” she said. “I have never triedbravurassince I left off masters, and even then I only attempted them under protest. But there are some quiet songs I like so much that I sing them to myself when I am out of spirits, and it does me good. Don’t you like the old-fashioned ones best? I fancy, in those days, people felt more what they wrote, and did not consider only how the words would suit the composer.”“Probably,” Keene replied. “If Charles Edward was of no other use, some good strong lines were written about him. I do not think he lived in vain. There are no partisans now. The only songs of the sort that I ever saw with anyvervein them were some seditious Irish ones: rather spirited—only they had not grammar enough to ballast them. The writer either was, or wanted to be, transported. We areallvery fond of the Guelphs—at least every body in decent society is—and that is just the reason why we are not enthusiastic. We are all ready to ‘die for the throne,’ etc., but we don’t see any immediate probability of our devotion being tested. So the laureate only rhymes loyally, and he at stated seasons, and in a temperate, professional style.”“Please don’t laugh at Tennyson,” she interrupted; “I suppose it is very easy to do so, for so many people try it; but I never listen to them if I can help it.”“A premature warning,” was the grave reply; “I had no such idea. I admire Tennyson fully as much as you can do, and read him, I dare say, much oftener. I was only speaking of his performances in themanège; indeed, there is not enough of these to make a fair illustration, so I was wrong to bring them in. When he settles to hisstride,few of the ‘cracks’ of last century seem able to live with him. They have not set all his best things to music. A clever composer might do great things, I fancy, with ‘The Sisters,’ and therefrainof ‘the wind in turret and tree.’”“It would never be a very general favorite,” Miss Tresilyan observed. “It seems hardly right to set to music even an imaginary story of great sin and sorrow. I saw a sketch of it some time ago. The murderess was sitting on a cushion close to the earl’s body, with her head bent so low that one of her black tresses almost touched his smooth golden curls; you could just see the hilt of the dagger under her left hand. That, and the corpse’s quiet, pale face were the only two objects that stood out in relief; for the storm outside was stirring the window-curtains, and making the one lamp flare irregularly. Her features were in the shadow, and you had to fancy how hard, and rigid, and dreary they must be. It was the merest sketch, but if it had been worked out, it would have made a very terrible picture.”“A good conception,” Royston said; “well, perhaps it would not be a pleasant song to sing, but better, I should think, than some of those dreadful sentimental ones. They are not much worse than the Strephon and the Chloe class, in which our ancestors delighted; still, they are indefensible. If our Lauras find Petrarchs now, they are usually very beardless ones, and the green morocco cover, with its golden lock, covers their indiscretions. Those who write love ditties for the pianomustcelebrate a shadow who can’t be critical. Imagine any man insulting a real woman of average intellect with ‘Will you love me then as now!’”“Yes,” she assented, “they are too absurd as a rule. They make our cheeks burn, as if we were performing some very ridiculous part in low comedy; but they do not warm one’s heart, like ‘Annie Laurie.’”“Ah! it’s curious how that always suggests itself as the standard to compare others with: not fair, though, for it makes most of them sound so feeble and effeminate. Douglas of Finland wrote it, you know, in the campaign which finished him. Long before that the charming Annie had given her promise true to Craigdarroch; and she had to keep it,tant bien que mal, for it was pronounced in the Tron Church, instead of on the braes of Maxwellton. I wonder if she15inscribed those verses in her scrap-book? I dare say she did, and sang them to her grandchildren, in a cracked treble.”“I am so sorry you told me that,” Cecil exclaimed; “my romance was quite a different one, and not nearly so sad. I always fancied the man who wrote those lines must have ended so happily! One would despise her thoroughly if she could ever have forgiven herself, or forgotten him.”Her eyes brightened, and her cheeks flushed as she spoke. The momentary excitement made her look so handsome that Keene’s glance could not withhold admiration; but there was no sympathy in it, any more than in his cold, quiet tones.“No, don’t despise her,” he said. “She could scarcely be expected to wait for a corporal in the Scottish regiment. When the cavaliers sailed from home they knew they were leaving every thing but honor behind them; of course, their mistresses went with the other luxuries. They had not many of these in the brigade, if we can believe history. Fortunately for us (or we should have missed the song) Finland never knew of the ‘fresh fere’ who dried the bright blue eyes so soon. He would not have carried his pike so cheerily either, if his eyes had been good enough to see across the German Ocean. Well, perhaps the story isn’t true; very few melodramatic legends are.”“I shall try not to believe it; but I am afraid you have destroyed an illusion.”“You don’t say so?” was the reply. “I regret it extremely. If I had but known you carried such things about with you! Indeed, I will be more careful for the future. We are out-walking the main-guard, I see. Shall we wait for them here? It is a good point of view. One forgets that there are two invalids to be considered.”Did Royston Keene speak thus purposely, on the principle of those practiced periodical writers, who always leave their hero in extreme peril, or their heroine on the verge of a moral precipice, in order to keep our curiosity tense till the next number? If not, chance favored him by producing the very effect he would have desired.His companion’s fair cheek flashed again, and this time a little vexation had something to say to it. It was incontestably correct to wait for the rest of the party, but she would have preferred originating the suggestion. Besides, the conversation had begun to interest her; and she liked being amused too well not to be sorry for its being cut short abruptly. She thought Major Keene talked epigrammatically; and the undercurrent of irony that ran through all he said was not so obtrusive as to seriously offend her.It was no light ordeal he had just passed through. First impressions are not made on women of Cecil Tresilyan’s class so easily as they are upon guilelessdébutantes; but they are far more important and lasting. It is useless attempting to pass off counterfeit coin on those expert money-changers; but they value the pure gold all the more when it rings sharp and true. It is always so with those who have once been Queens of Beauty. A certain imperial dignity attaches to them long after they have ceased to reign: over the brows that have worn worthily the diadem there still hangs the phantasm of a shadowy crown. There need be nothing of repellent haughtiness, or, what is worse, of evident condescension; but, though they are perfectly gentle and good-natured, we risk our little sallies and sarcasms with timidity, or at least diffidence; feeling especially that a commonplace compliment would be an inexcusable profanation. Our sword may be ready and keen enough against others, but beforethemwe lower its point, as the robber did to Queen Margaret in the lonely wood. We are conscious of treading on ground where stronger, and wiser, and better men have knelt before us; and own that the altar on which things so rare and precious have been laid has a right to be fastidious as to the quality of incense.Not the less did such glory of past royalty surround the Tresilyan because she had abdicated, and never been dethroned.Chapter divisionCHAPTER VI.Thereis something singularly refreshing in the enthusiasm that one pretty and fascinating woman will display when speaking of another highly gifted as herself—perhaps even more so. It seems to me there is more honesty here, and less stage-trick and conventionality, than is to be found in most manifestations of sentiment that take place in polite society. A perfectly plain and unattractive female may, of course, be sincerely attached to her beautiful friend, but her partisanship must be somewhat theoretical; it has not theesprit de corpswhich characterizes the other class. These last can count victories enough of their own to be able to sympathize heartily with the triumphs of their fellows without envying or grudging them one. What does it matter if Rose has slain her thousands and Lilian her tens of thousands? It is always “so much scored up to our side.”Would you like to assist, invisibly, at one of those two-handed “free-and-easies,” where notes are compared and confidences exchanged, where the fair warriors “shoulder theirfans, and show how fields were won?” Perhaps our vanity would suffer though our curiosity were gratified. The proverb about listeners has come in since the time of Gyges, it is true; but his luck was exceptional, and would not often follow his Ring. Campaspeen déshabilleis not invariably kind. It is a popular superstition that men are apt, at certain seasons, to speak rather lightly, if not superciliously, of the beings whom they ought to delight to honor. If so, be sure the medal has its reverse. When you secured that gardenia from Amy’s bouquet, or that ribbon from Helen’s glove trimming, you went home with a placid sense of self-gratulation, flattering yourself you had done it rather diplomatically, without compromising your boasted freedom by word or sign. Perhaps, two hours later, you figured conspicuously in a train of shadowy captives adorning the conqueror’s ideal ovation. A change of color of which you were unconscious, a tremulous pressure of fingers that you risked involuntarily—a sentence that was meant to be careless and indifferent, but ended by being earnest and imploring—all these were commented upon in the16select committee, and estimated at their proper value.Very keen-sighted are those soft almond eyes ambushed behind their trailing lashes, and from them the sternest stoic may not long conceal his wound. The Knight of Persia never groaned, or shrank, or drooped his crest when the quarrel struck him; but Amala needed only to look down to see his blood red upon the waters of the ford. Some penalty must attach itself to unauthorized intruders, even in thought, upon theCerealia. I don’t wish to be disagreeable, or to suggest unpleasant misgivings to the masculine mind, but—do you think we are always compassionated as much as we deserve? I own to a horrible suspicion that our betrayals of weakness form matter of exultation, and that our tenderest emotions are not unfrequently derided.Clearly this delightful sympathy can only exist where fancies, and ambitions, and interests do not clash. They seldom need do so: there is room enough for all. So much disposable devotion is abroad in this world, that no one woman can monopolize it. It is a tolerably fair handicap, on the whole; and even the second horse may land a very satisfactory stake. Never was night when the moon shone so dazzlingly as to blind us to the brilliancy of “a star or two beside.” Bothwell, and Châtelet, and Rizzio were not the only love-stricken ones in Holyrood. Had the Queen of Scots been thrice as charming, glances, and sighs, and words enough would still have been found to satisfy the most exacting of her Maries.Fanny Molyneux was a capital specimen of the thorough-paced partisan. She was terribly indignant at dinner on that first day of their meeting, when Major Keene would not endorseallher raptures about her favorite. He assented to every thing, certainly; but though his approbation was decided it was perfectly calm. He intrenched himself behind his natural and acquiredsang-froid, and the fair assailant could not force those lines.“Don’t be unreasonable,” Royston said at last. “As Macdonough always says when he has lost the first two rubbers, ‘the night is young and drink is plenty.’ Admiration will develop itself if you only give it time. I have serious thoughts already of adding another to the many little poems that must have been written about Miss Tresilyan. Shall I send it to the ‘United Service Gazette?’ It would be a great credit to our branch of the profession. No dragoon has published a rhyme since Lovelace, I believe. I’ve got as far as the first line:Ah, Cecil! hide those eyes of blue.”