CHAPTER XIII.

Chapter divisionCHAPTER XIII.I amalmost ashamed to confess how deeply the scene she had witnessed affected Cecil Tresilyan. The exhibition of Keene’s fierce temper ought certainly to have warned, if it did not disgust her. She could only think—“It was for my sake that he was so angry, and he yielded to my first word.”There is rather a heavy run just now against the “physical force” doctrine. It seems to me that some of its opponents are somewhat hypercritical. For many, many years romancists persisted in attributing to their principal heroes every point of bodily perfection and accomplishment; no one thought then of caviling at such a well-understood and established type. That most fertile and meritorious of writers, for instance, Mr. G. P. R. James, invariably makes hisjeun premierat least moderately athletic; so much so, that when he has the villain of the tale at his sword’s point we feel a comfortable confidence that virtue will triumph as it deserves. As such a contingency is certain to occur twice or thrice in the course of the narrative, a nervous reader is spared much anxiety and trouble of mind by this satisfactory arrangement.Nous avons changé tout cela.Modern refinement requires that the chief character shall be made interesting in spite of his being dwarfish, plain-featured, and a victim to pulmonary or some more prosaic disease. Clearly we are right. What is the use of advancing civilization if it does not correct our taste? What have we to do with the “manners and customs of the English” in the eighteenth century, or with the fictions that beguiled our boyhood? Let our motto still be “Forward;” we have pleasures of which our grandsires never dreamed, and inventions that they were inexcusable in ignoring. We are so great that we can afford to be generous. Let them sleep well, those honest but benighted ancients, who went down to their graves unconscious of “Aunt Sally,” and perhaps never properly appreciatedcaviare!38It is true that there are some writers—not the weakest—who still cling to the old-fashioned mould. Putting Lancelot and Amyas out of the question, I think I would sooner have “stood up” to most heroes of romance than to sturdy Adam Bede. It can’t be a question of religion or morality, for “muscularChristianity” is the stock-sarcasm of the opposite party: it must be a question of good taste. Well, ancient Greece is supposed to have had some floating ideas onthatsubject, and she deified Strength. It is perfectly true, that to thrash a prize-fighter unnecessarily is not a virtuous or glorious action, but I contend that thecapabilityof doing so is an admirable and enviable attribute. There are grades of physical as well as of moral perfection; and, after all, the same Hand created both.Have I been replying against the critics?Absit omen!They are more often right, I fear, than authors are willing to allow; for itisaggravating to have one’s pet bits of pathos put between inverted commas for the world in general to make a mock at (we could hardly write them down without tears in our eyes), and to have our story condensed into a few clever, pithy sentences (all in the present tense), till its weakness becomes painfully apparent. More than this, our candid friends are impalpable. Real life can furnish us with enough substantial opponents for us not to trouble ourselves about Junius. Neither in war nor love is it expedient to grasp at shadows. Ah! Mr. Reade, why were you not warned by Ixion?One thing is certain: however sound your arguments in depreciation of personal prowess may be, you will never gain a unanimous feminine verdict. It must be an extraordinary exhibition of mental excellence that will really interest the generality of our sisters for the moment as deeply as a very ordinary feat of strength or skill. It is not that they can not thoroughly appreciate rectitude of feeling, brilliancy of conversation, and distinguished talent; but remember the hackneyed quotation:Segnius irritant animum demissa per aures,Quam quæ sunt oculis subjecta fidelibus.If you want a proof of the correctness of Horace’s opinion, go up to “Lord’s” this month, and watch the flutter among the fair spectators, just after a “forward drive” over the Pavilion; or, better still, the next time the “Grand Military” comes off at Warwick, mark the reception that the man who rides a winner will meet with in the stand. Conventionality has done a good deal, but it has not refined away all the frank, impulsive woman-nature yet. The knights are dust, and their good swords rust; but dame and demoiselle are very much the same as they were in the old days, when the Queen of Scots could singHow they reveled through the summer night,And by day made lanceshafts flee,For Mary Beatoun, and Mary Seatoun,And Mary Fleming, and me.Will this long and rather rashtiradein the least excuse Cecil Tresilyan? Of course not. My poor heroine! It was very unnecessary—that advertisement that she was not superior to the weaknesses of her sex; for it seems to me, with every chapter, she has been growing more fallible and frail. She was utterly incapable of being at all demonstrative or “gushing;” but her preference for Royston Keene was now quite undisguised.Mrs. Danvers was bitterly exasperated. It would be unjust to deny that she was greatly actuated by a sincere interest in herci-devantpupil’s welfare; but other feelings were at work.It is very remarkable how a perfectly well-principled woman will connive at what she can not approve so long as she is taken unreservedly into confidence; but when once one secret is kept back the danger of her antagonism begins; the magic draught that has lulled the vigilant Gryphon to sleep loses its potency; the guardian of the treasure awakes—more savage because conscious of a dereliction in duty—and woe to the Arimaspian! The cold, pale, chaste moon comes forth from behind the cloud, determined to reveal every iota of transgression: no farther chance of concealment here—Reparat sua cornua Phœbe.So, to the utmost of her small powers, Bessie did endeavor to thwart and counteract the adversary. Her line was consistently plaintive. In season and out of season she whined and wept profusely. This was the last resource of her simple strategy: when the enemy was getting too strong to be met in open field, she adopted the Dutch plan of opening the sluices and trying to drown him. It is painful to be obliged to state that the inundation did not greatly avail. As she had done from the first, Cecil declined to make any confidences, or indeed to discuss the question at all.Mr. Fullarton, too, felt keenly the defection of a promising proselyte. Since that unfortunate afternoon Miss Tresilyan had been perfectly civil, but always very cold; and he could not but be aware that he had lost ground then that he never could hope to regain. The divine must have been very desperate when he ventured to attack that impracticable brother. It was not a judicious move; nor would any one have tried it who knew Dick Tresilyan. It was not only that he liked and admired Royston Keene, but he had a blind confidence in his sister that nothing on earth could disturb: the evidence of his own senses would not have affected it in the least. “Whatevershedoes is right,” he thought; and he clung to that idea, as many other true believers will do to a creed that they can not understand. So when the question was broached he was not very angry (for he didmorethan justice to the chaplain’s sense of duty), but he stubbornly declined to enter upon it at all. Mr. Fullarton was so provoked that he was goaded into a taunt that he ought to have been ashamed of.“Perhaps you are right,” he said; “Major Keene is so formidable an adversary, that it is hardly safe to interfere with him.” (These “men of peace”—quand ils s’y prennent! I believe the most exasperating man in England, at this moment, to be an influential Quaker.)Dick Tresilyan took a long time (as was his wont) in finding out what was meant; when he did, even his limited intellect appreciated its bad taste and absurdity. A hundred sarcasms would not have disconcerted the pastor so completely as his honest, hearty laugh.“Ah! you think I’m afraid of him? No—they don’t breed cowards where I come from. I never heard that idea but once before; that was39at the Truro fair. I wasn’t in very good company, and they ‘planted’ a big miner on me at last. He wanted me to wrestle, and when I wouldn’t, he said—just what you did. But I remember all the others laughed at him. They knowusin those parts, you see. He’d better have kept quiet; for though he puzzled me at first with a ‘back trick’ he had, I knew more than he did, and he got an awkward fall; I don’t think he’ll ever do a good day’s work again.” He paused, and his brow darkened strangely, and all his face changed, till it resembled more closely than it had often done the portraits of come of the “bitter, bad Tresilyans.” “I suppose you mean well, Mr. Fullarton, but I’m not going to thank you. We can manage our affairs without your meddling; and if you’re wise you’ll leave us alone.” It will be seen that the chaplain did not take much by his motion.Neither was Fanny Molyneux well satisfied with the turn affairs had taken lately. That poor little “white witch” was really alarmed by the unruly character of the spirit that she had been anxious to raise; she did not know the proper formula for sending it back to its own place; and, if she had, the stubborn demon would only have mocked at her simple incantations. Though she loved Cecil dearly, she was too much in awe of her to venture upon remonstrance or warning; indeed, the few mild hints that shedidthrow out had not met with such success as to tempt her to follow them up. So she was, perforce, reduced to an unarmed neutrality.Her husband was perhaps the most thoroughly uncomfortable of the party. He knew the circumstances and bearings of the question better than any one else, and would have sacrificed a good deal (“his right hand,” I believe, is the proper phrase) to have averted the probable result. But he had not sufficient strength of mind to take the decided measures that might have been of some avail; in fact, he had a vague idea that to act on the offensive against his old comrade would be unpardonable treachery. Arguing with the latter was simply absurd; for this reason, if for no other, that from the moment his feelings became really interested, no amount of diplomacy would have induced him to enter upon the subject. Harry went about with a miserable, helpless sense of complicity weighing him down, which was much aggravated by a few words which dropped one morning from Dick Tresilyan.Dick had been diningtête-à-têtewith Keene on the previous evening after a hard day’s snipe shooting, and bore evident traces about him of a heavy night—a fact which he lost no time in alluding to, not without a certain pride, like the man in Congreve’s play, who exults in having “been drunk in excellent company.” “We had a very big drink,” he said, confidentially, “and the major got more than his allowance. He didn’t know what he was talking about at last, and he told me more of his affairs than most people know, I think; of course, I’m as safe as a church;” and Dick made a gallant but abortive attempt to wink with one of his swollen eyelids.Molyneux shrank away from the speaker with something very like a suppressed groan—he had heardthatsaid before, and remembered what came of it. Credulity was as dangerous when men thought Royston Keene had lost his head as when women flattered themselves he had lost his heart.Chapter divisionCHAPTER XIV.Ifyou will be good enough to look back on the one romance in which, like the rest of the world, you probably indulged yourself, you will remember, perhaps more distinctly than any other feature, thepresentimentwhich haunted you from the very beginning. We were absurdly sanguine and hopeful in those days—full of chivalrous resolves and unlimited aspirations; but still the feeling would come