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Sword and Gown: A Novel

by George A. Lawrence · English · Gutenberg #19121 · 434,469 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: Sword and Gown: A Novel

Author: George A. Lawrence


        
Release date: August 25, 2006 [eBook #19121]

Language: English

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SWORD AND GOWN: A NOVEL ***




Produced by David Garcia, David Wilson and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
file was produced from images generously made available
by The Kentuckiana Digital Library)









                    SWORD AND GOWN.

                        A Novel.



                   BY THE AUTHOR OF
                  "GUY LIVINGSTONE."


                       NEW YORK:
                    FRANKLIN SQUARE.
                         1859.


[Transcriber's note: the author was George Alfred Lawrence]




CHAPTER I.


"There _is_ something in this climate, after all. I suppose there are
not many places where one could lie on the shore in December, and enjoy
the air as much as I have done for the last two hours."

Harry Molyneux turned his face seaward again as he spoke, and drank in
the soft breeze eagerly; he could scarcely help thanking it aloud, as it
stole freshly over his frame, and played gently with his hair, and left
a delicate caress on his cheek--the cheek that was now always so pale,
save in the one round scarlet spot where, months ago, Consumption had
hung out her flag of "No surrender."

There is enough in the scene to justify an average amount of enthusiasm.
Those steep broken hills in the background form the frontier fortress of
the maritime Alps, the last outwork of which is the rocky spur on which
Molyneux and his companion are lying. Fir woods feather the sky-line;
and from among these, here and there, the tall stone pines stand up
alone, like sentinels--steady, upright, and unwearied, though their
guard has not been relieved for centuries. All around, wild myrtle, and
heath, and eglantine curl and creep up the stems of the olives, trying,
from the contact of their fresh youth, to infuse new life and sap into
the gray, gnarled old trees, even as a fair Jewish maiden once strove to
cherish her war-worn, decrepit king. There are other flowers too left,
though December has begun, enough to give a faint fragrance to the air
and gay colors to the ground. Just below their feet is a narrow strip of
dark ribbed sand, and then the tangle of weed, scarcely stirred by the
water, that all along this coast fringes like a beard the languid lip of
the Mediterranean Sea.

Molyneux appreciated and admired all this, after his simple fashion, and
said so; his companion did not answer immediately; he only shrugged his
shoulders and lifted his eyebrows, as if he could have disputed the
point if it had not been too much trouble. An optimist in nothing, least
of all was Royston Keene grateful or indulgent to the beauties and
bounties of inanimate creation.

"Ah well!" Harry went on, resignedly, "I know it's useless trying to get
a compliment to Nature out of you. I ought to have given you up that
night when we showed you the Alps from the terrace at Berne. You had
never seen the Jungfrau before, and she had got her prettiest pink
evening dress on, poor thing! and all you would say was, 'There's not
much the matter with the view.'"

"It was a concession to your wife's enthusiasm," Keene replied; "a
sudden check might have been dangerous just then, or I should have
spoken more bitterly, after being brought out to look at mountains, when
I was dusty and travel-stained, wanting baths, and dinners, and other
necessaries of life."

The voice was deep-toned and melodious enough that spoke these words,
but too slow and deliberate to be quite a pleasant one, though there was
nothing like a drawl in it. One could easily fancy such a voice ironical
or sarcastic, but hardly raised much in anger; in the imperative mood it
might be very successful, but it seemed as if it could never have
pleaded or prayed. It matched the speaker's exterior singularly well.
Had you seen him for the first time--couchant, as he was then--you would
have had only an impression of great length and laziness; but as you
gazed on, the vast deep chest expanded under your eye; the knotted
muscles, without an ounce of superfluous flesh to dull their outline,
developed themselves one by one; so that gradually you began to realize
the extent of his surpassing bodily powers, and wondered that you could
have been deceived even for a moment. The face guarded its secret far
more successfully. The features were bold and sharply cut, bronzed up to
the roots of the crisp light-brown beard and hair, except where the
upper brow retained its original fairness--presenting a startling
contrast, like a wreath of snow lying late in spring-time high up on the
side of a black fell. You would hardly say that they were devoid of
expression, any more than that a perfectly drilled soldier is incapable
of activity; but you got puzzled in making out what their natural
expression was: it was not sternness, far less ferocity--the face was
much too impassible for either; and yet its listlessness could never be
mistaken for languor. The thin short lips might be very pitiless when
compressed, very contemptuous and provocative when curling; but the
enormous mustache, sweeping over them like a wave, and ending in a clean
stiff upward curve, made even this a matter of mere conjecture. The
cold, steady, dark eyes seldom flashed or glittered; but, when their
pupils contracted, there came into them a sort of sullen, suppressed,
inward light, like that of jet or cannel coal. One curious thing about
them was, that they never seemed to care about following you, and yet
you felt you could not escape from them. The first hand-gripe, however,
settled the question with most people: few, after experiencing the
involuntary pressure, when he did not in the least mean to be cordial,
doubted that there were passions in Royston Keene--difficult perhaps to
rouse, but yet more difficult to appease or subdue.

His profession was evident. Indeed, it must be confessed that the
dragoon is not easily dissembled. I know a very meritorious
parish-priest, of fair repute too as a preacher, who has striven for
years, hard but unavailingly, to divest himself of the martial air he
brought with him out of the K.D.G. He strides down the village street
with a certain swagger and roll, as if the steel scabbard were still
trailing at his heel, acknowledging rustic bows with a slight quick
motion of the finger, like troopers' salutes; on the smooth shaven face
is shadowed forth the outline of a beard, nurtured and trimmed in old
days with more than horticultural science; in the pulpit and
reading-desk gown and surplice hang uneasily, like a disguise, on the
erect soldierly figure, and the effect of his ministrations is thereby
sadly marred; for apposite text, earnest exhortation, and grave rebuke
flow with a curious inconsistency from the lips of that well-meaning but
unmitigated Plunger.

Royston Keene was no exception to this rule, though he did not like to
be told so, and rather ignored the profession than otherwise. Perhaps he
had begun it early enough to have got tired of it; for he had now been
for some time on half-pay, and a brevet-major, after doing good service
in the Indian wars, and was not yet thirty-four. Molyneux had served in
the same light cavalry regiment as his subaltern, and there the
foundation was laid of their close alliance. It was not a very fair or
well-balanced one, being made up of implicit obedience, reliance, and
reverence on the one side, and a sort of protecting condescension on the
other--much like the old Roman relation between Client and Patron;
nevertheless it had outlasted many more sympathetic and better-looking
friendships.

They used to say of "The Cool Captain" (so he was always called off
parade), that "he could bring a boy to his bearings sooner than any man
in the army." Yet he was a favorite with them all. There was a regular
ovation among those "Godless horsemen" whenever he came into the Club,
or into their mess-rooms; they hung upon his simplest words with a
touchingly devout attention, and thought it was their own stupidity when
they could see nothing in them to laugh at or admire; they wrote off all
that they could remember of his sarcasms and repartees--generally
strangely travestied and spoiled by carriage--to unlucky comrades,
martyrized on far-off detachments, or vegetating with friends in the
country; the more ambitious, after much private practice, strove to
imitate his way of twisting his mustache as he stood before the fire,
though with some, to whom nature had been niggard of hirsute honors, it
was grasping a shadow and fighting with the air.

Certainly Molyneux never was so happy as in that society. Fond as he was
of his pretty wife, her influence was as nothing in the scale. She
complained of this, half in earnest, soon after they were married. The
fever of post-nuptial felicity was strong upon Harry just then, but he
did not attempt to deny the imputation. He only said, "My pet, I have
known him so much the longest!" I wonder, now, how many brides would
have admitted that somewhat unsatisfactory and illogical excuse? Fanny
Molyneux did; she was the best-natured little woman alive, and wise,
too, in her generation, for she never brought matters to a crisis, or
measured her strength against the "heavy-weight."

Indeed, they got on together extremely well. Whenever Keene happened to
be with them--which was not often--she gave up the management of Harry's
Foreign Affairs to him, reserving to herself the control of the Home
Department, and, between the two, they ruled their vassal right royally.
After some months' acquaintance they became the greatest friends; on
Royston's side it was one of the few quite pure and unselfish feelings
he had ever cherished toward one of her sex not nearly akin to him in
blood. He always seemed to look on her as a very nice, but rather
spoiled child, to be humored and petted to any amount, but very seldom
to be reasoned with or gravely consulted. Considering her numerous
fascinations, and the little practice he had had in the paternal or
fraternal line, he really did it remarkably well: be it understood, it
was only _en petite comité_ that all this went on; in general society
his manner was strictly formal and deferential. It provoked her though,
sometimes, and one day she ventured to say, "I wish you would learn to
treat me like a grown-up woman!" Royston's eyes darkened strangely; and
one glance flashed out of the gloom that made her shrink away from him
then, and blush painfully when she thought of it afterward alone. He was
frowning, too, as he answered, in a voice unusually harsh and
constrained, "It seems to me we go on very well as it is. But women
never _will_ leave well alone." She did not like to analyze his answer
or her own feelings too closely, so she tried to persuade herself it was
a very rude speech, and that she ought to be offended at it. There was a
coolness between those two for some days, amounting to distant courtesy.
But the dignified style did not suit _ma mignonne_ (as Harry delighted
to call her) at all, and was, indeed, a lamentable failure; it made her
look as if she had been trying on one of her great-grandmother's
short-waisted dresses; so they soon fell back into their old ways, and,
like the model prince and princess, "lived very happily ever afterward."




CHAPTER II.


Keene had spent some time with the Molyneuxs during the autumn and
winter, and had conducted himself so far with perfect propriety,
certainly keeping Harry straighter than he would have gone alone; for he
was, unluckily, of a convivial turn of mind wholly incompatible with
delicate health and a frail constitution. Being a favorite with the
world in general, he felt bound, I suppose, to reciprocate, so, albeit
strictly enjoined to keep the earliest hours, he would sit up till dawn
if any one encouraged him, and then come home, perfectly sober perhaps,
but staggering from mere weakness. He did not care for deep drinking in
the least, but the number of magnums he had assisted in flooring, when
on a regimen of "three glasses of sherry," would have made a double row
of nails round the coffin of a larger man. Nature, however, being a
Dame, won't stand being slighted, or having her admonitions disregarded,
and the way she asserted herself on the morrow was retributive in the
extreme. Harry was always so _very_ ill after one of those nights "upon
the war-path." On such occasions, his feelings, without being quite
remorseful, were beautifully and curiously penitent; they manifested
themselves chiefly by an extraordinary ebullition of the domestic
affections. "Bring me my children" (he had two tiny ones), he would cry
on waking, just as another man would call for brandy and soda; and,
strange to say, the presence of those innocents seemed to have a
similarly invigorating and refreshing effect: during all that day he
would make pilgrimages to their cribs, and gaze upon them sleeping with
the reverence of an old _dévote_ kneeling before the shrine of her most
efficacious saint. Then he would go forth, and return with a present for
his wife, bearing an exact proportion in value to the extent and
duration of the past misdemeanor; so that her jewel-case and
writing-table soon became as prettily suggestive as the votive chapel of
Nôtre Dame des Dunes. Very unnecessary were these peace-offerings; for
that dear little woman never dreamt of "hitting him when he was down,"
or taking any other low advantage of his weakness. She would make his
breakfast beamingly, at all untimely hours, and otherwise pet and caress
him, so that he might have been a knight returning wounded from some
Holy War, instead of a discomfited scalp-hunter, bearing still evident
traces of the "war-paint." A stern old lady told her once that such
condonation of offenses was unprincipled and immoral. It may be so, but
I can not think the example is likely to be dangerously contagious.
Whatever happens, there will always remain a sufficiency of matronly
Dicæarchs, over whose judgment-seats the legend is very plainly
inscribed, _Nescia flecti_.