“I think I’ve heard something very like that before,” Fanny answered, laughing. “She deserves a prettier compliment than aréchauffé.”“Have you heard it before? Well, I shouldn’t wonder. You don’t expect one to be original and enthusiastic at the same moment, when both are out of one’s line? I own it, though. Your princess merits all the vassalage she has found—better than she will meet with here—if only for the perfection of her costume. Thatisa triumph. Honor to the artist who built her hat. I drink to him now, and I wish the Burgundy were worthier of the toast. (Hal, this Corton does not improve.) I should advise you to secure the address of herbottier. You know her well enough to ask for it, perhaps? It must be a secret.”“Then you have not found out how very clever she is?”“Pardon me,” was the reply; “I can imagine Miss Tresilyan perfectly well educated; so well, that she might dispense with carrying about a living voucher in the shape of that dreadfulex-institutrice. I never knew what makes very nice women cling so to very disagreeable governesses. Perhaps there is a satisfaction in patronizing where you have been ruled, and in conferring favors where you have only received ‘impositions’—a pleasant consciousness of returning good for evil. There is no other rational way of accounting for it.”La mignonnewas not indignant now, as might have been expected; but she gazed at the speaker long and more searchingly than was her wont, with something very like pity in her kind, earnest eyes.“I suppose you would not sneer so at every thing if you could help it,” she said. “I am not wise enough to do so; but I don’t envy you.”Royston’s hard cold face changed for an instant, and the faintest flush lingered there, about as long as your breath would upon polished steel. It was not the first time that one of her random shafts had struck him home. All the sarcasm had died out of his voice as he answered slowly—“Don’t you envy me? You are right there. And you think you are not wise enough to be cynical? If there was any school to teach us how to turn our talents to the best account, I know which of us two would have most to learn.” When he spoke again it was in his usual manner, but upon another and perfectly indifferent subject.Harry had taken no part in the discussion. Always languid, toward night he generally felt especially disinclined to any bodily or mental exertion. At such times there was nothing he liked so well as to lie on his sofa and assist at a passage-of-arms between his wife and Keene, encouraging either party occasionally with an approving smile, but preserving a cautious and complete neutrality. On the present occasion he had his own reasons for not being disappointed about the latter’s appreciation of Miss Tresilyan. Had he felt any such misgivings, they would have vanished later in the evening.The doctor was a stern man; but he must have been more than human to have stood fast against the entreaties and cajolement with which his patient backed up the petition, “to be allowed just one cigar before going to roost.” The prospect of this compensating weed had supported poor Harry through the dullness and privations of many monotonous days. As the appointed time drew nigh, he would freshen up visibly, just like the camels when, staggering fetlock deep through the sand-wastes, they scent the water or sight the clump of palms. Was there more in all this than could be traced to the mere soothing influence of the nicotine and flavor of the tobacco? Might not this one old habit still indulged have been the only link that sensibly connected the invalid with those pleasant days, when he enjoyed life so heartily, with so many cheery comrades to keep him in countenance—when he would have laughed at the idea of any thing short of a sabre-cut, a shot-wound,17or a rattling fall over an “oxer,” bringing him down to that state of helpless dependence, when our conception of womankind resolves itself into the ministering angel? Harry certainly could not have told you if this were so; for an inquiry into the precise nature of his sensations would have posed him at any time quite as completely as a question in hydrostatics or plane trigonometry. At any rate, the consumption of The Cigar was a very important ceremony with him; not conducted in the thoughtless and improvident spirit of men who smoke a dozen or so a day, but partaking rather of the character of a sacrifice, at once festal and solemn. There were times, as we have said before, when he would break out of bounds recklessly; but upon such occasions he gave himself no time to reflect; so there was nothing then of calm and deliberate enjoyment; and these escapades grew more and more rare as the warnings of his constitution spoke more imperiously.Among the very few traits of amiability that Major Keene had ever displayed, were the sacrifices of personal convenience he would make for Harry Molyneux. He had given up a good many engagements to see his comrade through that especial hour; and, if the day had left any available geniality in him, it was sure to come out then. Upon this occasion, however, he was remarkably silent, and answered several times at random as if his thoughts were roving elsewhere: they were not unpleasant ones, apparently, for he smiled twice or thrice to himself, much less icily than usual. At last he spoke abruptly, after a long pause—Miss Tresilyan’s name had not once been mentioned—“Hal, you know that old hackneyed phrase, about ‘a woman to die for?’ I think we have seen one to-day who is worth living for; which is saying a good deal more.”“You like her, then?” Molyneux asked.“Yes—I—like—her.” The words came out as if each one had been weighed to a grain; and his lip put on that curious smile once more.Harry did not feel quite satisfied. He would have preferred hearing more, and inferring less; but acting upon his invariable rose-colored principle, he would not admit any disagreeable surmises, and went to bed under the impression that “it was all right,” and that Royston was in a fair way toward being repaid for the sacrifices he had made to friendship.Chapter divisionCHAPTER VII.TheSaturday night is waning, but Molyneux shows no signs of moving yet from Keene’s apartments. He has been a model of prudence though so far, as to his drinks, and, in good truth, their companion is not amusing, or instructive, or convivial enough, to tempt or to excuse transgression.Dick Tresilyan looks about twenty-five, strongly and somewhat heavily built; rather over the middle height, even with the decided stoop of his broad, round shoulders. He carries far too much flesh to please a professional eye, and by the time he is fifty will be very unwieldy; but there is more activity in him than might be supposed, and he walks strongly and well, as you would find if you tried to keep pace with him through the turnips on a sultry September day. His face, without a pretension to beauty in itself, suggests it—just the face that makes you say, “that man must have a handsome sister;” indeed, it bears an absurdly strong family likeness to Cecil’s, amounting to a parody. But the outline of feature which in her is so fine and clear, is dull and filled out even to coarseness. It reminded one of looking at the same landscape, first through the medium of a bright blue sky, and then through driving mist, when crag, and cliff, and wood still show themselves, but blurred and dimly. His hair and eyes are, by several shades, the lighter of the two. The great difference is in the mouth. Cecil’s is so delicately chiseled, so apt at all expressions, from tender to provocative, that many consider it one of her best points; her brother’s is so weak and undecided in its character (or rather want of character), that it would make a more intellectual face vacuous and inane.The “Tresilyan constitution” holds its own gallantly against the inroads of hardish living, and Dick looks the picture of rude health. Men endowed with an invincible obtuseness of intellect and feeling, have no mental wear and tear, and if the machine starts in good order, it seems as if it might last out indefinitely; so it would, I dare say, if it were not for a propensity to drink, and otherwise to abuse their bodily advantages, peculiar to this class. But for this neutralizing element in their composition perhaps they would live as long as crows or elephants, and we should be visited by a succession of stupid Old Parrs; which would be a very dreadful dispensation indeed. The present subject takes a good deal of exercise, to be sure, and naturally, few cares have ever troubled him; he has always had more money than he knew what to do with, and—as for serious annoyances, a certain train of thought is necessary to form them, while our poor Dick’s brain is utterly incapable of holding more than one idea at a time. Whatever may happen to be the dominant thought, reigns with an undivided empire, and will not endure a rival even near its throne, till it is violently thrust out and annihilated by its successor, on the principle ofThe priest that slays the slayer,And shall himself be slain.He never originates a conception, of course, but is always open to a fair offer in the way of a suggestion from any body, and adopts it with the blind zeal of a proselyte. It follows that chance occurrences may bother him for the moment, but he is saved an infinity of trouble by being independent of foresight and memory. To this last defect there is one exception. If he is crossed, or vexed, or injured, he cherishes against the offender a dull, misty, purposeless sort of resentment, scarcely amounting to animosity, but can not explain, either to you or to himself,whyhe does so. Fortunately he is tolerably harmless and unsuspicious, for to reconcile him would be simply impossible.Not onemésalliancecould be detected in the main line of the Tresilyans; but there must have been a blot somewhere, a link of base metal in the golden chain, of which an adulteress and her confessor could have told. Perhaps the son of the transgressor bore no stigma on his forehead, and ruffled it among his peers as bravely as the18best of them, never witting of his mother’s dishonor; but the stain had come out in this generation. Even the faults and vices of that strong, stubborn race were curiously distorted and caricatured in their representative. His pride, for instance, chiefly displayed itself in a taste for low company, where he could safely lord it over his inferiors. He did this whenever he had a chance, but, to do him justice, by no means in an ill-natured or bullying way. He had resided almost entirely on his own estates; and, during his rare visits to London, had not extended his knowledge of the world beyond the experience that may be picked up by frequenting divers equivocal places of public resort, and from occasional forays on the extreme frontier of thedemi-monde. The result was, that in general society he felt himself in a false position, and was evidently anxious to escape into a more congenial atmosphere.Can you guess why I have lingered so long over a portrait that might well have been dispatched in three lines? It is because, in the eyes of those who knew Cecil Tresilyan, some interest must attach itself to the basest thing that bears her name; it is because there are men alive who think that the broidery of her skirt, or the trimming of her mantle, deserve describing better than the shield of Pelides; who hold that one of her dark chestnut tresses is worthier of a place among the stars than imperial Berenicè’s hair. A lame excuse, I admit, to the many that never saw her—even in their dreams.On this particular evening Dick was supremely happy. Keene had got him upon shooting—the only subject on which that unlucky man could talk without committing himself; and, by the time he was well into his fourth tumbler of iced Cogniac and water, he was achieving a rare conversational triumph; for he had left off answering monosyllabically, had volunteered an observation or two, and even ventured to banter his companions about their not availing themselves sufficiently of the sporting resources in the neighborhood.“There are several boars near here,” he was saying; “they shoot them sometimes, and you can go if you manage properly. I wonder you men never found that out.”“Ah! theydidtalk a good deal about pigs,” Royston remarked indifferently. “But, you see, we used to stick them in the Deccan. The first time I heard of their way of doing it here, I felt very like Deering when they asked him to shoot a fox in Scotland. Tom Deering, you know, the old boy that has hunted with the Warwickshire and Atherstone for thirty seasons, and could tell you the names, ages, and colors of the hounds better than he could those of his own small family—pedigrees, too, I shouldn’t wonder.”Dick tried to look as if he had known the man from his childhood, and succeeded but very moderately.