back—if, indeed, it ever left us—that in the dim background there was difficulty and danger. We were not surprised when the small white speck rose out of the sea, and it needed no prophet to tell us then that the heavens would soon be black with clouds, and that there would be a great rain (which, indeed, was the case, for there ensued a long continuance of wet weather; it was a very tearful season). Oddly enough, that same presentiment did not make us particularly melancholy or uncomfortable, but seemed rather to give a zest to our simple pleasures, relieving them from any tinge of sameness or insipidity. When thedénouementcame we did not exactly see things in the same light certainly, and it took some time to settle thoroughly down into our present theory, that “it was all for the best.”It is the old story of Thomas the Rhymer over and over again (we were all rhymers once). The lover knows that there is peril in the path, but not the less joyously he strides on by the side of the beautiful queen. How sweetly they ring, the silver bells on the neck of the milk-white palfrey; not so sweetly, though, as her low, musical tones. So on they fare, till the world of realities is left far behind, and they find themselves at their journey’s end. It is very happy, that year spent in her kingdom; but so like a dream that he does not appreciate its pleasures so well at the moment as he will in the weary after-years. Yet the waking came too soon. The sojourner had not half grown tired of his resting-place; the bloom has not faded on the wondrous fruits and flowers: the strangely sweet wine has not lost its savor, when it is time for him to be gone, for a dreadful whisper runs through the company that to-morrow the teind to hell must be paid. Well, the black tax-gatherer is balked by a day, and the wanderer is back at Ercildoune again. Very dreary looks the gray, bare moorland. Do they call that foliage on the stunted fir-trees? It is only the ghost of a forest. The trim parterres have no beauty or fragrance for one that has lingered in more glorious gardens and plucked redder roses. Tabret and viol jangle harshly in the ears that have rioted in melodies made by fairy harpers. The village maidens may be comely, but they are somewhat clumsy withal; the earthen floor trembles under their feet when they lead their simple dances; very different from the steps that kept time to a wild, weird music, stirring but scarcely bending the grass-blades. There is no color in their flaxen locks, and little light in their40pale-blue eyes; these will not bear comparison with the smooth, braided tresses that glistened like blue-black serpents, or the glances that rained down liquid fire through the twilight of the forests of Elf-land. Slowly the discontented dreamer realizes the fact that the spell is still upon him—riveted when he stole that first fatal kiss in despite of his mistress’s warning. Nothing is left for him now but to expiate his folly in the loneliness of the gray old tower, and to look forth, hoping to see the grass-green robe gleam again against the setting sun, and to hear the silver bells chime once more in the still evening air. Vain—worse than vain. With stiffened limbs and grizzled hair, we are not worth beguiling.This is essentially a masculine illustration, and only applies to Cecil Tresilyan thus far. She was sensible of the influence that strengthened its hold upon her every day, and did not now wish or try to resist it, but she grew proportionately doubtful and uneasy about the event. A feeling, very strange and new to one of a temperament like hers, began to creep over her now and then. At such times she owned that her eyes were the more eagerly and steadfastly fixed on the Present, because they did not dare to look into the Future. Yet, as far as she knew, there was no ground for much apprehension.It is always so. Only when we are carrying something rare and precious do we appreciate the possible perils of the road. How much steeper the hills are now, how much deeper and darker the ravines, how much more frequent the crags that might so easily conceal a marauder, than when we passed them some months ago chanting the reckless roundel of thevacuus viator.We said, you remember, before, that Miss Tresilyan had one subject of self-reproach, for which she had never gained her own absolution. The whispers that had never been quite silenced began to make themselves heard unpleasantly often, and now they just hinted at Retribution. As our poor Cecil must come to confession some time or another, it seems to me this is a convenient season.At the country-house where she was spending Christmas, three years before the date of our story, she met Mark Waring. She knew his antecedents: how, when sudden troubles came upon his family, he gave up diplomacy, which he had entered upon, and took up the law—hating it cordially—simply because a fair opening was given him there of securing to his mother and sisters something better than bread. He never pretended to feel the slightest interest in his profession, but went on slaving at it resolutely and successfully. He made no merit of it either, but always spoke, and I believe thought of it, as the merest matter of course—the right thing to do under the circumstance. There was a hardihood of principle about all this which Cecil rather admired; and his frank, bold bearing, and simple, straightforward way of putting thoughts that were worth listening to into terse, strong language, aided the first favorable impression. She determined to make Mark like her; and when she had a fancy of this kind, she was apt to carry it out without much consideration for the comfort or convenience of the person destined to the experiment. She had no deliberate intention of doing any body any harm; but those innocent little whims and projects of amusement do more mischief sometimes than the most systematic machinations of devil-craft. Why, when you begin even towritea chapter, it is very difficult to say where it will end; when you begin to talk it or act it, it is harder still to prophesy aright. A character, or a sentence, or an idea, which looked quite insignificant at first, assumes perfectly portentous dimensions and importance before we have done with it; so that the alternate effect is nearly as startling when realized as that produced by Alice’s conjuration:She crossed him thrice, that lady bold;He rose beneath her hand,The fairest knight on Scottish mould,Her brother, Ethert Brand.So while Cecil was drawing on Mark Waring to talk about his daily life—sympathizing with him about his hard, distasteful work, and pitying his loneliness, she never guessed how her words were being branded, one by one, on the earnest, steadfast heart, that her own lofty nature was not worthy to understand. In a week after their first meeting she had drawn from him all the love he had to give; and men of Mark Waring’s mould can only find room for one love in a lifetime. Such characters are exceptional, fortunately; for they are very impracticable and difficult to get on with, and their antiquated notions are perpetually contrasting and conflicting with the established prejudices of polite and well-organized society—sometimes even checking the same for an instant in its easy, conventional flow. Theywon’tsee that of all ways of spending time and thought, the most absurdly unprofitable is to waste them on a memory. Yet—O mine excellent friend and cynical preceptor! to whom, for sage instruction, I owe a debt of gratitude that I never mean to repay—I beseech you, consort not too much with these misguided men. They are not likely to infect you with their pestilent doctrines and principles; but they may, in an unguarded moment, make you do violence to your favorite maxim—Nil admirari.With all his strong common sense, Mark was lamentably deficient in worldly wisdom. He never saw the obstacles that would have daunted others. Could any thing be more improbable than that the most triumphant beauty of the season should seriously incline to share the long up-hill struggle of a rising barrister? Those dull Temple-chambers are lucky enough if the sun condescends to visit them at rare intervals in his journey westward. But Waring’s own singleness of purpose beguiled him more effectually than the most inordinate vanity could have done. Putting character out of the question, he thought a woman could only derogate by allying herself to one of inferior birth; and he knew his own blood to be nearly equal to Miss Tresilyan’s. He was right so far—if she had only loved him she would have subscribed readily to every article of his simple, knightly creed. The last idea that entered his mind was, that she could have stooped so low as to trifle with him. It was the old mistake. We measure other people’s feelings by the intensity of our own, and think it hard when we meet with disappointment. Yet a certain misgiving, that he did not like to41analyze, kept him from bringing the question to an issue till the day before his departure. Then he told her frankly what his prospects were, and asked her to share them.Now “the Refuser” was so used to seeing men commit themselves in this way on the very shortest notice, and without the faintest encouragement, that the situation had ceased to afford her much excitement: a proposal no more made her nervous than file-firing does a thoroughly-broken charger. For once, however, she felt uncomfortable and vexed with herself, though she did not guess the extent of the harm she had done. Nothing could be kinder or gentler than her answer, but nothing could be more decisive. On the cold, smooth rock there was not a cleft or a trailing weed for despair to cling to in its drowning agony. So the hope of Mark Waring’s life went down there without a cry or a struggle—as it is fitting the hope of a strong heart should die—into the depths of the great sea that never will give up its dead.The lover of the present day is rather a curious study immediately after he has encountered a defeat or disappointment. Sometimes the phase is a mild melancholy. I remember a case of this sort not very long ago. The reflections on things in general that flowed constantly from that man’s lips for the space of about a fortnight were incredible to those who knew him well. They were so calmly philosophic—so pleasantly ironical, without a tinge of bitterness—so frequently relieved by the flashes of keen humor—that to listen to them (the weather being intensely hot) was soothing and refreshing in the extreme. Every body was sorry when he was consoled; for, since that time he has never made an observation worth recording. She was a very clever woman who reduced our friend to this abnormal state, though she grossly maltreated him; and, from close association, some of her conversational talent, perhaps insensibly, had got into his constitution; but it could not thrive in such an uncongenial soil, where there was nothing to nourish it. Some men, again, take the reckless and boisterous line, plunging for a while into all sorts of demoralization, with an evident contentment in having a fair excuse for the same in their disappointment. Certainly it is rather a luxurious state of things—to satisfy one’s vengeance while gratifying one’s appetites—and to know that people are saying all the time, “Poor Charlie! He’s very much to be pitied. It’s entirely Fanny Grey’s fault. He is dreadfully altered since she behaved to him so shamefully.” Others—probably the majority—go for complete indifference, and succeed creditably on the whole. A few,veryfew, know that their happiness has got its death-wound, and are able to take it bravely and silently. It is of one of these last we are speaking.Mark Waring was too honest to affect insensibility; he was not of the stuff out of which accomplished actors are made. He walked quickly to the window, that his face might not betray him, and did not turn round till he thought he had disciplined it thoroughly. It was but a half victory after all; for when Cecil met his eyes her cheek became the paler of the two. She read there enough to make her wish that she could give up all her former triumphs, and undo this last success. She tried to tell him that she was deeply grieved and repentant; but the words would not come. Mark forgot his own sorrow when he saw large drops hanging ready to fall on the dark, long eyelashes.