These Ember days formed the only exceptions to the remarkably easy way
in which Molyneux took every thing; there seemed to be no rough places
about his disposition for trouble or care to take hold of. Hunting four
days a week through the winter; six weeks in town during the season,
with incidentals of Epsom, Goodwood, _saumon à la Trafalgar_, bouquets,
and opera-stalls; living all the rest of the year at a mess curious as
to the quality of its dry Champagne--these simple pleasures involve a
certain expenditure hardly "fairly warranted by our regimental rate of
pay." To accomplish all this on about £500 a year, and yet to steer
clear of ruin, is an ingenious process doubtless, but a sum not to be
wrought out (most soldiers will tell you) without some anxiety and
travail of mind. Now, in the very tightest state of the money-market,
Harry was never known to disquiet himself in vain. He would not borrow
from any of his comrades, refusing all such proffers of assistance
gratefully but consistently. No Mussulman ever equaled his contented
reliance on the resources of futurity, and his implicit belief in the
same. He would anchor his hopes on some such improbability as "a long
shot coming off," or "his Aunt Agnes coming down" (a proverbially awful
widow, who had forgiven him seven times already; and, after each fresh
offense, had sworn unrelenting enmity to him and his heirs forever).
Strong in this faith, he met condoling friends with a pleasant,
reassuring smile: with the same demeanor he confronted threatening
creditors. He used no arts, and condescended to no subterfuge in dealing
with these last; but, as one of them observed, retreating from the
barracks moneyless but gratified, "Mr. Molyneux seems to _feel_ for one,
at all events." So he did. He sympathized with his tailor, not in the
least because he owed him money, but because he was a fellow-creature in
difficulties, regretting heartily it was not in his own power to relieve
them; just as a very charitable but improvident person might feel on
reading a case of real distress in the _Times_. Strange to say, hitherto
he had always pulled through. Either the outsider _did_ win, or the
aunt, touched in the soft place of her heart through her ruffled
feathers, was brought down by a "wild shot," when considered quite out
of distance, and "parted" freely.

The last and hardest trial of all--long debility and frequent
illness--had failed to shake this intense serenity. He was never cross
or unreasonable, and tried to give as little trouble as possible; but
was grateful to a degree for every thing that was done for him: he could
even manage to thank people for their advice, whether he took it not. So
far as one could make out, he was nearly as much interested in the state
of his own health, as one would be about that of any pleasant casual
acquaintance.

It must be confessed, that poor Harry and his like are by no means
strong-minded, or large-brained, or persevering men; they seldom or
never rise to eminence, and rarely have greatness thrust upon them. They
do not often volunteer to lead the vanguard of any great movement,
shouting out on the slightest provocation the war-cry of "life is
earnest;" for they are the natural subalterns of the world's mighty
battalia, and could hardly manoeuvre one of its companies, without
hopelessly entangling it, and exposing themselves: indeed, if they are
useful at all in their generation, it is in a singularly modest and
unobtrusive way. Yet there is an attraction about them, a power of
attachment, that the great and wise ones of the earth have appreciated
and envied, ere now. It is curious, too, to see what an apparent
contradiction to themselves the extremes of the class--those who
exaggerate _nonchalance_ into insensibility, and softness into
effeminacy--have shown, when brought face to face with imminent peril or
certain destruction. France held few more terrible _ferrailleurs_ than
the curled painted minions of her third Henry: the sun never looked down
on a more desperate duel than that in which Quélus, Schomberg, and
Maugiron did their _devoir_ manfully to the last. Nay, though he came
delicately to his doom, the King of Amalek met it, I fancy, gallantly
and gracefully enough, when once he read his sentence in the eyes of the
pitiless Seer, who ordained that he "should be hewn in pieces before the
Lord in Gilgal."

                              R. I. P.

There was silence for some minutes after the few words that opened this
story; and then Royston Keene spoke again.

"Hal, do you remember that miserable impostor in Paris being
enthusiastic about Dorade and its advantages, describing it as a sort of
happy hunting-ground, and so deciding us on choosing it in preference to
Nice?"

"Ah! he _did_ drivel a good deal. I think he had been drinking," the
other answered.

"No; I understand him now. He had been bored here into a sullen,
vicious misanthropy; and he wanted to take it out on the human race by
getting others in the same mess. It's just like that jealous old
Heathfield, who, when he is up to his girths in a squire-trap, never
halloos ''ware bog,' till five or six more are in it. I can fancy the
hoary-headed villain gloating hideously over us now. I wish I had him
here. I could be _so_ unkind to him! He talked about the shooting and
the society. Bah! there's about one cock to every thousand acres of
forest; and as for women fair to look upon, I've not flushed one since
we came. I don't think I can stand it much longer."

"I am very sorry," Harry said; "I knew you were being bored to death,
and it's all on my account; but I didn't like to ask you about it. I'm
so horribly selfish!" The shadow of an imminent penitence began to steal
over him, when Royston broke in--

"Don't be childish. I liked to stay--never mind why--or I should not
have done so. Only now--you are getting better, and I realize the
situation more. I hardly know where to go. Not back to England,
certainly, yet. Besides the nuisance and chance work of picking up a
stud in the middle of the season, it isn't pleasant to be consoled for a
blank day by, 'you should have been here last month. Never was such
scent; and heaps of straight-running foxes!' And then they indulge
themselves in an imaginative 'cracker,' knowing you can't contradict
them. Shall I go to Albania? I should like to kill _something_ before I
turn homeward."

Harry seemed musing. Suddenly he half started up, clapping his hands. "I
knew I had forgotten!"

"Not such a singular circumstance as to warrant all that indecent
exultation," was the reply. "Well, out with it."

"I never told you that Fan had a letter this morning from Cecil
Tresilyan (they're immense friends, you know) to ask her to engage rooms
for them. They are in Paris now, and will be here in three days."

Keene raised himself on his arm, regarding his comrade with a sort of
admiration. "You're a natural curiosity, _mon cher_. None of us ever
quite appreciated you. I don't believe there's another man in existence,
situated as we are, who would have kept that intelligence at the back of
his head so long. _The_ Tresilyan, of course? I remember hearing about
her in India. Annesley came back from sick leave perfectly insane on the
subject. She _must_ be something extraordinary, for the recollection of
her made even him poetical--when he was sober. I asked about her when I
got to England, but her mother was taken very ill, or did something
equally unjustifiable, so she left town before I saw her."

"The mother really _was_ ill," Molyneux said, apologetically; "at least
she died soon after that. Miss Tresilyan has never shown much since. But
you've no idea of the sensation she made during her season and a half.
They called her The Refuser, she had such a fabulous number of offers,
and wouldn't look at any of them. By-the-by, there's rather a good story
about that. You know Margate? He's going to the bad very fast now, but
he was the crack puppy of that year's entry; good-looking, long
minority, careful guardians, leases falling in, mother one of the best
Christians in England, and all that sort of thing. Well, Tom Cary took
him in hand, and brought him out in great form before long. They were
talking over their preparations for the moors, for they were going to
start the next day. 'I believe that's all,' Margate asked, 'or have we
forgotten any thing?' 'Wait a minute,' said Tom, and reflected
(provident man, Tom; fond of his comforts, and proud of it)--'Ah! I
thought there was something. You haven't proposed to The Tresilyan.'
They say Margate's face was a study. He never disputed the orders of his
private trainer, so he only said, piteously, 'But I don't want to marry
any one,' and looked as if he was going to cry. 'You _are_ "ower
young,"' Cary said, encouragingly, 'and it's about the last thing I
should press upon you. It wouldn't suit my book at all. But I don't see
how that affects the question. I can lay ten ponies to one she won't
have you. It's the thing to do, depend upon it. All the other good men
have had a turn, and you have no right to be singular; it's bad taste.
Rank has its duties, my lord. _Noblesse oblige_, and so forth. You
understand?' Margate _didn't_ in the least, but he went and proposed
quite properly, and was rejected rather more decidedly than his fellows.
Then he went down into Perthshire, and missed his grouse, and lost his
salmon, with a comfortable consciousness of having discharged his
obligations to society."

Royston Keene actually groaned, "Why didn't she come sooner?" he said.
"What a luxury, in this God-forgotten place, to talk to a clever
handsome woman, who tramples on strawberry-leaves!"

"Perhaps she would have come if she had known how much we wanted her,"
replied Harry. "They say she is a model of charity, and several other
virtues too. She is coming here for the health of some companion, or
governess, who lives with her. Yet she flirts outrageously at times, in
her own imperial way. Better late than never. I'm certain you'll like
her, and perhaps she'll like you."

"_Qui vivra verra_," Keene said, rising slowly. "Let us go home now.
Draw your plaid closer round you, it's getting chilly."




CHAPTER III.


There is a terrace in Dorade, fenced in from every wind that blows,
except the south, and even that has to creep cautiously and cunningly
round a sharp corner to make its entrance good. Four small stunted palms
grow there; they look painfully out of place, and conscious of it; for
they are always bowing their heads in a meek humiliation, and shiver in
a strange unhealthy way at the slightest breeze, just as you may see
Asiatics doing in our "land of mist and snow." But the natives regard
those unhappy exotics with a fanatical pride, pointing them out to all
comers as living witnesses to the perfection of the climate; they would
gladly stone any irreverent stranger who should suggest a comparison
between their sacred shrubs and the giants of Indian seas. The only
inhabitant of the place who ever attained any eminence any where (he
really _was_ a good tailor), bequeathed a certain sum for the
beautifying of the renowned _allée_, instead of endowing charitable
institutions, and his townsmen endorsed the act by erecting a little
mural tablet to commemorate his public spirit.

The view is rather pretty, stretching over vineyards, and gardens, and
olive-grounds down to the shore, with the islands in the far foreground
rearing themselves against the sky, clear and blue, or if the weather is
misty to seaward, sleeping in an aureole of golden haze, so that the
whole effect would be cheerful if it were not for the melancholy
invalids who haunt the spot perpetually. Faces and figures are to be
seen sometimes that would send an uncomfortable shiver of revulsion
through you if you met them on the Boulevard des Italiens, strengthened
by your ante-prandian _absinthe_. Here, the place belonged to them so
completely, that a man in rude health felt like an unwarrantable
intruder, in which light I am sure the hypochondriacs always regarded
him. As such a one passed, you might see a glare, half-envious,
half-resentful, light up some hollow eyes, and thin parched lips worked
nervously, as though they were uttering a very equivocal blessing.

Does the character gain much by the extermination of more impulsive
passions, when their place is possessed by the two devils that neither
age nor sickness can exorcise--Avarice and Envy? It is with this last,
perhaps, that we have most to do; and the shadow of it, however
indistinct and distant, makes the landscape near the horizon look
somewhat dreary. The nature of many of us is so faulty and ill
regulated, that it may be doubted if even advancing years will make us
much better or wiser; but, when winter shall have closed in, and our hot
blood is more than cool, is there no chance of an "open season?" Must it
come to this--that the mere sight of the youth, and strength, and beauty
that have left us far behind shall stir our bile, as though it were an
insolent parade--that the choicest delicacies at our neighbor's
wedding-breakfast shall not pique our palate like the baked meats at his
funeral? Not so; if we must give ground let us retreat in good order,
leaving no shield behind us that our enemy may build into his trophy. If
we are rash enough to assail Lady Violet Vavasour with petitions for a
waltz, and see her look doubtfully down her scribbled tablets, till the
"sweetest lips that ever were kissed" can find no gentler answer than
the terrible "Engaged," let us not gnash suicidally our few remaining
teeth, even though Brabazon Leslie--all the handsomer for the scar on
his smooth forehead--should come up upon our traces, and ride roughshod
over those hieroglyphics, as he did at Balaclava through Russian
squadrons. Rather let us try to sympathize with his triumph, while he
carries off his beautiful prize from under the enemy's guns, as
Dundonald may have cut out a frigate beneath the batteries of Vera Cruz.
_Non omnia corripit ævum._ Hath the savor departed wholly from the
Gascon wine, because the name of no living love crowns the draught?
Shall we stay sullenly at home when all the world is flocking to the
tournament, because our limbs have stiffened so that we may no longer
sit saddlefast, and hold our own in the _mêlée_? A corner in the
cushioned gallery is left to us still. Come, comrade of mine--_nate
mecum Consule Manlio_--we will go up and lounge there among the
Chatelaines: some may be found good-natured enough to listen (in the
pauses of the tilting), while we tell how, not so many years back, plume
and pennon went down before our lance.

I place no great reliance on the Pleasures of Memory. But, if pearls and
bright shells be rarely found there, surely waifs, better than _echini_
and sting-rays, are to be gathered on the "shores of long ago." Ah,
cynic! you are strong enough to be merciful--just this once. Spare us
the string of examples that would overwhelm us utterly. Does it not
suffice that we confess the truth of that saddest adage, tolled in our
ears by every passing bell,

  Those whom the gods love well die young?