“Well,” the other went on, “they were beating a cover for roe, and the gillie suggested a particular pass, as the most likely to get a shot at what he called a ‘tod.’ It was some time before Tom realized the full horror of the proposition: when he did, he shut his eyes like a bull that is going to charge, and literallyfellupon the duinhe-wassel, bellowing savagely. He had no more idea of using his hands than a fractious baby; but it is rather a serious thing when sixteen stone of solid flesh becomes possessed by a devil. Robin Oig was overborne by the onset, and did not forget the effects of it that season.”Tresilyan laughed applaudingly, as he always did when he could understand more than half a story.“I suppose it’s pretty good fun hunting them out there?” he said, going off at score, as usual, on the fresh theme.“Not bad,” Keene replied; “sharp going while it lasts, and a little knack wanted to stick them scientifically. Some say it’s more exciting than fox-hunting, but that’s childish; I never heard a man assert it whose liver was not on the wane. It’s more dangerous, certainly. A header into the Smite or the Whissendine is nothing to a fall backward into a nullah, with a beaten horse on the top of you.”Molyneux woke up from a reverie. The familiar word stirred his blood like a trumpet, and it flashed up brightly in his pale cheek as he spoke. “Ah! we have had a brushing gallop or two in the gay old times, before we got married, and invalided, and all that sort of thing. Dick, I should like to tell you how I got my first spear.”“Of course you would,” the major said, resignedly; “it’s my fault for starting the subject. Get over it quickly then, please.” He did not stop him, though, as he would have done on another occasion—pour cause.“I had been entered some time at boar,” Harry began, “before I had any luck at all. Ride as hard as I would at the start, the old handswouldcreep up at the finish, just in time to get ‘first blood.’ I gave long prices for my Arabs, too, and didn’t spare them. I own I got discouraged, and thought the whole thing a robbery, a delusion, and a snare. One day, however, we had a good deal of deep, marshy ground at first, and a quick gallop afterward, which served my light weight well. I had it all to myself when he came to bay; so I went in, full of confidence, and gave point, as I thought, well behind the shoulder-blade. I did not calculate on the pace we were going, and I was just three inches too forward. My horse was as young and hot as I was, and though he had no idea of flinching, didn’t know how to take care of himself. The instant the brute felt the steel he wheeled short round, and cut The Emperor’s forelegs clean from under him. We all came down in a heap; my spear flew yards away; and there I was on my face, clear of my horse, with my right wrist badly sprained. Would you have fancied the position?Ididn’t. The devil was too blown to begin offensive operations at once, for we had burst him along pretty sharply, but he stood right over me, champing and rasping his tusks, and getting his wind for a good vicious rip. I felt his boiling foam dropping upon me as I lay quite still. I thought that was the best thing to do. All at once hoofs came up at a hard gallop; something swept above me with a rush; there was a short, smothered sound like a tap on a padded door, and then the beast stretched himself slowly out across my legs, and shivered, and died. That man opposite to you had leapt his horse over us both, and, while he was in the19air, speared the boar through the spinal marrow. If he had been struck any where else he might still have torn me badly before the life was out of him. Neatly done, wasn’t it?”Harry drank off the remains of his sherry and seltzer rather excitedly, and then sighed. He was thinking how often, in other days, when health and nerves were to the fore, he had drained a stronger and deeper draught to “Snaffle, spur, and spear!”“A mere stage trick,” Keene remarked; “effective, but not in the least dangerous, with a horse under you as steady as poor old Mahmoud. May his rest be glorious! Gilbert killed a tiger that had got loose in the same way, whichwassomething to talk about, for even clean-bred Arabs don’t like facing tigers. You made rather better time than usual over that story to-night, Hal; it’s practice, I suppose.”Tresilyan’s eyes fastened on the speaker, full of a heavy, pertinacious admiration. You might have told him of the noblest action of generosity or self-denial that ever constituted the stock in trade of a moral hero, and he would have listened patiently, but without one responsive emotion. Bodily prowess and daring he could appreciate. Keene’s physicalprestigewas just the thing to captivate his limited imagination; besides which the ground was prepared for the seed-time. He had some soldier friends, and dining with these at the “Swashing Buckler,” he had heard some of those club chronicles in which the Cool Captain’s name figured prominently.The latter interpreted perfectly well the gaze that was riveted upon him, without being in the least flattered by it. He felt, perhaps, the same sort of satisfaction that one experiences when, fighting for the odd trick, the first card in our hand is a heavy trump. Dick’s thorough and undivided allegiance once secured, was a good card in the game he was playing at the moment. Whatever his thoughts might have been, his face told no tales. He had been flooring glass for glass with his guest till the liquor began to work its way into the cracks even of such a seasoned vessel; but, for any outward or visible sign in feature, speech, or manner, he might have been assisting at a teetotaller’ssoirée.Very often—late on guest-nights, or other tournaments of deep drinking, where Trojan and Tyrian met to do battle for the credit of their respective corps—the calm, rigid face, never flushing beyond a clear swarthy brown, and the cold, bright, inevitable eyes, had stricken terror into the hearts of bacchanalian Heavies, and given consolation, if not confidence, to the Hussars, who were failing fast: these knew that though their own brains might be reeling and their legs rebelliously independent, their single champion was invincible. As the last of the Enōmotæ went down, he saw Othryades standing steadfastly, with never a trace of wound or weakness, still able and willing to write ΝΙΚΗ on his shield.When our poor Dick was once thoroughly impressed, for the first time, with awe or admiration, either for man or woman, he generally fell into a species of trance, from which it was exceedingly difficult to bring him round. He would have sat there, staring stupidly, till morning, with perfect satisfaction to himself, if Molyneux had not attacked him with a direct question, “How long do you think of staying at Dorade? And have you made any plans afterward?”Le mouton qui rêvaitroused himself with an effort, and searched the bottom of his empty glass narrowly for a reply. Eventually he succeeded in finding one:“Cecil talks about two months; then we are to go on by Nice, Genoa, Florence, Rome, and Naples, and so come back by—Italy.” He had got up the first names by rote, and run them off glibly enough, but was evidently at fault about the last one. I fancy he had some vague idea of Austrian troops being quartered in these regions, and looked upon Hesperia in the light of an obscure state or moderate-sized town somewhere in the north of Europe.Harry was balked in his inclination to laugh; the rising smile was checked upon his lip, just in time, by a glance from his chief, severely authoritative.“Italy?” the latter said, without a muscle moving; “well, I shouldn’t advise you to stay long there. It’s rather a small place, and very stupid; no society whatever. The others will amuse you, as you have never seen them.”He rose as he spoke the last words. Perhaps he thought he had done that night “enough for profit and more than enough for glory.” The Cool Captain seldom suffered himself to be bored without an adequate object very clearly in view.“Hal, I am going to turn you out. It is far too late for you to be sitting up, and we have a good deal to do to-morrow.”Molyneux did not quite comprehend what extraordinary labors were before any of them, but he rose without making an objection, and Tresilyan prepared to accompany him. Dick considered that individually he had been remarkably brilliant, and had left a favorable impression behind him. But all this newly-acquired confidence, and much strong drink were not sufficient to embolden him to risk, as yet, atête-à-têtewith Royston Keene.Long after they had departed the major sat gazing steadfastly at the logs burning on the hearth. If he had gone straight to bed, the enormous dullness of one of the party would have weighed him down like a nightmare.Is there one of us who can not remember having seen prettier pictures in a flame-colored setting than the Royal Academy has ever shown him? What earthly painter could emulate or imitate the coquettish caprice of light and shadow, that enhances the charms, and dissembles all possible defects in those fair, fleeting Fiamminas? Something like this effect was to be found in the miniatures that were in fashion a dozen years ago; where part only of a sweet face and a dangerously eloquent eye looked at you out of a wreath of dusky cloud, that shrouded all the rest and gave your imagination play. Truly it was not so utterly wrong, the ancient legend that wedded Hephæstus to Aphroditè. The Minnesingers and their coevals spoke fairly enough about Love, and probably had studied their subject; but, rely upon it, passionate Romance died in Germany when once the close stoves prevailed. Don’t you envy the imagination of the dreamer who could trace a shape of loveliness in those dreadful glazed tiles?Being rather aGuebremyself, I once got20enthusiastic on the subject in the company of an eccentric character, who very soon made me repent my expansiveness. If he had committed any atrocious crime (he was a small sandy-haired creature, and wore colored spectacles), no one knew of it, and he never hinted at its nature; but his whole ideas seemed tinged with a vague gloomy remorse that made him a sadder, but scarcely a wiser or better man. Perhaps it was a monomania; let us hope so. On that occasion he heard me out quite patiently; then the blue glasses raised themselves to the level of my eyes, and I felt convinced their owner was staring spectrally behind them. Considering that he measured about thirty-four inches round the chest, his voice was extraordinarily deep and solemn: it sounded preternaturally so as he said very slowly, “There is one face that does not often leave me alone here, and will follow me, I think, when I go to my appointed place: I see it now, as I shall see it throughout all ages—alwaysby firelight.”I felt very wroth, for surely to suggest a new and unpleasant train of ideas is an infamous abuse of atête-à-tête. I told my friend so; and, as he declined to retract or apologize, or in any wise explain himself, departed with the conviction that, though a clever man and an original thinker, he was by no means an exhilarating or instructive companion. I should have borne him a grudge to this day, but as I was walking home, decidedly disconsolate (there’s no such bore as having a pet fancy spoiled, it is like having your favorite hunter sent home with two broken knees), it suddenly occurred to me that if the penitent was in the habit of looking at the fire through those blue barnacles, it was not likely there would be much rose-color in his visions. In great triumph I retraced my steps, and knocked the culprit up to put in this “demurrer.” I flatter myself it floored him. He did attempt some lame excuse about “taking his spectacles off at such times,” but I refused to listen to a word, and marched out of the place with drums beating and colors flying, first exasperating him by the assurance of my complete forgiveness. Since then, if sitting alone,ligna super foco largè reponens, I involuntarily recur to that ill-favored conception, it suffices to contrast with it the grotesque appearance of its originator, and the pale phantom evanisheth.I have no excuse to offer for this long and egotistical anecdote, except the pendant which Maloney used to attach to his ultra-marinestories—“The point of it is, that—it’s strictly true.”

