‘Amundeville may be lord by day,But the monk is lord by night;Nor wine nor wassail would stir a vassalTo question that friar’s right.’”He went away then without another word beyond the ordinary adieu. Royston had a way of repeating poetry peculiar to himself—rather monotonous, perhaps, but effective from the depth and volume of his voice. You gained in rhythm what you lost in rhyme. The sound seemed to linger in their ears after he had closed the door.As the echo of the firm, strong footstep died away, a virtuous indignation possessed the broad visage of the divine.“It is like Major Keene,” said he, “to select as his text-book the most godless work of the satanic school; but I should have thought that even he would have paused before venturing, in this presence, on a quotation fromDon Juan.”At that awful word Mrs. Danvers gave a little shriek as if “a bee had stung her newly.” Had she been a Catholic she would have crossed herself an indefinite number of times: will you be good enough to imagine her protracted look of holy horror? Cecil’s eyes were glittering with scornful humor as she answered, very demurely, “What an advantage it is to be a large, general reader! It enables one to impart so much information. Now Bessie and I should never have guessed where those lines came from if you had not enlightened us. They seemed harmless enough in themselves, and Major Keene was considerate enough to leave us in our ignorance. So Byron comes within the scope of your studies, Mr. Fullarton. I thought you seldom indulged in such secular authors?” The chaplain was quite right in making his reply inaudible: it would have been difficult to find a perfectly satisfactory one. However, the hour was late enough to excuse his beginning the reading without farther delay. It was not a success. There was a stoppage somewhere in the current of his mellifluous eloquence; and the exposition was concluded so soon, and indeed abruptly, that Mrs. Danvers retired to rest with a feeling of disappointment and inanition, such as one may have experienced when, expecting a “sit-down” supper, we are obliged to content ourselves with a meagrely-furnishedbuffet. For some minutes after Mr. Fullarton had departed Miss Tresilyan sat silent, leaning her head upon her hand. At last she said, “Bessie, dear, you know I would not interfere with your comforts or your arrangements for the world; but, the next time you wish to have a repetition of this, would you be so very good as to tell me beforehand? I think I shall spend that evening with Fanny Molyneux. I do not quite like it, and I am sure it does me no real good.”She spoke so gently that Mrs. Danvers was going to attempt one of her querulous remonstrances, but she happened to look at the face of her patroness. It wore an expression not often seen there; but she was wise enough to interpret it aright, and to guess that she had gone far enough. It was ever a dangerous experiment to trifle with the Tresilyans when their brows were bent. So she launched into some of her affectionate platitudes and profuse excuses, and under cover of these retreated to her rest. It is a comfort to reflect that she slept very soundly, though she monopolized all the slumber that night that ought to have fallen to Cecil’s share.What did Royston Keene think of the events of the evening? As he went down the stairs I am afraid he cursed the chaplain once heartily, but on the whole he was not dissatisfied. At all events, the short walk down to the club completely restored hissang-froid, and the last trace of vexation vanished as he entered the card-room and saw the “light of battle” gleam on the haggard face of Armand de Châteaumesnil.Chapter divisionCHAPTER XI.Therewas in Dorade a stout and meritorious elderly widow, who formed a sort of connecting link between the natives and the settlers. English by birth, she had married a Frenchman of fair family and fortune, so that her habits and sympathies attached themselves about equally to the two countries. You do not often find so good a specimen of the hybrid. She gave frequent littlesoirées, which were as pleasant and exciting as such assemblages of heterogeneous elements usually are—that is to say, very moderately so. The two streams flowed on in the29same channel, without mingling or losing their characteristics. I fancy the fault was most on our side.We no longer, perhaps, parade Europe with “pride in our port, defiance in our eye;” but still, in our travels, we lose no opportunity of maintaining and asserting our well-beloved dignity, which, if rather a myth and vestige of the past, at home, abroad, is a very stern reality. Have you not seen, at a crowdedtable d’hôte, the British mother encompass her daughters with the double bulwark of herself and their staid governess on either flank, so as to avert the contamination which must otherwise have certainly ensued from the close proximity of a courteous white-bearded Graf, or afringantevicomtesse whose eyes outshone her diamonds? May it ever remain so! Each nation has its vanity and its own peculiar glory, as it has its especial produce. O cotton mills of Manchester! envy not nor emulate the velvet looms of Genoa or Lyons; you are ten times as useful, and a hundredfold more remunerating. What matters it if Damascus guard jealously the secret of her fragrant clouded steel, when Sheffield can turn out efficient sword-blades at the rate of a thousand per hour?Suum cuique tribuito.Let others aspire to be popular: be it ours to remain irreproachably and unapproachably respectable.So poor Mdme. de Verzenay’s efforts to promote anentente cordialewere lamentably foiled. When the English mustered strong, they would immediately form themselves into a hollow square, the weakest in the centre, and so defy the assaults of the enemy. Now and then a daring Gaul would attempt the adventure of the Enchanted Castle, determined, if not to deliver the imprisoned maidens, at least to enliven their solitude. See how gayly and gallantly he starts, glancing a saucy adieu to Adolphe and Eugène, who admire his audacity, but augur ill for its success.Allons, je me risque. Montjoie St. Denis! France à la rescousse!He winds, as it were, the bugle at the gate, with a well-turned compliment or a brilliant bit ofbadinage. Slowly the jealous valves unclose; he stands within the magic precinct—an eerie silence all around. Suppose that one of the Seven condescends to parley with him; she does so nervously and under protest, glancing ever over her shoulder, as if she expected the austere Fairy momentarily to appear; while her companions sit without winking or moving, cowering together like a covey of birds when the hawk is circling over the turnip-field. How can you expect a man to make himself agreeable under such appalling circumstances? The heart of the adventurer sinks within him. Lo! there is a rustling of robes near; what if Calyba or Urganda were at hand?Fuyons!And the knight-errant retreats, with drooping crest and smirched armor—a melancholy contrast to thepreux chevalierwho went forth but now chanting his war-song, conquering and to conquer. The remarks of the discomfited one, after such a failure, were, I fear, the reverse of complimentary; and the unpleasant wordbégueulefigured in them a great deal too often.Cecil and Fanny Molyneux were certainly exceptions to the rule of unsociability, but the general dullness of thoseréunionsinfected them, and made the atmosphere oppressive; it required a vast amount of leaven to make such a large, heavy lump light or palatable. Besides, it is not pleasant to carry on a conversation with twenty or thirty people looking on and listening, as if it were some theatrical performance that they had paid money to see, and consequently had a right to criticise. The fair friends had held counsel together as to the expediency of gratifying others at a great expense to themselves on the present occasion, and had made their election—not to go.Early the next morning Miss Tresilyan encountered Keene; their conversation was very brief; but, just as he was quitting her, the latter remarked, in a matter-of-course way, “We shall meet this evening at Madame de Verzenay’s?”She looked at him in some surprise, for she knew he must have heard from Mrs. Molyneux of their intention to absent themselves. She told him as much.“Ah! last night she did not mean to go,” replied Royston; “but she changed her mind this morning while I was with them. When I left them, ten minutes ago, there was a consultation going on with Harry as to what she should wear. I don’t think it will last more than half an hour; and then she was coming to try to persuade you to keep her fickleness in countenance.”Now the one point upon which Cecil had been most severe onla mignonnewas the way in which the latter suffered herself to be guided by her husband’s friend. It is strange how prone is the unconverted and unmated feminine nature to instigate revolt against the Old Dominion—never more so than when the beautifulCarbonarafeels that its shadow is creeping fast over the frontier of her own freedom. Nay, suppose the conquest achieved, and that they themselves are reduced to the veriest serfdom, none the less will they strive to goad other hereditary bondswomen into striking the blow. Is it not known that steady old “machiners,” broken for years to double harness, will encourage and countenance their “flippant” progeny in kicking over the traces? How otherwise could the name of mother-in-law, on the stage and in divers domestic circles, have become a synonym for firebrand? Look at your wife’s maid, for instance. She will spend two thirds of her wages and the product of many silk dresses (“scarcely soiled”) in furnishing that objectionable and disreputable suitor of hers with funds for his extravagance. He has beggared two or three of her acquaintance already, under the same flimsy pretense of intended marriage, that scarcely deludes poor Abigail; she has sore misgivings as to her own fate. Alternately he bullies and cajoles, but all the while she knows that he is lying, deliberately and incessantly, yet she never remonstrates or complains. It is true that, if you pass the door of her little room late into the night, you will probably go to bed haunted by the sound of low, dreary weeping; but it would be worse than useless to argue with her about her folly; she cherishes her noisome and ill-favored weed as if it were the fairest of fragrant flowers, and will not be persuaded to throw it aside. Well, if you could listen to that same long-suffering and soft-hearted young female, in her place in the subterranean Upper House, when the conduct of “Master” (especially as regards Foreign Affairs) is being canvassed; the fluency and virulence of her anathemas would almost30take your breath away. Even that dear old housekeeper—who nursed you, and loves you better than any of her own children—when she would suggest an excuse or denial of the alleged peccadilloes, is borne away and overwhelmed by the abusive torrent, and can at last only grumble her dissent. Very few women, of good birth and education, makeconfidantesnowadays of their personal attendants; and the race of “Miggs” is chiefly confined to the class in which Dickens has placed it, if it is not extinct utterly. But there is a season—while the brush passes lightly and lingeringly over the long trailing “back hair”—when a hint, an allusion, or an insinuation, cleverly placed, may go far toward fanning into flame the embers of matrimonial rebellion. I know no case where such serious consequences may be produced, with so little danger of implication to the prime mover of the discontent, except it be the system of the patriotic and intrepid Mazzini. Many outbreaks, perhaps—quelled after much loss on both sides, in which the monarchy was only saved by the judicious expenditure of muchmitraille—might have been traced to the covert influence of that mild-eyed, melancholycamériste.Cecil, who was not exempt from these revolutionary tendencies, any more than from other weaknesses of her sex, was especially provoked by this fresh instance of Fanny’s subordination.“Mrs. Molyneux is perfectly at liberty to form her own plans,” she said, very haughtily. “Beyond a certain point, I should no more dream of interfering with them than she would with mine. She is quite right to change her mind as often as she thinks proper, only in this instance I should have thought it was hardly worth while.”“Well,” Keene answered, in his cool, slow way, “Mrs. Molyneux has got that unfortunate habit of consulting other people’s wishes and convenience in preference to her own; it’s very foolish and weak; but it is so confirmed, that I doubt evenyourbeing able to break her of it. This time I am sure you won’t. It is a pity you are so determined on disappointing the public. I know of more than one person who has put off other engagements in anticipation of hearing you sing.”He was perfectly careless about provoking her now, or he would have been more cautious. That particular card was the very last in his hand to have played. Miss Tresilyan was good-nature itself in placing her talents at the service of any man, woman, or child who could appreciate them. She would go through half herrepertoireto amuse a sick friend any day; neither was she averse to displaying them before the world in general at proper seasons, but she liked the “boards” to be worthy of the prima donna, and had no idea of “starring it in the provinces.” All the pride of her race gathered on her brow just then, like a thunder-cloud, and her eyes flashed no summer lightning.