Royston and his companion were crossing the terrace on their way home
when the former stopped suddenly.

"Go on, Hal," he said; "it is too late for you to be standing about, but
I must speak to that poor Châteaumesnil. I shall see you at dinner." He
went up to a wheeled chair that was being drawn by at the time.

Its occupant was a man of large frame, as far as could be made out
through the thick wrappings of furs; his head was bent forward and low,
resting on his hands, that were crossed on a crutch-handle. He appeared
profoundly unconscious of all that was passing, and never moved till
Keene addressed him. Then, very slowly, he lifted up his face. Few of
us, fortunately for those who have strong imaginations and weak nerves,
see its like twice in a lifetime, or there would be wild work in
dreamland.

It was not distorted in any way, nor deformed, except by a ghastly,
livid pallor; gaunt and drawn as the features were, they still bore
evident traces of a rare manly beauty, that even the neglected beard of
iron-gray could not conceal. But it was the savage face of one who has
wrestled with physical pain till it has assumed almost the visible and
tangible shape of a personal enemy--a mocking devil, that always is
ready, with fresh ingenuity of torture, to answer and punish the
rebellious question, "Art thou come to torment me before my time?" The
lines on the forehead were so strongly marked and dreadfully distinct,
that, like the markings of the locust, they seemed to form characters
that might be read, if it were given to mortal cabalists to decipher the
handwriting of God.

Look once more: it is worth while, if you are curious in contrasts and
comparisons. Five years ago that bowed, blasted cripple was the most
reckless dare-devil, the most splendid Paladin, in all the army of
Algiers; the man for whom, after an unusually brilliant exploit, St.
Arnaud, loving him as his own right hand, could find no higher praise
than to write in his dispatches, "_Les 3me Chasseurs se sont conduits
en héros; leur chef-d'escadron en--Châteaumesnil._" And it was true that
the annals of his house could boast of no nobler soldier, though they
had been fighting hard since Clovis's day. His name is known very well
in Africa. The _spahis_ talk of it still over their watch-fires, and the
wild Bedouins load it with guttural curses--their lips white with hatred
and remembered fear: they do not forget how far and fast they fled into
their desert strong-holds, and never could shake off the light cloud of
whirling dust that told how Armand and his stanch gaze-hounds were hard
upon their trail.

Rheumatic fever, coming close on a severe bullet wound, had brought him
very near to death; and the first thing he heard when he began to
recover, was that he would never stand upright again.

He is answering Keene's salutation.

"My friend, you failed us last night at the Cercle, and yet we waited
for you long." A hoarse, hollow voice--very measured and slow, as if
carefully disciplined to repress groans--yet every now and then there
will come a modulation, that shows how rich and cheery it might have
been when trolling a _chanson à boire_--how clear and sonorous when,
over the stamping of hoofs and the rattle of scabbards, it rang out the
one word "Charge!"--how winning and musical when whispering into a
small, pink ear laid against his lips lovingly.

The Vicomte de Châteaumesnil cares for but one thing on earth now--play,
as deep as he can make or find it. It is not a pastime, or a
distraction, or an occasional fever-fit, but the sole interest of his
existence. A fearfully unworthy and unsatisfactory one, you will say.
Granted; but try and realize his condition.

He is not forty yet. All the passions of mature manhood were alive
within him; not one desire or impulse had been tamed by natural or even
premature decay at the time he was struck down, and cut off from every
object and aim of his former life, when it was too late to form or turn
to others. Imagine how eagerly his strong fiery nature must have grasped
at some of these--how it must have appreciated the alternations of
glory, pleasure, and peril--all worse than blanks now. You dare not
speak to him of woman's love. Worse than all other torments of the
Titan's bed of pain, would be wild dreams of impossible Oceanides!

Remember that his only change of scene is from one of the waters of
Marah to another, according to his own or his physician's fancy about
mineral springs. Remember, too, that the cleverest or the most sanguine
of them all have only ventured to promise an abatement of his agonies:
of their cessation they say no word; nor can they even prophesy that the
end will come quickly. He is not allowed to read much, even if his taste
lay that way, which it does not; for a literary _Chasseur d'Afrique_ is
such a whim as Nature never yet indulged herself in. So perhaps he
caught at the only resource that could have saved him from worse things;
under which, I presume, is to be included the temptation to take
laudanum in proportions by no means prescribed or sanctioned by the
Faculty.

Every day about noon his servant helped him into the card-room at the
club, and settled him at his own table, where, with the two hours
respite of dinner, he sat till midnight, ready to give battle to all
comers at all weapons, just as the Knights of Lyonnesse used to keep a
bridge or a pass while achieving their vows. It is needless to say that
the changes of good or bad luck affected him not at all. Few men of his
stamp indulge in the weakness of railing at Fortune, which is the
privilege and consolation of the _roturier_. Neither was he ever heard
to reproach a partner, or become bitter against an adversary. He seemed
to take a pleasure in disappointing those who were always expecting from
him some savage outbreak of temper: they judged from his appearance, and
had some grounds for their anticipations; for, winning or losing, that
strange look, half-weary, half-defiant, never was off his face. But,
with Armand de Châteaumesnil, the _grand seigneur_ had not been merged
in the soldier: the _brusquerie_ of the camp had not overlaid the manner
of the courtly school in which he and all his race had been trained; the
school of those who would stab their enemy to the heart with sarcasm or
innuendo, but scorned to stun him with blatant abuse--of those who would
never have dreamt of listening to a woman with covered head, though they
might be deaf as the nether millstone to her entreaties or her tears. It
was with the Revolution that the rapier went out, and the _savate_ came
in.

Very few men came up to his standard of play; for he was hard to please
in style as well as in stakes. Keene did fully; and this, with a certain
similarity of tastes, accounted for his liking the latter so well. He
had little regard to throw away, and was chary of it in proportion. On
the other hand, Royston treated the invalid with an amount of deference
very unusual with him, in whom the bump of Veneration was probably
represented by a cavity.

The two were still talking on the terrace, when a man passed them, who
lifted his hat slightly, and then sighed audibly, looking upward with an
ostentatious contrition, as though he apologized to heaven for such a
bowing-down to Rimmon. This was the Rev. James Fullarton, British
chaplain at Dorade. A difficult and anomalous position--in which the
unlucky divine, in addition to his anxiety about the conscientious
discharge of his duties, has to cultivate the friendship of a vast
number of unrighteous Mammons, if he would be allowed to perform his
functions at all. Our countrymen are popularly supposed to take out a
special license for liberty of thought and action as soon as they cross
the Channel; and the pastor's pulpit-cushion can hardly be stuffed with
roses when every other member of his congregation--embracing devotees of
about a dozen different shades of High, Low, and Broad Church--thinks it
his or her daily duty to decide, if the formula--_Quamdiu se bene
gesserit_--has been duly complied with. Perhaps foreign air and warmer
climates develop, like a hot-bed, our innate instinct of
destructiveness. Look at portly respectable fathers of
families--householders who, at home, have accepted their spiritual
position without a murmur for a quarter of a century, roused to revolt
by no vexed question of copes, candles, or church-rates--even these can
not escape contagion. When once the game is afoot, they will open on the
scent with the perseverance of the steadiest "line-hunter," and join in
the "worry" as savagely as the youngest hound. I remember seeing a
similar case in Scotland, where a minister was preaching before "the
Men" who were appointed to judge of his qualifications. Right in front
of him, on a low bench, sat the awful Three, silent, stolid, and stern.
His best rounded periods, his neatest imagery, his aptest quotations,
brought no light into their vacant gray eyes: perhaps they were looking
beyond all these, straight at the doctrine. The breeze blew freshly
from the German Ocean, over the purple hills; but it brought no coolness
to that miserable Boanerges. How he _did_ perspire! I could not wonder
at it; and though he preached for ninety-five minutes, and wearied me
even to death, I bore him no enmity, but pitied him from my soul.

Mr. Fullarton, however, had steered through the reefs and quicksands
with better skill or luck than his fellows, and, judging from the
ruddiness of his broad, beardless face, and the amplitude of his black
waistcoat, the cares of office had not hitherto affected his health
materially. He was a well-meaning, conscientious man, ready to work hard
for his flock and his family; indeed, barring a certain frail leaning
toward _gourmandise_, of which a full pendulous lip told tales, and an
occasional infirmity of temper, he had as few outward failings as could
be desired. For one of no extreme views, he could count an extraordinary
number of adherents. Without being particularly agreeable or
instructive, he possessed a rather imposing readiness and rotundity of
speech, and had a knack of turning his arm-chair into a pulpit somewhat
oftener than was quite in good taste. However, I suppose the best of us
will talk "shop" when we see a fair opening. He had a large wife and
several small children. No one admired him more devotedly than this
truly excellent woman. As far as sharing in her husband's successes
went, or partaking in any other advantages of society, she might as well
have been the squaw of an Iowa brave; for her time was more than taken
up in tending her offspring, and in providing for her lord the savory
meats in which he delighted; but she looked the picture of contentment,
and so nobody thought it necessary to pity her.

From the first moment of their meeting, the chaplain had entertained a
nervous dislike, approaching to a presentiment, toward Royston Keene. He
regarded him as a brand likely to inflame others, but itself by no means
to be plucked from the burning. The latter saw his gesture as he passed,
and smiled--not pleasantly. "Remark the shepherd, M. le Vicomte," he
said; "he sees the wolves prowling, and trembles for his lambs."

"One wolf, at least, is toothless," answered Châteaumesnil. "What have
we to do with lambs, except _en suprême_? But the sun is down; I must go
home, or these cursed pains will avenge themselves. Till this evening."

"I will not fail; but you will permit me to accompany you so far," said
Keene, bending over the invalid with the grand courteous air that became
him well; and he walked by the other's side till they reached his door,
talking over the varying fortunes of last night's play.




CHAPTER IV.


You have found out already that you are only looking at a chaplet of
cameos, with just enough of story to string them together. Under these
circumstances, the right thing of course to do is to work out each
character by the rules of metaphysical mathematics, and then to reverse
the process and "prove" the result. But I never tried to extract the
square root out of _any thing_ without failing miserably, and one can
only speak, and act, and write according to one's light. After all, it
seems a more uncertain science than astronomy. Comets _will_ appear, now
and then, at abnormal times, and in places where they have no heavenly
business; and people are still to be found, so very ill-regulated as to
go right or wrong in opposition to all rules and precedents. Where the
variations are so infinite, it is difficult to argue safely from one
singular example to another, and, if you miss one step, your whole
deduction is apt to come to grief. Some one said, that "there were
corners in the nature of the simplest peasant-girl to which the
cleverest man alive could never find a key." Perhaps, too, those who
fancy, rightly or wrongly, that they have mesmerized the heart even of
one fellow-creature so completely that the poor thing could not, if it
would, keep back a single secret, think it hardly fair to give the world
in general the full benefit of their discoveries. Practically, does all
this help one much? It is possible that some who have passed for the
deepest observers of human nature, owed their renown more to an acute
observation of the phenomena of feeling, an intuitive knowledge of what
people like and dislike, a retentive memory, and a happy knack of making
all these available at the right moment, than to any profound reasoning
on abstract principles. Like some untaught arithmeticians, their
calculations came out correct, but they could not have gone through the
steps of the process.

There lives, even now, a sublime theorist, who professes to have made
feminine physiology his peculiar study. Sitting at his desk, or in his
arm-chair, he will trace the motives, impulses, and sensations which a
woman must _necessarily_ have experienced under any given circumstances,
as lucidly as a skillful pathologist, scalpel in hand, may lecture on
the material mysteries of the blood or brain: he will analyze for you
the waters of the _Fons Lacrymarum_, just as Letheby or Taylor might do
those of a new chalybeate spring. A fearful power, is it not, and fatal,
if used tyrannously? Well, I remember hearing a very beautiful and
charming person speak of an evening she had spent in the society of The
Adept, during which she was conscious of being subjected to the action
of his microscope, stethoscope, and other engines of science. She said
"It did not hurt her much," and, on the whole, seemed by no means so
impressed with awe and admiration as could be wished. Indeed, before
they parted, if any one was disquieted, discomfited, or otherwise
damaged, I fancy it was--_not_ the loveliest Margaret. From my slight
acquaintance with that tremendous philosopher, supposing that he were
turned loose among a bevy of perfectly well-educated women, and meant
mischief, I should be disposed to lay longer odds against his chances
than I would against those of many men who have never read one word of
Balzac, Michelet, or Kant.