In Tresilyan’s faceFault finds no grace.

In Tresilyan’s face

Fault finds no grace.

So, when the sick man cried out to her, through his sobs, to kiss him and forgive him, the dreary, monotonous voice only answered, “I can kiss you, father;” and when she had laid her icicles of lips on his forehead, she glided11out of the room like a ghost that has accomplished its mission and hastens away to its own place. Sir Ewes never tried to call her back; he scarcely spoke at all intelligibly after that; but lay, for the few remaining hours of life, moaning to himself, his face turned to the wall.

For a very short time after her father’s death, Mabel seemed to take a pleasure in roaming about the gardens and woods from which she had been debarred so long; but the walks grew gradually shorter, and she soon shut herself up in the house entirely, seeing only a few of her near relatives. It was one of these who, at her own request, painted the second portrait—a rude performance, but it must have been a likeness. She seemed to feel an odd sort of satisfaction in looking at the two and comparing them. Her brain was somewhat clouded and unsteady; but I fancy she was counting up all the harm and wrong the hard world had done to her, and calculating what amends would be made in the next. I doubt not they were kind and pitiful and indulgent enough there; but on earth she found no source of comfort strong enough to banish from her eyes that terrible look which haunted them within five minutes of her end.

When spirits assemble from the four corners of heaven, how many thousand companions, think you, will greet the Gileadite’s daughter?

Before you saw Cecil Tresilyan’s face, the curve of her neck, and the way her head was set on it, told you that she was by no means exempt from the family failing which had laid its hand so heavily on her ancestors. Yet it was not a hard or habitually haughty, or even a very decided face. There was nothing alarmingly severe about the slight aquiline of the nose; the chin did not look as if it were “carved in marble,” or “clasped in steel,” or as if it were made of any thing but soft flesh prettily dimpled; the delicate scarlet lip, when it curled, rarely went beyond sauciness; though the splendid violet eyes could well express disdain, this was not their favorite expression—and they had many. The head would certainly have been too small had it not been for the glossy masses of dark chestnut hair sweeping down low all round it, smooth and unbroken as a deep river in its first curl over a cataract. Candid friends said her complexion was not bright enough; perhaps they were right; but the color had not forgotten how to come and go there at fitting seasons; at any rate, the grand clear white could never be mistaken for an unhealthy pallor. An extraordinarily good constitution was ever part of a Tresilyan’s inheritance; and if you doubted whether her blood circulated freely you had only to compare her cheek on a bitter March day with some red-and-white ones, when a sharp east wind had forced those last to mountallthe stripes of the tricolor. By the way, are not the “roses dipped in milk” going out of fashion just now? A humble but stanch adherent of the house of York, I like to think—how many battle-fields, since Towton, our Flower has won!

But if Cecil’s face was not faultless, her figurewas. Had one single proportion been exaggerated or deficient, she could never have carried off her height so lithely and gracefully. She might take twentyposesin a morning, and people always thought they would choose the last one to have her painted in. Here, she was quite inimitable. For instance, women, I believe, used to practice in their own room for hours to catch her peculiar way of half-reclining in an armchair; but the most painstaking of them all never achieved any thing beyond a caricature. Yet no one could accuse her of studying stage-effects. If a trifle of theIncedo Reginamarked her walk and carriage, it was à l’Eugénie, not à la Statira.

Indeed, she was thoroughly natural all over; cleverer and more fascinating, certainly, than ninety-nine women out of every hundred; but not one bit more strong-minded, or heroic, or self-denying. She had been very well brought up, and had undeniably good principles; but she would yield to occasional small temptations with perfect grace and facility. Great ones she had never yet encountered; for Cecil, if not quite fancy-free, had only read and perhaps dreamed of passions. She had known one remorse, of which you may hear hereafter (not a heavy allowance, considering her opportunities), and one grief—the death of her mother. She entertained a remarkable reverence for all ministers of the Established Church; yet she was about the last woman alive to have married a clergyman, and would have considered the charge of the old women and schools of a country parish as a lingering and unsatisfactory martyrdom. There never was a more constant attendant at all sorts of divine service; though perhaps the most casual of worshipers had never been more bored than she was by some of the discourses to which she listened so patiently. She would confess this to you at luncheon, and then start for the same church in the afternoon, with an edifying but rather comic expression of resignation. I am sure she would not deliberately have vexed the smallest child; and yet the number of athletic men who ascribed the loss of their peace of mind to her, was, as the Yankees have it, “a caution.” Some of the “regulars,” wary adventuresses of three seasons’ standing, had brought off several pretty good things by following her, and picking up the victims fluttering about helpless in their first despair, just as the keepers after a battue go round the covers with the retrievers.

If there were any more antitheses in her character, they had better speak for themselves hereafter; nor is there much that need be told about her companions.

Mrs. Danvers, or “Bessie,” as she liked to be called, had been Cecil’s last governess, and was retired on full-pay, which, she flattered herself, she earned in the capacity of traveling chaperone and censor; but, inasmuch as when she really held some tutelar authority, her pupil had never taken the slightest notice of her prohibitions, she could hardly be expected now to exercise any very salutary influence or control.

Dick Tresilyan was absurdly proud and fond of his sister, and performed all her behests with a blind obedience; but when he heard that he was to attend her during a whole winter’s residence abroad, he did think that it was stretching her prerogative to the verge of tyranny. No wonder. A dragoon who has lost his horse, a goose on a turnpike-road, or any other popular type of helplessness, does not present so lamentable a picture as a Briton in a foreign land, without resources in himself, and with a rooted aversion to the use of any language except his12own. In this case, the victim actually attempted some feeble remonstrance and argument on the subject. Cecil was almost as much astonished as the Prophet was under similar circumstances; but she considered that habits of discussion in beasts of burden and the lower order of animals generally were inconvenient, and rather to be discouraged; so she cut it short, now, somewhat imperiously. Thereupon, Dick Tresilyan slid into a slough of despond, in which he had been wallowing ever since. A faint gleam of sunshine broke in when one of his intimates, hearing he was going to France, suggested “that’s where the brandy comes from;” but it was instantly overclouded by the remark which followed. “I suppose, though, you won’t be able to drink much more of it than you do here:” on realizing which crushing fact, his melancholy became, if possible, more profound than ever. Indeed, since he crossed the Channel, he had spent most of his leisure moments in a sort of chronic blasphemy, which, it is to be hoped, afforded him some slight relief and consolation, as it was wholly unintelligible to his audience; for, to do Dick justice, in his sister’s presence the door of his lips was always strictly guarded.

However, to Dorade they came—hours after their time, of course, but perfectly safe: no accident ever does happen in France to any thing properly booked, except to luggage sent byroulage, to which there attaches the romantic uncertainty of Vanderdecken’s correspondence. Cecil rather liked traveling; it never tired her; so, by midnight she had seen Mrs. Danvers, weary and querulous, to bed—gone through a variety of gymnastics in the way ofaccolades, with Fanny Molyneux—taken some trouble in inquiring about shooting and other amusements likely to divert her brother from his sorrows—and yet did not feel very sleepy.

They ignore shutters in these climes; and her reflection was still flitting backward and forward across the white window-blinds as Royston Keene came home from the Cercle. He knew the room, or guessed who the shadow belonged to; and as he moved away, after pausing a minute or two, he waved his hand toward it, with a gesture so unwarrantably like a salute that, weresilhouettessensitive or prudish, it might have proved an offense not easily forgiven.

Chapter division

Thenext morning was so soft and sunny that it tempted Miss Tresilyan out on the terrace of their hotel very soon after breakfast. She was waiting for her brother on the top of the steps leading down into the road, when Major Keene passed by again. If he had never heard of her before, the smooth sweeping outline of her magnificent form, and the careless grace of her attitude, as she stood leaning against the stone balustrade, were not likely to escape an eye that was wont to light on every point of feminine perfection, as a poacher’s does on a sitting hare. But he never got so far as her face then; and hardly had time to criticise her figure; for at that moment a brisk gust of themistralswept round the corner, and revealed a foot and ankle so marvelously exquisite, that they attracted his eyes, as long as he dared to fix them without risking a stare; and kept his thoughts busy till he saw her again. “Caramba!” he muttered, half aloud. “I don’t wonder at any one who has seenthatnot looking at a nautch-girl afterward.” And he quickened his pace toward Mr. Molyneux’s house. He met them before he reached their door.

“I am going to Miss Tresilyan,” Fanny said. “Isn’t it lucky, her first morning here being such a delicious one?”

“Ah! I thought that was your point,” answered Keene. “There must be a tremendous amount of ‘gushing’ to be got through still: the accumulation of—how many months? I suppose you only took the rough edge off last night. Don’t hurt her, please, that’s all. And, Hal, you were actually going to preside over the meeting of two young hearts, and gloat over their emotions, and spoil their innocent amusements? I wonder at you. Means well, Mrs. Molyneux; but he’ssothoughtless.”

Fanny laughed. “I think I could do without him. But we mean to walk this afternoon, and he may come then; and you too, Major Keene, if you are good.”

“I’ll enter into all sorts of recognizances to keep the peace,” was the reply; “but I should have thought you might trust me by this time. It’s that excitable husband of yours that wants disciplining. I’ll give him some soda-water by way of a precaution. Then, when you have sacrificed to friendship sufficiently, you will lionize Miss Tresilyan? The Castle first, of course. Shall we meet you there at two?”