“Pray do not distress yourself,” he said, quite steadily; “such presumption as mine deserves harsher treatment than it has met with from you. You are not answerable for my extravagant self-delusions. I would ask you to forgive me for having been so precipitate—only I know, now, that if I had waited seven years your answer would have been the same. Let us part in kindness; it will be very long before we meet again; but I do not think I shall forget you; and I hope you will remember me if you ever want a hand or head to carry out any one of your wishes or whims. It would make me very happy if I could so serve you. Now, good-by. It is only going this afternoon instead of to-morrow. I must try and make up for lost time, too, by working a little harder.”The smile that accompanied those last words haunted Cecil for many, many days. She knew already enough of Waring to be certain that he would never sink into maudlin sentimentality; it saddened her inexpressibly to fancy him alone in his gloomy chambers, when the night was waning, chained to those crabbed law-papers from a dreary sense of duty, but without a hope or an interest to cheer him on; he had given up ambition long ago. (There are many clocks that keep time to a second, when their striking part is ruined utterly.) She felt angry, then and afterward, that she could find no words to say the least appropriate or expressive; she held out her hand timidly, pleading for forgiveness with her eyes. He just touched it with his lips before he let it go. That kiss of peace was a more precious tribute than any of her hundred vassals had offered to the proud Tresilyan. So they parted.Cecil’s conscience was disagreeably uncompromising, and for a long time, declined to admit any valid excuse for the mischief she had done; but time and change are efficient anodynes; and her penance was nearly completed when she came to Dorade. Of late, however, the reproachful vision had presented itself oftener than ever. She realized more completely the pain that Mark Waring must have endured, as she guessed what would be the bitterness of her own feelings, if it should prove that she had mistaken Royston Keene. That sorrowful memory seemed to rise before her like a warning spectre, waving her back from the path she had begun to tread. Truly, Cecil Tresilyanwasdifferent from the generality of her sex; or, when her own heart was sorely imperiled, she would never have found time to think so often, and so regretfully, of one that she had broken. But, when a woman has once determined to set her whole fortunes on the turn of a die, where is the monitor that will teach her prudence or self-restraint? She will hardly be persuaded “though one rose from the dead.”Chapter divisionCHAPTER XV.RoystonKeene had indeed good reason to augur ill of the ending of his love-dream; but42it was in his nature always to walk straight on to the accomplishment of his purpose, overlooking the obstacles that lay between and the dangers that lay beyond. This partly accounted for his utter insensibility to ordinary inconveniences and annoyances. His own words to Molyneux one day, when the latter remarked on this peculiarity, though somewhat allegorical, expressed his theory and practice fairly: “Hal, when we are traveling, we always remember where we change our large notes; but life is not long enough to recollect how the thalers and piastres go.” His companion thought this rather a brilliant illustration, especially as it squared with his own ideas of existence. But in reality, between the two men there was a marked distinction. A genial kindliness in the one, and a hard unscrupulous determination in the other, worked out nearly the same results.Royston liked Cecil Tresilyan better than any woman he had ever seen, and he made up his mind to win her. It is more than doubtful if he took the probable consequences to either into consideration at all. Foot by foot he was gaining ground till he felt almost sure of success; but this confidence never made him for an instant less vigilant in watching the chances, less careful in scoring every point of the game. He had played it long enough to know these right well.Yet to him, too, the Past brought its warning. He was rarely troubled or favored with dreams; but one night was an exception to the rule. To understand it you must look back once more, and bear with me while we moralize yet again.Excusez du peu.There is a regret that has power to move and torment the coldest Stoic that vegetates on earth; it comes when our own hand or act has slain the one living thing that loved us best of all. We may have done the deed unwittingly or unwillingly; we may have been unconscious of the love that was borne us till it was too late for acknowledgment; we may never in thought or word or act have injured our victim before that last wrong of the death-blow; well for those who can plead so fair an excuse; yet even this, with all the rest, the inexorable Nemesis laughs to scorn. I wonder that poets and dramatists have not oftener selected this saddest theme. It may be true that the last murmur from the lips of the Llewellyn, when his life was ebbing away in the Pass of the Ambush, syllabled the name, not of wife or child or friend, but of a stanch wolfhound; and perhaps tears less bitter have been shed over the graves of many exemplary Christians than those that sprinkled the turf under the birch-trees where Gelert was sleeping. It could not free the Ancient Mariner from the remorse that clung to him like a poisoned garment till it made him a “world’s wonder,” because, when he shot the albatross, he thought he was benefiting his fellows. Not less accusingly did the voices of the sea wail in the ears of the desolate Viking, because, when the bitter arrow went aside, he was fighting hard to save Oriana. Nothing could be more correct than the conduct of Virginius, or more creditable to a Roman father; but when he harangued in the Forum in after days, I doubt if the commons thronged so densely as to shut out from the demagogue a vision of fair hair dabbled in blood, gleaming awfully in the sunlight, and of dark-blue eyes turned upon him in a wondering horror till that look froze in them forevermore. I doubt if the cheers of his partisans were so noisy as to drown the memory of a certain choked shivering moan; in the long, lonely winter nights at least, be sure those sights and sounds visited the tribune’s hearth, often enough to satisfy the savage spirit of the doomed decemvir.It was this remorse which had stricken Royston Keene sorely, even through his armor of proof, as he knelt, not very long ago, by the side of a death-bed. A woman lay there, scarcely past girlhood, and fair enough to have been the pride of any English household, as daughter or sister or wife. You shall not read unnecessarily an episode of sin and bitter sorrow, and of shame that was not less heavy to bear because the eyes of the world were blinded and saw it not. It is enough to say that the blood of Emily Carlyle was as certainly on her tempter’s head as that of any one of those whom he had slain in open fight with shot or steel. This is what she answered when he asked her to forgive him: “My own, I have forgiven you long ago! I could not help it if I would. I can not reproach you either, for though I have tried hard to repent, I fear, if all were to come over again, I should not act more coldly or wisely. But listen! I know you will be able, if you choose it, to make others love you nearly as well as I have done—and youwillchoose it. Darling, promise me that, for my sake, you will spareone. I could die easier if I thought my intercession had saved another’s soul, though I was so weak in guarding my own. It might help me too, perhaps—if any thing can help me—where I am going.” Even Royston Keene shivered at the low terror-stricken whisper in which these last words were spoken. He gave the promise though, and remembered it occasionally till—the time for keeping it came.The major had been spending the evening with Cecil Tresilyan, making arrangements for a pic-nic that was to take place two days later. He had had a passage-of-arms or two with Mrs. Danvers, wherein that strong-principled but weak-minded enthusiast had been utterly discomfited and routed with great slaughter. Altogether it was very pleasant entertainment; and he went to his rest in a state of great contentment and satisfaction. He woke (or seemed to wake) with a sudden start and shudder, for he was aware of the presence of something in the room that was not there when he lay down.Out of the black darkness a face slowly defined itself, bending over the pillow and creeping close to his own—only a face—he could not distinguish even the outline of a figure. He knew it very well, and the eyes, too—but there was an upbraiding there that, while she lived, he had never seen in those of gentle Emily Carlyle; and a reproach came from the white lips, though they did not move to give it passage. “All forgotten! I—the promise, too. And yet—I suffer—I suffer always.” The sad, pleading expression of the face and eyes vanished then; and a strange, pale glare, not like the moonlight, that seemed to come from within, lighted them up—fixed and rigid, yet eloquent, of unutterable agony: there was written plainly the self-abhorrence of a heart conscious of the coils of43the undying worm—the despair of a soul looking far into Futurity, yet seeing no end to the wrath to come. Then the darkness swallowed up all; and, before Keene thoroughly roused himself—with a smothered cry—he knew that he was alone again.A cold dew lingered on the dreamer’s forehead, as if a breath from beyond the grave had lately passed over it; but terror was not the predominating feeling. He had ruled that timid, trusting girl too long and too imperiously to quail before her disembodied spirit. But a strange sadness overcame him as he pondered upon all that she had endured—and might still be enduring—for his sake: a glimmer of something like generosity and compassion flickered for a brief space over the surface of the cast-steel heart. He rose, and leaned out into the steady, outer moonlight, musing for several minutes, and then began muttering aloud. “It would be as well to clear off one debt at least. I did pass my word. She deserves this sacrifice, if it were only for never complaining: let her have her way. By G—d, I’ll go off to-morrow evening, and I’ll tell Cecil so as soon as I can see her. Bah! what is a man worth if he can not forget? Besides, I don’t know—” The rest of his doubts and scruples he confessed—not even to the stars.Climate has a great deal to answer for. A sudden tempest or an opportune mist has turned the scale of more battles than some of the most successful generals would have liked to own. If the next morning had broken sullenly, things might have gone far otherwise. But it was one of those brilliant days that make even the invalids not regret, for the moment, that they have given up all English comforts and home-pleasures for the off-chance of wringing another month or two of life out of the wreck of their constitution. Every thing looked bright and in holiday guise, from the wreaths of ivy glistening on the brows of the shattered old castle, down to theἀνηρίθμονγ ελάσμαof the turquoise-sea. Under the circumstances, it was very unlikely that Royston would keep to his virtuous resolutions. The first half of them he carried out perfectly: he did go straight to Cecil Tresilyan, and tell her of his intentions to depart. She did not betray much of her disappointment or surprise, but she argued with so fascinating a casuistry against the necessity of such