“Madame de Verzenay was wrong to advertise a performer who does not belong to hertroupe. I hope the audience will be patient under their disappointment, and not break up the benches. If not, she must excuse herself as best she may. I have signed no engagement, so my conscience is clear. I certainly shall not go.”The bolt struck the granite fairly, but it did not shiver off one splinter, nor even leave a stain. Royston only remarked, “Then for to-day it is useless to sayau revoir;” and so, raising his cap, passed on.The poormignonnehad a very rough time of it soon afterward. Cecil was morally and physically incapable of scolding any one; but she was very severe on the sin of vacillation and yielding to unauthorized interference. The culprit did not attempt to justify herself; she only said, “They both wanted me to go so much, and I did not like to vex Harry.” Then she began to coax and pet her monitress in the pretty, childish way which interfered so much with matronly dignity, till the latter was brought to think that she had been cruelly harsh and stern; at last she got so penitent that she offered to accompany her friend, and lend the light of her countenance to Madame de Verzenay. For this infirmity of purpose many female Dracos would have ordered her off to instant execution—very justly. That silly little Fanny only kissed her, and said, “She was a dear, kind darling.” What can you expect of such irreclaimably weak-minded offenders? They ought to be sentenced to six months’ hard labor, supervised by Miss Martineau; perhaps even this would not work a permanent cure. Still, on The Tresilyan’s part, it was an immense effort of self-denial. She was well aware how she laid herself open to Royston Keene’s satire, and how unlikely he was this time to spare her. Only perfect trust or perfect indifference can make one careless about giving such a chance to a known bitter tongue.However, having made up her mind to the self-immolation, she proceeded to consider how best she should adorn herself for the sacrifice. Others have done so in sadder seriousness. Doubtless, Curtius rode at his last leap without a speck on his burnished mail: purple, and gold, and gems flamed all round Sardanapalus when he fired the holocaust in Nineveh: even that miserable, dastardly Nero was solicitous about the marble fragments that were to line his felon’s grave. So it befell that, on this particular evening, Cecil went through a very careful toilet, though it was as simple as usual; for the ultra-gorgeous style she utterly eschewed. The lilac trimmings of her dress broke the dead white sufficiently, but not glaringly, with the subdued effect of color that you may see in a campanula. Thecoiffurewas not decided on till several had been rejected. She chose at last a chaplet of those soft, silvery Venetian shells—such as her bridesmaids may have woven into the night of Amphitritè’s hair when they crowned her Queen of the Mediterranean.It was a very artistic picture. So Madame de Verzenay said, in the midst of a rather too rapturous greeting; so the Frenchmen thought, as a low murmur of admiration ran through their circle when she entered. Fanny, too, had her modest success. There were not wanting eyes that turned for a moment from the brilliant beauty of her companion to repose themselves on the sweet girlish face shaded by silky brown tresses, and on the perfect little figure floating so lightly and gracefully along amid its draperies of pale cloudy blue.Miss Tresilyan felt that there might beoneglance that it would be a trial to meet unconcernedly, and she had been schooling herself31sedulously for the encounter. She might have spared herself some trouble; for Royston Keene was not there when they arrived. She knew that Mrs. Molyneux had told him of the change in their plans; but the latter did not choose to confess how she had been puzzled by the very peculiar smile with which the major greeted the intelligence: it was the only notice he took of it. So the evening went on, with nothing to raise it above the dead level of averagesoirées. Cecil delayed going to the piano till she was ashamed of making more excuses, and was obliged to “execute herself” with the best grace she could manage. Even while she was singing, her glance turned more than once toward the door; but the stalwart figure, beside which all others seemed dwarfed and insignificant, never showed itself. It was clearhewas not among those who had given up other engagements to hear her songs. If we have been at some trouble and mental expense in getting ourselves into any one frame of mind—whether it be enthusiasm, or self-control, or fortitude, or heroism—it is an undeniable nuisance to find out suddenly that there is to be no scope for its exercise. Take a very practical instance. Here is Lieutenant Colonel Asahel ready on the ground, looking, as his conscience and his backers tell him, “as fine as a star, and fit to run for his life;” at the last moment his opponent pays forfeit. Just ascertain the sentiments of that gallant fusileer. Does the result at all recompense him for the futile privations and wasted asceticism of those long weary months of training—when pastry was, as it were, an abomination unto him—when his lips kept themselves undefiled from dryest Champagne or soundest claret—when he fled, fast as Cinderella, from the pleasantest company at the stroke of the midnight chimes? Of course he feels deeply injured, and would have forgiven the absentee far more easily if the latter had beaten him fairly, on his merits, breasting the handkerchief first by half a dozen yards.On this principle, Miss Tresilyan labored all that evening under an impression that Keene had treated her very ill, and was prepared to resent it accordingly. Another there besides herself felt puzzled and uncomfortable. Harry Molyneux could not understand it at all. Royston had seemed so very anxious in the morning to induce Fanny to go—a proceeding which would probably involve the presence of her “inseparable;” and disinterested persuasion was by no means in the Cool Captain’s line. So Harry went wandering about in a purposeless, disconsolate fashion for some time, till he found himself near Cecil. I fancy he had an indistinct idea that some apology was owing toherfor his chief’s unaccountable absence; at all events, he began to confide his misgivings on the subject as soon as the men who surrounded her moved away. They soon did so; for The Tresilyan had a way, quite peculiar to herself, of conveying to those whom she wished to get rid of that their audience was ended, without speaking one word. There was a very unusual element of impatient pettishness in her reply.“What a curious fascination Major Keene appears to exercise over his friends! I suppose you would think it quite wrong to be amused any where unless he were present to sanction it. Do you become a free agent again when you are given up entirely to your own devices? And doallsubalterns keep up that veneration for their senior officers after they have left the service? It seems to be carrying theesprit du corpsrather far.”Harry laughed out his own musical laugh; even the imputation of dependency and helplessness which is apt to ruffle most people fell back harmlessly from his impenetrable good-humor. “I dare say it does look very absurd. But you ought to have lived with him as long as I have done to understand how naturally Royston gains his influence, and makes us do what he chooses.”“Certainly I can not understand it. Thepoco-curantestyle is so very common just now that one gets rather tired of it. I do not like the affectation at all, but I dislike the reality still more. I believe itisa reality with Major Keene. I can not fancy him betraying any unrestrained excitement, however strong the passion that moved him might be. You have never known him do so, now? Confess it.”“Yes I have, once,” he answered, gravely, “and I never wish to see it again.”Cecil always liked talking to Harry Molyneux. On the present occasion the mere sound of his voice seemed to go far toward soothing her irritation: many others had experienced the same effect from those kindly gentle tones. Perhaps, too, the subject had an interest for her that she would not own. “Would it tire you to tell me about it? I am not particularly curious, but I have been so much bored to-night that a very little would amuse me.”He hesitated for an instant. “It is notthat; but I don’t know ifIam right in telling you. Perhaps you would not like him the better for it, though he could not help it. Shall I? Well, it was in the second of our Indian battles, and the first time we had really been under fire; before it was only nominal. We had been sitting idle for two hours or more, watching the infantry and the gunners do their work; and right well they did it. The Sikhs were giving ground in all directions; but they began to gather again on our right, and at last we were told to send out three squadrons and break them at three different points. Keene was in command of mine. I never saw him look so enchanted as he did when the orders came down. I heard the chief warning him to be cautious, not to go too far (for there was a good deal of broken ground ahead), but to wheel about as soon as we had got through their lines, and to fall back immediately on our position. Royston listened and saluted, but I know he didn’t catch one word; he kept looking over his shoulder all the time the colonel was speaking, as if he grudged every second. We were very soon off; and almost before I realized the situation we were closing in on the enemy, wrapped up in our own dust and in their smoke, for the firing became heavy directly we got within range. Now I don’t think I ought to be telling you all this: it is not quite a woman’s story.”“Please go on. I like it.” How grandly it flashed up in her cheek as she spoke—the fiery Tresilyan blood that had boiled in the veins of so many brilliant soldiers, but through twenty generations had never cooled down enough to breed one statesman!He had taken breath by this time. “I won’t32make it longer than I can help, but it is difficult to tell some things very briefly. It was my first real charge, you know; I suppose every man’s sensations are rather peculiar under such circumstances. I did not feel much alarmed—there wasn’t time for that—but the smoke, and the noise, and the excitement made me so dizzy that I could hardly sit straight in my saddle. When we got within a hundred and fifty yards of the Sikhs their fire began to tell. I heard a bubbling, smothered sort of cry close behind me, and I looked back just in time to see a trooper fall forward over his horse’s shoulder shot through the throat. Several more were hit, and our fellows began to waver a little—not much. Just then Royston’s voice broke in: it was so clear and strong that it set my nerves right directly, and the dizzy, stifling feeling went away, as it might have done before a draught of fresh pure air. ‘Close up there, the rear rank. Keep cool, men! Steady with your bridle-hands, and strike fairly with the edge.Now!’“He was three lengths ahead of his squadron, and well in among the enemy, when that last word came out. It was sharp work while it lasted, for the Sikhs fought like wounded wildcats: one fixed his teeth in my boot, and was dragged there till my covering-sergeant cut him loose; but we were soon through them. When we had wheeled, and were dressing into line, I caught sight of Keene’s face. It was so changed that I should hardly have known it: every fibre was quivering with passion; and his eyes—I’ve not forgotten them yet. We ought to have fallen back immediately on our old ground, but it was so evident he did not mean this, that I ventured to suggest to him what our orders had been. I was not second in command; but of my two seniors one was helpless (the stupidest man you ever saw), and the other hard hit. Royston faced round on me with a savage oath, ‘How dare you interfere, sir! Are you in command of this squadron?’ Then he turned to the troopers, ‘Have you had half enough yet, men?I haven’t.’ I am very sure he had lost his head, or he would never have spoken to me so, still less have made that last appeal, for he was the strictest disciplinarian, and looked upon his men as the merest machines. It seemed as if the devil that possessed him had gone out into the others too, for they all shouted in reply—not a cheery honest hurra! but a hoarse, hungry roar, such as you hear in wild beasts’ dens before feeding-time. An old troop-sergeant, a rigid pious Presbyterian, spoke for the rest, grinding and gnashing his teeth: ‘We’ll follow the captain any where—follow him to hell!’” (Harry’s voice had all along been subdued, but it was almost a whisper now:) “I do hope those words were not reckoned against poor Donald Macpherson, for when we got back his was one of the thirteen empty saddles. So we broke up, and went in again at the Sikhs, who were collecting in black-looking knots and irregular squares all round. It was an indescribable sort of amêlée, every man for himself, and—I dare not say—God for us all. I suppose I was as bad as the rest when once fairly launched, and we all thought we were doing our duty; but I should not like to have so many lives on my head and hand as Royston could count that night. Rememberwesuffered rather severely.“As we took up our position again I saw the colonel was not well pleased. He had little of the romance of war about him, and did not understand his officers acting much on their own discretion. Without hearing the words, I could guess, from the expression of his hard old face, that he came down on the squadron-leader heavily. When I ranged up by Keene’s side soon afterward, he looked up at me absently. ‘I was thinking,’ he said (now one naturally expected a sentiment about the scene we had just gone through, or a reflection on the injustice of chiefs in general)—‘I was thinking what rubbish those army-cutlers sell, and call it a sword-blade.’ He held up a sort of apology for a sabre, all notched, and bent, and blunted; then he began to inquire if I had been hit at all. I had escaped with hardly a scratch; but I saw an ugly cut above his knee, and blood stealing down his bridle-arm. ‘Bah! it’s nothing,’ Royston observed, answering the direction of my eyes; ‘but—if the tulwar and the reprimand had both been sharper—confess, Hal, that this time,Le jeu valait bien la chandelle?’“We never had a real rattling charge after that day, at least none exciting enough to warm him thoroughly. Now I am very sorry I have told you all this: it is not a nice story; but it is your own fault if I have bored you. Besides, Madame de Verzenay will never forgive me for monopolizing you so long. I do think she does me the honor to believe in a flirtation.”Cecil’s heightened color and sparkling eyes might have justified such a suspicion in a distant and unprejudiced observer. Does not this show us how very cautious we ought to be in forming hasty conclusions from appearances which are proverbially deceptive? I protest I am filled with remorse and contrition while I reflect how often, in thought, I may have wronged and misjudged the innocent. I dare say, in many outwardly flagrant cases, the offenders were only expatiating on the merits or demerits of absent friends. Such a subject is quite engrossing enough to excuse a certain amount of “sitting out,” and some peoplealwaysblush when they are at all interested. The selection of the staircase, the balcony, or the conservatory for the discussion is the merest atmospheric question. I subscribe to Mr. Weller’s idea—only “turnips” are incredulous.Vive la charité!After a minute or two Miss Tresilyan spoke: “No, I don’t think worse of Major Keene. As you say, I suppose he could not help it; but it must be terrible, when passions that are habitually restrained do break loose. No wonder that you do not wish to see such a sight again. It is very different, reading of battles and hearing of them from one who was an actor. Do you know, I think you have an undeveloped talent for narration. There, that ought to console you, even if Madame de Verzenay should asperse your character.”At this moment Harry was contemplating the proceedings of his pretty little wife at the opposite side of the room with an intense satisfaction and pride.