Harry did not quite see the thing in this light, and looked slightly disappointed; but he yielded the point, as he always did, and went away dutifully with his superior officer.

“Describe the brother,” the latter said, abruptly, when they had gone a few steps.

“Well, I believe he’s the most ignorant man in Great Britain,” answered Molyneux: “that’s hisspécialité. He never had much education; and he has been trying to forget that little, ‘hard all,’ ever since he was eighteen. You remember how our fellows used to laugh at me about my epistles? I could give him 21lb., and a beating any day. They say, two men have to stand over him whenever he tries to write a letter, for nooneis strong enough to keep him straight in his spelling and grammar. If he tries it on alone, he gets bewildered in the second sentence, and wanders up and down, knocking his head against particles and parts of speech, like the man in the Maze; and throws up the sponge at last, utterly beat. Helplessly devoted to his sister, but rather obstinate with other people, and apt to be sulky sometimes; but good-natured on the whole; and drinksveryfair.”

“Oh, he drinks fair, does he?” Royston said, meditatively. “Has that any thing to do with his brotherly affection? Every body who is fond of Miss Tresilyan seems to take to liquor. Annesley was pretty sober till he knew her. It’s rather odd. I don’t suppose she encourages them?”

“Certainly not; at least, I know she has tried to stint Dick in his brandy very often. It’s the only point she has never been able to carry.”

“A man must be firm about some one thing,”13the other remarked, “or there’s an end of free-agency altogether. He has no intellects to be affected by it apparently; and I dare say his health does not suffer much yet. It’s a question of constitution, after all.”

He dropped the subject then, and was very silent all the rest of the morning, till they came to the place of meeting. Somehow or another, it did not occur to him to mention to Harry what he had seen on the terrace.

They had not waited long before the three women came slowly up the zigzags of the path that wound round the Castle-hill. Dick Tresilyan had “got his pass signed” for the day, and had started off, with his courier, to make the lives of several natives a burden to them, on the subject ofbécassesandbécassines.

Cecil might have been known by her walk among ten thousand. She seemed to float along without any visible exertion, as if her dress were buoyant, and bore her up in some mysterious fashion; but, looking closer, and marking how straight and firmly and lightly every footfall was planted, you gave the narrow arched instep, and the slender rounded ankle, the credit they well deserved; marveling only that so delicate a symmetry could conceal so much sinewy power. Upon this occasion, she was evidently accommodating her pace to that of Mrs. Danvers; and no racing man could have seen the two, without thinking of one of the Flyers of the turf walking down by the side of the trainer’s pony.

Miss Tresilyan’s hat, of a soft black felt, shaded by a black cock’s feather, was decidedly in advance of her age: for that very provocative head-gear, with the many-coloredpanaches, had not then become so common; and even the Passionate Pilgrim might hope (with luck) to walk along a pier or a parade, without meeting a succession of Red Rovers—each capable of boarding him at a minute’s notice, and making all his affections walk the plank. Her tunic of iron-gray velvet, without fitting tightly to her figure, still did it fair justice; and, from the tie of her neck-ribbon, down to the wonderful boots that slid in and out from under the striped scarlet kirtle over which her dress was looped up, there was not the minutest detail that might not have challenged and baffled criticism.

Royston Keene appreciated all this thoroughly. No man alive held the stale old adage of “Beauty when unadorned,” etc., in profounder scorn. A pair of badly-fitting gloves, a soiledcollerette, or a tumbled dress, had cured more than one of the fever fits of his younger days; and he was ten times as fastidious now.

He drew a long, slow breath of intense enjoyment, as a thirsty cricketer may do after the first deep draught of claret-cup that rewards a two hours’ innings. “It’s very refreshing, after weeks of total abstinence, to see a woman who goes in for dress, and does it thoroughly well.” He had no time for more, for the others were almost within hearing.

When the introductions were over, Mrs. Danvers said she was tired, and must rest a little. Very few words will do justice to her personal appearance. Brevity, and breadth, and bluntness were her chief characteristics, which applied equally to her figure, her face, and her extremities, and, not unfrequently, to her speech too. Her health was really infirm, but she never could attain the object of many an invalid’s harmless ambition—looking interesting. Illness made her cheeks look pasty, but not pale; it could not fine down the coarsely moulded features, or purify their ignoble outline. Her voice was against her, certainly; perhaps this was the reason why, when she bemoaned herself, so many irreverent and hard-hearted reprobates called it “whining.” It was very unfortunate; for few could be found, even in the somewhat exacting class to which she belonged, more anxious and active in enlisting sympathy. She was looking especially ill-tempered just then, but Major Keene was not easily daunted, and he went in at her straight and gallantly—about the weather, it is needless to say, both being English. While Mrs. Danvers was disagreeing with him, Cecil took her turn at inspection. Royston’s name was familiar to her, of course, for no one ever talked to Mrs. Molyneux for ten minutes without hearing it. Though she had scarcely glanced at him in the morning, she had decided that the tall, erect figure and the enormous mustache, with itscrocs à la mousquetaire, could only belong to Fanny’s Household Word. It was very odd—she had not a shade of a reason for it—but neither hadshementioned that rencontre to her friend. Perhaps they had so many other things to talk about. She could scan him now more narrowly, for his face was turned away from her. The result was satisfactory: when Major Keene stood up on his feet, not even his habitual laziness could disguise the fair proportions and trained vigor of a stalwart man-at-arms; and be it known that Cecil’s eye, though not so professional as that of Good Queen Bess, loved to light upon such dearly.

“Harry,” Mrs. Molyneux observed, “Mr. Fullarton called while I was at theLion d’Orthis morning, and staid half an hour. He is so very anxious to get Cecil to lead the singing in church.”

“Yes; he has been, so to speak, throwing his hat up ever since he heard you were coming, Miss Tresilyan,” was the reply. “I suppose he calculated on your vocal talents; there’s the nuisance of having an European reputation, you are always expected to do something for somebody’s benefit. I hope you’ll indulge him, in charity to us. You have no idea what it has been. Two Sundays ago, for instance, a Mr. Rolleston and his wife volunteered to give us a lead. He didn’t look like a racing man; and yet he must have been. I never saw any thing more artistically done. He went off at score, and made the pace so strong that he cut them all down in the first two verses; and then the wife, who had waited very patiently, came and won as she liked—nothing else near her.”

Cecil thought the illustration rather irreverent, and did not smile. Keene saw this as he turned round.

“The turf slang has got into your constitution, I think, since you won that Garrison Cup. It’s very wrong of you not to cure yourself, when you know how it annoys Mrs. Molyneux. He is right, though, Miss Tresilyan; it is a case of real distress: our vocal destitution is pitiable; so, if you have any benevolence to spare, do bestow it upon us, and your petitioners will ever pray, etc.”

Now it so happened that Fanny valued that same14cup above all her earthly possessions, as a mark of her husband’s prowess. No testimonial ever gave so much satisfaction to a popular rector’s wife as that little ugly mug afforded her, albeit it was the very wooden-spoon of racing plate. So she first smiled consolingly at the culprit, who was already contrite, and then looked up at the last speaker with amusement and wonder glittering in her pretty brown eyes. She did not see what interest the subject could have for Keene, who had only darkened the chapel doors once since they came. Mr. Fullarton, indeed, was supposed to have alluded to him several times—his discourses were apt to take a personal and individualizing turn—but he had never had the satisfaction of a “shot in the open” at that stout-hearted sinner.

Royston caughtla mignonne’sglance, and understood it perfectly, but not a line of his face moved. He was waiting for Cecil’s reply very anxiously: he had not heard her speak yet.

“Mr. Fullarton is rather rash,” she said, “for our acquaintance is slight, and I don’t think he ever heard me sing. But I shall do my best next Sunday. Every one ought to help in such a case as much as they can.”

“Yes, and you will do it so beautifully, dearest!” Cecil bit her lip, and colored angrily. Nothing annoyed her like Mrs. Danvers’ obtrusive partisanship and uncouth flattery.

The gleam of pleasure that shone out on Keene’s dark face for a moment, only Harry interpreted rightly. He had scarcely listened to the words, but he thought, “I knew I was right; I knew the voice would match the rest!” When they moved on again, he walked by Miss Tresilyan’s side, and “still their speech was song.”

His first remark was, “I hope you condescend to ballads sometimes? I confess to not deriving much pleasure from those elaborate performances where the voice tries dangerous feats of strength and agility: even at the Opera they make one rather uncomfortable. Some of the very scientific pieces suggest ideas of homicide or suicide, as the case may be, according to my temper at the moment. Of course, I know less than nothing about music; but I don’t think this quite accounts for it. I really believe that unsophisticated human nature revolts at thebravura.”

It was rare good fortune, so early in their acquaintance, to tempt forth the brilliant smile that always betrayed when Cecil was well pleased.

“Mrs. Molyneux has told you what my tastes are?” she said. “I have never triedbravurassince I left off masters, and even then I only attempted them under protest. But there are some quiet songs I like so much that I sing them to myself when I am out of spirits, and it does me good. Don’t you like the old-fashioned ones best? I fancy, in those days, people felt more what they wrote, and did not consider only how the words would suit the composer.”

“Probably,” Keene replied. “If Charles Edward was of no other use, some good strong lines were written about him. I do not think he lived in vain. There are no partisans now. The only songs of the sort that I ever saw with anyvervein them were some seditious Irish ones: rather spirited—only they had not grammar enough to ballast them. The writer either was, or wanted to be, transported. We areallvery fond of the Guelphs—at least every body in decent society is—and that is just the reason why we are not enthusiastic. We are all ready to ‘die for the throne,’ etc., but we don’t see any immediate probability of our devotion being tested. So the laureate only rhymes loyally, and he at stated seasons, and in a temperate, professional style.”

“Please don’t laugh at Tennyson,” she interrupted; “I suppose it is very easy to do so, for so many people try it; but I never listen to them if I can help it.”