a sudden step, that it was no wonder if she soon convinced her hearer of the propriety of at least delaying it. In a case like this an excuse of “urgent private affairs” that would suffice for the most rigid martinet that ever tyrannized over a district or a division sounds absurdly trivial and insincere. When a proud beauty does condescend to plead, a man who really cares for her must be very peculiarly constituted if he remains constant in denial.The vision of the night had faded away already. Those poor ghosts! They have no chance—the mystics say—against embodied spirits, if the latter only keep up their courage, and choose to assert their supremacy. Besides, they must, perforce, fly before the dawn. And what dawn was ever so bright as the Tresilyan’s smile when she guessed from Royston’s face, without his speaking, that she had won the day?So the pic-nic came off according to the arrangement. The weather and every thing else looked so promising that even the vinegar in Bessie Danvers’s composition was acidulated; and, when Keene greeted her at the place ofrendezvous, she favored him with just such a smile as one of the grim Puritan dames, in a rare interval of courtesy, may have granted to Claverhouse or Montrose—the right of reprobation being reserved. It is greatly to be feared that the Malignant did not appreciate the condescension, his attention was so entirely taken up in another quarter.Cecil Tresilyan was perfectly dazzling in the splendor and insolence of her beauty: the calm self-possession that usually distinguished her seemed changed into almost reckless high spirits: even her dress betrayed a certain intention of coquetry; and her splendid violet eyes flashed ever and anon with a mischievously mutinous expression that made their glance a challenge. Such a frame of mind the Scotch describe when they speak of a person being “fey,” holding it to be a sure presage of impending disaster.Oh, guileless maidens! be warned, and trust not to attractive appearances. Lo! there is not a cloud in the sky that smiles over the Nysian vale; all round the roses and lilies are blooming, till the air is faint with their perfume; merry and musical rings the laugh of Persephone, as she goes forth with her comrades a-Maying; but worse things than serpents lurk beneath the waving grass. We, who have read the ancient legend, listen already for the roll of the nether thunder: we know that, in another minute, the earth will disgorge Aïdoneus, the smart ravisher, with his iron chariot: then will come a struggle of the dove in the clutch of the falcon—a cry for help drowned in a hoarse growl of triumph—shrieks and wild disorder among the flying nymphs; but the loveliest of the land will rejoin them never any more. Demēter (like other careful chaperones), when she is most wanted, is far away, tending her corn-lands or reveling in the odors of sacrifice. Finding her after long-baffled search, she will hardly recognize her innocent child in the pale Queen of Shades, that seems worthy of her awful throne far-gleaming through the leaden twilight: the little hand that used to weave garlands so deftly sways the golden sceptre right royally; but the deep, solemn eyes have forgotten how to smile. She who once wept bitterly over her pet bird when it died listens, unmoved, to the clank of Megæra’s scourge, and to the wail of a million spirits in torment. Her beauty is more magnificent than ever, but it is tinged with the austere and dreary majesty that befits the consort of the King of Hell. Ah, woeful mother! desist from intercession, and dry those unavailing tears: it is too late now to tempt her to follow you, even if Hades will let its empress depart for a season: the pure, natural fruits of your upper earth have lost all savor for the lips that once have tasted the fatal pomegranate.Mr. Fullarton and his family completed the party, which was confined to the Molyneux’s set. The chaplain was strangely nervous, fussy, and important: it seemed as if the possession of some weighty secret that he was eager, yet afraid to divulge, had disturbed his phlegmatic complacency. He took the first opportunity of beseeching Miss Tresilyan to be allowed to act as her escort: it was customary on all these44expeditions that each dame and demoiselle, besides the professional muleteer, should be attended by at least one “dismounted skirmisher.” Cecil was rather puzzled by the petition, and by the earnest way in which it was preferred; but she was too happy to deny any body any thing just then; besides which she felt conscious of having visited her pastor of late with a certain amount of neglect, not to say contumely. So she consented, graciously; but the sidelong glance at Keene, asking for his sympathy, did not escape her reverend cavalier.It was evident that Mr. Fullarton had something on his mind that he intended to impart to his companion; but it was equally clear that he did not see his way to the confidence. The path turned abruptly across the line of hills; and while he was hesitating and looking about for a fair opening, it got so steep and rugged that it soon left him no breath for the disclosure. Before they had gone half a league the divine was decidedly in difficulties; he rolled hither and thither, panting painfully, like one who has already endured all the burden and heat of the day. Still he clung obstinately to Cecil’s bridle-rein, rather assisted than assisting, till they reached a point where the road resembled greatly a flight of garret stairs, without any regularity in the steps thereof. The mule and its leader stumbled together; the former recovered itself cleverly after the fashion of its kind; but such atour de forcefar exceeded the exhausted energies of the pursy pastor. He was fairly “down upon his head.”Since the cavalcade started, Major Keene had not attempted to disturb the order of march; at first he walked by the side of Fanny Molyneux, and did his best to amuse her; when the path became too narrow for three abreast, he resigned the charge to Harry (who never, willingly, whenen voyage, abdicated the charge of hismignonne), and went on by himself, just in the rear of Miss Tresilyan and her clerical escort. He presented, in truth, a striking contrast to that over-tasked pedestrian—going easily, within himself, without a quickened breath, or a bead of moisture on his forehead.Shikariof the Upper Himalayas, gillies of Perthshire and the Western Highlands, chamois-hunters of the Tyrol, and guides of Chamounix or Courmayeur, could all have told tales of that long, slashing stride, to which hill or dale, rough or smooth, never came amiss; before which even the weary German miles were swallowed up like furlongs. He sprang quickly forward when he saw the mishap of his front rank; Miss Tresilyan was quite safe, so he only gave her a smile in passing, and then raised the fallen ecclesiastic, with a studied and ostentatious tenderness that would have aggravated a saint.“I hope you are not severely hurt, Mr. Fullarton? You really should be less rash in over-exciting yourself. The spirit is willing, but the flesh is—somewhat ‘short of work.’ May I relieve you of your responsibility till you have recovered your wind?”In spite of his own sacred character, and the proprieties of time and place, had Keene been weak and of small stature, it is within the bounds of possibility that the pastor might have assaulted him, there and then.If it had not been for that unfortunate sense of the ridiculous which was perpetually offering temptations to Miss Tresilyan, she would have undoubtedly on this occasion espoused the losing side; but she exhausted all her powers of self-control in expressing (with decent gravity) her sorrow, that her guide should have come to grief in her service. She had none left wherewith to concoct a rebuke for the Cool Captain. Considering the circumstances, Mr. Fullarton’s laugh, and attempt at a jest on his own discomfiture, did him infinite credit. With the smothered expression that half escaped his lips as he fell to the rear, the chronicler has no earthly concern.As the other two moved onward, Royston spoke, his dark eyes glittering scornfully—“I wonder if women will ever get tired of deriding us, or we of ministering to their amusement? It must have been a great satisfaction to Anne of Austria to see Richelieu dance that saraband. (But Mazarin paid her off for it. I am very glad that the cardinal was avenged by thecharlatan.) Now, how could you allow the shepherd to be so rash? Consider that he has a large and increasing family totally dependent on him for support. If I were Mrs. Fullarton, I would bring an action against you. It is a necessity that his successor should quotesomething; and he really did bring to my mind the description of the White Bull of Duncraggan, who started up-hill so vigorously—But steep and flinty was the road,And sharp the hurryingpikemen’sgoad,And when we came to Dennan’s Row,A child mightscathelessstroke his brow.I shouldn’t like to be the child, though,” he added, meditatively, with a backward glance at the object of his remarks, who indeed did present a very “dissolving view.”The tone and manner of his speaking showed how much, within the last few weeks, the relations of the two had altered: the scale was already wavering, and ere long might be foretold a change in the balance of power.His beautiful companion shook her head till the soft curling plumes that nestled round her hat danced again; but the effect of the reproving gesture was quite spoilt by the laugh that followed it, suppressed though clear as a silver bell.“I will not be made an accomplice in your irreverent comparisons; I don’t admit the resemblance; if there were one, it was too bad of ‘the pikemen’ not to be more considerate. You always try to impute malicious motives to the most innocent. How could I guess that Mr. Fullarton would suffer so for his devotion to my interests? I will give you back your quotation in kind. See! if I were as mischievous as you insinuate—My loss may pay my folly’s tax;I’ve broke my trusty battle-axe.”The ivory handle of her parasol (the same that had been rescued from Duchesne) chanced to be entangled in the bridle when the mule stumbled, and the jerk snapped the frail shaft in two. Keene took the fragment from her, and looked at it for an instant.“Poor thing!” he said compassionately; “so it was fated to be short-lived? It was hardly worth while saving it from the wrath of the sinner, if it was to be sacrificed so soon to the awkwardness of the saint.”45“Not at all,” Cecil replied. “It was my fault, for being so heedless. But I can not afford another misadventure to-day. Will you take great care of me?”Her soft, caressing tones thrilled through Royston’s veins till the blood mounted to his forehead; but he made no answer in words, only looking up earnestly into her face with his rare smile.I have tried throughout to avoid inflicting on you a dialogue that does not bear in some way on the incidents of our tale; on this principle we will not record the conversation that occupied those two till they reached the crown of the pass. It was probably interesting tothem, for it was long before either forgot a word that was spoken. But the imagination or the memory of the reader will doubtless fill up a better fancy-sketch than the one omitted here.There was a general halt on the brow of the hill. Indeed the view was worth a pause. From below their feet the tract of low woodland rolled right down to the edge of the sea, like a broad tossing river, swelling into great billows of gray or dark green, where the taller olives or fir-trees grew, and broken here and there with islets of many-colored stone. With the rest came up the chaplain, who had recovered by this time his breath, and, to a certain extent, his equanimity. While the others stood silent, he saw one of those openings for improving the occasion professionally of which he was ever so ready to avail himself. So, casting his hand abroad theatrically, he declaimed,