“If Ihadyielded to temptation,” he said, “I am sure Fan could not reproach me. She would keep a much greater sinner in countenance. Miss Myrtle is a thousand times worse since she married. Just remark that by-play with the33handkerchief. You don’t suppose M. de Riberac cares one straw about Valenciennes lace? It makes one feelMoorishall over. You need not be surprised if she is found smothered or strangled in the morning. I am ‘not easily moved to jealousy, but being moved—’”“Don’t be too murderous,” laughed Cecil; “you are certain to regret it afterward. We will reproach her as she deserves on our way home. Is it not very late?”She wanted to be alone to think over what she had heard; and in good truth, waking or sleeping, the watches of that night were crowded with dreams.All this time where was Royston Keene? He had been really anxious to induce Miss Tresilyan to present herself at Madame de Verzenay’s, for he liked her well enough already to feel a personal interest in her triumphs; but, after their interview in the morning (though he thought it probable that Fanny’s persuasive powers might prevail), he had determined himself not to go, and he did not change his resolutions lightly. Still he could not resist the temptation of getting one glimpse at her in “review order.” If Cecil had been very observant when she went down to her carriage, she must have noticed a tall figure standing back, half masked by a pillar, whose eyes literally flashed in the darkness as they fastened on her in her passage through the lighted hall, and drank in every item of her loveliness. He stood still for some moments after she was gone, and then walked slowly down to the Cercle. While they were talking about him at Madame de Verzenay’s, Royston was holding his own gallantly atécartéwith Armand de Châteaumesnil, for the honor of England and—ten Napoleons a side. As was his wont, he played superbly; but he spoke seldom, and hardly seemed to hear the comments of the crowdedgalèrie. In truth, at some most critical points—when the game was in abeyance atquatre à—a delicate proud face, and a shell wreath glistening in velvet hair,wouldrise before him, and dethrone in his thoughts the painted kings and queens. His adversary did not fail to observe this; but he said nothing till the play was ended and most of the others had left the room. Then he laid his hand on Keene’s arm, and drew his head down to the level of his own lips, and spoke low:“Mon camarade, je me rappelle, d’avoir vu, il y a quelques ans, au Café de la Régence, un homme qui tenait tête, aux échecs, à quatre concurrens. Les habitués en disaient des merveilles. Mais ce n’était qu’un bon bourgeois après tout; et, nous autres, nous sommes plus forts que les bourgeois. Vouz avez joué ce soir les deux parties que, dit le proverbe, c’est presque impossible de remporter simultanément; et je ne me tiens pas pour le seul perdant.”Royston did not seem in the least inclined to smile; had he done so Armand would have been bitterly disappointed. As it was, he answered very coldly, without a shade of consciousness on his face.“Un compliment mérite toujours des remercimens, M. le Vicomte, même quand on ne le comprend pas. Pardon, si je vous engage, de ne pas expliquer plus clairementvotreallégorie.”The other looked up at him with an expression that might almost have been mistaken for sympathy.“Parbleu!” he muttered, “si beau joueur merite bien de gagner!”Chapter divisionCHAPTER XII.Sometimes,lying on the cliffs of Kerry or Clare, on a cloudless autumn day, when not a breath of wind is stirring, you may see rank after rank of heavy purple billows rolling sullenly in from the offing: these are messengers coming to tell us of battles fought a thousand leagues to the westward, in which they, too, have borne their part. Before the mail comes in we are prepared to hear of a storm that has worked its wicked will for nights and days, thundering among the granite boulders of Labrador, or tearing through the fog-banks of Newfoundland. This is perhaps the most commonplace of all ancient comparisons; but where will you find so apt a parallel for the vagaries of the human heart as the phases of the deep, false, beautiful sea?On the morning after Madame de Verzenay’s party, Cecil rose in a very troubled frame of mind. She had no feeling of irritation left against Royston Keene; but she was uneasy, and uncomfortable, and loth to meet him. What she had felt and what she had heard had moved her too deeply for her to resume at once her wonted composure. So it was that she accepted very readily an invitation from Mrs. Fullarton to accompany herself and children on a mild botanizing excursion among the hills. These smallfêteswent a long way with that hard-working and meritorious woman; what with anticipation and retrospect, each lasted her about two months. Miss Tresilyan was prevented from starting with the rest of the party; but the chaplain himself was to escort her to the place of rendezvous, his little daughter Katie being retained to be invested with the temporary and “local” rank of chaperone—a formality which, in these days of scanty faith, even married divines are not allowed to dispense with. The quartette was completed by the mule-driver—one of those remarkable boys who converse invariably in a tongue which the beasts of burden seem to understand and sympathize with, but which, to any other creature whatsoever, is absolutely destitute of meaning. They had some way to go; so Cecil had taken up Katie before her on her mule; the pastor walked by her side, glozing (for the road was not very steep) on all sorts of subjects, gravely and smoothly, as was his wont. They had crossed the first line of hills, and were descending into the valley beyond, when, turning a sharp corner where a projecting rock almost barred the path, they came suddenly on Royston Keene. He was lying at full length, his head resting against the knotted root of an olive, with eyes half closed, and the cigar between his lips, that seldom left them when he was alone. Itwasodd that he should have selected that especial spot for the scene of hissiesta. Cecil did her very utmost to look unconcerned: it was too provoking that she could not help blushing! Mr. Fullarton evidently looked upon it in the light of an ambush. Had he ventured to give his thoughts utterance, certainly the ready text34would have sprung to his lips, “Hast thou found me, O mine enemy?” If there was “malice prepense” there, the “enemy” deserved some credit for the perfectly natural air of surprise with which he rose and greeted them.“Are you recruiting after last night’s triumphs, or escaping from popular enthusiasm, Miss Tresilyan? I have met several Frenchmen already who are quite childish about your singing. I should not advise you to venture on the Terrace to-day. There might be temptations to vanity, which Mr. Fullarton will tell you are dangerous.”She had so completely made up her mind to some allusion to her change of purpose, or to his own absence, that it was rather aggravating to find him ignore both utterly. But she rallied well.“Nothing half so imaginative, Major Keene. It was a very stupid party, and I only sang once, as, I dare say, you have heard. We are only going to help Mrs. Fullarton to find some wild-flowers. I hope you have not anticipated us?”Hefixedher with the cool, appreciative look that was harder to meet than even his sneer.“No; the flowers are safe from me. I don’t care enough about them to keep them; and it is a pity to pick them and throw them away to wither. But I would have asked to be allowed to help you in your search, only—I don’t like to spoil a picture. You brought a very good one to my mind as you turned the corner, a ‘Descent into Egypt,’ that I saw long ago. The blotthere, I remember, was a very stout, rubicund Joseph, not at all worthy of the imperial Madonna.”While he was speaking he drew back, and leaned lazily against the stem of the olive, with the evident intention of resuming his original posture as soon as courtesy would allow. Miss Tresilyan could not restrain a quick gesture of impatience.“As we did not come out toposer, Mr. Fullarton, don’t you think we had better not delay any longer? We are so late already, that I am sure the rest of the party will be tired of waiting.”Guess if her companion was loth to obey her.They moved on for some time almost in silence. Cecil’s thoughts were busy with a picture too—not the less vivid because only her own imagination had painted it. Her deep, dreamy eyes passed over the landscape actually before them without catching one of its details: they were looking on a desolate stony plain, cracked and calcined by a fierce Indian sun—a few plumy palms in the background, and the rocky bed of a river half dried up—in the foreground a crowd of wild barbaric soldiery, with savage, swarthy features, bareheaded or white-turbaned; mingled with these were horsemen in the uniform of our light dragoons, sabring right and left mercilessly. In the very centre of themêléewas one figure, round which all the others seemed to group themselves as mere accessories. She saw, very distinctly, the dark, determined face, set, every line of it, in an unspeakable ferocity, with a world of murderous meaning in the gleaming eyes—so distinctly that it drove out the remembrance of the same man’s face, expressive of nothing but passionless indifference, though she looked upon it but a few minutes since under the gray branches of the olive. She almost heard his clear, imperious tones cheering on and rallying his troopers, when a ruder voice broke her reverie.“Halte là!”If there was one thing that miserable muleteer-boy ought to have known better than another, it was the insuperable objection entertained by the Provençal peasant to any thing like trespass on his territory (the touchiness of thepropriétairebears generally an inverse ratio to the extent of his possessions); yet, to make a short cut of about two hundred yards, he had led his party through a gap in the low stone wall over a strip of ground belonging to the very man who was least likely to overlook the intrusion. Jean Duchesne had a bad name in the neighborhood, and deserved it thoroughly; he was surly enough when sober (which was the exception), but when drunk there were no bounds to his blind, brutish ferocity, and his great personal strength made him a formidable antagonist. He was not an agreeable object to contemplate, that gaunt giant, as he stood there in his squalid, tattered dress, with rough, matted hair, and face flushed by recent intemperance, and flecked with livid stains of past debauches. You may see many such crowding round the guillotine or the tumbrel in pictures of the French Revolution.It is very odd that one can not write or read those two words without a boiling of the blood, a tingling at the fingers’ ends, and a tightening of the muscles of the forearm—ineffably absurd when excited by a recollection seventy years old! Yet so it is. You may talk of oppression till you are tired; you may catalogue all the wrongs thatJacques Bonhommeendured before his day of retaliation came; you may bring in your pet illustration of “the storm that was necessary to clear the atmosphere;” but you will never make some of us feel that the guilt of an Order—had it been blacker by a hundred shades—palliated the Massacre of its Innocents. If theMarquisandMousquetaireonly had suffered, they might have laid down their lives cheerfully, as they would have done the stake of any other lost game; and as for the priests, it was their privilege to be martyrs. But think of those fair matrons, and gentle girls, and delicatemignonnes, that had been petted from their childhood, cooped up in the foul courts of the Abbaye and La Force, with even the necessaries of life begrudged them, till the light died in their eyes and the gloss faded from their tresses; and then brought out to die in the chill, mistyBrumairemorning, howled at and derided by the swarm of bloodsuckers, till they cowered down, not in fear, but sickening horror, welcoming Samson and his satellites as friends and saviors. Remember, too, that there was scarcely an exception to the rule of patient courage, calm self-sacrifice, and pride of birth that never belied itself. Dubarry might shriek on the scaffold, but the Rohans died mute.Of all the digressions we have indulged in, this is perhaps the most unwarrantable; and, though it has relieved me unspeakably, I hereby tender a certain amount of contrition for the same.Revenons à nos moutons—though there was very little of the sheep in the appearance of Jean Duchesne, whose demeanor (when we left him) you will recollect was decidedly aggressive. It was evident that the mule-boy thought mischief35was brewing, for he twisted his features—irregular andtumbledenough already—into divers remarkable contortions expressive of remorse and terror.