Still, as was aforesaid, in the days of high art and high farming, high
physiology is clearly the thing to go for. So, for my shortcomings, to
all critics--ethic, dialectic, æsthetic, and ascetic--I cry _mea culpa_,
thus audibly.

Nevertheless, while they are waiting for her at Dorade, we will try to
sketch Cecil Tresilyan.

Her father died when she was too young to remember him, and the first
fourteen years of her life were spent almost entirely in the old Cornish
manor-house from which her family took its name. That great, rambling
pile stood at the head of a glen, terraced at first into gardens, and
then thickly wooded, and stretching down to the shore. There was a small
bay just here, the mouth of which curved inward very abruptly. It seemed
as if the black cliffs had caught the sea in a trap, and stood forward
to keep the outlet fast forever: the waves were free to come and go for
a certain distance, but never to rave or rebel any more: when their
brethren of the open main went out to war, the captives inside might
hear the din, but not break out to join them; they could only leap up
weakly against their prison bars. There was nothing at all remarkable in
the house itself, except its furniture and panelings of black oak, and
two pictures, to which was attached a story bearing on the hereditary
failing which had made the family proverbial. The first was the likeness
of a lovely girl, in the court dress of James the Second's time, with
beautiful hazel eyes, half timid, half trusting, like a pet doe's. The
second represented a woman, perhaps of middle age: in this the hood of a
dark gray dress was drawn far forward, and under it the eyes shone out
of the colorless face with a fixed expression of helpless, agonized
terror, as of one fascinated by some ghostly apparition. You were sorry
when you realized that they were portraits of the same person.

Sir Ewes Tresilyan was a man of strong passions and rather weak
brain--of few words and fewer sympathies; he never made a companion of
Mabel, his daughter, though his love for her was the feeling next his
heart, after his almost insane pride; but he trusted her
implicitly--less because he had faith in her truth and goodness, than
because he held it as impossible for a Tresilyan to disgrace herself or
otherwise derogate, as for the moon to fall from heaven. He was no
classic, you see, and had never read of Endymion.

In her solitary rides Mabel met the son of a neighboring squire, and
they soon began to love each other after the good old fashion. Neither
had one thought that was not honest and pure; but they were so afraid of
her father that they dared not ask his consent to their marriage as yet.
They were prudent, but not prudent or patient enough. So there came
about meetings--first at noon in the woods, then at twilight in the
park, then at midnight in the garden; and at last Sir Ewes Tresilyan
heard of it all; and heard, too, that his daughter's name was abroad in
the country-side, and more than lightly spoken of. That day, as the sun
was setting, two men stood foot to foot, with their doublets off, on the
very spot of smooth turf where the lovers parted last; and Arthur
Bampfylde had to hold his own as best he might with the deadliest rapier
in the western shires. Poor boy! he would scarcely have had the heart to
do his uttermost against Mabel's father; but better will and skill would
have availed little against the thirsty point that came creeping along
his blade and leaping over his guard like a viper's tongue. At the sixth
pass his enemy shook him heavily off his sword, wounded to the death. He
had tried explanation before, utterly in vain; but the true heart would
make one effort more to get justice done, before it ceased to beat. He
gasped out these words through the rush of blood that was choking him,
"Mabel--I swear, she is as pure as the Mother of God; and I--what had I
done?"

Sir Ewes knelt down and lifted Arthur's head upon his knee--not in pity,
but that he might hear the more distinctly--"I will tell you," he said;
"you have wooed a Tresilyan like a yeoman's daughter." The homicide
wrote in his confession of all this that, as he laid the head gently
down, a smile came upon the lips before they set. Was it that the
parting spirit--standing on the threshold of Eternity, and almost within
the light of the grand secret--fathomed the earth-worm's miserable
vanity, and could not refrain its scorn?

Mabel was sitting alone when her father returned. She had no idea that
any thing had been discovered; but the instant she saw his face, she
cast herself on her knees, crying--"I am innocent; indeed I have done no
wrong!"

He griped her arm and raised her up, gazing straight and steadfastly at
her for some moments: then he gave his verdict--"Guilty of having
brought shame on your house; not guilty of sin, I know, or _this_ should
only half atone," and he drew out the blade that had never been wiped
since it drank her lover's blood.

She slid slowly down out of his grasp, never speaking, but bearing in
her eyes the awful look of horror that became frozen there forever. The
second picture might have been taken then, though it was not painted
till long afterward. She never thenceforth, while her father lived, left
the wing of the manor-house in which her rooms lay; neither did he, nor
any one else, except the two servants who attended her, look upon her
face. People pitied her very much at first, and then forgot her
entirely. Once the superior of a Belgian convent, a relation of the
family, offered to admit Mabel, if she chose to take the vows. Perhaps
Sir Ewes Tresilyan was more gratified than he liked to show, for the
best blood in Europe was to be found in that sisterhood; but his reply
was not a gracious one:

"I thank the abbess," he wrote; "but _we_ are used to choose for our
gifts the most precious thing we have--not the most worthless. I will
not lighten my house from a heavy burden, by offering it to God."

He relented, however, when he was dying, and sent for his daughter. Very
reluctantly she came. He had prepared, I believe, a pompous and proper
oration, wherein he was to pardon her and even bestow a sort of
qualified blessing; but the wan face and wild, hollow eyes, not seen for
twelve years, frightened all his grandeur out of his head; and the
obstinate, narrow-minded tyrant collapsed all at once into a foolish,
fond old man. Something too late (that's one comfort) to avail him much.
In Mabel's nature, soft and yielding as it appeared, there was the black
spot that nothing but harshness and cruelty could have brought out--the
utter incapacity of relenting, which had given rise to the rude rhyme
known through three counties--

  In Tresilyan's face
  Fault finds no grace.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




CHAPTER V.


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Well, I believe he's the most ignorant man in Great Britain," answered
Molyneux: "that's his _spécialité_. He never had much education; and he
has been trying to forget that little, 'hard all,' ever since he was
eighteen. You remember how our fellows used to laugh at me about my
epistles? I could give him 21lb., and a beating any day. They say, two
men have to stand over him whenever he tries to write a letter, for no
_one_ is strong enough to keep him straight in his spelling and grammar.
If he tries it on alone, he gets bewildered in the second sentence, and
wanders up and down, knocking his head against particles and parts of
speech, like the man in the Maze; and throws up the sponge at last,
utterly beat. Helplessly devoted to his sister, but rather obstinate
with other people, and apt to be sulky sometimes; but good-natured on
the whole; and drinks _very_ fair."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Harry," Mrs. Molyneux observed, "Mr. Fullarton called while I was at
the _Lion d'Or_ this morning, and staid half an hour. He is so very
anxious to get Cecil to lead the singing in church."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




CHAPTER VI.


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

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

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

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

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

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

  Ah, Cecil! hide those eyes of blue."

"I think I've heard something very like that before," Fanny answered,
laughing. "She deserves a prettier compliment than a _réchauffé_."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You like her, then?" Molyneux asked.

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

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




CHAPTER VII.


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Of course you would," the major said, resignedly; "it's my fault for
starting the subject. Get over it quickly then, please." He did not stop
him, though, as he would have done on another occasion--_pour cause_.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I have no excuse to offer for this long and egotistical anecdote, except
the pendant which Maloney used to attach to his ultra-_marine_
stories--"The point of it is, that--it's strictly true."




CHAPTER VIII.


Another and a much more reputable Council of Three sat that night in
Miss Tresilyan's apartments. Mr. Fullarton represented the male element
there, and was in great force. The late accession to his flock had
decidedly raised his spirits: he knew how materially it would strengthen
his hands; but, independently of all politic consideration, Cecil's
grace and beauty exercised a powerful influence over him. Do not
misconstrue this. I believe a thought had never crossed his mind
relating to any living woman that his own wife might not have known and
approved; nevertheless was it true, that Mr. Fullarton liked his
penitents to be fair: not a very eccentric or unaccountable taste
either. It is a necessity of our nature to take more delight in the
welfare and training of a beautiful and refined being, than in that of
one who is coarse and awkward and ugly. Even with the merely animal
creation we should experience this; and not above one divine in fifty is
_more_ than human, after all.

So, gazing on the fair face and queenly figure that were then before
him, and feeling a sort of vested interest in their possessor, the heart
of the pastor was merry within him; and he, so to speak, caroused over
the profusely-sugared tea and well-buttered _galette_ with a decorous
and regulated joviality; ever as he drank casting down the wreaths of
his florid eloquence at the feet of his entertainers. In any atmosphere
whatsoever, no matter how uncongenial, those garlands were sure to
bloom. His zeal was such a hardy perennial that the most chilling
reception could not damage its vitality. Principle and intention were
both all right, of course, but they were clumsily carried out, and the
whole effect was to remind one unpleasantly of the clockmaker puffing
his wares. At the most unseasonable times and in the most incongruous
places, Mr. Fullarton always had an eye to business, introducing and
inculcating his tenets with an assurance and complacency peculiar to
himself. Sometimes he would adopt the familiarly conversational,
sometimes the theatrically effective style; but it never seemed to cross
his mind that either could appear ridiculous or grotesque. Some absurd
stories were told of his performances in this line. On one occasion,
they say, he addressed his neighbor at dinner, to whom he had just been
introduced, abruptly thus: "You see, what we want is--more faith," in
precisely the manner and tone of a _gourmet_ suggesting that "the soup
would be all the better for a little more seasoning;" or of Mr. Chouler
asserting, "the farmers must be protected, sir." On another, meeting for
the first time a very pious and wealthy old man (I believe a joint-stock
bank director), he proceeded to sound him as to his "experiences." The
unsuspecting elder, rather flattered by the interest taken in his
welfare, and never dreaming that such communications could be any thing
but privileged and confidential, parted with his information pretty
freely. Mr. Fullarton was so delighted at what he had heard that he
turned suddenly round to the mixed assembly and cried out. "Why, here's
a blessed old Barzillai!" His face was beaming like that of an
enthusiastic numismatist who stumbles upon a rare Commodus or an
authentic Domitian. There were several people present of his own way of
thinking; but some, even among those, felt very ill afterward from their
efforts to repress their laughter. The miserable individual thus endued
with the "robe of honor" would have infinitely preferred the most
scandalously abusive epithet to that fervid compliment. He would have
parted with half his bank shares at a discount (they were paying about
14 per cent. then--you can get them tolerably cheap now) to have been
able to sink into his shoes on the spot; indeed these were almost large
enough to form convenient places of refuge. It had a very bad effect on
him: he never again unbosomed himself on any subject to man, woman, or
child. Even in his last illness--though he must have had one or two
troublesome things on his mind, unless he had peculiar ideas, as to the
propriety of ruining widows and orphans--he declined to commit himself,

  But locked the secret in his breast,
  And died in silence, unconfessed.

On that Saturday night, to one of the party at all events, Mr.
Fullarton's presence was very welcome. Mrs. Danvers was somewhat of a
hard drinker in theology, and, like other intemperate people, was not
over particular as to the quality of the liquors set before her,
provided only that they were hot and strong, and unstinted. The
succulent and highly-flavored eloquence to which she was listening
suited her palate exactly, besides which, the chaplain's peculiar
opinions happened to coincide perfectly with her own. As the evening
progressed she got more and more exhilarated; and at length could not
forbear intimating "how sincerely she valued the privilege of sitting
under so eminent a divine."

The latter made a scientific little bow, elaborated evidently by long
practice, expressive at once of gratification and humility.

"A privilege, if such it be, dear Mrs. Danvers, that some of my
congregation estimate but very lightly. You would hardly believe how
many members of my flock I scarcely know, except by name. It is a sore
temptation to discouragement. I fear that Major Keene's pernicious
example is indeed contagious, and that his evil communications have
corrupted many--alas! too many." He rounded off the period with a
ponderous professional sigh.