Chapter division

I amalmost ashamed to confess how deeply the scene she had witnessed affected Cecil Tresilyan. The exhibition of Keene’s fierce temper ought certainly to have warned, if it did not disgust her. She could only think—“It was for my sake that he was so angry, and he yielded to my first word.”

There is rather a heavy run just now against the “physical force” doctrine. It seems to me that some of its opponents are somewhat hypercritical. For many, many years romancists persisted in attributing to their principal heroes every point of bodily perfection and accomplishment; no one thought then of caviling at such a well-understood and established type. That most fertile and meritorious of writers, for instance, Mr. G. P. R. James, invariably makes hisjeun premierat least moderately athletic; so much so, that when he has the villain of the tale at his sword’s point we feel a comfortable confidence that virtue will triumph as it deserves. As such a contingency is certain to occur twice or thrice in the course of the narrative, a nervous reader is spared much anxiety and trouble of mind by this satisfactory arrangement.Nous avons changé tout cela.Modern refinement requires that the chief character shall be made interesting in spite of his being dwarfish, plain-featured, and a victim to pulmonary or some more prosaic disease. Clearly we are right. What is the use of advancing civilization if it does not correct our taste? What have we to do with the “manners and customs of the English” in the eighteenth century, or with the fictions that beguiled our boyhood? Let our motto still be “Forward;” we have pleasures of which our grandsires never dreamed, and inventions that they were inexcusable in ignoring. We are so great that we can afford to be generous. Let them sleep well, those honest but benighted ancients, who went down to their graves unconscious of “Aunt Sally,” and perhaps never properly appreciatedcaviare!38

It is true that there are some writers—not the weakest—who still cling to the old-fashioned mould. Putting Lancelot and Amyas out of the question, I think I would sooner have “stood up” to most heroes of romance than to sturdy Adam Bede. It can’t be a question of religion or morality, for “muscularChristianity” is the stock-sarcasm of the opposite party: it must be a question of good taste. Well, ancient Greece is supposed to have had some floating ideas onthatsubject, and she deified Strength. It is perfectly true, that to thrash a prize-fighter unnecessarily is not a virtuous or glorious action, but I contend that thecapabilityof doing so is an admirable and enviable attribute. There are grades of physical as well as of moral perfection; and, after all, the same Hand created both.

Have I been replying against the critics?Absit omen!They are more often right, I fear, than authors are willing to allow; for itisaggravating to have one’s pet bits of pathos put between inverted commas for the world in general to make a mock at (we could hardly write them down without tears in our eyes), and to have our story condensed into a few clever, pithy sentences (all in the present tense), till its weakness becomes painfully apparent. More than this, our candid friends are impalpable. Real life can furnish us with enough substantial opponents for us not to trouble ourselves about Junius. Neither in war nor love is it expedient to grasp at shadows. Ah! Mr. Reade, why were you not warned by Ixion?

One thing is certain: however sound your arguments in depreciation of personal prowess may be, you will never gain a unanimous feminine verdict. It must be an extraordinary exhibition of mental excellence that will really interest the generality of our sisters for the moment as deeply as a very ordinary feat of strength or skill. It is not that they can not thoroughly appreciate rectitude of feeling, brilliancy of conversation, and distinguished talent; but remember the hackneyed quotation:

Segnius irritant animum demissa per aures,Quam quæ sunt oculis subjecta fidelibus.

Segnius irritant animum demissa per aures,

Quam quæ sunt oculis subjecta fidelibus.

If you want a proof of the correctness of Horace’s opinion, go up to “Lord’s” this month, and watch the flutter among the fair spectators, just after a “forward drive” over the Pavilion; or, better still, the next time the “Grand Military” comes off at Warwick, mark the reception that the man who rides a winner will meet with in the stand. Conventionality has done a good deal, but it has not refined away all the frank, impulsive woman-nature yet. The knights are dust, and their good swords rust; but dame and demoiselle are very much the same as they were in the old days, when the Queen of Scots could sing

How they reveled through the summer night,And by day made lanceshafts flee,For Mary Beatoun, and Mary Seatoun,And Mary Fleming, and me.

How they reveled through the summer night,

And by day made lanceshafts flee,

For Mary Beatoun, and Mary Seatoun,

And Mary Fleming, and me.

Will this long and rather rashtiradein the least excuse Cecil Tresilyan? Of course not. My poor heroine! It was very unnecessary—that advertisement that she was not superior to the weaknesses of her sex; for it seems to me, with every chapter, she has been growing more fallible and frail. She was utterly incapable of being at all demonstrative or “gushing;” but her preference for Royston Keene was now quite undisguised.

Mrs. Danvers was bitterly exasperated. It would be unjust to deny that she was greatly actuated by a sincere interest in herci-devantpupil’s welfare; but other feelings were at work.

It is very remarkable how a perfectly well-principled woman will connive at what she can not approve so long as she is taken unreservedly into confidence; but when once one secret is kept back the danger of her antagonism begins; the magic draught that has lulled the vigilant Gryphon to sleep loses its potency; the guardian of the treasure awakes—more savage because conscious of a dereliction in duty—and woe to the Arimaspian! The cold, pale, chaste moon comes forth from behind the cloud, determined to reveal every iota of transgression: no farther chance of concealment here—Reparat sua cornua Phœbe.

So, to the utmost of her small powers, Bessie did endeavor to thwart and counteract the adversary. Her line was consistently plaintive. In season and out of season she whined and wept profusely. This was the last resource of her simple strategy: when the enemy was getting too strong to be met in open field, she adopted the Dutch plan of opening the sluices and trying to drown him. It is painful to be obliged to state that the inundation did not greatly avail. As she had done from the first, Cecil declined to make any confidences, or indeed to discuss the question at all.

Mr. Fullarton, too, felt keenly the defection of a promising proselyte. Since that unfortunate afternoon Miss Tresilyan had been perfectly civil, but always very cold; and he could not but be aware that he had lost ground then that he never could hope to regain. The divine must have been very desperate when he ventured to attack that impracticable brother. It was not a judicious move; nor would any one have tried it who knew Dick Tresilyan. It was not only that he liked and admired Royston Keene, but he had a blind confidence in his sister that nothing on earth could disturb: the evidence of his own senses would not have affected it in the least. “Whatevershedoes is right,” he thought; and he clung to that idea, as many other true believers will do to a creed that they can not understand. So when the question was broached he was not very angry (for he didmorethan justice to the chaplain’s sense of duty), but he stubbornly declined to enter upon it at all. Mr. Fullarton was so provoked that he was goaded into a taunt that he ought to have been ashamed of.

“Perhaps you are right,” he said; “Major Keene is so formidable an adversary, that it is hardly safe to interfere with him.” (These “men of peace”—quand ils s’y prennent! I believe the most exasperating man in England, at this moment, to be an influential Quaker.)

Dick Tresilyan took a long time (as was his wont) in finding out what was meant; when he did, even his limited intellect appreciated its bad taste and absurdity. A hundred sarcasms would not have disconcerted the pastor so completely as his honest, hearty laugh.

“Ah! you think I’m afraid of him? No—they don’t breed cowards where I come from. I never heard that idea but once before; that was39at the Truro fair. I wasn’t in very good company, and they ‘planted’ a big miner on me at last. He wanted me to wrestle, and when I wouldn’t, he said—just what you did. But I remember all the others laughed at him. They knowusin those parts, you see. He’d better have kept quiet; for though he puzzled me at first with a ‘back trick’ he had, I knew more than he did, and he got an awkward fall; I don’t think he’ll ever do a good day’s work again.” He paused, and his brow darkened strangely, and all his face changed, till it resembled more closely than it had often done the portraits of come of the “bitter, bad Tresilyans.” “I suppose you mean well, Mr. Fullarton, but I’m not going to thank you. We can manage our affairs without your meddling; and if you’re wise you’ll leave us alone.” It will be seen that the chaplain did not take much by his motion.

Neither was Fanny Molyneux well satisfied with the turn affairs had taken lately. That poor little “white witch” was really alarmed by the unruly character of the spirit that she had been anxious to raise; she did not know the proper formula for sending it back to its own place; and, if she had, the stubborn demon would only have mocked at her simple incantations. Though she loved Cecil dearly, she was too much in awe of her to venture upon remonstrance or warning; indeed, the few mild hints that shedidthrow out had not met with such success as to tempt her to follow them up. So she was, perforce, reduced to an unarmed neutrality.

Her husband was perhaps the most thoroughly uncomfortable of the party. He knew the circumstances and bearings of the question better than any one else, and would have sacrificed a good deal (“his right hand,” I believe, is the proper phrase) to have averted the probable result. But he had not sufficient strength of mind to take the decided measures that might have been of some avail; in fact, he had a vague idea that to act on the offensive against his old comrade would be unpardonable treachery. Arguing with the latter was simply absurd; for this reason, if for no other, that from the moment his feelings became really interested, no amount of diplomacy would have induced him to enter upon the subject. Harry went about with a miserable, helpless sense of complicity weighing him down, which was much aggravated by a few words which dropped one morning from Dick Tresilyan.

Dick had been diningtête-à-têtewith Keene on the previous evening after a hard day’s snipe shooting, and bore evident traces about him of a heavy night—a fact which he lost no time in alluding to, not without a certain pride, like the man in Congreve’s play, who exults in having “been drunk in excellent company.” “We had a very big drink,” he said, confidentially, “and the major got more than his allowance. He didn’t know what he was talking about at last, and he told me more of his affairs than most people know, I think; of course, I’m as safe as a church;” and Dick made a gallant but abortive attempt to wink with one of his swollen eyelids.

Molyneux shrank away from the speaker with something very like a suppressed groan—he had heardthatsaid before, and remembered what came of it. Credulity was as dangerous when men thought Royston Keene had lost his head as when women flattered themselves he had lost his heart.