“A premature warning,” was the grave reply; “I had no such idea. I admire Tennyson fully as much as you can do, and read him, I dare say, much oftener. I was only speaking of his performances in themanège; indeed, there is not enough of these to make a fair illustration, so I was wrong to bring them in. When he settles to hisstride,few of the ‘cracks’ of last century seem able to live with him. They have not set all his best things to music. A clever composer might do great things, I fancy, with ‘The Sisters,’ and therefrainof ‘the wind in turret and tree.’”

“It would never be a very general favorite,” Miss Tresilyan observed. “It seems hardly right to set to music even an imaginary story of great sin and sorrow. I saw a sketch of it some time ago. The murderess was sitting on a cushion close to the earl’s body, with her head bent so low that one of her black tresses almost touched his smooth golden curls; you could just see the hilt of the dagger under her left hand. That, and the corpse’s quiet, pale face were the only two objects that stood out in relief; for the storm outside was stirring the window-curtains, and making the one lamp flare irregularly. Her features were in the shadow, and you had to fancy how hard, and rigid, and dreary they must be. It was the merest sketch, but if it had been worked out, it would have made a very terrible picture.”

“A good conception,” Royston said; “well, perhaps it would not be a pleasant song to sing, but better, I should think, than some of those dreadful sentimental ones. They are not much worse than the Strephon and the Chloe class, in which our ancestors delighted; still, they are indefensible. If our Lauras find Petrarchs now, they are usually very beardless ones, and the green morocco cover, with its golden lock, covers their indiscretions. Those who write love ditties for the pianomustcelebrate a shadow who can’t be critical. Imagine any man insulting a real woman of average intellect with ‘Will you love me then as now!’”

“Yes,” she assented, “they are too absurd as a rule. They make our cheeks burn, as if we were performing some very ridiculous part in low comedy; but they do not warm one’s heart, like ‘Annie Laurie.’”

“Ah! it’s curious how that always suggests itself as the standard to compare others with: not fair, though, for it makes most of them sound so feeble and effeminate. Douglas of Finland wrote it, you know, in the campaign which finished him. Long before that the charming Annie had given her promise true to Craigdarroch; and she had to keep it,tant bien que mal, for it was pronounced in the Tron Church, instead of on the braes of Maxwellton. I wonder if she15inscribed those verses in her scrap-book? I dare say she did, and sang them to her grandchildren, in a cracked treble.”

“I am so sorry you told me that,” Cecil exclaimed; “my romance was quite a different one, and not nearly so sad. I always fancied the man who wrote those lines must have ended so happily! One would despise her thoroughly if she could ever have forgiven herself, or forgotten him.”

Her eyes brightened, and her cheeks flushed as she spoke. The momentary excitement made her look so handsome that Keene’s glance could not withhold admiration; but there was no sympathy in it, any more than in his cold, quiet tones.

“No, don’t despise her,” he said. “She could scarcely be expected to wait for a corporal in the Scottish regiment. When the cavaliers sailed from home they knew they were leaving every thing but honor behind them; of course, their mistresses went with the other luxuries. They had not many of these in the brigade, if we can believe history. Fortunately for us (or we should have missed the song) Finland never knew of the ‘fresh fere’ who dried the bright blue eyes so soon. He would not have carried his pike so cheerily either, if his eyes had been good enough to see across the German Ocean. Well, perhaps the story isn’t true; very few melodramatic legends are.”

“I shall try not to believe it; but I am afraid you have destroyed an illusion.”

“You don’t say so?” was the reply. “I regret it extremely. If I had but known you carried such things about with you! Indeed, I will be more careful for the future. We are out-walking the main-guard, I see. Shall we wait for them here? It is a good point of view. One forgets that there are two invalids to be considered.”

Did Royston Keene speak thus purposely, on the principle of those practiced periodical writers, who always leave their hero in extreme peril, or their heroine on the verge of a moral precipice, in order to keep our curiosity tense till the next number? If not, chance favored him by producing the very effect he would have desired.

His companion’s fair cheek flashed again, and this time a little vexation had something to say to it. It was incontestably correct to wait for the rest of the party, but she would have preferred originating the suggestion. Besides, the conversation had begun to interest her; and she liked being amused too well not to be sorry for its being cut short abruptly. She thought Major Keene talked epigrammatically; and the undercurrent of irony that ran through all he said was not so obtrusive as to seriously offend her.

It was no light ordeal he had just passed through. First impressions are not made on women of Cecil Tresilyan’s class so easily as they are upon guilelessdébutantes; but they are far more important and lasting. It is useless attempting to pass off counterfeit coin on those expert money-changers; but they value the pure gold all the more when it rings sharp and true. It is always so with those who have once been Queens of Beauty. A certain imperial dignity attaches to them long after they have ceased to reign: over the brows that have worn worthily the diadem there still hangs the phantasm of a shadowy crown. There need be nothing of repellent haughtiness, or, what is worse, of evident condescension; but, though they are perfectly gentle and good-natured, we risk our little sallies and sarcasms with timidity, or at least diffidence; feeling especially that a commonplace compliment would be an inexcusable profanation. Our sword may be ready and keen enough against others, but beforethemwe lower its point, as the robber did to Queen Margaret in the lonely wood. We are conscious of treading on ground where stronger, and wiser, and better men have knelt before us; and own that the altar on which things so rare and precious have been laid has a right to be fastidious as to the quality of incense.

Not the less did such glory of past royalty surround the Tresilyan because she had abdicated, and never been dethroned.

Chapter division

Thereis something singularly refreshing in the enthusiasm that one pretty and fascinating woman will display when speaking of another highly gifted as herself—perhaps even more so. It seems to me there is more honesty here, and less stage-trick and conventionality, than is to be found in most manifestations of sentiment that take place in polite society. A perfectly plain and unattractive female may, of course, be sincerely attached to her beautiful friend, but her partisanship must be somewhat theoretical; it has not theesprit de corpswhich characterizes the other class. These last can count victories enough of their own to be able to sympathize heartily with the triumphs of their fellows without envying or grudging them one. What does it matter if Rose has slain her thousands and Lilian her tens of thousands? It is always “so much scored up to our side.”

Would you like to assist, invisibly, at one of those two-handed “free-and-easies,” where notes are compared and confidences exchanged, where the fair warriors “shoulder theirfans, and show how fields were won?” Perhaps our vanity would suffer though our curiosity were gratified. The proverb about listeners has come in since the time of Gyges, it is true; but his luck was exceptional, and would not often follow his Ring. Campaspeen déshabilleis not invariably kind. It is a popular superstition that men are apt, at certain seasons, to speak rather lightly, if not superciliously, of the beings whom they ought to delight to honor. If so, be sure the medal has its reverse. When you secured that gardenia from Amy’s bouquet, or that ribbon from Helen’s glove trimming, you went home with a placid sense of self-gratulation, flattering yourself you had done it rather diplomatically, without compromising your boasted freedom by word or sign. Perhaps, two hours later, you figured conspicuously in a train of shadowy captives adorning the conqueror’s ideal ovation. A change of color of which you were unconscious, a tremulous pressure of fingers that you risked involuntarily—a sentence that was meant to be careless and indifferent, but ended by being earnest and imploring—all these were commented upon in the16select committee, and estimated at their proper value.

Very keen-sighted are those soft almond eyes ambushed behind their trailing lashes, and from them the sternest stoic may not long conceal his wound. The Knight of Persia never groaned, or shrank, or drooped his crest when the quarrel struck him; but Amala needed only to look down to see his blood red upon the waters of the ford. Some penalty must attach itself to unauthorized intruders, even in thought, upon theCerealia. I don’t wish to be disagreeable, or to suggest unpleasant misgivings to the masculine mind, but—do you think we are always compassionated as much as we deserve? I own to a horrible suspicion that our betrayals of weakness form matter of exultation, and that our tenderest emotions are not unfrequently derided.

Clearly this delightful sympathy can only exist where fancies, and ambitions, and interests do not clash. They seldom need do so: there is room enough for all. So much disposable devotion is abroad in this world, that no one woman can monopolize it. It is a tolerably fair handicap, on the whole; and even the second horse may land a very satisfactory stake. Never was night when the moon shone so dazzlingly as to blind us to the brilliancy of “a star or two beside.” Bothwell, and Châtelet, and Rizzio were not the only love-stricken ones in Holyrood. Had the Queen of Scots been thrice as charming, glances, and sighs, and words enough would still have been found to satisfy the most exacting of her Maries.

Fanny Molyneux was a capital specimen of the thorough-paced partisan. She was terribly indignant at dinner on that first day of their meeting, when Major Keene would not endorseallher raptures about her favorite. He assented to every thing, certainly; but though his approbation was decided it was perfectly calm. He intrenched himself behind his natural and acquiredsang-froid, and the fair assailant could not force those lines.

“Don’t be unreasonable,” Royston said at last. “As Macdonough always says when he has lost the first two rubbers, ‘the night is young and drink is plenty.’ Admiration will develop itself if you only give it time. I have serious thoughts already of adding another to the many little poems that must have been written about Miss Tresilyan. Shall I send it to the ‘United Service Gazette?’ It would be a great credit to our branch of the profession. No dragoon has published a rhyme since Lovelace, I believe. I’ve got as far as the first line:

Ah, Cecil! hide those eyes of blue.”

Ah, Cecil! hide those eyes of blue.”

“I think I’ve heard something very like that before,” Fanny answered, laughing. “She deserves a prettier compliment than aréchauffé.”

“Have you heard it before? Well, I shouldn’t wonder. You don’t expect one to be original and enthusiastic at the same moment, when both are out of one’s line? I own it, though. Your princess merits all the vassalage she has found—better than she will meet with here—if only for the perfection of her costume. Thatisa triumph. Honor to the artist who built her hat. I drink to him now, and I wish the Burgundy were worthier of the toast. (Hal, this Corton does not improve.) I should advise you to secure the address of herbottier. You know her well enough to ask for it, perhaps? It must be a secret.”

“Then you have not found out how very clever she is?”