Miss Tresilyan was leaning back in her arm-chair: as the wood-fire
sprang up brightly and sank again suddenly, her great deep eyes seemed
to flash back the fitful gleams. It was long since she had spoken. In
truth, she had been drawing largely upon her piety at first, to make
herself feel interested, and, when this failed, upon her courtesy, to
appear so; but she was conscious of relapses more and more frequent into
the dreary regions of Boredom. Every body _would_ agree with every body
else so completely! A bold contradiction, a stinging sarcasm, or a
caustic retort, would have been worth any thing just then to take off
the cloying taste of the everlasting honey. She roused herself at these
last words enough to ask languidly, "What has he done?"

There could not be a simpler question, nor one put more carelessly; but
it was rather a "facer" to Mr. Fullarton, who dealt in generalities as a
rule, and objected to being brought to book about
particulars--considering, indeed, such a line of argument as indicative
of a caviling and narrow-minded disposition in his interlocutor.

"Well," he said, not without hesitation, "Major Keene has only once been
to church; and, I believe, has spoken scoffingly since of the discourse
he heard delivered there. Yet I may say I was more than usually
'supported' on that occasion." The man's thorough air of conviction
softened somewhat the absurd effect of his childish vanity.

Cecil would have been sorry to confess how much excuse she felt inclined
to admit just then for the sins both of commission and omission--sins
that, at another time, when her faculties were fresh and her judgment
unbiassed, she might have looked upon as any thing but venial. Ah! Mr.
Fullarton, the seed you have scattered so profusely to-night is
beginning to bear fruit already you never dreamed of. Beet-root and
turnips will not succeed on _every_ soil. It must be long before a
remunerative crop of these can be gathered from the breezy upland which
for centuries, till the heather was burned, has worn a robe of
uncommercial but imperial purple.

Nevertheless, Miss Tresilyan frowned perceptibly. It looked very much as
if Keene had been amusing himself at her expense when he affected an
interest in her leading the choir. Unwittingly to "make sport for the
men of war in Gath" by no means suited the fancy of that haughty ladye.

"It is very wrong of him not to come to church," she observed after a
pause (for the sin of sarcasm disapproval was not so ready, and she made
the most of scanty means of condemnation). "Yet I scarcely think he can
be actively hostile. You know he almost lives with the Molyneuxs, and
has great influence with them. Do they not attend regularly?"

Mr. Fullarton admitted that they did. "But," said he, "constant
intercourse with such a man must ere long have its injurious effect.
Indeed, I felt it my bounden duty to warn Mrs. Molyneux on the subject.
I grieve to say she treated my admonition with a very unwarrantable
levity."

Mrs. Danvers's sympathetic groan was promptly at the service of the
speaker; fortunately, turning to thank her for it by a look, he missed
detecting her pupil's smile. She could fancy so well Fanny's little
_moue_, combining amusement, vexation, and impertinence, while
undergoing the ecclesiastical censure.

"You must be merciful to Mrs. Molyneux," she remarked, with a demure
gravity that did her credit under the circumstances. "She is my greatest
friend, you know. When a wife is so very fond of her husband, surely
there is some excuse for her adopting his prejudices for and against
people?"

The pastor brightened up suddenly: he had just recollected another fact
to fire off against the _bête noir_.

"I forgot to tell you that Major Keene is much addicted to play, and,
besides, is intimate with the Vicomte de Châteaumesnil. _Noscitur a
sociis._" The reverend man was an indifferent classic, but he had a way
of flashing scraps out of grammars and _Analecta Minora_ before women
and others unlikely to be down upon him, as if they were quotations from
some recondite author.

"You can not mean that cripple who is drawn about in a wheel-chair?"
Cecil asked. "We saw him to-day, only for a moment, for he drew his
cloak over his face as we passed. I never saw such a melancholy wreck,
and I pitied him so much that I fear he will haunt me."

Far deeper would have been the compassion had she guessed at the pang
that shot straight to Armand's heart as he veiled his blasted features
and haggard eyes, feeling bitterly that such as he were not worthy to
look upon her in the glory of her brilliant beauty.

"A notorious atheist and profligate," was the reply. "We can not regard
his sore affliction in any other light than a judgment--a manifest
judgment, dear Miss Tresilyan."

There was grave disapproval and just a shade of contempt in the face of
one of his hearers as she said, "The hand of God is laid so heavily
there that man may surely forbear him." But Mrs. Danvers struck in to
her favorite's rescue, rejoicing in an opportunity of displaying her
partisanship.

"A judgment, of course. It would be sinful to doubt it. Besides, do not
_others_ suffer?" (She cast up her eyes here pointedly, as though she
said, "There may be more perfect saints, but if you want a fair specimen
of the fine old English martyr--_me voici_.") "Cecil, my love, I wonder
you did not perceive Major Keene's true character at once. You were
talking to him a good deal the other day."

"He did not favor me with any remarkably heretical opinions," Miss
Tresilyan replied, carelessly. "Perhaps they have been exaggerated. At
all events, he is not likely to do us much harm. Don't you think _we_
are safe, Bessie? Dick does not care much for play; and his ideas on
religious subjects are so very simple that it would be hard to unsettle
them."

Clearly she thought the topic was exhausted, but it had a strange
fascination for Mr. Fullarton. One of the many good-natured people, who
especially abound in those semi-English Continental towns, had been kind
enough to quote or misquote to him a remark of Royston's about that
sermon; and on this topic the chaplain was very vulnerable. He would
have forgiven a real substantial injury far sooner than a depreciation
of his discourses.

Was he one whit weaker or more susceptible than his fellows? I think
not. All the philosophy on earth will not teach us to endure without
wincing a mosquito's bite. The hardiest hero bears about him one spot
where an ivy-leaf clinging intercepted the petrifying water--a tiny
out-of-the-way spot, not very near the head or heart, but palpable
enough to be stricken by Paris's arrow or Hagen's spear. Cæsar is very
sensitive about that bald crown of his, and fears lest even the laurel
wreath should cover it but meagrely. Many wars, since that which brought
Ilium to the dust, might have been traced to slighted vanity, and many
excellent Christians have waxed quite as wroth as the queen of
heathenish heaven about the _spretæ injuria formæ_. (Do you think this
is a peculiarly feminine failing? I have seen a first-class man and
Ireland scholar look massacres at the child of his bosom friend, when
the unconscious innocent made disagreeable remarks on his personal
appearance, alluding particularly to the shape of his nose, which was
_not_ Phidian. He has since been heard to speak of that terrible deed in
Bethlehem as a painful but justifiable measure of political expediency;
and is inclined, on many grounds, to excuse and sympathize with the stem
Idumean.) The insult offered to the embassador in Tarentum was only the
outbreak of a single drunkard's brutality, but all the wealth of the
fair city of Phalanthus did not suffice to pay the account for washing
the soiled robe white again; and blood enough ran down her streets to
have quenched some blazing temples before the Romans would give her a
receipt in full.

Arguing from these _data_, we may conclude that Mr. Fullarton was
laboring under a slight delusion in believing (which he did sincerely)
that only a pure and disinterested zeal for the welfare of his flock
impelled him to say, "I shall make it my business to inquire more fully
into Major Keene's antecedents. I am convinced there is something
discreditable in the background, and it may be well to be armed with
proofs in case of need."

Though _he_ may have deceived himself completely as to the nature of the
spirit that possessed him, Cecil Tresilyan was more clear-sighted. She
had not failed to remark a certain vicious twinkle in the speaker's eye
and a deeper flush on his ruddy countenance, betokening rather a mundane
resentment. Her lip began to curl.

"How very disagreeable some of your duties must be. No doubt you
interpret them correctly, but in this case perhaps it would be well to
be _quite_ sure before acting on the offensive. If I were a man--even a
clergyman--I don't think I should like to have Major Keene for my
declared enemy."

The text with which the chaplain enforced his reply--expressive of a
determination to keep his own line at all hazards, strong in the
rectitude of his cause--had better not be quoted here, especially as it
was not apposite enough to "lay" the contradictory spirit that was alive
in his fair opponent. (How very angry Cecil would have been if she had
been told ten minutes ago that such an expression would apply to her!)
The temptation to answer sharply was so powerful that she took refuge in
distant coldness.

"You quite misunderstand me, Mr. Fullarton. I never dreamed of offering
advice; it would have been excessively presumptuous in me, especially as
I have not the faintest interest in the subject we have been talking
about. Need we discuss it any longer? I think Major Keene has been too
highly honored already."

That weary look was so manifest now on the beautiful face that even the
chaplain, albeit tenacious of his position as a sea-anemone, felt that,
for once, he had overstaid his time and was periling his popularity. So,
after an expansive benediction, and an entreaty that they would be early
at church on the morrow, he went "to his own place."

With a sigh of admiration--"What an excellent man, and how well he
talks!" said Bessie Danvers.

With a sigh of relief--"He talks a great deal, and it is very late,"
said Cecil Tresilyan.




CHAPTER IX.


From his "coign of vantage" in the reading-desk the next morning, Mr.
Fullarton surveyed a crowded congregation, serenely complacent and
hopeful, as a farmer in August looking down from the hill-side on golden
billows of waving grain. Visitors had been pouring in rather fast during
the week; and there was a vague, general impression, which no individual
would have owned, that they were to hear something unusually good. For
once expectation was not to be disappointed--a remarkable fact, when one
considers how much dissatisfaction is created, as a rule, in the popular
mind, by the shortcomings of eclipses, processions, Vesuvian eruptions,
new operas, and other advertised attractions, natural and artificial.
The singing was really a success. Miss Tresilyan's magnificent voice did
its duty nobly, and did no more. Without overpowering or singling itself
out from the others, it lured them on to follow where they could never
have gone alone: the choir was kept in perfect order without even
knowing that it was disciplined.

There was an elderly Englishman who had resided at Dorade ever since he
had a slight difference of opinion with the Bankruptcy Court a quarter
of a century back. Drifting helplessly and aimlessly about Europe in
search of employment, he had taken root where he came ashore, and
vegetated, as floating weeds will do. He picked up rather a precarious
livelihood by acting as a species of factotum to his countrymen in the
season, ministering, not injudiciously, to their myriad whims and
necessities. Among his multifarious functions, perhaps the most
respectable and permanent was that of clerk to the English chapel. He
was by no means a very religious man, nor were his morals quite
unexceptionable, but he had completely identified himself with the
fortunes and interests of that modest building. A sneer at its
capabilities or a doubt as to its prospects would exasperate him at any
time far more than a direct insult to himself (to be sure there was
little self-respect left to be offended). When disguised in drink, which
was the case tolerably often, he generally proposed to settle the
question by the ordeal of battle, and was only to be appeased by an
apology or a great deal more liquor.

On this occasion the success and the singing combined--for excess and
hardship had not quite deadened a good ear for music--moved the old
castaway strangely. His thoughts wandered back to the misused days when
he had friends, and a position, and character; when he was a householder
and vestryman, and even dreamt ambitiously of a churchwardenship. He
could see distinctly his own pew, with the gray, worm-eaten panels,
where he had sat many and many a warm afternoon, resisting sternly, as
became a man of mark in the parish, treacherous inclinations to slumber.
He saw the ponderous brown gallery--eyesore to archæologists--which held
the village choir: there they were, with the sun streaming in on their
heads through the western window, till even the faded red cushion in
front deepened into rich crimson, chanting their quaint old anthems with
right good courage, though every one got lost in the second line, and,
after much independent exertion of the lungs, just came up in time to
join in the grand final rally. He saw the mild-faced, gray-haired parson
mounting slowly the pulpit stairs, adjusting and manoeuvring the
refractory gown that _would_ come off his shoulders with the nervous
gesture which, beginning in timidity, had grown into a habit that was
part of the man. More plainly than all--he saw a low, green mound, just
beyond the chancel walls, where one was sleeping who had lavished on him
all the treasures of a rare, unselfish, trusting love; the dear, meek,
little wife, who was so proud of her husband's few poor talents, so
indulgent to his many failings, who ever had an excuse ready to answer
his self-reproaches, whose weak, thin hand was always strong enough to
pluck him back from ruin and dishonor, till it grew stiff and cold. She
knew it, too, for he remembered the wail that burst from her lips when
she thought she was alone, the night before she died--"Ah! who will save
him now that I am gone?" How miserable and lonely he was long after they
buried her! How incessantly he used to repeat those last words, meant to
be comforting, that she spoke, with her arm wound round his neck,
"Darling, you have been so very, very kind to me!" So it went on, till
the devil of drink, choosing his time cunningly, entered into him, and
battled with and drove out the angel. A strange resurrection! Memories
that had died years ago, withering from very shame, began to curl and
twine themselves round the hard, battered heart as tenderly as ever.
These pictures of the past were still vivid and clear, when he became
aware of a dimness in his eyes that blinded them to all real surrounding
objects; he felt so surprised that it broke the spell; tears had almost
forgotten the way to his eyes.