Chapter division

Ifyou will be good enough to look back on the one romance in which, like the rest of the world, you probably indulged yourself, you will remember, perhaps more distinctly than any other feature, thepresentimentwhich haunted you from the very beginning. We were absurdly sanguine and hopeful in those days—full of chivalrous resolves and unlimited aspirations; but still the feeling would come back—if, indeed, it ever left us—that in the dim background there was difficulty and danger. We were not surprised when the small white speck rose out of the sea, and it needed no prophet to tell us then that the heavens would soon be black with clouds, and that there would be a great rain (which, indeed, was the case, for there ensued a long continuance of wet weather; it was a very tearful season). Oddly enough, that same presentiment did not make us particularly melancholy or uncomfortable, but seemed rather to give a zest to our simple pleasures, relieving them from any tinge of sameness or insipidity. When thedénouementcame we did not exactly see things in the same light certainly, and it took some time to settle thoroughly down into our present theory, that “it was all for the best.”

It is the old story of Thomas the Rhymer over and over again (we were all rhymers once). The lover knows that there is peril in the path, but not the less joyously he strides on by the side of the beautiful queen. How sweetly they ring, the silver bells on the neck of the milk-white palfrey; not so sweetly, though, as her low, musical tones. So on they fare, till the world of realities is left far behind, and they find themselves at their journey’s end. It is very happy, that year spent in her kingdom; but so like a dream that he does not appreciate its pleasures so well at the moment as he will in the weary after-years. Yet the waking came too soon. The sojourner had not half grown tired of his resting-place; the bloom has not faded on the wondrous fruits and flowers: the strangely sweet wine has not lost its savor, when it is time for him to be gone, for a dreadful whisper runs through the company that to-morrow the teind to hell must be paid. Well, the black tax-gatherer is balked by a day, and the wanderer is back at Ercildoune again. Very dreary looks the gray, bare moorland. Do they call that foliage on the stunted fir-trees? It is only the ghost of a forest. The trim parterres have no beauty or fragrance for one that has lingered in more glorious gardens and plucked redder roses. Tabret and viol jangle harshly in the ears that have rioted in melodies made by fairy harpers. The village maidens may be comely, but they are somewhat clumsy withal; the earthen floor trembles under their feet when they lead their simple dances; very different from the steps that kept time to a wild, weird music, stirring but scarcely bending the grass-blades. There is no color in their flaxen locks, and little light in their40pale-blue eyes; these will not bear comparison with the smooth, braided tresses that glistened like blue-black serpents, or the glances that rained down liquid fire through the twilight of the forests of Elf-land. Slowly the discontented dreamer realizes the fact that the spell is still upon him—riveted when he stole that first fatal kiss in despite of his mistress’s warning. Nothing is left for him now but to expiate his folly in the loneliness of the gray old tower, and to look forth, hoping to see the grass-green robe gleam again against the setting sun, and to hear the silver bells chime once more in the still evening air. Vain—worse than vain. With stiffened limbs and grizzled hair, we are not worth beguiling.

This is essentially a masculine illustration, and only applies to Cecil Tresilyan thus far. She was sensible of the influence that strengthened its hold upon her every day, and did not now wish or try to resist it, but she grew proportionately doubtful and uneasy about the event. A feeling, very strange and new to one of a temperament like hers, began to creep over her now and then. At such times she owned that her eyes were the more eagerly and steadfastly fixed on the Present, because they did not dare to look into the Future. Yet, as far as she knew, there was no ground for much apprehension.

It is always so. Only when we are carrying something rare and precious do we appreciate the possible perils of the road. How much steeper the hills are now, how much deeper and darker the ravines, how much more frequent the crags that might so easily conceal a marauder, than when we passed them some months ago chanting the reckless roundel of thevacuus viator.

We said, you remember, before, that Miss Tresilyan had one subject of self-reproach, for which she had never gained her own absolution. The whispers that had never been quite silenced began to make themselves heard unpleasantly often, and now they just hinted at Retribution. As our poor Cecil must come to confession some time or another, it seems to me this is a convenient season.

At the country-house where she was spending Christmas, three years before the date of our story, she met Mark Waring. She knew his antecedents: how, when sudden troubles came upon his family, he gave up diplomacy, which he had entered upon, and took up the law—hating it cordially—simply because a fair opening was given him there of securing to his mother and sisters something better than bread. He never pretended to feel the slightest interest in his profession, but went on slaving at it resolutely and successfully. He made no merit of it either, but always spoke, and I believe thought of it, as the merest matter of course—the right thing to do under the circumstance. There was a hardihood of principle about all this which Cecil rather admired; and his frank, bold bearing, and simple, straightforward way of putting thoughts that were worth listening to into terse, strong language, aided the first favorable impression. She determined to make Mark like her; and when she had a fancy of this kind, she was apt to carry it out without much consideration for the comfort or convenience of the person destined to the experiment. She had no deliberate intention of doing any body any harm; but those innocent little whims and projects of amusement do more mischief sometimes than the most systematic machinations of devil-craft. Why, when you begin even towritea chapter, it is very difficult to say where it will end; when you begin to talk it or act it, it is harder still to prophesy aright. A character, or a sentence, or an idea, which looked quite insignificant at first, assumes perfectly portentous dimensions and importance before we have done with it; so that the alternate effect is nearly as startling when realized as that produced by Alice’s conjuration:

She crossed him thrice, that lady bold;He rose beneath her hand,The fairest knight on Scottish mould,Her brother, Ethert Brand.

She crossed him thrice, that lady bold;

He rose beneath her hand,

The fairest knight on Scottish mould,

Her brother, Ethert Brand.

So while Cecil was drawing on Mark Waring to talk about his daily life—sympathizing with him about his hard, distasteful work, and pitying his loneliness, she never guessed how her words were being branded, one by one, on the earnest, steadfast heart, that her own lofty nature was not worthy to understand. In a week after their first meeting she had drawn from him all the love he had to give; and men of Mark Waring’s mould can only find room for one love in a lifetime. Such characters are exceptional, fortunately; for they are very impracticable and difficult to get on with, and their antiquated notions are perpetually contrasting and conflicting with the established prejudices of polite and well-organized society—sometimes even checking the same for an instant in its easy, conventional flow. Theywon’tsee that of all ways of spending time and thought, the most absurdly unprofitable is to waste them on a memory. Yet—O mine excellent friend and cynical preceptor! to whom, for sage instruction, I owe a debt of gratitude that I never mean to repay—I beseech you, consort not too much with these misguided men. They are not likely to infect you with their pestilent doctrines and principles; but they may, in an unguarded moment, make you do violence to your favorite maxim—Nil admirari.

With all his strong common sense, Mark was lamentably deficient in worldly wisdom. He never saw the obstacles that would have daunted others. Could any thing be more improbable than that the most triumphant beauty of the season should seriously incline to share the long up-hill struggle of a rising barrister? Those dull Temple-chambers are lucky enough if the sun condescends to visit them at rare intervals in his journey westward. But Waring’s own singleness of purpose beguiled him more effectually than the most inordinate vanity could have done. Putting character out of the question, he thought a woman could only derogate by allying herself to one of inferior birth; and he knew his own blood to be nearly equal to Miss Tresilyan’s. He was right so far—if she had only loved him she would have subscribed readily to every article of his simple, knightly creed. The last idea that entered his mind was, that she could have stooped so low as to trifle with him. It was the old mistake. We measure other people’s feelings by the intensity of our own, and think it hard when we meet with disappointment. Yet a certain misgiving, that he did not like to41analyze, kept him from bringing the question to an issue till the day before his departure. Then he told her frankly what his prospects were, and asked her to share them.

Now “the Refuser” was so used to seeing men commit themselves in this way on the very shortest notice, and without the faintest encouragement, that the situation had ceased to afford her much excitement: a proposal no more made her nervous than file-firing does a thoroughly-broken charger. For once, however, she felt uncomfortable and vexed with herself, though she did not guess the extent of the harm she had done. Nothing could be kinder or gentler than her answer, but nothing could be more decisive. On the cold, smooth rock there was not a cleft or a trailing weed for despair to cling to in its drowning agony. So the hope of Mark Waring’s life went down there without a cry or a struggle—as it is fitting the hope of a strong heart should die—into the depths of the great sea that never will give up its dead.

The lover of the present day is rather a curious study immediately after he has encountered a defeat or disappointment. Sometimes the phase is a mild melancholy. I remember a case of this sort not very long ago. The reflections on things in general that flowed constantly from that man’s lips for the space of about a fortnight were incredible to those who knew him well. They were so calmly philosophic—so pleasantly ironical, without a tinge of bitterness—so frequently relieved by the flashes of keen humor—that to listen to them (the weather being intensely hot) was soothing and refreshing in the extreme. Every body was sorry when he was consoled; for, since that time he has never made an observation worth recording. She was a very clever woman who reduced our friend to this abnormal state, though she grossly maltreated him; and, from close association, some of her conversational talent, perhaps insensibly, had got into his constitution; but it could not thrive in such an uncongenial soil, where there was nothing to nourish it. Some men, again, take the reckless and boisterous line, plunging for a while into all sorts of demoralization, with an evident contentment in having a fair excuse for the same in their disappointment. Certainly it is rather a luxurious state of things—to satisfy one’s vengeance while gratifying one’s appetites—and to know that people are saying all the time, “Poor Charlie! He’s very much to be pitied. It’s entirely Fanny Grey’s fault. He is dreadfully altered since she behaved to him so shamefully.” Others—probably the majority—go for complete indifference, and succeed creditably on the whole. A few,veryfew, know that their happiness has got its death-wound, and are able to take it bravely and silently. It is of one of these last we are speaking.

Mark Waring was too honest to affect insensibility; he was not of the stuff out of which accomplished actors are made. He walked quickly to the window, that his face might not betray him, and did not turn round till he thought he had disciplined it thoroughly. It was but a half victory after all; for when Cecil met his eyes her cheek became the paler of the two. She read there enough to make her wish that she could give up all her former triumphs, and undo this last success. She tried to tell him that she was deeply grieved and repentant; but the words would not come. Mark forgot his own sorrow when he saw large drops hanging ready to fall on the dark, long eyelashes.