“Who, then, dares to trespass on my lands? Do you think we sow our crops for your cursed mules to trample on?”He spoke in a hoarse, thick voice (suggestive of spirituous liquors), and in the disagreeable Provençal dialect, which must have altered strangely since the time of thetroubadours: brief as his speech was, it found room for more than one of those expletives which are nowhere so horribly blasphemous as in the south of France.Cecil had started slightly at the first interjection, which broke her day-dream, but she was not otherwise alarmed or discomposed: she seemed to regard thepropriétairesimply as an unpleasant obstacle to their progress, and glanced at Mr. Fullarton as if she expected him to clear it away. The latter was not good at French, but he did manage to express their sorrow if they had done any harm unconsciously, and their wish to retire instantly. “Not before paying,” was the reply. “Quinze francs de dedommagemens; et puis, filez aux tous les diables!”Women are not expected to carry purses or any other objects of simple utility; but why Mr. Fullarton should have left his at home on this particular day is between himself and his own conscience. The party very soon realized the fact that they could muster about a hundred and fifty centimes among them.Even kings and kaisers, whenincogniti, have ere this been reduced to the extremest straits of ignominy from the want of a few available pieces of silver; and, in ordinary life, five shillings ready at the moment are frequently of more importance than as many hundreds in expectancy. There lives even now a man who missed the most charming rendezvous with which fortune ever favored him, because he rode a mile round to avoid a turnpike, not having wherewithal to pay it. Since that disastrous day he is ever furnished with such a weight of small change that, had Cola Pesce carried it, the strong swimmer must have sunk like a stone—in penance, probably, even as James of Scotland wore the iron belt. At a pause in the conversation you may hear him rattling the coppers in his pocket moodily, as the spectres in old romances rattle their chains; but his remorse is unavailing. A fair chance once lost, Whist and Erycina never forgive. The beautiful bird that mightthenhave been limed and tamed shook her wings and flew away exultingly: far up in air the unlucky fowler may still sometimes hear her clear mocking carol, but she is too near heaven for his arts to reach, and has escaped the toils forever.On the present occasion Katie Fullarton “flashed” her one half-franc with great courage and confidence, but the display of all that small capitalist’s worldly wealth did not mollify Jean Duchesne. He had been lashing himself up all along into such a state of brutal ferocity, that he would have been disappointed if his extortion had been immediately satisfied; so he broke in savagely on the chaplain’s confused excuses and promises to settle everything at a fitting season: “Tais toi, blagueur! On ne me floue pas ainsi avec des promesses; je m’en fiche pas mal. Au moins, on me laissera un gage.” His blood-shot eyes roved from one object to another till they lighted on the parasol that Miss Tresilyan carried: it was of plain dark-gray silk, with a slight black lace trimming, but the carvings of the ivory handle made it of some real value. Before any one could divine his intention he had plucked it rudely from her hand.Almost with the same motion Cecil set Katie down, and sprang herself from the saddle. In her eyes there was such intensity of anger that the drunken savage recoiled a pace or two, and for the first time in his life felt something like self-contempt: to have saved her soul she could not have spoken one word, but her silence was expressive enough as she turned to Mr. Fullarton. It is difficult to say what line she expected him to take—not thevoie de faitcertainly; at least, if the hypothesis had been put to her when she was cool enough to consider it, she would utterly have repudiated such an idea. Perhaps she had a right to look for moral support, if not for active championship.We will not enter into the vexed question of physical courage and cowardice: it is a truism to say that the latter may co-exist with great moral firmness, which is, of course, far the superior quality. They will tell you that, when confronted with mere personal peril, a butcher or grenadier may match the best of us. Possibly; I am not going to dispute it. Only remember that there are occasions (very few in these civilized days) when the most refined ofbas-bleuswould rather see a strong, brave, honest man at her side, than an abstruse philosopher, a clever conversationalist—ay, even than a perfect Christian—whose nerves are not to be depended on; when Parson Adams would be worth a bench of bishops. We can not all be athletes; and, with the best intentions, some of us at such times are liable to defeat and discomfiture. The most utterly fearless man I ever knew had abicepsthat his own small fingers could have spanned. No woman, however—keeping the attributes of her sex—would think the worse of her champion for being trampled under foot when he had done his best to defend her. You know their province is to console, and even pet the vanquished; they make up lint for the wounded as readily as they weave laurels for the conquerors. But when they have once seen a man play the coward, the silver tongue, with all its eloquent explanation and honeyed pleadings, will hardly banish from their eyes the peculiar expression wavering betwixt compassion and contempt. They may forgive cruelty, or insolence, or even treachery—in time; but they can find no palliation, and little sympathy, for that one unpardonable sin. Truly, transgression in this line, beyond a certain point, may scarcely be excused; for weakness may be controlled, if not cured: if we can not be dashingly courageous, we may at least be decently collected: not all may aspire to the cross of valor, but it is not difficult to steer clear of courts-martial.A man is not pleasant to contemplate when terror has driven out all self-command; so we will not draw Mr. Fullarton’s picture: he could scarcely stammer out words enough to suggest an immediate retreat. It was painful—notludicrous—to see how justly his own child appreciated the position: the little thing left her father’s36side instinctively, and clung for protection to Cecil Tresilyan. The latter saw instantly how matters stood; and if the glance she cast on the aggressor was not pleasant to meet, far more unendurable was that which fell upon her unlucky companion: it was piercing enough to penetrate the strong armor of his wonderful self-complacency, and to rankle for many a day. She struck her small foot on the ground with a gesture of imperial disdain. Even so the Scythian Amazon might have spurned the livid head of Cyrus the Great King.“I will not stir till I see if no one will come who can take my part. Ah! I would give—”“Don’t be rash, Miss Tresilyan. You might be taken at your word.”Cecil turned quickly, with a delicious sense of confidence and triumph thrilling through every fibre of her frame: on the top of the rock that rose ten feet high, like a wall, on their right, stood Royston Keene. A more pacific character would have dared a greater danger for the reward and the promise of her eyes.He took in the whole scene at a glance (perhaps he had heard more than he chose to own), and, swinging himself lightly down, strode right across thepotagerwith a disregard of the proprietor’s interests and feelings refreshing to see.“It seems to me that the ancient positions have been reversed. You have been spoiled by the Egyptians, Miss Tresilyan. Shall we try the secular arm? You have scarcely been safe under the protection of the church—militant.”There was a pause before the last word, and it was unpleasantly emphasized. Then he advanced a step or two toward the Frenchman, without waiting for a reply, and spoke in a totally different tone—brief and imperative—“Tu vas me rendre ça?”Duchesne had been rather startled by the apparition of the new-comer, and, if he had been cool enough to reflect, would not have fancied him as an antagonist; but his passion blinded him, and strong drink had heated his brutal blood above boiling point; he ground his teeth, as he answered, till the foam ran down—“Le rendre—à toi—chien d’Anglais? je m’en garderai bien. Si la belle demoiselle veut le ravoir, elle viendra demain, me prier bien gentiment; et elle viendra—seule.”Now Royston Keene was thoroughly impregnated with the bitterest of aristocratic prejudices: no man alive more utterly ignored the doctrines of liberty, equality, and fraternity; besides this, he had acquired, to an unusual extent, the overbearing tone and demeanor which the habit of having soldiers under them is supposed to bring, too commonly, to modern centurions. He actually experienced a “fresh sensation” as he heard the insult leveled by those coarse plebeian lips at the woman “he delighted to honor.” His swarthy face grew white down to the lips, whose quivering the heavy mustache could not quite conceal, and he shivered from head to foot where he stood. Jean Duchesne thought he detected the familiar signs of a terror he had often inspired. “Tu as peur donc? Tu tressaillesdéjà, blanc-bec! Tonnerre de Dì! tu as raison.” Not a trace of passion lingered in the major’s clear, cold voice, that fell upon the ear with the ring of steel. “On ne tressaille pas, quand on estsûrde gagner. Regarde donc en arrière.”Involuntarily the Frenchman looked behind him, expecting a fresh adversary from that quarter. As he turned his head Keene sprang forward, and plucked the parasol from his grasp: in one second he had laid it lightly in its owner’s hand; in the next he had returned to his position, and stood, ready for the onset, motionless as the marble Creugas.He had not long to wait. Even a “well-conditioned” Gaul does not like being outwitted, and the successfulruseexasperated Duchesne into insanity. Roaring like a wild beast that has missed its spring, he rushed in to grapple. Royston never moved a finger till the enemy was well within distance; then, slinging his left hand straight out from the hip, he “let him have it” fairly between the eyes.One blow—only one—but a blow that, had it been stricken in the days of Olympian and Nemean contests—where Pindar and his peers were “reporters”—might well have earned a dithyramb; a blow that would have gladdened the sullen spirit of the old gladiator who trained the Cool Captain, if the prophet had lived to see his auguries fulfilled, or if sights and sounds from upper earth could penetrate to the limbo of defunct athletæ. Nothing born of woman could have stood before it, and it was small blame to Jean Duchesne that he dropped like a log in his tracks. In another instant his conqueror had one knee on the chest of the fallen man, and both hands were griping his throat.His own face was fearfully changed. It wore an expression that has been very often seen in the sixty centuries that have passed since Cain struck his brother down, but has very seldom been described; for the dead tell no tales beyond what their features, stiffened in hopeless terror, may betray. It has been seen on lost battle-fields—in the streets of cities given up to pillage, when the storming is just over and the carnage begun—on desolate hill-sides—in dark forest-glades—in chambers of lonely houses, strongly but vainly barred—in every place where men in the death agony have “cried and there was none to help them.” It was full time forsome oneto interfere when the devil had entered into Royston Keene.From the moment that affairs had assumed such a different aspect Mr. Fullarton had gradually been recovering his composure, and by this time was quite himself again. He advanced confidently, and, laying his hand on the major’s shoulder with an imposing air, and with his best pulpit manner, enunciated, “Thou shalt do no murder!” The latter, as we have already said, was utterly beside himself; but even this can not excuse the abrupt, impatient movement that sent such an eminent divine reeling three paces back. The rigid lips only twisted themselves into an evil sneer, and the cruel fingers tightened their gripe till the features of the prostrate wretch grew convulsed and black.The whole scene had passed so quickly, though it takes so long to describe (some of us nevercansucceed in stenography), that Cecil felt perfectly lost in a whirl of conflicting emotions, till she saw the face in life before her that she had been fancying ever since last night. A great fear came over her, but she overcame it, and37her woman’s instinct told her what to do. She laid her little hand upon Keene’s arm before he was aware that she was near, and whispered so that only he could hear, “Formysake.” Only these three simple words; but the exorcism was complete.Again a shiver ran all through the hardy frame, and for once Love was more powerful than Hate. He loosed his hold—slowly though, and reluctantly—and rose to his feet, passing his hand over his eyes in a strange, bewildered way; but in five seconds his wonderful self-command asserted itself, and he spoke as coolly as ever. “A thousand pardons. One does forget one’s self sometimes when thecanailleare provoking, but I ought to have remembered what was due toyou.”Though she could not speak, she tried to smile; but strong reaction had come on. In the pale woman that trembled so painfully it was hard to recognize proud Cecil Tresilyan. Royston was watching her narrowly, and his tone softened till it made his simple words a caress. “Don’t make me more angry with myself than I deserve. Indeed, there is nothing more to alarm or distress you. If you would only forgive me!” He helped her into the saddle as he spoke, and she submitted passively. But the happy feeling of perfect trust in him was coming back fast.Jean Duchesne had somewhat recovered from his stupor, and was leaning on one arm, panting heavily, still in great pain; but he was inured to all sorts of broils, and evidently he would soon recover from the effects of this one, though he had never been so roughly handled. It was sheer terror that made him lie so still: he dared move no more than a whipped hound while in the presence of his late opponent.The others turned slowly homeward, for it is needless to say the wild-flowers and the rendezvous were forgotten. As they turned the corner which cut off the view of Duchesne’s ground, Royston looked back once, longingly. It was well for Cecil’s nerves, in their disturbed state, that she did not catch that Parthian glance. Ah, those ungovernable eyes! They were gleaming with the expression that Kirkpatrick’s may have worn when he turned into the chapel where the Red Comyn lay, growling, “Imak sicker.”None of the party were much disposed for conversation; for even Mr. Fullarton did not feel equal to “improving the occasion” just then. Cecil broke the silence at last: it was where the road was so narrow that only two could walk abreast: Royston never left her bridle-rein. “You must fancy that I have thanked you; I can not do so properly now. It is strange, though, that you should have come up so very opportunely. Was it a presentiment that made you follow us?”The answer was so low that she had almost to guess at it from the motion of his lips, “Have you forgotten Napoleon’s last rallying-cry, ‘Qui m’aime me suit?’” No wonder that his pulse would throb exultantly as he saw the bright, beautiful blush that swept over his companion’s cheek and brow! They had almost reached home when he spoke again, “You would have been liberal in your promises twenty minutes ago if I had not stopped you, Miss Tresilyan. Ishouldlike to have some memorial of to-day. Very childish, is it not? Will you give methis? I deserve something for saving that pretty parasol.” He touched the glove she had just drawn off—a light riding-gauntlet, fancifully cut, and embroidered with silk. Cecil hesitated, though she would have been loth to refuse him any thing just then. She felt, as most proud, sensitive women feel the first time they are asked for what may be interpreted into agage d’amour. The tribute may be nominal, and the suzerain may be lenient indeed, but none the less does it establish vassalage.Royston interpreted her reluctance aright, and went on with an earnestness very unusual with him: for once it was honest and true. “Pray trust me. The moment I cease to value thatsouveniras it deserves, on my honor I will return it.”He was fated to triumph all through that day. When Cecil was alone she put something away with a very unnecessary carefulness, for surely nothing can be more valueless than a glove that has lost its mate.
‘Amundeville may be lord by day,But the monk is lord by night;Nor wine nor wassail would stir a vassalTo question that friar’s right.’”