Not very probable, is it, that a prosaic elderly clerk should dream of
all this during the three last verses of a hymn? Well, the steadiest
imagination is apt to disregard sometimes the proprieties of place; and
as for space--of course the visions of the night are quicker on the wing
than their rivals of the day; yet there must be some analogy, and, they
say, we pass through the vicissitudes of half a lifetime in the few
seconds before we wake.

Cecil was really pleased with the result of the singing. She would have
been even more so had it not been for the marked expression of approval
on the face of Royston Keene. It was evident she had been on her trial.
The cool, tranquil, appreciative smile was very provoking. It made her
feel for the moment like a _prima donna_ on her first appearance at a
new theatre.

Unusually eloquent and verbose was the sermon that day, for not only was
the preacher aware that bright eyes looked upon his deeds, but he saw
his enemies in the front of the battle. Surely all extemporaneous
speakers, in court, pulpit, or senate, must be accessible to such
external influences. It ought not to be so, of course, but I fancy it
_is_. Would John Knox have been so fiery in denunciation if those wicked
maids of honor had not derided him? I doubt if a discourse delivered in
a Union would ever soar to sublimity, even if the excellent paupers
could be supposed to understand it. So, with every sentence more
plaintive grew Mr. Fullarton's lamentations over worldlings and their
vanities, more bitter his invectives against those who, having
themselves broken out of the fold, seek to lead others astray. An
occasional gesture--something too expressive--was not needed to point
his animadversions. The object of them sat with his head slightly bent,
neither by frown nor smile betraying that a single allusion had gone
home. The simple truth was, that he scarcely caught one word. The last
cadence of sweeter tones was still lingering in his ears, and had locked
them fast against all other sounds. The energetic divine might have
poured out upon his guilty head yet stormier vials, and he would never
have heard one roll of the thunder. However, the dearest friends must
part, and all orations must come to an end, except those of the
much-desiderated Chisholm Anstey, of whom an old-world parliament was
not worthy; so, after "a burst of forty-five minutes without a check,"
the chaplain dismissed his beloved hearers to their digestion.

The stream, as it flowed out, divided, and broke up into small pools of
conversation. Miss Tresilyan and her chaperone joined the Molyneux
party, just as Fanny was saying to Keene that "she hoped he would profit
by much in the sermon that was evidently meant for him."

"_Was_ he personal?" the latter asked, so indifferently; "I didn't
notice it. Well, I suppose it amuses him, and it certainly does not hurt
me." (Mrs. Danvers sniffed indignantly--a form of protest to which her
nose, from its construction, was eminently adapted; but he went on
before she could speak) "Miss Tresilyan, will you allow perhaps the
unworthiest member of the congregation to express an opinion that the
singing went off superbly?"

Her beautiful eyes glittered somewhat disdainfully. "Thank you, you are
very good. But I think you have hardly a right to be critical. I should
like to have some one's opinion who is _really_ interested in the
chapel. It was scarcely worth taking so much trouble to appear so the
other day. You know what Liston said about the penny? 'It is not the
value of the thing, but one hates to be imposed upon.' Delusions are not
so agreeable as illusions, Major Keene."

Royston was very much pleased. He liked above all things to see a woman
stand up to him defiantly; indeed, if they were worth "setting to with,"
he always tried to get them to spar as soon as possible, to find out if
they had any idea of hitting straight. He did not betray his
satisfaction, though, as he answered quite calmly, "Pardon me, I could
not be so impertinent as to attempt a 'delusion' on so short an
acquaintance. I deny the charge distinctly. I believe that residence in
Dorade, and a certain amount of subscription, constitute a member of Mr.
Fullarton's congregation, and give one a franchise. He has not thought
fit to excommunicate me publicly as yet. I really was interested in the
subject, for I fully meant to go to church this morning, and I mean to
go again."

Insensibly they had walked on in advance of the others. She shook her
head with a saucy incredulity--"I am no believer in sudden conversions."

"Nor I; I was not speaking of such; but I am very fond of good singing,
and I would go any where to hear it. Did our chaplain include hypocrisy
among my other disqualifications for decent society last night? I
understand he is good enough to furnish a catalogue of them to all new
comers."

Cecil certainly had not abused him then; so there was not the slightest
necessity for her looking guilty and conscious, both of which she felt
she was doing as she replied--"I am sure Mr. Fullarton would not asperse
any one's character knowingly. He could only speak from a sense of duty,
perhaps not a pleasant one."

"Quite so," said Royston; "I don't quarrel with him for any fair
professional move. If he thinks it necessary or expedient to prejudice
indifferent people against me, he is clearly right to do so. Ah! I see,
you think I dislike him. I don't, indeed. Morally and physically, he
seems a little too unctuous, that's all. Capital clergyman for a cold
climate! Fancy how useful he would be in an Arctic expedition. They
might save his salary in Arnott's stoves: I'm certain he _radiates_."

Miss Tresilyan knew that it was wrong to smile. But she had an
unfortunately quick perception of the ridiculous, and the struggles of
principle against a sense of humor were not always successful. She would
not give up her point, though. "I can not think that you judge him
fairly," she persisted.

"Perhaps not; but there is a large class who would scarcely be much
moved by stronger and abler words than, I suppose, we heard
to-day--spoken as they were spoken. These preachers won't study the
fitness of things; that's the worst of it. I have known a garrison
chaplain deliver a discourse that, I am convinced, was composed for a
visitation. It seems absurd to hear a man warning us against a
particular sin, and threatening us with all sorts of penalties if we
indulge in it, when it is impossible that he himself should ever have
felt the temptation. We want some one who can find out the harmless side
of our character, as well as the diseased part, and work upon it. Such a
person may be as strict and harsh as he pleases, but he is listened to."
He paused for a moment, and went on in a graver tone--"I think it might
have done even _me_ some good, when I was younger, to have talked for
half an hour with the man who wrote 'How Amyas threw his sword away.'"

Cecil could not disagree with him now, nor did she wish to do so. She
liked those last words of his better than any he had spoken. Remember,
she was born and bred in the honest west country, where one, at least,
of their own prophets hath honor. If you want to indulge your enthusiasm
for the Rector of Eversley, let your next walking-tour turn thitherward;
for on all the sea-board from Portsmouth to Penzance, there is never a
woman--maid, wife, or widow--that will say you nay.

Keene saw his advantage, but was far too wise to follow it up then. The
weaker sex, as a rule, are acute but not very close reasoners; they mix
up their majors and minors with a charming recklessness; and, if
innocent of nothing else, are generally guiltless of a syllogism. It
follows that, in the course of an argument, it is easy enough to
entangle them in their talk. When such a chance occurs, don't come down
on your pretty antagonist with "I thought you said so and so," but be
politic as well as generous, and pass it by. They will do more justice
to your self-denial than they would have done to your dialectic talents.
Corinna loves to be contradicted, but hates to be convinced, and dreads
no monster so much as a short-horned--dilemma. She may forgive the first
offense as inadvertent, but "one more such victory and you are lost."
Think how often clemency has succeeded where severity would have failed.
What did that discreet Eastern emir, when he found his fair young wife
sleeping in a garden, where she had no earthly business to be? He laid
his drawn sabre softly across her neck, and retired without breaking her
slumbers. The cold blade was the first thing Zuleika felt when she woke;
I can not guess what her sensations were; but when she gave the weapon
back to her solemn lord, she pressed her rosy lips thrice on the blue
steel, and made a vow that she most probably kept; and Hussein Bey
never was happier, than when he drew her back to his broad breast,
looking into her face silently with his calm, grave smile.

I fancy our sisters enter into an argument with more simple good faith
and eagerness than we are wont to indulge in; so that it is probably
easier to tease and exasperate them, which is amusing enough while it
lasts. But no doubt it hurts them sometimes more than we are aware of;
and, after all, breaking a butterfly on the wheel is poor pastime, and
not a very athletic sport. The glory, too, to be won is so small that it
scarcely compensates for the pain we inflict, and may, perchance,
eventually _feel_. Is Achilles inclined to be proud of the strength of
his arm, or the keenness of his falchion, as he grovels in the dust at
the slain Amazon's side? Nay, he would give half his laurels to be able
to close that awful gaping wound--to see the proud lips soften for a
moment from their immutable scorn--to detect the faintest tremor in the
long white limbs that never will stir again.

The solemnity of these illustrations, in which battles, murders, and
sudden deaths are mingled, will prove that I regard the subject as by no
means trivial, but am sincerely anxious to warn my comrades against
yielding to a temptation which assails us daily.

On these principles the Cool Captain acted, then. His gay laugh opened a
bridge to the retreating enemy as he said, "How my poor character must
have been worried last night! I wish Mrs. Molyneux had been there. She
is good enough to stand up for her old friend sometimes. I could hardly
expect _you_ to take so much trouble for a very recent acquaintance."

"Of course not," replied Cecil. "I was not in a position to contradict
any thing, even if I had wished to do so. But, I remember, I thought I
would speak to you about my brother. You know enough of him already to
guess why I am nervous about him. I almost forced him to take me abroad;
and he is exposed to so many more dangers here than at home. Please,
don't encourage him to play, or tempt him into any thing wrong. Indeed,
I don't mean to speak harshly or uncourteously, so you need not be
angry."

She raised her eyes to her companion's with a pretty pleading. He met
them fairly. Whatever his intentions might be, no one could say that the
major ever shrank from looking friend or foe in the face.

"I am sorry that you should think the warning necessary. Supposing that
it were so--on my honor, he is safe from me. I should like to alter your
opinion of me, if it were possible. Will you give me a chance?" The
others joined them before she could reply; but more than once that day
Cecil wondered whether, even during their short acquaintance, she had
not sometimes dealt scanty justice to Royston Keene.




CHAPTER X.


There is a pleasant theory--that every woman may be loved, once at least
in her life, if she so wills it. It must be true: how, otherwise, can
you account for the number of hard-featured visages--lighted up by no
redeeming ray of intellect--that preside at "good men's feasts," and
confront them at their firesides? How do the husbands manage? Do they,
from constantly contemplating an inferior type of creation, lose their
comparing and discriminating powers, so that, like the Australian and
Pacific aborigines, they come to regard as points of beauty
peculiarities that a more advanced civilization shrinks from? Or do
their visual organs actually become impaired, like those of captives who
can see clearly only in their own dungeon's twilight, and flinch before
the full glare of day? If neither of these is the case, they must
sometimes sympathize with that dreary dilemma of Bias which the adust
Aldrich quotes in grim irony--[Greek: _Ei men kalên, exeis koinên, ei d'
aischran, poinên_] (Whether of the two horns impaled the sage of
Priene?) Some, of course, are fully alive to the outward defects of
their partners; but few are so candid as the old Berkshire squire, who,
looking after his spouse as she left the room, said, pensively,
"Excellent creature, that! I've liked her better every day for twenty
years, but I've always thought she's the plainest-headed woman in
England!" Fewer still would wish to emulate the sturdy plain-speaking of
the "gudeman" in the Scottish ballad, who, when his witch-wife boasted
how she bloomed into beauty after drinking the "wild-flower wine,"
replied, undauntedly,

 "Ye lee, ye lee, ye ill womyn,
    Sae loud I hear ye lee;
  The ill-faured'st wife i' the kingdom of Fife
    Is comely compared wi' thee."

He could stand all the other marvels of the Sabbat, but _that_ was too
much for his credulity.

No doubt many of these Ugly Princesses are endowed with excellent
sterling qualities. The old Border legend says there never was a happier
match than that of "Muckle-mou'ed Meg," though her husband married her
reluctantly with a halter tightening round his neck. But such advantages
lie below the surface, and take some time in being appreciated. The
first process of captivation is what I don't understand--unless, indeed,
there are sparkles in the quartz, invisible to common eyes, that tell
the experienced gold-seeker of a rich vein near.