“Pray do not distress yourself,” he said, quite steadily; “such presumption as mine deserves harsher treatment than it has met with from you. You are not answerable for my extravagant self-delusions. I would ask you to forgive me for having been so precipitate—only I know, now, that if I had waited seven years your answer would have been the same. Let us part in kindness; it will be very long before we meet again; but I do not think I shall forget you; and I hope you will remember me if you ever want a hand or head to carry out any one of your wishes or whims. It would make me very happy if I could so serve you. Now, good-by. It is only going this afternoon instead of to-morrow. I must try and make up for lost time, too, by working a little harder.”

The smile that accompanied those last words haunted Cecil for many, many days. She knew already enough of Waring to be certain that he would never sink into maudlin sentimentality; it saddened her inexpressibly to fancy him alone in his gloomy chambers, when the night was waning, chained to those crabbed law-papers from a dreary sense of duty, but without a hope or an interest to cheer him on; he had given up ambition long ago. (There are many clocks that keep time to a second, when their striking part is ruined utterly.) She felt angry, then and afterward, that she could find no words to say the least appropriate or expressive; she held out her hand timidly, pleading for forgiveness with her eyes. He just touched it with his lips before he let it go. That kiss of peace was a more precious tribute than any of her hundred vassals had offered to the proud Tresilyan. So they parted.

Cecil’s conscience was disagreeably uncompromising, and for a long time, declined to admit any valid excuse for the mischief she had done; but time and change are efficient anodynes; and her penance was nearly completed when she came to Dorade. Of late, however, the reproachful vision had presented itself oftener than ever. She realized more completely the pain that Mark Waring must have endured, as she guessed what would be the bitterness of her own feelings, if it should prove that she had mistaken Royston Keene. That sorrowful memory seemed to rise before her like a warning spectre, waving her back from the path she had begun to tread. Truly, Cecil Tresilyanwasdifferent from the generality of her sex; or, when her own heart was sorely imperiled, she would never have found time to think so often, and so regretfully, of one that she had broken. But, when a woman has once determined to set her whole fortunes on the turn of a die, where is the monitor that will teach her prudence or self-restraint? She will hardly be persuaded “though one rose from the dead.”

Chapter division

RoystonKeene had indeed good reason to augur ill of the ending of his love-dream; but42it was in his nature always to walk straight on to the accomplishment of his purpose, overlooking the obstacles that lay between and the dangers that lay beyond. This partly accounted for his utter insensibility to ordinary inconveniences and annoyances. His own words to Molyneux one day, when the latter remarked on this peculiarity, though somewhat allegorical, expressed his theory and practice fairly: “Hal, when we are traveling, we always remember where we change our large notes; but life is not long enough to recollect how the thalers and piastres go.” His companion thought this rather a brilliant illustration, especially as it squared with his own ideas of existence. But in reality, between the two men there was a marked distinction. A genial kindliness in the one, and a hard unscrupulous determination in the other, worked out nearly the same results.

Royston liked Cecil Tresilyan better than any woman he had ever seen, and he made up his mind to win her. It is more than doubtful if he took the probable consequences to either into consideration at all. Foot by foot he was gaining ground till he felt almost sure of success; but this confidence never made him for an instant less vigilant in watching the chances, less careful in scoring every point of the game. He had played it long enough to know these right well.

Yet to him, too, the Past brought its warning. He was rarely troubled or favored with dreams; but one night was an exception to the rule. To understand it you must look back once more, and bear with me while we moralize yet again.Excusez du peu.

There is a regret that has power to move and torment the coldest Stoic that vegetates on earth; it comes when our own hand or act has slain the one living thing that loved us best of all. We may have done the deed unwittingly or unwillingly; we may have been unconscious of the love that was borne us till it was too late for acknowledgment; we may never in thought or word or act have injured our victim before that last wrong of the death-blow; well for those who can plead so fair an excuse; yet even this, with all the rest, the inexorable Nemesis laughs to scorn. I wonder that poets and dramatists have not oftener selected this saddest theme. It may be true that the last murmur from the lips of the Llewellyn, when his life was ebbing away in the Pass of the Ambush, syllabled the name, not of wife or child or friend, but of a stanch wolfhound; and perhaps tears less bitter have been shed over the graves of many exemplary Christians than those that sprinkled the turf under the birch-trees where Gelert was sleeping. It could not free the Ancient Mariner from the remorse that clung to him like a poisoned garment till it made him a “world’s wonder,” because, when he shot the albatross, he thought he was benefiting his fellows. Not less accusingly did the voices of the sea wail in the ears of the desolate Viking, because, when the bitter arrow went aside, he was fighting hard to save Oriana. Nothing could be more correct than the conduct of Virginius, or more creditable to a Roman father; but when he harangued in the Forum in after days, I doubt if the commons thronged so densely as to shut out from the demagogue a vision of fair hair dabbled in blood, gleaming awfully in the sunlight, and of dark-blue eyes turned upon him in a wondering horror till that look froze in them forevermore. I doubt if the cheers of his partisans were so noisy as to drown the memory of a certain choked shivering moan; in the long, lonely winter nights at least, be sure those sights and sounds visited the tribune’s hearth, often enough to satisfy the savage spirit of the doomed decemvir.

It was this remorse which had stricken Royston Keene sorely, even through his armor of proof, as he knelt, not very long ago, by the side of a death-bed. A woman lay there, scarcely past girlhood, and fair enough to have been the pride of any English household, as daughter or sister or wife. You shall not read unnecessarily an episode of sin and bitter sorrow, and of shame that was not less heavy to bear because the eyes of the world were blinded and saw it not. It is enough to say that the blood of Emily Carlyle was as certainly on her tempter’s head as that of any one of those whom he had slain in open fight with shot or steel. This is what she answered when he asked her to forgive him: “My own, I have forgiven you long ago! I could not help it if I would. I can not reproach you either, for though I have tried hard to repent, I fear, if all were to come over again, I should not act more coldly or wisely. But listen! I know you will be able, if you choose it, to make others love you nearly as well as I have done—and youwillchoose it. Darling, promise me that, for my sake, you will spareone. I could die easier if I thought my intercession had saved another’s soul, though I was so weak in guarding my own. It might help me too, perhaps—if any thing can help me—where I am going.” Even Royston Keene shivered at the low terror-stricken whisper in which these last words were spoken. He gave the promise though, and remembered it occasionally till—the time for keeping it came.

The major had been spending the evening with Cecil Tresilyan, making arrangements for a pic-nic that was to take place two days later. He had had a passage-of-arms or two with Mrs. Danvers, wherein that strong-principled but weak-minded enthusiast had been utterly discomfited and routed with great slaughter. Altogether it was very pleasant entertainment; and he went to his rest in a state of great contentment and satisfaction. He woke (or seemed to wake) with a sudden start and shudder, for he was aware of the presence of something in the room that was not there when he lay down.

Out of the black darkness a face slowly defined itself, bending over the pillow and creeping close to his own—only a face—he could not distinguish even the outline of a figure. He knew it very well, and the eyes, too—but there was an upbraiding there that, while she lived, he had never seen in those of gentle Emily Carlyle; and a reproach came from the white lips, though they did not move to give it passage. “All forgotten! I—the promise, too. And yet—I suffer—I suffer always.” The sad, pleading expression of the face and eyes vanished then; and a strange, pale glare, not like the moonlight, that seemed to come from within, lighted them up—fixed and rigid, yet eloquent, of unutterable agony: there was written plainly the self-abhorrence of a heart conscious of the coils of43the undying worm—the despair of a soul looking far into Futurity, yet seeing no end to the wrath to come. Then the darkness swallowed up all; and, before Keene thoroughly roused himself—with a smothered cry—he knew that he was alone again.

A cold dew lingered on the dreamer’s forehead, as if a breath from beyond the grave had lately passed over it; but terror was not the predominating feeling. He had ruled that timid, trusting girl too long and too imperiously to quail before her disembodied spirit. But a strange sadness overcame him as he pondered upon all that she had endured—and might still be enduring—for his sake: a glimmer of something like generosity and compassion flickered for a brief space over the surface of the cast-steel heart. He rose, and leaned out into the steady, outer moonlight, musing for several minutes, and then began muttering aloud. “It would be as well to clear off one debt at least. I did pass my word. She deserves this sacrifice, if it were only for never complaining: let her have her way. By G—d, I’ll go off to-morrow evening, and I’ll tell Cecil so as soon as I can see her. Bah! what is a man worth if he can not forget? Besides, I don’t know—” The rest of his doubts and scruples he confessed—not even to the stars.

Climate has a great deal to answer for. A sudden tempest or an opportune mist has turned the scale of more battles than some of the most successful generals would have liked to own. If the next morning had broken sullenly, things might have gone far otherwise. But it was one of those brilliant days that make even the invalids not regret, for the moment, that they have given up all English comforts and home-pleasures for the off-chance of wringing another month or two of life out of the wreck of their constitution. Every thing looked bright and in holiday guise, from the wreaths of ivy glistening on the brows of the shattered old castle, down to theἀνηρίθμονγ ελάσμαof the turquoise-sea. Under the circumstances, it was very unlikely that Royston would keep to his virtuous resolutions. The first half of them he carried out perfectly: he did go straight to Cecil Tresilyan, and tell her of his intentions to depart. She did not betray much of her disappointment or surprise, but she argued with so fascinating a casuistry against the necessity of such a sudden step, that it was no wonder if she soon convinced her hearer of the propriety of at least delaying it. In a case like this an excuse of “urgent private affairs” that would suffice for the most rigid martinet that ever tyrannized over a district or a division sounds absurdly trivial and insincere. When a proud beauty does condescend to plead, a man who really cares for her must be very peculiarly constituted if he remains constant in denial.