“Pardon me,” was the reply; “I can imagine Miss Tresilyan perfectly well educated; so well, that she might dispense with carrying about a living voucher in the shape of that dreadfulex-institutrice. I never knew what makes very nice women cling so to very disagreeable governesses. Perhaps there is a satisfaction in patronizing where you have been ruled, and in conferring favors where you have only received ‘impositions’—a pleasant consciousness of returning good for evil. There is no other rational way of accounting for it.”

La mignonnewas not indignant now, as might have been expected; but she gazed at the speaker long and more searchingly than was her wont, with something very like pity in her kind, earnest eyes.

“I suppose you would not sneer so at every thing if you could help it,” she said. “I am not wise enough to do so; but I don’t envy you.”

Royston’s hard cold face changed for an instant, and the faintest flush lingered there, about as long as your breath would upon polished steel. It was not the first time that one of her random shafts had struck him home. All the sarcasm had died out of his voice as he answered slowly—

“Don’t you envy me? You are right there. And you think you are not wise enough to be cynical? If there was any school to teach us how to turn our talents to the best account, I know which of us two would have most to learn.” When he spoke again it was in his usual manner, but upon another and perfectly indifferent subject.

Harry had taken no part in the discussion. Always languid, toward night he generally felt especially disinclined to any bodily or mental exertion. At such times there was nothing he liked so well as to lie on his sofa and assist at a passage-of-arms between his wife and Keene, encouraging either party occasionally with an approving smile, but preserving a cautious and complete neutrality. On the present occasion he had his own reasons for not being disappointed about the latter’s appreciation of Miss Tresilyan. Had he felt any such misgivings, they would have vanished later in the evening.

The doctor was a stern man; but he must have been more than human to have stood fast against the entreaties and cajolement with which his patient backed up the petition, “to be allowed just one cigar before going to roost.” The prospect of this compensating weed had supported poor Harry through the dullness and privations of many monotonous days. As the appointed time drew nigh, he would freshen up visibly, just like the camels when, staggering fetlock deep through the sand-wastes, they scent the water or sight the clump of palms. Was there more in all this than could be traced to the mere soothing influence of the nicotine and flavor of the tobacco? Might not this one old habit still indulged have been the only link that sensibly connected the invalid with those pleasant days, when he enjoyed life so heartily, with so many cheery comrades to keep him in countenance—when he would have laughed at the idea of any thing short of a sabre-cut, a shot-wound,17or a rattling fall over an “oxer,” bringing him down to that state of helpless dependence, when our conception of womankind resolves itself into the ministering angel? Harry certainly could not have told you if this were so; for an inquiry into the precise nature of his sensations would have posed him at any time quite as completely as a question in hydrostatics or plane trigonometry. At any rate, the consumption of The Cigar was a very important ceremony with him; not conducted in the thoughtless and improvident spirit of men who smoke a dozen or so a day, but partaking rather of the character of a sacrifice, at once festal and solemn. There were times, as we have said before, when he would break out of bounds recklessly; but upon such occasions he gave himself no time to reflect; so there was nothing then of calm and deliberate enjoyment; and these escapades grew more and more rare as the warnings of his constitution spoke more imperiously.

Among the very few traits of amiability that Major Keene had ever displayed, were the sacrifices of personal convenience he would make for Harry Molyneux. He had given up a good many engagements to see his comrade through that especial hour; and, if the day had left any available geniality in him, it was sure to come out then. Upon this occasion, however, he was remarkably silent, and answered several times at random as if his thoughts were roving elsewhere: they were not unpleasant ones, apparently, for he smiled twice or thrice to himself, much less icily than usual. At last he spoke abruptly, after a long pause—Miss Tresilyan’s name had not once been mentioned—“Hal, you know that old hackneyed phrase, about ‘a woman to die for?’ I think we have seen one to-day who is worth living for; which is saying a good deal more.”

“You like her, then?” Molyneux asked.

“Yes—I—like—her.” The words came out as if each one had been weighed to a grain; and his lip put on that curious smile once more.

Harry did not feel quite satisfied. He would have preferred hearing more, and inferring less; but acting upon his invariable rose-colored principle, he would not admit any disagreeable surmises, and went to bed under the impression that “it was all right,” and that Royston was in a fair way toward being repaid for the sacrifices he had made to friendship.

Chapter division

TheSaturday night is waning, but Molyneux shows no signs of moving yet from Keene’s apartments. He has been a model of prudence though so far, as to his drinks, and, in good truth, their companion is not amusing, or instructive, or convivial enough, to tempt or to excuse transgression.

Dick Tresilyan looks about twenty-five, strongly and somewhat heavily built; rather over the middle height, even with the decided stoop of his broad, round shoulders. He carries far too much flesh to please a professional eye, and by the time he is fifty will be very unwieldy; but there is more activity in him than might be supposed, and he walks strongly and well, as you would find if you tried to keep pace with him through the turnips on a sultry September day. His face, without a pretension to beauty in itself, suggests it—just the face that makes you say, “that man must have a handsome sister;” indeed, it bears an absurdly strong family likeness to Cecil’s, amounting to a parody. But the outline of feature which in her is so fine and clear, is dull and filled out even to coarseness. It reminded one of looking at the same landscape, first through the medium of a bright blue sky, and then through driving mist, when crag, and cliff, and wood still show themselves, but blurred and dimly. His hair and eyes are, by several shades, the lighter of the two. The great difference is in the mouth. Cecil’s is so delicately chiseled, so apt at all expressions, from tender to provocative, that many consider it one of her best points; her brother’s is so weak and undecided in its character (or rather want of character), that it would make a more intellectual face vacuous and inane.

The “Tresilyan constitution” holds its own gallantly against the inroads of hardish living, and Dick looks the picture of rude health. Men endowed with an invincible obtuseness of intellect and feeling, have no mental wear and tear, and if the machine starts in good order, it seems as if it might last out indefinitely; so it would, I dare say, if it were not for a propensity to drink, and otherwise to abuse their bodily advantages, peculiar to this class. But for this neutralizing element in their composition perhaps they would live as long as crows or elephants, and we should be visited by a succession of stupid Old Parrs; which would be a very dreadful dispensation indeed. The present subject takes a good deal of exercise, to be sure, and naturally, few cares have ever troubled him; he has always had more money than he knew what to do with, and—as for serious annoyances, a certain train of thought is necessary to form them, while our poor Dick’s brain is utterly incapable of holding more than one idea at a time. Whatever may happen to be the dominant thought, reigns with an undivided empire, and will not endure a rival even near its throne, till it is violently thrust out and annihilated by its successor, on the principle of

The priest that slays the slayer,And shall himself be slain.

The priest that slays the slayer,

And shall himself be slain.

He never originates a conception, of course, but is always open to a fair offer in the way of a suggestion from any body, and adopts it with the blind zeal of a proselyte. It follows that chance occurrences may bother him for the moment, but he is saved an infinity of trouble by being independent of foresight and memory. To this last defect there is one exception. If he is crossed, or vexed, or injured, he cherishes against the offender a dull, misty, purposeless sort of resentment, scarcely amounting to animosity, but can not explain, either to you or to himself,whyhe does so. Fortunately he is tolerably harmless and unsuspicious, for to reconcile him would be simply impossible.

Not onemésalliancecould be detected in the main line of the Tresilyans; but there must have been a blot somewhere, a link of base metal in the golden chain, of which an adulteress and her confessor could have told. Perhaps the son of the transgressor bore no stigma on his forehead, and ruffled it among his peers as bravely as the18best of them, never witting of his mother’s dishonor; but the stain had come out in this generation. Even the faults and vices of that strong, stubborn race were curiously distorted and caricatured in their representative. His pride, for instance, chiefly displayed itself in a taste for low company, where he could safely lord it over his inferiors. He did this whenever he had a chance, but, to do him justice, by no means in an ill-natured or bullying way. He had resided almost entirely on his own estates; and, during his rare visits to London, had not extended his knowledge of the world beyond the experience that may be picked up by frequenting divers equivocal places of public resort, and from occasional forays on the extreme frontier of thedemi-monde. The result was, that in general society he felt himself in a false position, and was evidently anxious to escape into a more congenial atmosphere.

Can you guess why I have lingered so long over a portrait that might well have been dispatched in three lines? It is because, in the eyes of those who knew Cecil Tresilyan, some interest must attach itself to the basest thing that bears her name; it is because there are men alive who think that the broidery of her skirt, or the trimming of her mantle, deserve describing better than the shield of Pelides; who hold that one of her dark chestnut tresses is worthier of a place among the stars than imperial Berenicè’s hair. A lame excuse, I admit, to the many that never saw her—even in their dreams.

On this particular evening Dick was supremely happy. Keene had got him upon shooting—the only subject on which that unlucky man could talk without committing himself; and, by the time he was well into his fourth tumbler of iced Cogniac and water, he was achieving a rare conversational triumph; for he had left off answering monosyllabically, had volunteered an observation or two, and even ventured to banter his companions about their not availing themselves sufficiently of the sporting resources in the neighborhood.

“There are several boars near here,” he was saying; “they shoot them sometimes, and you can go if you manage properly. I wonder you men never found that out.”

“Ah! theydidtalk a good deal about pigs,” Royston remarked indifferently. “But, you see, we used to stick them in the Deccan. The first time I heard of their way of doing it here, I felt very like Deering when they asked him to shoot a fox in Scotland. Tom Deering, you know, the old boy that has hunted with the Warwickshire and Atherstone for thirty seasons, and could tell you the names, ages, and colors of the hounds better than he could those of his own small family—pedigrees, too, I shouldn’t wonder.”

Dick tried to look as if he had known the man from his childhood, and succeeded but very moderately.

“Well,” the other went on, “they were beating a cover for roe, and the gillie suggested a particular pass, as the most likely to get a shot at what he called a ‘tod.’ It was some time before Tom realized the full horror of the proposition: when he did, he shut his eyes like a bull that is going to charge, and literallyfellupon the duinhe-wassel, bellowing savagely. He had no more idea of using his hands than a fractious baby; but it is rather a serious thing when sixteen stone of solid flesh becomes possessed by a devil. Robin Oig was overborne by the onset, and did not forget the effects of it that season.”