‘Amundeville may be lord by day,
But the monk is lord by night;
Nor wine nor wassail would stir a vassal
To question that friar’s right.’”
He went away then without another word beyond the ordinary adieu. Royston had a way of repeating poetry peculiar to himself—rather monotonous, perhaps, but effective from the depth and volume of his voice. You gained in rhythm what you lost in rhyme. The sound seemed to linger in their ears after he had closed the door.
As the echo of the firm, strong footstep died away, a virtuous indignation possessed the broad visage of the divine.
“It is like Major Keene,” said he, “to select as his text-book the most godless work of the satanic school; but I should have thought that even he would have paused before venturing, in this presence, on a quotation fromDon Juan.”
At that awful word Mrs. Danvers gave a little shriek as if “a bee had stung her newly.” Had she been a Catholic she would have crossed herself an indefinite number of times: will you be good enough to imagine her protracted look of holy horror? Cecil’s eyes were glittering with scornful humor as she answered, very demurely, “What an advantage it is to be a large, general reader! It enables one to impart so much information. Now Bessie and I should never have guessed where those lines came from if you had not enlightened us. They seemed harmless enough in themselves, and Major Keene was considerate enough to leave us in our ignorance. So Byron comes within the scope of your studies, Mr. Fullarton. I thought you seldom indulged in such secular authors?” The chaplain was quite right in making his reply inaudible: it would have been difficult to find a perfectly satisfactory one. However, the hour was late enough to excuse his beginning the reading without farther delay. It was not a success. There was a stoppage somewhere in the current of his mellifluous eloquence; and the exposition was concluded so soon, and indeed abruptly, that Mrs. Danvers retired to rest with a feeling of disappointment and inanition, such as one may have experienced when, expecting a “sit-down” supper, we are obliged to content ourselves with a meagrely-furnishedbuffet. For some minutes after Mr. Fullarton had departed Miss Tresilyan sat silent, leaning her head upon her hand. At last she said, “Bessie, dear, you know I would not interfere with your comforts or your arrangements for the world; but, the next time you wish to have a repetition of this, would you be so very good as to tell me beforehand? I think I shall spend that evening with Fanny Molyneux. I do not quite like it, and I am sure it does me no real good.”
She spoke so gently that Mrs. Danvers was going to attempt one of her querulous remonstrances, but she happened to look at the face of her patroness. It wore an expression not often seen there; but she was wise enough to interpret it aright, and to guess that she had gone far enough. It was ever a dangerous experiment to trifle with the Tresilyans when their brows were bent. So she launched into some of her affectionate platitudes and profuse excuses, and under cover of these retreated to her rest. It is a comfort to reflect that she slept very soundly, though she monopolized all the slumber that night that ought to have fallen to Cecil’s share.
What did Royston Keene think of the events of the evening? As he went down the stairs I am afraid he cursed the chaplain once heartily, but on the whole he was not dissatisfied. At all events, the short walk down to the club completely restored hissang-froid, and the last trace of vexation vanished as he entered the card-room and saw the “light of battle” gleam on the haggard face of Armand de Châteaumesnil.
Chapter division
Therewas in Dorade a stout and meritorious elderly widow, who formed a sort of connecting link between the natives and the settlers. English by birth, she had married a Frenchman of fair family and fortune, so that her habits and sympathies attached themselves about equally to the two countries. You do not often find so good a specimen of the hybrid. She gave frequent littlesoirées, which were as pleasant and exciting as such assemblages of heterogeneous elements usually are—that is to say, very moderately so. The two streams flowed on in the29same channel, without mingling or losing their characteristics. I fancy the fault was most on our side.
We no longer, perhaps, parade Europe with “pride in our port, defiance in our eye;” but still, in our travels, we lose no opportunity of maintaining and asserting our well-beloved dignity, which, if rather a myth and vestige of the past, at home, abroad, is a very stern reality. Have you not seen, at a crowdedtable d’hôte, the British mother encompass her daughters with the double bulwark of herself and their staid governess on either flank, so as to avert the contamination which must otherwise have certainly ensued from the close proximity of a courteous white-bearded Graf, or afringantevicomtesse whose eyes outshone her diamonds? May it ever remain so! Each nation has its vanity and its own peculiar glory, as it has its especial produce. O cotton mills of Manchester! envy not nor emulate the velvet looms of Genoa or Lyons; you are ten times as useful, and a hundredfold more remunerating. What matters it if Damascus guard jealously the secret of her fragrant clouded steel, when Sheffield can turn out efficient sword-blades at the rate of a thousand per hour?Suum cuique tribuito.Let others aspire to be popular: be it ours to remain irreproachably and unapproachably respectable.
So poor Mdme. de Verzenay’s efforts to promote anentente cordialewere lamentably foiled. When the English mustered strong, they would immediately form themselves into a hollow square, the weakest in the centre, and so defy the assaults of the enemy. Now and then a daring Gaul would attempt the adventure of the Enchanted Castle, determined, if not to deliver the imprisoned maidens, at least to enliven their solitude. See how gayly and gallantly he starts, glancing a saucy adieu to Adolphe and Eugène, who admire his audacity, but augur ill for its success.Allons, je me risque. Montjoie St. Denis! France à la rescousse!He winds, as it were, the bugle at the gate, with a well-turned compliment or a brilliant bit ofbadinage. Slowly the jealous valves unclose; he stands within the magic precinct—an eerie silence all around. Suppose that one of the Seven condescends to parley with him; she does so nervously and under protest, glancing ever over her shoulder, as if she expected the austere Fairy momentarily to appear; while her companions sit without winking or moving, cowering together like a covey of birds when the hawk is circling over the turnip-field. How can you expect a man to make himself agreeable under such appalling circumstances? The heart of the adventurer sinks within him. Lo! there is a rustling of robes near; what if Calyba or Urganda were at hand?Fuyons!And the knight-errant retreats, with drooping crest and smirched armor—a melancholy contrast to thepreux chevalierwho went forth but now chanting his war-song, conquering and to conquer. The remarks of the discomfited one, after such a failure, were, I fear, the reverse of complimentary; and the unpleasant wordbégueulefigured in them a great deal too often.
Cecil and Fanny Molyneux were certainly exceptions to the rule of unsociability, but the general dullness of thoseréunionsinfected them, and made the atmosphere oppressive; it required a vast amount of leaven to make such a large, heavy lump light or palatable. Besides, it is not pleasant to carry on a conversation with twenty or thirty people looking on and listening, as if it were some theatrical performance that they had paid money to see, and consequently had a right to criticise. The fair friends had held counsel together as to the expediency of gratifying others at a great expense to themselves on the present occasion, and had made their election—not to go.
Early the next morning Miss Tresilyan encountered Keene; their conversation was very brief; but, just as he was quitting her, the latter remarked, in a matter-of-course way, “We shall meet this evening at Madame de Verzenay’s?”
She looked at him in some surprise, for she knew he must have heard from Mrs. Molyneux of their intention to absent themselves. She told him as much.
“Ah! last night she did not mean to go,” replied Royston; “but she changed her mind this morning while I was with them. When I left them, ten minutes ago, there was a consultation going on with Harry as to what she should wear. I don’t think it will last more than half an hour; and then she was coming to try to persuade you to keep her fickleness in countenance.”
Now the one point upon which Cecil had been most severe onla mignonnewas the way in which the latter suffered herself to be guided by her husband’s friend. It is strange how prone is the unconverted and unmated feminine nature to instigate revolt against the Old Dominion—never more so than when the beautifulCarbonarafeels that its shadow is creeping fast over the frontier of her own freedom. Nay, suppose the conquest achieved, and that they themselves are reduced to the veriest serfdom, none the less will they strive to goad other hereditary bondswomen into striking the blow. Is it not known that steady old “machiners,” broken for years to double harness, will encourage and countenance their “flippant” progeny in kicking over the traces? How otherwise could the name of mother-in-law, on the stage and in divers domestic circles, have become a synonym for firebrand? Look at your wife’s maid, for instance. She will spend two thirds of her wages and the product of many silk dresses (“scarcely soiled”) in furnishing that objectionable and disreputable suitor of hers with funds for his extravagance. He has beggared two or three of her acquaintance already, under the same flimsy pretense of intended marriage, that scarcely deludes poor Abigail; she has sore misgivings as to her own fate. Alternately he bullies and cajoles, but all the while she knows that he is lying, deliberately and incessantly, yet she never remonstrates or complains. It is true that, if you pass the door of her little room late into the night, you will probably go to bed haunted by the sound of low, dreary weeping; but it would be worse than useless to argue with her about her folly; she cherishes her noisome and ill-favored weed as if it were the fairest of fragrant flowers, and will not be persuaded to throw it aside. Well, if you could listen to that same long-suffering and soft-hearted young female, in her place in the subterranean Upper House, when the conduct of “Master” (especially as regards Foreign Affairs) is being canvassed; the fluency and virulence of her anathemas would almost30take your breath away. Even that dear old housekeeper—who nursed you, and loves you better than any of her own children—when she would suggest an excuse or denial of the alleged peccadilloes, is borne away and overwhelmed by the abusive torrent, and can at last only grumble her dissent. Very few women, of good birth and education, makeconfidantesnowadays of their personal attendants; and the race of “Miggs” is chiefly confined to the class in which Dickens has placed it, if it is not extinct utterly. But there is a season—while the brush passes lightly and lingeringly over the long trailing “back hair”—when a hint, an allusion, or an insinuation, cleverly placed, may go far toward fanning into flame the embers of matrimonial rebellion. I know no case where such serious consequences may be produced, with so little danger of implication to the prime mover of the discontent, except it be the system of the patriotic and intrepid Mazzini. Many outbreaks, perhaps—quelled after much loss on both sides, in which the monarchy was only saved by the judicious expenditure of muchmitraille—might have been traced to the covert influence of that mild-eyed, melancholycamériste.
Cecil, who was not exempt from these revolutionary tendencies, any more than from other weaknesses of her sex, was especially provoked by this fresh instance of Fanny’s subordination.
“Mrs. Molyneux is perfectly at liberty to form her own plans,” she said, very haughtily. “Beyond a certain point, I should no more dream of interfering with them than she would with mine. She is quite right to change her mind as often as she thinks proper, only in this instance I should have thought it was hardly worth while.”
“Well,” Keene answered, in his cool, slow way, “Mrs. Molyneux has got that unfortunate habit of consulting other people’s wishes and convenience in preference to her own; it’s very foolish and weak; but it is so confirmed, that I doubt evenyourbeing able to break her of it. This time I am sure you won’t. It is a pity you are so determined on disappointing the public. I know of more than one person who has put off other engagements in anticipation of hearing you sing.”
He was perfectly careless about provoking her now, or he would have been more cautious. That particular card was the very last in his hand to have played. Miss Tresilyan was good-nature itself in placing her talents at the service of any man, woman, or child who could appreciate them. She would go through half herrepertoireto amuse a sick friend any day; neither was she averse to displaying them before the world in general at proper seasons, but she liked the “boards” to be worthy of the prima donna, and had no idea of “starring it in the provinces.” All the pride of her race gathered on her brow just then, like a thunder-cloud, and her eyes flashed no summer lightning.
“Madame de Verzenay was wrong to advertise a performer who does not belong to hertroupe. I hope the audience will be patient under their disappointment, and not break up the benches. If not, she must excuse herself as best she may. I have signed no engagement, so my conscience is clear. I certainly shall not go.”
The bolt struck the granite fairly, but it did not shiver off one splinter, nor even leave a stain. Royston only remarked, “Then for to-day it is useless to sayau revoir;” and so, raising his cap, passed on.
The poormignonnehad a very rough time of it soon afterward. Cecil was morally and physically incapable of scolding any one; but she was very severe on the sin of vacillation and yielding to unauthorized interference. The culprit did not attempt to justify herself; she only said, “They both wanted me to go so much, and I did not like to vex Harry.” Then she began to coax and pet her monitress in the pretty, childish way which interfered so much with matronly dignity, till the latter was brought to think that she had been cruelly harsh and stern; at last she got so penitent that she offered to accompany her friend, and lend the light of her countenance to Madame de Verzenay. For this infirmity of purpose many female Dracos would have ordered her off to instant execution—very justly. That silly little Fanny only kissed her, and said, “She was a dear, kind darling.” What can you expect of such irreclaimably weak-minded offenders? They ought to be sentenced to six months’ hard labor, supervised by Miss Martineau; perhaps even this would not work a permanent cure. Still, on The Tresilyan’s part, it was an immense effort of self-denial. She was well aware how she laid herself open to Royston Keene’s satire, and how unlikely he was this time to spare her. Only perfect trust or perfect indifference can make one careless about giving such a chance to a known bitter tongue.