The vision of the night had faded away already. Those poor ghosts! They have no chance—the mystics say—against embodied spirits, if the latter only keep up their courage, and choose to assert their supremacy. Besides, they must, perforce, fly before the dawn. And what dawn was ever so bright as the Tresilyan’s smile when she guessed from Royston’s face, without his speaking, that she had won the day?

So the pic-nic came off according to the arrangement. The weather and every thing else looked so promising that even the vinegar in Bessie Danvers’s composition was acidulated; and, when Keene greeted her at the place ofrendezvous, she favored him with just such a smile as one of the grim Puritan dames, in a rare interval of courtesy, may have granted to Claverhouse or Montrose—the right of reprobation being reserved. It is greatly to be feared that the Malignant did not appreciate the condescension, his attention was so entirely taken up in another quarter.

Cecil Tresilyan was perfectly dazzling in the splendor and insolence of her beauty: the calm self-possession that usually distinguished her seemed changed into almost reckless high spirits: even her dress betrayed a certain intention of coquetry; and her splendid violet eyes flashed ever and anon with a mischievously mutinous expression that made their glance a challenge. Such a frame of mind the Scotch describe when they speak of a person being “fey,” holding it to be a sure presage of impending disaster.

Oh, guileless maidens! be warned, and trust not to attractive appearances. Lo! there is not a cloud in the sky that smiles over the Nysian vale; all round the roses and lilies are blooming, till the air is faint with their perfume; merry and musical rings the laugh of Persephone, as she goes forth with her comrades a-Maying; but worse things than serpents lurk beneath the waving grass. We, who have read the ancient legend, listen already for the roll of the nether thunder: we know that, in another minute, the earth will disgorge Aïdoneus, the smart ravisher, with his iron chariot: then will come a struggle of the dove in the clutch of the falcon—a cry for help drowned in a hoarse growl of triumph—shrieks and wild disorder among the flying nymphs; but the loveliest of the land will rejoin them never any more. Demēter (like other careful chaperones), when she is most wanted, is far away, tending her corn-lands or reveling in the odors of sacrifice. Finding her after long-baffled search, she will hardly recognize her innocent child in the pale Queen of Shades, that seems worthy of her awful throne far-gleaming through the leaden twilight: the little hand that used to weave garlands so deftly sways the golden sceptre right royally; but the deep, solemn eyes have forgotten how to smile. She who once wept bitterly over her pet bird when it died listens, unmoved, to the clank of Megæra’s scourge, and to the wail of a million spirits in torment. Her beauty is more magnificent than ever, but it is tinged with the austere and dreary majesty that befits the consort of the King of Hell. Ah, woeful mother! desist from intercession, and dry those unavailing tears: it is too late now to tempt her to follow you, even if Hades will let its empress depart for a season: the pure, natural fruits of your upper earth have lost all savor for the lips that once have tasted the fatal pomegranate.

Mr. Fullarton and his family completed the party, which was confined to the Molyneux’s set. The chaplain was strangely nervous, fussy, and important: it seemed as if the possession of some weighty secret that he was eager, yet afraid to divulge, had disturbed his phlegmatic complacency. He took the first opportunity of beseeching Miss Tresilyan to be allowed to act as her escort: it was customary on all these44expeditions that each dame and demoiselle, besides the professional muleteer, should be attended by at least one “dismounted skirmisher.” Cecil was rather puzzled by the petition, and by the earnest way in which it was preferred; but she was too happy to deny any body any thing just then; besides which she felt conscious of having visited her pastor of late with a certain amount of neglect, not to say contumely. So she consented, graciously; but the sidelong glance at Keene, asking for his sympathy, did not escape her reverend cavalier.

It was evident that Mr. Fullarton had something on his mind that he intended to impart to his companion; but it was equally clear that he did not see his way to the confidence. The path turned abruptly across the line of hills; and while he was hesitating and looking about for a fair opening, it got so steep and rugged that it soon left him no breath for the disclosure. Before they had gone half a league the divine was decidedly in difficulties; he rolled hither and thither, panting painfully, like one who has already endured all the burden and heat of the day. Still he clung obstinately to Cecil’s bridle-rein, rather assisted than assisting, till they reached a point where the road resembled greatly a flight of garret stairs, without any regularity in the steps thereof. The mule and its leader stumbled together; the former recovered itself cleverly after the fashion of its kind; but such atour de forcefar exceeded the exhausted energies of the pursy pastor. He was fairly “down upon his head.”

Since the cavalcade started, Major Keene had not attempted to disturb the order of march; at first he walked by the side of Fanny Molyneux, and did his best to amuse her; when the path became too narrow for three abreast, he resigned the charge to Harry (who never, willingly, whenen voyage, abdicated the charge of hismignonne), and went on by himself, just in the rear of Miss Tresilyan and her clerical escort. He presented, in truth, a striking contrast to that over-tasked pedestrian—going easily, within himself, without a quickened breath, or a bead of moisture on his forehead.Shikariof the Upper Himalayas, gillies of Perthshire and the Western Highlands, chamois-hunters of the Tyrol, and guides of Chamounix or Courmayeur, could all have told tales of that long, slashing stride, to which hill or dale, rough or smooth, never came amiss; before which even the weary German miles were swallowed up like furlongs. He sprang quickly forward when he saw the mishap of his front rank; Miss Tresilyan was quite safe, so he only gave her a smile in passing, and then raised the fallen ecclesiastic, with a studied and ostentatious tenderness that would have aggravated a saint.

“I hope you are not severely hurt, Mr. Fullarton? You really should be less rash in over-exciting yourself. The spirit is willing, but the flesh is—somewhat ‘short of work.’ May I relieve you of your responsibility till you have recovered your wind?”

In spite of his own sacred character, and the proprieties of time and place, had Keene been weak and of small stature, it is within the bounds of possibility that the pastor might have assaulted him, there and then.

If it had not been for that unfortunate sense of the ridiculous which was perpetually offering temptations to Miss Tresilyan, she would have undoubtedly on this occasion espoused the losing side; but she exhausted all her powers of self-control in expressing (with decent gravity) her sorrow, that her guide should have come to grief in her service. She had none left wherewith to concoct a rebuke for the Cool Captain. Considering the circumstances, Mr. Fullarton’s laugh, and attempt at a jest on his own discomfiture, did him infinite credit. With the smothered expression that half escaped his lips as he fell to the rear, the chronicler has no earthly concern.

As the other two moved onward, Royston spoke, his dark eyes glittering scornfully—

“I wonder if women will ever get tired of deriding us, or we of ministering to their amusement? It must have been a great satisfaction to Anne of Austria to see Richelieu dance that saraband. (But Mazarin paid her off for it. I am very glad that the cardinal was avenged by thecharlatan.) Now, how could you allow the shepherd to be so rash? Consider that he has a large and increasing family totally dependent on him for support. If I were Mrs. Fullarton, I would bring an action against you. It is a necessity that his successor should quotesomething; and he really did bring to my mind the description of the White Bull of Duncraggan, who started up-hill so vigorously—

But steep and flinty was the road,And sharp the hurryingpikemen’sgoad,And when we came to Dennan’s Row,A child mightscathelessstroke his brow.

But steep and flinty was the road,

And sharp the hurryingpikemen’sgoad,

And when we came to Dennan’s Row,

A child mightscathelessstroke his brow.

I shouldn’t like to be the child, though,” he added, meditatively, with a backward glance at the object of his remarks, who indeed did present a very “dissolving view.”

The tone and manner of his speaking showed how much, within the last few weeks, the relations of the two had altered: the scale was already wavering, and ere long might be foretold a change in the balance of power.

His beautiful companion shook her head till the soft curling plumes that nestled round her hat danced again; but the effect of the reproving gesture was quite spoilt by the laugh that followed it, suppressed though clear as a silver bell.

“I will not be made an accomplice in your irreverent comparisons; I don’t admit the resemblance; if there were one, it was too bad of ‘the pikemen’ not to be more considerate. You always try to impute malicious motives to the most innocent. How could I guess that Mr. Fullarton would suffer so for his devotion to my interests? I will give you back your quotation in kind. See! if I were as mischievous as you insinuate—

My loss may pay my folly’s tax;I’ve broke my trusty battle-axe.”

My loss may pay my folly’s tax;

I’ve broke my trusty battle-axe.”

The ivory handle of her parasol (the same that had been rescued from Duchesne) chanced to be entangled in the bridle when the mule stumbled, and the jerk snapped the frail shaft in two. Keene took the fragment from her, and looked at it for an instant.

“Poor thing!” he said compassionately; “so it was fated to be short-lived? It was hardly worth while saving it from the wrath of the sinner, if it was to be sacrificed so soon to the awkwardness of the saint.”45

“Not at all,” Cecil replied. “It was my fault, for being so heedless. But I can not afford another misadventure to-day. Will you take great care of me?”

Her soft, caressing tones thrilled through Royston’s veins till the blood mounted to his forehead; but he made no answer in words, only looking up earnestly into her face with his rare smile.

I have tried throughout to avoid inflicting on you a dialogue that does not bear in some way on the incidents of our tale; on this principle we will not record the conversation that occupied those two till they reached the crown of the pass. It was probably interesting tothem, for it was long before either forgot a word that was spoken. But the imagination or the memory of the reader will doubtless fill up a better fancy-sketch than the one omitted here.

There was a general halt on the brow of the hill. Indeed the view was worth a pause. From below their feet the tract of low woodland rolled right down to the edge of the sea, like a broad tossing river, swelling into great billows of gray or dark green, where the taller olives or fir-trees grew, and broken here and there with islets of many-colored stone. With the rest came up the chaplain, who had recovered by this time his breath, and, to a certain extent, his equanimity. While the others stood silent, he saw one of those openings for improving the occasion professionally of which he was ever so ready to avail himself. So, casting his hand abroad theatrically, he declaimed,

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