Well, we will allow the proposition with which we started; but do you
suppose its converse would hold equally good--that every woman could
_love_ once if she wished it? Nine out of ten of them would, I dare say,
answer boldly in the affirmative; but in a few rather sad and weary
faces you might read something more than a doubt about this; and lips,
not so red and full as they once were, on which the wintry smile comes
but rarely, could tell perhaps a different story. The precise mould that
will fit _some_ fancies is as hard to find as the slipper of Cendrillon;
and so, in default of the fairy _chaussure_, the small white foot goes
on its road unshod, and the stones and briers gall it cruelly.

With men it does not so much matter. They have always the counteracting
resources of bodily and mental exertion, against which the affections
can make but little head. Indeed, some of the most distinguished in
arts, in arms, if not in song, seem to have gone down to their graves
without ever giving themselves time to indulge in any one of these.
Perhaps they never missed a sentiment which would have been very much in
their way if they had felt it. If all tales are true, mathematics are a
very effectual Nénuphar. But with women it is different. _They_ can't be
always clambering up unexplored peaks, or inventing improvements in
gunnery, or commanding irregular corps, or bringing in faultless reform
bills, or finding out constellations, or shooting big game, or resorting
to any of _our_ thousand-and-one safety-valves to superfluous
excitement. Are crochet, or crossed letters, or charity-schools, or even
Cochins and _Crève-coeurs_, so entirely engrossing as to drown forever
the reproaches of nature, that will make herself heard? If not, surely
the most phlegmatically proper of her sex does sometimes feel sad and
dissatisfied when she thinks that she has never been able to care for
any one more than for her own brother. It must seem hard that, when the
frost of old age comes on, she shall not have even a memory to look upon
to warm her. But in the world here, such temptations to discontent
abound; but the most guileless votary of the _Sacré Coeur_ might
confess regrets and misgivings like these without meriting any extra
allowance of fast and scourge.

If we were to reckon up the cases we have heard of women who have "gone
wrong," and made, if not _mésalliances_, at least marriages inexplicable
on any rational grounds, it would fill up a long summer's day, even
without drawing on darker recollections of post-nuptial transgression.
In these last cases, perhaps, the altar and absolute indifference was a
more dangerous element than Mrs. Malaprop's "little aversion," which is,
at all events, a _positive_, thing to work upon. Lethargies are harder
to cure, they say, than fevers. Certainly they have the warning examples
of others who have so erred, and paid for it by a life-long repentance;
but that never has stopped them yet, and never will. Remember the reply
of the _débutante_ to her austere parent when the latter refused to take
her to a ball, saying that "_she_ had seen the folly of such things." "I
want to see the folly of them too." Few of us men can realize the
feeling that, with our sisters, may account for, though not excuse, much
folly and sin. They see others happy all around them: it is hard to fast
when so many are feasting. So there comes a shameful sense of
ignorance--a vague, eager desire for knowledge--a terror of an isolation
deepening and darkening upon them, and a determination, at any risks, to
balk at least _that_ enemy--and so, like the poor lady of Shalott, they
grow restless, and reckless, and rebellious at last. They are safe where
they are, but the days have so much of dull sameness that there is a
sore temptation in the unknown peril. "Better," they say, "than the
close atmosphere of the guarded castle and the phantasms of fairy-land,
one draught of the fresh outer air--one glimpse of real life and
nature--one taste of substantial joys and sorrows that shall wake all
the pulses of womanhood, even though the experience be brief and dearly
bought, though the web woven while we sat dreaming must surely be rent
in twain--ay, even though the curse, too, may follow very swiftly, and
the swans be waiting at the gate that shall bear us down to our
burying."

If staid and cold-blooded virgins and matrons are not exempt from these
disagreeable self-reproaches, how did it fare with Cecil Tresilyan, in
whom the energy of a strong temperament was stirring like the spring-sap
in a young oak-tree? Should she die conscious of the possession of such
a wealth of love, with none to share or inherit it? She had seen such
numbers of her friends and acquaintance "pair off," that she began to
envy at last the facility of attachment that she had been wont to hold
in scorn. Very many reflections of "lovers lately wed" had been cast
upon her mirror, and yet the One knightly shadow was long in coming. Can
it be that yonder gleam through the trees is the flash of his distant
armor?

I hope this illustrated edition of rather an old theory has not bored
you much; because it would have been just as simple to have said at once
that, as the days went on in Dorade, and they were thrown constantly
into each other's society, Major Keene began to monopolize much more of
Cecil Tresilyan's thoughts than she would have allowed if she could have
helped it; for, though she considered Mr. Fullarton's testimony unfairly
biased by prejudice, she could not doubt that Royston was by no means
the most eligible object to centre her young affections upon. He
carefully avoided discussion or display of any of his peculiar opinions
in her presence, and on such occasions seemed inclined to soften his
habitually sardonic and depreciatory tone. Once or twice, when they did
disagree, she observed that he contrived to make some one else take her
side, and then argued the point, as long as he thought it worth while,
with the last opponent. Beyond the courtesy which invariably marked his
demeanor toward her sex, this was the only sign of especial deference
that he had shown. She never could detect the faintest approach to the
adulation that hundreds had paid her, and which she had wearied of long
ago. Nevertheless, she knew perfectly that on many subjects, generally
considered all-important, they differed as widely as the poles.

Perpetual struggles between the spirit and the flesh made Cecil's heart
an odd sort of debatable land; if she could not always insure success
and supremacy to the right side, she certainly did endeavor to preserve
the balance of power. Personally she rather disliked Mr. Fullarton, but
she seemed to look upon him as the embodiment of a principle, and the
symbol of an abstraction. He represented there the Establishment which
she had always been taught to venerate; and so she felt bound, as far as
possible, to favor and support him; just as Goring and Wilmot, and many
more wild cavaliers, fearing neither God nor devil, mingled in their
war-cry church as well as king. (Rather a rough comparison to apply to a
well-intentioned demoiselle of the nineteenth century, but, I fancy, a
correct one.) Thus, if she indulged herself in a long _tête-à-tête_ with
Keene, she was sure to be extraordinarily civil to the chaplain soon
after; and if she devoted herself for a whole evening to the society of
the priest and his family, the soldier was likely to benefit by it on
the morrow. Unluckily, the sacrifice of inclination was all on _one_
side.

The antagonists had never, as yet, come into open collision. It was not
respect or fear that made them shy of the conflict, but rather a
feeling, which neither could have explained to himself, resembling that
of leaders of parties in the House, who decline measuring their strength
against each other on questions of minor importance, reserving
themselves for the final crisis, when the want-of-confidence vote shall
come on. Once only there was a chance of a skirmish--the merest affair
of outposts.

Keene had been calling on the Tresilyans one evening, in the official
capacity of bearer of a verbal message from Mrs. Molyneux. It was the
simplest one imaginable; but as graver embassadors have done before him,
liking his quarters he dallied over his mission. (If Geneva, instead of
Paris, were chosen for the meeting of a Congress, would not several
knotty points be decided much more speedily?) When, at last, all was
settled, it seemed very natural that he should petition Cecil for "just
one song;" and you know what that always comes to. Royston never would
"turn over" if he could possibly avoid it; he considered it a willful
waste of advantages, for the strain on his attention, slight as it might
be, quite spoiled his appreciation of the melody. Perhaps he was right.
As a rule, if one wanted to discover the one person about whose approval
the fair _cantatrice_ is most solicitous, it would be well to look _not_
immediately behind her ivory shoulder. At all events, he had made his
peace with Miss Tresilyan on this point long ago. So he drew his
arm-chair up near the piano, but out of her sight as she sang, and sat
watching her intently through his half-closed eyelids.

I marvel not that in so many legends of witchery and seduction since the
_Odyssey_ the [Greek: _thespesiê aoidê_] has borne its part. "But," the
Wanderer might say, replying against Circè's warning, "have we not
learned prudence and self-command from Athenè, the chaste Tritonid? Have
not ten years under shield before Troy, and a thousand leagues of
seafaring, made our hearts as hard as our hands, and our ears deaf to
the charms of song? Thus much of wisdom, at least, hath come with
grizzled hair, that we may mock at temptations that might have won us
when our cheeks were in their down. O most divinely fair of goddesses!
have we not resisted your own enchantments? Shall we go forth scathless
from Ææa to perish on the Isle of the Sirens?" But the low, green hills
are already on the weather beam, and we are aware of a sweet weird chant
that steals over the water like a living thing, and smooths the ripple
where it passes. How fares it with our philosophic Laertiades? Those
signs look strangely unlike incitements to greater speed; and what mean
those struggles to get loose? Well, perhaps, for the hero that the good
hemp holds firm, and that Peribates and Eurylochus spring up to
strengthen his bonds; well, that the wax seals fast the ears of those
sturdy old sea-dogs who stretch to their oars till Ocean grows hoary
behind the blades; or nobler bones might soon be added to the myriads
that lie bleaching in the meadow, half hidden by its flowers. It was
not, then, so very trivial, the counsel that she gave in parting
kindness--

  [Greek: _Kirkê euplokamos, deinê theos audêessa_.]

Are we in our generation wiser than the "man of many wiles?" Dinner is
over, and every one is going out into the pleasance, to listen to the
nightingales.

"It will be delicious; there is nothing I should like so much; but I--I
sprained my ankle in jumping that gate; and Amy" (that's "my cousin who
happens to sing"), "I heard you cough three times this morning. _You_
won't be so imprudent as to risk the night air? Ah! they are gone at
last; and now, Amy dear--good, kindest Amy!--open the especial crimson
book quickly, and give me first your own pet song, and then mine, and
then 'The Three Fishers,' and then 'Maud,' and then, I suppose, they
will be coming back again; but by that time, they may be as enthusiastic
as they please, we shall be able to meet them fairly."

Things have changed since David's day; spirits are raised sometimes now,
as well as laid, by harp and song. In good truth, they are not always
evil ones.

On that night, Royston Keene listened to the sweet voice that seemed to
knock at the gates of his heart--gates shut so long that the bars had
rusted in their staples--not loudly or imperiously, but powerful in its
plaintive appeal, like that of those one dearly loved, standing without
in the bitter cold, and pleading--"Ah! let me in!" He listened till a
pleasant, dreamy feeling of _domesticity_ began to creep over him that
he had never known before. He could realize, then, that there were
circumstances under which a man might easily dispense with high play,
and hard riding, and hard flirting (to give it a mild name), and hard
drinking, and other excitements which habit had almost turned into
necessities, without missing any one of them. There were two words which
ought to have put all these fancies to flight, as the writing on the
wall scattered the guests of Belshazzar--"Too Late." But he turned his
head away, and would not read them. He had actually succeeded in
ignoring another disenchanting reality--the presence of Mrs. Danvers.
That estimable person seemed more than usually fidgetty, and disposed to
make herself, as well as others, uncomfortable. There was evidently
something on her mind from her glancing so often and so nervously at the
door. It opened at last softly, just as Cecil had finished "The
Swallow," and revealed Mr. Fullarton standing on the threshold. The
latter was not well pleased with the scene before him. There was an air
of comfort about it which, under the circumstances, he thought decidedly
wrong; besides which he could not get rid of a vague misgiving (the
rarest thing with him!) that his visit was scarcely welcome or well
timed.

Miss Tresilyan rose instantly to greet the intruder (yes, that's the
right word) with her usual calm courtesy. Very few words had been
exchanged for the last hour, but she was perfectly aware--what woman is
not?--of the influence she had exercised over her listener. That
consciousness had made her strangely happy. So, _she_ certainly could
have survived the chaplain's absence. Royston Keene rose too, quite
slowly. There are compounds, you know, that always remain soft and
ductile in a certain temperature, but harden into stone at the first
contact with the outer air. It was just so with him. Even as he moved,
all gentle feelings were struck dead in his heart, and he stood up a
harder man than ever, with no kinder emotion left than bitter anger at
the interruption. He could not always command his eyes, he knew; and, if
he had not passed his hand quickly over his face just then, their
expression might have thrilled through the new-comer disagreeably.

"Cecil, dearest," Mrs. Danvers said, with rather an awkward assumption
of being perfectly at her ease, "Mr. Fullarton was good enough to say he
would come and read to us this evening, and explain some passages. I
don't know why I forgot to tell you. I meant to do so, but--" Her look
finished the sentence. Royston, like the others, guessed what she meant,
and _you_ may guess how he thanked her.