However, having made up her mind to the self-immolation, she proceeded to consider how best she should adorn herself for the sacrifice. Others have done so in sadder seriousness. Doubtless, Curtius rode at his last leap without a speck on his burnished mail: purple, and gold, and gems flamed all round Sardanapalus when he fired the holocaust in Nineveh: even that miserable, dastardly Nero was solicitous about the marble fragments that were to line his felon’s grave. So it befell that, on this particular evening, Cecil went through a very careful toilet, though it was as simple as usual; for the ultra-gorgeous style she utterly eschewed. The lilac trimmings of her dress broke the dead white sufficiently, but not glaringly, with the subdued effect of color that you may see in a campanula. Thecoiffurewas not decided on till several had been rejected. She chose at last a chaplet of those soft, silvery Venetian shells—such as her bridesmaids may have woven into the night of Amphitritè’s hair when they crowned her Queen of the Mediterranean.
It was a very artistic picture. So Madame de Verzenay said, in the midst of a rather too rapturous greeting; so the Frenchmen thought, as a low murmur of admiration ran through their circle when she entered. Fanny, too, had her modest success. There were not wanting eyes that turned for a moment from the brilliant beauty of her companion to repose themselves on the sweet girlish face shaded by silky brown tresses, and on the perfect little figure floating so lightly and gracefully along amid its draperies of pale cloudy blue.
Miss Tresilyan felt that there might beoneglance that it would be a trial to meet unconcernedly, and she had been schooling herself31sedulously for the encounter. She might have spared herself some trouble; for Royston Keene was not there when they arrived. She knew that Mrs. Molyneux had told him of the change in their plans; but the latter did not choose to confess how she had been puzzled by the very peculiar smile with which the major greeted the intelligence: it was the only notice he took of it. So the evening went on, with nothing to raise it above the dead level of averagesoirées. Cecil delayed going to the piano till she was ashamed of making more excuses, and was obliged to “execute herself” with the best grace she could manage. Even while she was singing, her glance turned more than once toward the door; but the stalwart figure, beside which all others seemed dwarfed and insignificant, never showed itself. It was clearhewas not among those who had given up other engagements to hear her songs. If we have been at some trouble and mental expense in getting ourselves into any one frame of mind—whether it be enthusiasm, or self-control, or fortitude, or heroism—it is an undeniable nuisance to find out suddenly that there is to be no scope for its exercise. Take a very practical instance. Here is Lieutenant Colonel Asahel ready on the ground, looking, as his conscience and his backers tell him, “as fine as a star, and fit to run for his life;” at the last moment his opponent pays forfeit. Just ascertain the sentiments of that gallant fusileer. Does the result at all recompense him for the futile privations and wasted asceticism of those long weary months of training—when pastry was, as it were, an abomination unto him—when his lips kept themselves undefiled from dryest Champagne or soundest claret—when he fled, fast as Cinderella, from the pleasantest company at the stroke of the midnight chimes? Of course he feels deeply injured, and would have forgiven the absentee far more easily if the latter had beaten him fairly, on his merits, breasting the handkerchief first by half a dozen yards.
On this principle, Miss Tresilyan labored all that evening under an impression that Keene had treated her very ill, and was prepared to resent it accordingly. Another there besides herself felt puzzled and uncomfortable. Harry Molyneux could not understand it at all. Royston had seemed so very anxious in the morning to induce Fanny to go—a proceeding which would probably involve the presence of her “inseparable;” and disinterested persuasion was by no means in the Cool Captain’s line. So Harry went wandering about in a purposeless, disconsolate fashion for some time, till he found himself near Cecil. I fancy he had an indistinct idea that some apology was owing toherfor his chief’s unaccountable absence; at all events, he began to confide his misgivings on the subject as soon as the men who surrounded her moved away. They soon did so; for The Tresilyan had a way, quite peculiar to herself, of conveying to those whom she wished to get rid of that their audience was ended, without speaking one word. There was a very unusual element of impatient pettishness in her reply.
“What a curious fascination Major Keene appears to exercise over his friends! I suppose you would think it quite wrong to be amused any where unless he were present to sanction it. Do you become a free agent again when you are given up entirely to your own devices? And doallsubalterns keep up that veneration for their senior officers after they have left the service? It seems to be carrying theesprit du corpsrather far.”
Harry laughed out his own musical laugh; even the imputation of dependency and helplessness which is apt to ruffle most people fell back harmlessly from his impenetrable good-humor. “I dare say it does look very absurd. But you ought to have lived with him as long as I have done to understand how naturally Royston gains his influence, and makes us do what he chooses.”
“Certainly I can not understand it. Thepoco-curantestyle is so very common just now that one gets rather tired of it. I do not like the affectation at all, but I dislike the reality still more. I believe itisa reality with Major Keene. I can not fancy him betraying any unrestrained excitement, however strong the passion that moved him might be. You have never known him do so, now? Confess it.”
“Yes I have, once,” he answered, gravely, “and I never wish to see it again.”
Cecil always liked talking to Harry Molyneux. On the present occasion the mere sound of his voice seemed to go far toward soothing her irritation: many others had experienced the same effect from those kindly gentle tones. Perhaps, too, the subject had an interest for her that she would not own. “Would it tire you to tell me about it? I am not particularly curious, but I have been so much bored to-night that a very little would amuse me.”
He hesitated for an instant. “It is notthat; but I don’t know ifIam right in telling you. Perhaps you would not like him the better for it, though he could not help it. Shall I? Well, it was in the second of our Indian battles, and the first time we had really been under fire; before it was only nominal. We had been sitting idle for two hours or more, watching the infantry and the gunners do their work; and right well they did it. The Sikhs were giving ground in all directions; but they began to gather again on our right, and at last we were told to send out three squadrons and break them at three different points. Keene was in command of mine. I never saw him look so enchanted as he did when the orders came down. I heard the chief warning him to be cautious, not to go too far (for there was a good deal of broken ground ahead), but to wheel about as soon as we had got through their lines, and to fall back immediately on our position. Royston listened and saluted, but I know he didn’t catch one word; he kept looking over his shoulder all the time the colonel was speaking, as if he grudged every second. We were very soon off; and almost before I realized the situation we were closing in on the enemy, wrapped up in our own dust and in their smoke, for the firing became heavy directly we got within range. Now I don’t think I ought to be telling you all this: it is not quite a woman’s story.”
“Please go on. I like it.” How grandly it flashed up in her cheek as she spoke—the fiery Tresilyan blood that had boiled in the veins of so many brilliant soldiers, but through twenty generations had never cooled down enough to breed one statesman!
He had taken breath by this time. “I won’t32make it longer than I can help, but it is difficult to tell some things very briefly. It was my first real charge, you know; I suppose every man’s sensations are rather peculiar under such circumstances. I did not feel much alarmed—there wasn’t time for that—but the smoke, and the noise, and the excitement made me so dizzy that I could hardly sit straight in my saddle. When we got within a hundred and fifty yards of the Sikhs their fire began to tell. I heard a bubbling, smothered sort of cry close behind me, and I looked back just in time to see a trooper fall forward over his horse’s shoulder shot through the throat. Several more were hit, and our fellows began to waver a little—not much. Just then Royston’s voice broke in: it was so clear and strong that it set my nerves right directly, and the dizzy, stifling feeling went away, as it might have done before a draught of fresh pure air. ‘Close up there, the rear rank. Keep cool, men! Steady with your bridle-hands, and strike fairly with the edge.Now!’
“He was three lengths ahead of his squadron, and well in among the enemy, when that last word came out. It was sharp work while it lasted, for the Sikhs fought like wounded wildcats: one fixed his teeth in my boot, and was dragged there till my covering-sergeant cut him loose; but we were soon through them. When we had wheeled, and were dressing into line, I caught sight of Keene’s face. It was so changed that I should hardly have known it: every fibre was quivering with passion; and his eyes—I’ve not forgotten them yet. We ought to have fallen back immediately on our old ground, but it was so evident he did not mean this, that I ventured to suggest to him what our orders had been. I was not second in command; but of my two seniors one was helpless (the stupidest man you ever saw), and the other hard hit. Royston faced round on me with a savage oath, ‘How dare you interfere, sir! Are you in command of this squadron?’ Then he turned to the troopers, ‘Have you had half enough yet, men?I haven’t.’ I am very sure he had lost his head, or he would never have spoken to me so, still less have made that last appeal, for he was the strictest disciplinarian, and looked upon his men as the merest machines. It seemed as if the devil that possessed him had gone out into the others too, for they all shouted in reply—not a cheery honest hurra! but a hoarse, hungry roar, such as you hear in wild beasts’ dens before feeding-time. An old troop-sergeant, a rigid pious Presbyterian, spoke for the rest, grinding and gnashing his teeth: ‘We’ll follow the captain any where—follow him to hell!’” (Harry’s voice had all along been subdued, but it was almost a whisper now:) “I do hope those words were not reckoned against poor Donald Macpherson, for when we got back his was one of the thirteen empty saddles. So we broke up, and went in again at the Sikhs, who were collecting in black-looking knots and irregular squares all round. It was an indescribable sort of amêlée, every man for himself, and—I dare not say—God for us all. I suppose I was as bad as the rest when once fairly launched, and we all thought we were doing our duty; but I should not like to have so many lives on my head and hand as Royston could count that night. Rememberwesuffered rather severely.
“As we took up our position again I saw the colonel was not well pleased. He had little of the romance of war about him, and did not understand his officers acting much on their own discretion. Without hearing the words, I could guess, from the expression of his hard old face, that he came down on the squadron-leader heavily. When I ranged up by Keene’s side soon afterward, he looked up at me absently. ‘I was thinking,’ he said (now one naturally expected a sentiment about the scene we had just gone through, or a reflection on the injustice of chiefs in general)—‘I was thinking what rubbish those army-cutlers sell, and call it a sword-blade.’ He held up a sort of apology for a sabre, all notched, and bent, and blunted; then he began to inquire if I had been hit at all. I had escaped with hardly a scratch; but I saw an ugly cut above his knee, and blood stealing down his bridle-arm. ‘Bah! it’s nothing,’ Royston observed, answering the direction of my eyes; ‘but—if the tulwar and the reprimand had both been sharper—confess, Hal, that this time,Le jeu valait bien la chandelle?’
“We never had a real rattling charge after that day, at least none exciting enough to warm him thoroughly. Now I am very sorry I have told you all this: it is not a nice story; but it is your own fault if I have bored you. Besides, Madame de Verzenay will never forgive me for monopolizing you so long. I do think she does me the honor to believe in a flirtation.”
Cecil’s heightened color and sparkling eyes might have justified such a suspicion in a distant and unprejudiced observer. Does not this show us how very cautious we ought to be in forming hasty conclusions from appearances which are proverbially deceptive? I protest I am filled with remorse and contrition while I reflect how often, in thought, I may have wronged and misjudged the innocent. I dare say, in many outwardly flagrant cases, the offenders were only expatiating on the merits or demerits of absent friends. Such a subject is quite engrossing enough to excuse a certain amount of “sitting out,” and some peoplealwaysblush when they are at all interested. The selection of the staircase, the balcony, or the conservatory for the discussion is the merest atmospheric question. I subscribe to Mr. Weller’s idea—only “turnips” are incredulous.Vive la charité!
After a minute or two Miss Tresilyan spoke: “No, I don’t think worse of Major Keene. As you say, I suppose he could not help it; but it must be terrible, when passions that are habitually restrained do break loose. No wonder that you do not wish to see such a sight again. It is very different, reading of battles and hearing of them from one who was an actor. Do you know, I think you have an undeveloped talent for narration. There, that ought to console you, even if Madame de Verzenay should asperse your character.”
At this moment Harry was contemplating the proceedings of his pretty little wife at the opposite side of the room with an intense satisfaction and pride.