Tresilyan laughed applaudingly, as he always did when he could understand more than half a story.

“I suppose it’s pretty good fun hunting them out there?” he said, going off at score, as usual, on the fresh theme.

“Not bad,” Keene replied; “sharp going while it lasts, and a little knack wanted to stick them scientifically. Some say it’s more exciting than fox-hunting, but that’s childish; I never heard a man assert it whose liver was not on the wane. It’s more dangerous, certainly. A header into the Smite or the Whissendine is nothing to a fall backward into a nullah, with a beaten horse on the top of you.”

Molyneux woke up from a reverie. The familiar word stirred his blood like a trumpet, and it flashed up brightly in his pale cheek as he spoke. “Ah! we have had a brushing gallop or two in the gay old times, before we got married, and invalided, and all that sort of thing. Dick, I should like to tell you how I got my first spear.”

“Of course you would,” the major said, resignedly; “it’s my fault for starting the subject. Get over it quickly then, please.” He did not stop him, though, as he would have done on another occasion—pour cause.

“I had been entered some time at boar,” Harry began, “before I had any luck at all. Ride as hard as I would at the start, the old handswouldcreep up at the finish, just in time to get ‘first blood.’ I gave long prices for my Arabs, too, and didn’t spare them. I own I got discouraged, and thought the whole thing a robbery, a delusion, and a snare. One day, however, we had a good deal of deep, marshy ground at first, and a quick gallop afterward, which served my light weight well. I had it all to myself when he came to bay; so I went in, full of confidence, and gave point, as I thought, well behind the shoulder-blade. I did not calculate on the pace we were going, and I was just three inches too forward. My horse was as young and hot as I was, and though he had no idea of flinching, didn’t know how to take care of himself. The instant the brute felt the steel he wheeled short round, and cut The Emperor’s forelegs clean from under him. We all came down in a heap; my spear flew yards away; and there I was on my face, clear of my horse, with my right wrist badly sprained. Would you have fancied the position?Ididn’t. The devil was too blown to begin offensive operations at once, for we had burst him along pretty sharply, but he stood right over me, champing and rasping his tusks, and getting his wind for a good vicious rip. I felt his boiling foam dropping upon me as I lay quite still. I thought that was the best thing to do. All at once hoofs came up at a hard gallop; something swept above me with a rush; there was a short, smothered sound like a tap on a padded door, and then the beast stretched himself slowly out across my legs, and shivered, and died. That man opposite to you had leapt his horse over us both, and, while he was in the19air, speared the boar through the spinal marrow. If he had been struck any where else he might still have torn me badly before the life was out of him. Neatly done, wasn’t it?”

Harry drank off the remains of his sherry and seltzer rather excitedly, and then sighed. He was thinking how often, in other days, when health and nerves were to the fore, he had drained a stronger and deeper draught to “Snaffle, spur, and spear!”

“A mere stage trick,” Keene remarked; “effective, but not in the least dangerous, with a horse under you as steady as poor old Mahmoud. May his rest be glorious! Gilbert killed a tiger that had got loose in the same way, whichwassomething to talk about, for even clean-bred Arabs don’t like facing tigers. You made rather better time than usual over that story to-night, Hal; it’s practice, I suppose.”

Tresilyan’s eyes fastened on the speaker, full of a heavy, pertinacious admiration. You might have told him of the noblest action of generosity or self-denial that ever constituted the stock in trade of a moral hero, and he would have listened patiently, but without one responsive emotion. Bodily prowess and daring he could appreciate. Keene’s physicalprestigewas just the thing to captivate his limited imagination; besides which the ground was prepared for the seed-time. He had some soldier friends, and dining with these at the “Swashing Buckler,” he had heard some of those club chronicles in which the Cool Captain’s name figured prominently.

The latter interpreted perfectly well the gaze that was riveted upon him, without being in the least flattered by it. He felt, perhaps, the same sort of satisfaction that one experiences when, fighting for the odd trick, the first card in our hand is a heavy trump. Dick’s thorough and undivided allegiance once secured, was a good card in the game he was playing at the moment. Whatever his thoughts might have been, his face told no tales. He had been flooring glass for glass with his guest till the liquor began to work its way into the cracks even of such a seasoned vessel; but, for any outward or visible sign in feature, speech, or manner, he might have been assisting at a teetotaller’ssoirée.

Very often—late on guest-nights, or other tournaments of deep drinking, where Trojan and Tyrian met to do battle for the credit of their respective corps—the calm, rigid face, never flushing beyond a clear swarthy brown, and the cold, bright, inevitable eyes, had stricken terror into the hearts of bacchanalian Heavies, and given consolation, if not confidence, to the Hussars, who were failing fast: these knew that though their own brains might be reeling and their legs rebelliously independent, their single champion was invincible. As the last of the Enōmotæ went down, he saw Othryades standing steadfastly, with never a trace of wound or weakness, still able and willing to write ΝΙΚΗ on his shield.

When our poor Dick was once thoroughly impressed, for the first time, with awe or admiration, either for man or woman, he generally fell into a species of trance, from which it was exceedingly difficult to bring him round. He would have sat there, staring stupidly, till morning, with perfect satisfaction to himself, if Molyneux had not attacked him with a direct question, “How long do you think of staying at Dorade? And have you made any plans afterward?”

Le mouton qui rêvaitroused himself with an effort, and searched the bottom of his empty glass narrowly for a reply. Eventually he succeeded in finding one:

“Cecil talks about two months; then we are to go on by Nice, Genoa, Florence, Rome, and Naples, and so come back by—Italy.” He had got up the first names by rote, and run them off glibly enough, but was evidently at fault about the last one. I fancy he had some vague idea of Austrian troops being quartered in these regions, and looked upon Hesperia in the light of an obscure state or moderate-sized town somewhere in the north of Europe.

Harry was balked in his inclination to laugh; the rising smile was checked upon his lip, just in time, by a glance from his chief, severely authoritative.

“Italy?” the latter said, without a muscle moving; “well, I shouldn’t advise you to stay long there. It’s rather a small place, and very stupid; no society whatever. The others will amuse you, as you have never seen them.”

He rose as he spoke the last words. Perhaps he thought he had done that night “enough for profit and more than enough for glory.” The Cool Captain seldom suffered himself to be bored without an adequate object very clearly in view.

“Hal, I am going to turn you out. It is far too late for you to be sitting up, and we have a good deal to do to-morrow.”

Molyneux did not quite comprehend what extraordinary labors were before any of them, but he rose without making an objection, and Tresilyan prepared to accompany him. Dick considered that individually he had been remarkably brilliant, and had left a favorable impression behind him. But all this newly-acquired confidence, and much strong drink were not sufficient to embolden him to risk, as yet, atête-à-têtewith Royston Keene.

Long after they had departed the major sat gazing steadfastly at the logs burning on the hearth. If he had gone straight to bed, the enormous dullness of one of the party would have weighed him down like a nightmare.

Is there one of us who can not remember having seen prettier pictures in a flame-colored setting than the Royal Academy has ever shown him? What earthly painter could emulate or imitate the coquettish caprice of light and shadow, that enhances the charms, and dissembles all possible defects in those fair, fleeting Fiamminas? Something like this effect was to be found in the miniatures that were in fashion a dozen years ago; where part only of a sweet face and a dangerously eloquent eye looked at you out of a wreath of dusky cloud, that shrouded all the rest and gave your imagination play. Truly it was not so utterly wrong, the ancient legend that wedded Hephæstus to Aphroditè. The Minnesingers and their coevals spoke fairly enough about Love, and probably had studied their subject; but, rely upon it, passionate Romance died in Germany when once the close stoves prevailed. Don’t you envy the imagination of the dreamer who could trace a shape of loveliness in those dreadful glazed tiles?

Being rather aGuebremyself, I once got20enthusiastic on the subject in the company of an eccentric character, who very soon made me repent my expansiveness. If he had committed any atrocious crime (he was a small sandy-haired creature, and wore colored spectacles), no one knew of it, and he never hinted at its nature; but his whole ideas seemed tinged with a vague gloomy remorse that made him a sadder, but scarcely a wiser or better man. Perhaps it was a monomania; let us hope so. On that occasion he heard me out quite patiently; then the blue glasses raised themselves to the level of my eyes, and I felt convinced their owner was staring spectrally behind them. Considering that he measured about thirty-four inches round the chest, his voice was extraordinarily deep and solemn: it sounded preternaturally so as he said very slowly, “There is one face that does not often leave me alone here, and will follow me, I think, when I go to my appointed place: I see it now, as I shall see it throughout all ages—alwaysby firelight.”

I felt very wroth, for surely to suggest a new and unpleasant train of ideas is an infamous abuse of atête-à-tête. I told my friend so; and, as he declined to retract or apologize, or in any wise explain himself, departed with the conviction that, though a clever man and an original thinker, he was by no means an exhilarating or instructive companion. I should have borne him a grudge to this day, but as I was walking home, decidedly disconsolate (there’s no such bore as having a pet fancy spoiled, it is like having your favorite hunter sent home with two broken knees), it suddenly occurred to me that if the penitent was in the habit of looking at the fire through those blue barnacles, it was not likely there would be much rose-color in his visions. In great triumph I retraced my steps, and knocked the culprit up to put in this “demurrer.” I flatter myself it floored him. He did attempt some lame excuse about “taking his spectacles off at such times,” but I refused to listen to a word, and marched out of the place with drums beating and colors flying, first exasperating him by the assurance of my complete forgiveness. Since then, if sitting alone,ligna super foco largè reponens, I involuntarily recur to that ill-favored conception, it suffices to contrast with it the grotesque appearance of its originator, and the pale phantom evanisheth.

I have no excuse to offer for this long and egotistical anecdote, except the pendant which Maloney used to attach to his ultra-marinestories—“The point of it is, that—it’s strictly true.”

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