“If Ihadyielded to temptation,” he said, “I am sure Fan could not reproach me. She would keep a much greater sinner in countenance. Miss Myrtle is a thousand times worse since she married. Just remark that by-play with the33handkerchief. You don’t suppose M. de Riberac cares one straw about Valenciennes lace? It makes one feelMoorishall over. You need not be surprised if she is found smothered or strangled in the morning. I am ‘not easily moved to jealousy, but being moved—’”
“Don’t be too murderous,” laughed Cecil; “you are certain to regret it afterward. We will reproach her as she deserves on our way home. Is it not very late?”
She wanted to be alone to think over what she had heard; and in good truth, waking or sleeping, the watches of that night were crowded with dreams.
All this time where was Royston Keene? He had been really anxious to induce Miss Tresilyan to present herself at Madame de Verzenay’s, for he liked her well enough already to feel a personal interest in her triumphs; but, after their interview in the morning (though he thought it probable that Fanny’s persuasive powers might prevail), he had determined himself not to go, and he did not change his resolutions lightly. Still he could not resist the temptation of getting one glimpse at her in “review order.” If Cecil had been very observant when she went down to her carriage, she must have noticed a tall figure standing back, half masked by a pillar, whose eyes literally flashed in the darkness as they fastened on her in her passage through the lighted hall, and drank in every item of her loveliness. He stood still for some moments after she was gone, and then walked slowly down to the Cercle. While they were talking about him at Madame de Verzenay’s, Royston was holding his own gallantly atécartéwith Armand de Châteaumesnil, for the honor of England and—ten Napoleons a side. As was his wont, he played superbly; but he spoke seldom, and hardly seemed to hear the comments of the crowdedgalèrie. In truth, at some most critical points—when the game was in abeyance atquatre à—a delicate proud face, and a shell wreath glistening in velvet hair,wouldrise before him, and dethrone in his thoughts the painted kings and queens. His adversary did not fail to observe this; but he said nothing till the play was ended and most of the others had left the room. Then he laid his hand on Keene’s arm, and drew his head down to the level of his own lips, and spoke low:
“Mon camarade, je me rappelle, d’avoir vu, il y a quelques ans, au Café de la Régence, un homme qui tenait tête, aux échecs, à quatre concurrens. Les habitués en disaient des merveilles. Mais ce n’était qu’un bon bourgeois après tout; et, nous autres, nous sommes plus forts que les bourgeois. Vouz avez joué ce soir les deux parties que, dit le proverbe, c’est presque impossible de remporter simultanément; et je ne me tiens pas pour le seul perdant.”
Royston did not seem in the least inclined to smile; had he done so Armand would have been bitterly disappointed. As it was, he answered very coldly, without a shade of consciousness on his face.
“Un compliment mérite toujours des remercimens, M. le Vicomte, même quand on ne le comprend pas. Pardon, si je vous engage, de ne pas expliquer plus clairementvotreallégorie.”
The other looked up at him with an expression that might almost have been mistaken for sympathy.
“Parbleu!” he muttered, “si beau joueur merite bien de gagner!”
Chapter division
Sometimes,lying on the cliffs of Kerry or Clare, on a cloudless autumn day, when not a breath of wind is stirring, you may see rank after rank of heavy purple billows rolling sullenly in from the offing: these are messengers coming to tell us of battles fought a thousand leagues to the westward, in which they, too, have borne their part. Before the mail comes in we are prepared to hear of a storm that has worked its wicked will for nights and days, thundering among the granite boulders of Labrador, or tearing through the fog-banks of Newfoundland. This is perhaps the most commonplace of all ancient comparisons; but where will you find so apt a parallel for the vagaries of the human heart as the phases of the deep, false, beautiful sea?
On the morning after Madame de Verzenay’s party, Cecil rose in a very troubled frame of mind. She had no feeling of irritation left against Royston Keene; but she was uneasy, and uncomfortable, and loth to meet him. What she had felt and what she had heard had moved her too deeply for her to resume at once her wonted composure. So it was that she accepted very readily an invitation from Mrs. Fullarton to accompany herself and children on a mild botanizing excursion among the hills. These smallfêteswent a long way with that hard-working and meritorious woman; what with anticipation and retrospect, each lasted her about two months. Miss Tresilyan was prevented from starting with the rest of the party; but the chaplain himself was to escort her to the place of rendezvous, his little daughter Katie being retained to be invested with the temporary and “local” rank of chaperone—a formality which, in these days of scanty faith, even married divines are not allowed to dispense with. The quartette was completed by the mule-driver—one of those remarkable boys who converse invariably in a tongue which the beasts of burden seem to understand and sympathize with, but which, to any other creature whatsoever, is absolutely destitute of meaning. They had some way to go; so Cecil had taken up Katie before her on her mule; the pastor walked by her side, glozing (for the road was not very steep) on all sorts of subjects, gravely and smoothly, as was his wont. They had crossed the first line of hills, and were descending into the valley beyond, when, turning a sharp corner where a projecting rock almost barred the path, they came suddenly on Royston Keene. He was lying at full length, his head resting against the knotted root of an olive, with eyes half closed, and the cigar between his lips, that seldom left them when he was alone. Itwasodd that he should have selected that especial spot for the scene of hissiesta. Cecil did her very utmost to look unconcerned: it was too provoking that she could not help blushing! Mr. Fullarton evidently looked upon it in the light of an ambush. Had he ventured to give his thoughts utterance, certainly the ready text34would have sprung to his lips, “Hast thou found me, O mine enemy?” If there was “malice prepense” there, the “enemy” deserved some credit for the perfectly natural air of surprise with which he rose and greeted them.
“Are you recruiting after last night’s triumphs, or escaping from popular enthusiasm, Miss Tresilyan? I have met several Frenchmen already who are quite childish about your singing. I should not advise you to venture on the Terrace to-day. There might be temptations to vanity, which Mr. Fullarton will tell you are dangerous.”
She had so completely made up her mind to some allusion to her change of purpose, or to his own absence, that it was rather aggravating to find him ignore both utterly. But she rallied well.
“Nothing half so imaginative, Major Keene. It was a very stupid party, and I only sang once, as, I dare say, you have heard. We are only going to help Mrs. Fullarton to find some wild-flowers. I hope you have not anticipated us?”
Hefixedher with the cool, appreciative look that was harder to meet than even his sneer.
“No; the flowers are safe from me. I don’t care enough about them to keep them; and it is a pity to pick them and throw them away to wither. But I would have asked to be allowed to help you in your search, only—I don’t like to spoil a picture. You brought a very good one to my mind as you turned the corner, a ‘Descent into Egypt,’ that I saw long ago. The blotthere, I remember, was a very stout, rubicund Joseph, not at all worthy of the imperial Madonna.”
While he was speaking he drew back, and leaned lazily against the stem of the olive, with the evident intention of resuming his original posture as soon as courtesy would allow. Miss Tresilyan could not restrain a quick gesture of impatience.
“As we did not come out toposer, Mr. Fullarton, don’t you think we had better not delay any longer? We are so late already, that I am sure the rest of the party will be tired of waiting.”
Guess if her companion was loth to obey her.
They moved on for some time almost in silence. Cecil’s thoughts were busy with a picture too—not the less vivid because only her own imagination had painted it. Her deep, dreamy eyes passed over the landscape actually before them without catching one of its details: they were looking on a desolate stony plain, cracked and calcined by a fierce Indian sun—a few plumy palms in the background, and the rocky bed of a river half dried up—in the foreground a crowd of wild barbaric soldiery, with savage, swarthy features, bareheaded or white-turbaned; mingled with these were horsemen in the uniform of our light dragoons, sabring right and left mercilessly. In the very centre of themêléewas one figure, round which all the others seemed to group themselves as mere accessories. She saw, very distinctly, the dark, determined face, set, every line of it, in an unspeakable ferocity, with a world of murderous meaning in the gleaming eyes—so distinctly that it drove out the remembrance of the same man’s face, expressive of nothing but passionless indifference, though she looked upon it but a few minutes since under the gray branches of the olive. She almost heard his clear, imperious tones cheering on and rallying his troopers, when a ruder voice broke her reverie.
“Halte là!”
If there was one thing that miserable muleteer-boy ought to have known better than another, it was the insuperable objection entertained by the Provençal peasant to any thing like trespass on his territory (the touchiness of thepropriétairebears generally an inverse ratio to the extent of his possessions); yet, to make a short cut of about two hundred yards, he had led his party through a gap in the low stone wall over a strip of ground belonging to the very man who was least likely to overlook the intrusion. Jean Duchesne had a bad name in the neighborhood, and deserved it thoroughly; he was surly enough when sober (which was the exception), but when drunk there were no bounds to his blind, brutish ferocity, and his great personal strength made him a formidable antagonist. He was not an agreeable object to contemplate, that gaunt giant, as he stood there in his squalid, tattered dress, with rough, matted hair, and face flushed by recent intemperance, and flecked with livid stains of past debauches. You may see many such crowding round the guillotine or the tumbrel in pictures of the French Revolution.
It is very odd that one can not write or read those two words without a boiling of the blood, a tingling at the fingers’ ends, and a tightening of the muscles of the forearm—ineffably absurd when excited by a recollection seventy years old! Yet so it is. You may talk of oppression till you are tired; you may catalogue all the wrongs thatJacques Bonhommeendured before his day of retaliation came; you may bring in your pet illustration of “the storm that was necessary to clear the atmosphere;” but you will never make some of us feel that the guilt of an Order—had it been blacker by a hundred shades—palliated the Massacre of its Innocents. If theMarquisandMousquetaireonly had suffered, they might have laid down their lives cheerfully, as they would have done the stake of any other lost game; and as for the priests, it was their privilege to be martyrs. But think of those fair matrons, and gentle girls, and delicatemignonnes, that had been petted from their childhood, cooped up in the foul courts of the Abbaye and La Force, with even the necessaries of life begrudged them, till the light died in their eyes and the gloss faded from their tresses; and then brought out to die in the chill, mistyBrumairemorning, howled at and derided by the swarm of bloodsuckers, till they cowered down, not in fear, but sickening horror, welcoming Samson and his satellites as friends and saviors. Remember, too, that there was scarcely an exception to the rule of patient courage, calm self-sacrifice, and pride of birth that never belied itself. Dubarry might shriek on the scaffold, but the Rohans died mute.
Of all the digressions we have indulged in, this is perhaps the most unwarrantable; and, though it has relieved me unspeakably, I hereby tender a certain amount of contrition for the same.Revenons à nos moutons—though there was very little of the sheep in the appearance of Jean Duchesne, whose demeanor (when we left him) you will recollect was decidedly aggressive. It was evident that the mule-boy thought mischief35was brewing, for he twisted his features—irregular andtumbledenough already—into divers remarkable contortions expressive of remorse and terror.
“Who, then, dares to trespass on my lands? Do you think we sow our crops for your cursed mules to trample on?”
He spoke in a hoarse, thick voice (suggestive of spirituous liquors), and in the disagreeable Provençal dialect, which must have altered strangely since the time of thetroubadours: brief as his speech was, it found room for more than one of those expletives which are nowhere so horribly blasphemous as in the south of France.
Cecil had started slightly at the first interjection, which broke her day-dream, but she was not otherwise alarmed or discomposed: she seemed to regard thepropriétairesimply as an unpleasant obstacle to their progress, and glanced at Mr. Fullarton as if she expected him to clear it away. The latter was not good at French, but he did manage to express their sorrow if they had done any harm unconsciously, and their wish to retire instantly. “Not before paying,” was the reply. “Quinze francs de dedommagemens; et puis, filez aux tous les diables!”
Women are not expected to carry purses or any other objects of simple utility; but why Mr. Fullarton should have left his at home on this particular day is between himself and his own conscience. The party very soon realized the fact that they could muster about a hundred and fifty centimes among them.
Even kings and kaisers, whenincogniti, have ere this been reduced to the extremest straits of ignominy from the want of a few available pieces of silver; and, in ordinary life, five shillings ready at the moment are frequently of more importance than as many hundreds in expectancy. There lives even now a man who missed the most charming rendezvous with which fortune ever favored him, because he rode a mile round to avoid a turnpike, not having wherewithal to pay it. Since that disastrous day he is ever furnished with such a weight of small change that, had Cola Pesce carried it, the strong swimmer must have sunk like a stone—in penance, probably, even as James of Scotland wore the iron belt. At a pause in the conversation you may hear him rattling the coppers in his pocket moodily, as the spectres in old romances rattle their chains; but his remorse is unavailing. A fair chance once lost, Whist and Erycina never forgive. The beautiful bird that mightthenhave been limed and tamed shook her wings and flew away exultingly: far up in air the unlucky fowler may still sometimes hear her clear mocking carol, but she is too near heaven for his arts to reach, and has escaped the toils forever.
On the present occasion Katie Fullarton “flashed” her one half-franc with great courage and confidence, but the display of all that small capitalist’s worldly wealth did not mollify Jean Duchesne. He had been lashing himself up all along into such a state of brutal ferocity, that he would have been disappointed if his extortion had been immediately satisfied; so he broke in savagely on the chaplain’s confused excuses and promises to settle everything at a fitting season: “Tais toi, blagueur! On ne me floue pas ainsi avec des promesses; je m’en fiche pas mal. Au moins, on me laissera un gage.” His blood-shot eyes roved from one object to another till they lighted on the parasol that Miss Tresilyan carried: it was of plain dark-gray silk, with a slight black lace trimming, but the carvings of the ivory handle made it of some real value. Before any one could divine his intention he had plucked it rudely from her hand.
Almost with the same motion Cecil set Katie down, and sprang herself from the saddle. In her eyes there was such intensity of anger that the drunken savage recoiled a pace or two, and for the first time in his life felt something like self-contempt: to have saved her soul she could not have spoken one word, but her silence was expressive enough as she turned to Mr. Fullarton. It is difficult to say what line she expected him to take—not thevoie de faitcertainly; at least, if the hypothesis had been put to her when she was cool enough to consider it, she would utterly have repudiated such an idea. Perhaps she had a right to look for moral support, if not for active championship.
We will not enter into the vexed question of physical courage and cowardice: it is a truism to say that the latter may co-exist with great moral firmness, which is, of course, far the superior quality. They will tell you that, when confronted with mere personal peril, a butcher or grenadier may match the best of us. Possibly; I am not going to dispute it. Only remember that there are occasions (very few in these civilized days) when the most refined ofbas-bleuswould rather see a strong, brave, honest man at her side, than an abstruse philosopher, a clever conversationalist—ay, even than a perfect Christian—whose nerves are not to be depended on; when Parson Adams would be worth a bench of bishops. We can not all be athletes; and, with the best intentions, some of us at such times are liable to defeat and discomfiture. The most utterly fearless man I ever knew had abicepsthat his own small fingers could have spanned. No woman, however—keeping the attributes of her sex—would think the worse of her champion for being trampled under foot when he had done his best to defend her. You know their province is to console, and even pet the vanquished; they make up lint for the wounded as readily as they weave laurels for the conquerors. But when they have once seen a man play the coward, the silver tongue, with all its eloquent explanation and honeyed pleadings, will hardly banish from their eyes the peculiar expression wavering betwixt compassion and contempt. They may forgive cruelty, or insolence, or even treachery—in time; but they can find no palliation, and little sympathy, for that one unpardonable sin. Truly, transgression in this line, beyond a certain point, may scarcely be excused; for weakness may be controlled, if not cured: if we can not be dashingly courageous, we may at least be decently collected: not all may aspire to the cross of valor, but it is not difficult to steer clear of courts-martial.
A man is not pleasant to contemplate when terror has driven out all self-command; so we will not draw Mr. Fullarton’s picture: he could scarcely stammer out words enough to suggest an immediate retreat. It was painful—notludicrous—to see how justly his own child appreciated the position: the little thing left her father’s36side instinctively, and clung for protection to Cecil Tresilyan. The latter saw instantly how matters stood; and if the glance she cast on the aggressor was not pleasant to meet, far more unendurable was that which fell upon her unlucky companion: it was piercing enough to penetrate the strong armor of his wonderful self-complacency, and to rankle for many a day. She struck her small foot on the ground with a gesture of imperial disdain. Even so the Scythian Amazon might have spurned the livid head of Cyrus the Great King.
“I will not stir till I see if no one will come who can take my part. Ah! I would give—”
“Don’t be rash, Miss Tresilyan. You might be taken at your word.”
Cecil turned quickly, with a delicious sense of confidence and triumph thrilling through every fibre of her frame: on the top of the rock that rose ten feet high, like a wall, on their right, stood Royston Keene. A more pacific character would have dared a greater danger for the reward and the promise of her eyes.
He took in the whole scene at a glance (perhaps he had heard more than he chose to own), and, swinging himself lightly down, strode right across thepotagerwith a disregard of the proprietor’s interests and feelings refreshing to see.
“It seems to me that the ancient positions have been reversed. You have been spoiled by the Egyptians, Miss Tresilyan. Shall we try the secular arm? You have scarcely been safe under the protection of the church—militant.”
There was a pause before the last word, and it was unpleasantly emphasized. Then he advanced a step or two toward the Frenchman, without waiting for a reply, and spoke in a totally different tone—brief and imperative—“Tu vas me rendre ça?”
Duchesne had been rather startled by the apparition of the new-comer, and, if he had been cool enough to reflect, would not have fancied him as an antagonist; but his passion blinded him, and strong drink had heated his brutal blood above boiling point; he ground his teeth, as he answered, till the foam ran down—
“Le rendre—à toi—chien d’Anglais? je m’en garderai bien. Si la belle demoiselle veut le ravoir, elle viendra demain, me prier bien gentiment; et elle viendra—seule.”
Now Royston Keene was thoroughly impregnated with the bitterest of aristocratic prejudices: no man alive more utterly ignored the doctrines of liberty, equality, and fraternity; besides this, he had acquired, to an unusual extent, the overbearing tone and demeanor which the habit of having soldiers under them is supposed to bring, too commonly, to modern centurions. He actually experienced a “fresh sensation” as he heard the insult leveled by those coarse plebeian lips at the woman “he delighted to honor.” His swarthy face grew white down to the lips, whose quivering the heavy mustache could not quite conceal, and he shivered from head to foot where he stood. Jean Duchesne thought he detected the familiar signs of a terror he had often inspired. “Tu as peur donc? Tu tressaillesdéjà, blanc-bec! Tonnerre de Dì! tu as raison.” Not a trace of passion lingered in the major’s clear, cold voice, that fell upon the ear with the ring of steel. “On ne tressaille pas, quand on estsûrde gagner. Regarde donc en arrière.”
Involuntarily the Frenchman looked behind him, expecting a fresh adversary from that quarter. As he turned his head Keene sprang forward, and plucked the parasol from his grasp: in one second he had laid it lightly in its owner’s hand; in the next he had returned to his position, and stood, ready for the onset, motionless as the marble Creugas.
He had not long to wait. Even a “well-conditioned” Gaul does not like being outwitted, and the successfulruseexasperated Duchesne into insanity. Roaring like a wild beast that has missed its spring, he rushed in to grapple. Royston never moved a finger till the enemy was well within distance; then, slinging his left hand straight out from the hip, he “let him have it” fairly between the eyes.
One blow—only one—but a blow that, had it been stricken in the days of Olympian and Nemean contests—where Pindar and his peers were “reporters”—might well have earned a dithyramb; a blow that would have gladdened the sullen spirit of the old gladiator who trained the Cool Captain, if the prophet had lived to see his auguries fulfilled, or if sights and sounds from upper earth could penetrate to the limbo of defunct athletæ. Nothing born of woman could have stood before it, and it was small blame to Jean Duchesne that he dropped like a log in his tracks. In another instant his conqueror had one knee on the chest of the fallen man, and both hands were griping his throat.
His own face was fearfully changed. It wore an expression that has been very often seen in the sixty centuries that have passed since Cain struck his brother down, but has very seldom been described; for the dead tell no tales beyond what their features, stiffened in hopeless terror, may betray. It has been seen on lost battle-fields—in the streets of cities given up to pillage, when the storming is just over and the carnage begun—on desolate hill-sides—in dark forest-glades—in chambers of lonely houses, strongly but vainly barred—in every place where men in the death agony have “cried and there was none to help them.” It was full time forsome oneto interfere when the devil had entered into Royston Keene.
From the moment that affairs had assumed such a different aspect Mr. Fullarton had gradually been recovering his composure, and by this time was quite himself again. He advanced confidently, and, laying his hand on the major’s shoulder with an imposing air, and with his best pulpit manner, enunciated, “Thou shalt do no murder!” The latter, as we have already said, was utterly beside himself; but even this can not excuse the abrupt, impatient movement that sent such an eminent divine reeling three paces back. The rigid lips only twisted themselves into an evil sneer, and the cruel fingers tightened their gripe till the features of the prostrate wretch grew convulsed and black.
The whole scene had passed so quickly, though it takes so long to describe (some of us nevercansucceed in stenography), that Cecil felt perfectly lost in a whirl of conflicting emotions, till she saw the face in life before her that she had been fancying ever since last night. A great fear came over her, but she overcame it, and37her woman’s instinct told her what to do. She laid her little hand upon Keene’s arm before he was aware that she was near, and whispered so that only he could hear, “Formysake.” Only these three simple words; but the exorcism was complete.
Again a shiver ran all through the hardy frame, and for once Love was more powerful than Hate. He loosed his hold—slowly though, and reluctantly—and rose to his feet, passing his hand over his eyes in a strange, bewildered way; but in five seconds his wonderful self-command asserted itself, and he spoke as coolly as ever. “A thousand pardons. One does forget one’s self sometimes when thecanailleare provoking, but I ought to have remembered what was due toyou.”
Though she could not speak, she tried to smile; but strong reaction had come on. In the pale woman that trembled so painfully it was hard to recognize proud Cecil Tresilyan. Royston was watching her narrowly, and his tone softened till it made his simple words a caress. “Don’t make me more angry with myself than I deserve. Indeed, there is nothing more to alarm or distress you. If you would only forgive me!” He helped her into the saddle as he spoke, and she submitted passively. But the happy feeling of perfect trust in him was coming back fast.
Jean Duchesne had somewhat recovered from his stupor, and was leaning on one arm, panting heavily, still in great pain; but he was inured to all sorts of broils, and evidently he would soon recover from the effects of this one, though he had never been so roughly handled. It was sheer terror that made him lie so still: he dared move no more than a whipped hound while in the presence of his late opponent.
The others turned slowly homeward, for it is needless to say the wild-flowers and the rendezvous were forgotten. As they turned the corner which cut off the view of Duchesne’s ground, Royston looked back once, longingly. It was well for Cecil’s nerves, in their disturbed state, that she did not catch that Parthian glance. Ah, those ungovernable eyes! They were gleaming with the expression that Kirkpatrick’s may have worn when he turned into the chapel where the Red Comyn lay, growling, “Imak sicker.”
None of the party were much disposed for conversation; for even Mr. Fullarton did not feel equal to “improving the occasion” just then. Cecil broke the silence at last: it was where the road was so narrow that only two could walk abreast: Royston never left her bridle-rein. “You must fancy that I have thanked you; I can not do so properly now. It is strange, though, that you should have come up so very opportunely. Was it a presentiment that made you follow us?”
The answer was so low that she had almost to guess at it from the motion of his lips, “Have you forgotten Napoleon’s last rallying-cry, ‘Qui m’aime me suit?’” No wonder that his pulse would throb exultantly as he saw the bright, beautiful blush that swept over his companion’s cheek and brow! They had almost reached home when he spoke again, “You would have been liberal in your promises twenty minutes ago if I had not stopped you, Miss Tresilyan. Ishouldlike to have some memorial of to-day. Very childish, is it not? Will you give methis? I deserve something for saving that pretty parasol.” He touched the glove she had just drawn off—a light riding-gauntlet, fancifully cut, and embroidered with silk. Cecil hesitated, though she would have been loth to refuse him any thing just then. She felt, as most proud, sensitive women feel the first time they are asked for what may be interpreted into agage d’amour. The tribute may be nominal, and the suzerain may be lenient indeed, but none the less does it establish vassalage.
Royston interpreted her reluctance aright, and went on with an earnestness very unusual with him: for once it was honest and true. “Pray trust me. The moment I cease to value thatsouveniras it deserves, on my honor I will return it.”
He was fated to triumph all through that day. When Cecil was alone she put something away with a very unnecessary carefulness, for surely nothing can be more valueless than a glove that has lost its mate.