Cecil colored with vexation. She was so anxious to prevent Mrs. Danvers
from feeling dependent that she allowed her to take all sorts of
liberties, and the amiable woman was not disposed to let the privilege
fall into disuse. On the present occasion there was such an absurd
incongruity of time and place that she might possibly have tried to
evade the "exposition," but she happened just then to meet Keene's eye.
The sarcasm there was not so carefully veiled as it usually was in her
presence. Never yet was born Tresilyan who blenched from a challenge; so
she answered at once to express "her sense of Mr. Fullarton's kindness,
and her regret that he had not come earlier in the evening." If Royston
had known how bitterly she despised herself for disingenuousness he
would have been amply avenged.

Even while she was speaking he closed the piano very slowly and softly.
It did not take him long to put on his impenetrable face, for when he
turned round there was not a trace of anger left; the scarce suppressed
taunt in Cecil's last words moved him apparently no more than Mrs.
Danvers's glance of triumph.

"I owe you a thousand apologies," he said, "for staying such an
unwarrantable time, and quite as many thanks for the pleasantest two
hours I have spent in Dorade. Don't think I would detain you one moment
from Mr. Fullarton and your devotional exercises. You know--no, you
_don't_ know--the verse in the ballad:

 'Amundeville may be lord by day,
    But the monk is lord by night;
  Nor wine nor wassail would stir a vassal
    To question that friar's right.'"

He went away then without another word beyond the ordinary adieu.
Royston had a way of repeating poetry peculiar to himself--rather
monotonous, perhaps, but effective from the depth and volume of his
voice. You gained in rhythm what you lost in rhyme. The sound seemed to
linger in their ears after he had closed the door.

As the echo of the firm, strong footstep died away, a virtuous
indignation possessed the broad visage of the divine.

"It is like Major Keene," said he, "to select as his text-book the most
godless work of the satanic school; but I should have thought that even
he would have paused before venturing, in this presence, on a quotation
from _Don Juan_."

At that awful word Mrs. Danvers gave a little shriek as if "a bee had
stung her newly." Had she been a Catholic she would have crossed herself
an indefinite number of times: will you be good enough to imagine her
protracted look of holy horror? Cecil's eyes were glittering with
scornful humor as she answered, very demurely, "What an advantage it is
to be a large, general reader! It enables one to impart so much
information. Now Bessie and I should never have guessed where those
lines came from if you had not enlightened us. They seemed harmless
enough in themselves, and Major Keene was considerate enough to leave us
in our ignorance. So Byron comes within the scope of your studies, Mr.
Fullarton. I thought you seldom indulged in such secular authors?" The
chaplain was quite right in making his reply inaudible: it would have
been difficult to find a perfectly satisfactory one. However, the hour
was late enough to excuse his beginning the reading without farther
delay. It was not a success. There was a stoppage somewhere in the
current of his mellifluous eloquence; and the exposition was concluded
so soon, and indeed abruptly, that Mrs. Danvers retired to rest with a
feeling of disappointment and inanition, such as one may have
experienced when, expecting a "sit-down" supper, we are obliged to
content ourselves with a meagrely-furnished _buffet_. For some minutes
after Mr. Fullarton had departed Miss Tresilyan sat silent, leaning her
head upon her hand. At last she said, "Bessie, dear, you know I would
not interfere with your comforts or your arrangements for the world;
but, the next time you wish to have a repetition of this, would you be
so very good as to tell me beforehand? I think I shall spend that
evening with Fanny Molyneux. I do not quite like it, and I am sure it
does me no real good."

She spoke so gently that Mrs. Danvers was going to attempt one of her
querulous remonstrances, but she happened to look at the face of her
patroness. It wore an expression not often seen there; but she was wise
enough to interpret it aright, and to guess that she had gone far
enough. It was ever a dangerous experiment to trifle with the Tresilyans
when their brows were bent. So she launched into some of her
affectionate platitudes and profuse excuses, and under cover of these
retreated to her rest. It is a comfort to reflect that she slept very
soundly, though she monopolized all the slumber that night that ought to
have fallen to Cecil's share.

What did Royston Keene think of the events of the evening? As he went
down the stairs I am afraid he cursed the chaplain once heartily, but on
the whole he was not dissatisfied. At all events, the short walk down to
the club completely restored his _sang-froid_, and the last trace of
vexation vanished as he entered the card-room and saw the "light of
battle" gleam on the haggard face of Armand de Châteaumesnil.




CHAPTER XI.


There was in Dorade a stout and meritorious elderly widow, who formed a
sort of connecting link between the natives and the settlers. English by
birth, she had married a Frenchman of fair family and fortune, so that
her habits and sympathies attached themselves about equally to the two
countries. You do not often find so good a specimen of the hybrid. She
gave frequent little _soirées_, which were as pleasant and exciting as
such assemblages of heterogeneous elements usually are--that is to say,
very moderately so. The two streams flowed on in the same channel,
without mingling or losing their characteristics. I fancy the fault was
most on our side.

We no longer, perhaps, parade Europe with "pride in our port, defiance
in our eye;" but still, in our travels, we lose no opportunity of
maintaining and asserting our well-beloved dignity, which, if rather a
myth and vestige of the past, at home, abroad, is a very stern reality.
Have you not seen, at a crowded _table d'hôte_, the British mother
encompass her daughters with the double bulwark of herself and their
staid governess on either flank, so as to avert the contamination which
must otherwise have certainly ensued from the close proximity of a
courteous white-bearded Graf, or a _fringante_ vicomtesse whose eyes
outshone her diamonds? May it ever remain so! Each nation has its vanity
and its own peculiar glory, as it has its especial produce. O cotton
mills of Manchester! envy not nor emulate the velvet looms of Genoa or
Lyons; you are ten times as useful, and a hundredfold more remunerating.
What matters it if Damascus guard jealously the secret of her fragrant
clouded steel, when Sheffield can turn out efficient sword-blades at the
rate of a thousand per hour? _Suum cuique tribuito._ Let others aspire
to be popular: be it ours to remain irreproachably and unapproachably
respectable.

So poor Mdme. de Verzenay's efforts to promote an _entente cordiale_
were lamentably foiled. When the English mustered strong, they would
immediately form themselves into a hollow square, the weakest in the
centre, and so defy the assaults of the enemy. Now and then a daring
Gaul would attempt the adventure of the Enchanted Castle, determined, if
not to deliver the imprisoned maidens, at least to enliven their
solitude. See how gayly and gallantly he starts, glancing a saucy adieu
to Adolphe and Eugène, who admire his audacity, but augur ill for its
success. _Allons, je me risque. Montjoie St. Denis! France à la
rescousse!_ He winds, as it were, the bugle at the gate, with a
well-turned compliment or a brilliant bit of _badinage_. Slowly the
jealous valves unclose; he stands within the magic precinct--an eerie
silence all around. Suppose that one of the Seven condescends to parley
with him; she does so nervously and under protest, glancing ever over
her shoulder, as if she expected the austere Fairy momentarily to
appear; while her companions sit without winking or moving, cowering
together like a covey of birds when the hawk is circling over the
turnip-field. How can you expect a man to make himself agreeable under
such appalling circumstances? The heart of the adventurer sinks within
him. Lo! there is a rustling of robes near; what if Calyba or Urganda
were at hand? _Fuyons!_ And the knight-errant retreats, with drooping
crest and smirched armor--a melancholy contrast to the _preux chevalier_
who went forth but now chanting his war-song, conquering and to conquer.
The remarks of the discomfited one, after such a failure, were, I fear,
the reverse of complimentary; and the unpleasant word _bégueule_ figured
in them a great deal too often.

Cecil and Fanny Molyneux were certainly exceptions to the rule of
unsociability, but the general dullness of those _réunions_ infected
them, and made the atmosphere oppressive; it required a vast amount of
leaven to make such a large, heavy lump light or palatable. Besides, it
is not pleasant to carry on a conversation with twenty or thirty people
looking on and listening, as if it were some theatrical performance that
they had paid money to see, and consequently had a right to criticise.
The fair friends had held counsel together as to the expediency of
gratifying others at a great expense to themselves on the present
occasion, and had made their election--not to go.

Early the next morning Miss Tresilyan encountered Keene; their
conversation was very brief; but, just as he was quitting her, the
latter remarked, in a matter-of-course way, "We shall meet this evening
at Madame de Verzenay's?"

She looked at him in some surprise, for she knew he must have heard from
Mrs. Molyneux of their intention to absent themselves. She told him as
much.

"Ah! last night she did not mean to go," replied Royston; "but she
changed her mind this morning while I was with them. When I left them,
ten minutes ago, there was a consultation going on with Harry as to what
she should wear. I don't think it will last more than half an hour; and
then she was coming to try to persuade you to keep her fickleness in
countenance."

Now the one point upon which Cecil had been most severe on _la mignonne_
was the way in which the latter suffered herself to be guided by her
husband's friend. It is strange how prone is the unconverted and unmated
feminine nature to instigate revolt against the Old Dominion--never more
so than when the beautiful _Carbonara_ feels that its shadow is creeping
fast over the frontier of her own freedom. Nay, suppose the conquest
achieved, and that they themselves are reduced to the veriest serfdom,
none the less will they strive to goad other hereditary bondswomen into
striking the blow. Is it not known that steady old "machiners," broken
for years to double harness, will encourage and countenance their
"flippant" progeny in kicking over the traces? How otherwise could the
name of mother-in-law, on the stage and in divers domestic circles, have
become a synonym for firebrand? Look at your wife's maid, for instance.
She will spend two thirds of her wages and the product of many silk
dresses ("scarcely soiled") in furnishing that objectionable and
disreputable suitor of hers with funds for his extravagance. He has
beggared two or three of her acquaintance already, under the same flimsy
pretense of intended marriage, that scarcely deludes poor Abigail; she
has sore misgivings as to her own fate. Alternately he bullies and
cajoles, but all the while she knows that he is lying, deliberately and
incessantly, yet she never remonstrates or complains. It is true that,
if you pass the door of her little room late into the night, you will
probably go to bed haunted by the sound of low, dreary weeping; but it
would be worse than useless to argue with her about her folly; she
cherishes her noisome and ill-favored weed as if it were the fairest of
fragrant flowers, and will not be persuaded to throw it aside. Well, if
you could listen to that same long-suffering and soft-hearted young
female, in her place in the subterranean Upper House, when the conduct
of "Master" (especially as regards Foreign Affairs) is being canvassed;
the fluency and virulence of her anathemas would almost take your breath
away. Even that dear old housekeeper--who nursed you, and loves you
better than any of her own children--when she would suggest an excuse or
denial of the alleged peccadilloes, is borne away and overwhelmed by the
abusive torrent, and can at last only grumble her dissent. Very few
women, of good birth and education, make _confidantes_ nowadays of their
personal attendants; and the race of "Miggs" is chiefly confined to the
class in which Dickens has placed it, if it is not extinct utterly. But
there is a season--while the brush passes lightly and lingeringly over
the long trailing "back hair"--when a hint, an allusion, or an
insinuation, cleverly placed, may go far toward fanning into flame the
embers of matrimonial rebellion. I know no case where such serious
consequences may be produced, with so little danger of implication to
the prime mover of the discontent, except it be the system of the
patriotic and intrepid Mazzini. Many outbreaks, perhaps--quelled after
much loss on both sides, in which the monarchy was only saved by the
judicious expenditure of much _mitraille_--might have been traced to the
covert influence of that mild-eyed, melancholy _camériste_.

Cecil, who was not exempt from these revolutionary tendencies, any more
than from other weaknesses of her sex, was especially provoked by this
fresh instance of Fanny's subordination.

"Mrs. Molyneux is perfectly at liberty to form her own plans," she said,
very haughtily. "Beyond a certain point, I should no more dream of
interfering with them than she would with mine. She is quite right to
change her mind as often as she thinks proper, only in this instance I
should have thought it was hardly worth while."

"Well," Keene answered, in his cool, slow way, "Mrs. Molyneux has got
that unfortunate habit of consulting other people's wishes and
convenience in preference to her own; it's very foolish and weak; but it
is so confirmed, that I doubt even _your_ being able to break her of it.
This time I am sure you won't. It is a pity you are so determined on
disappointing the public. I know of more than one person who has put off
other engagements in anticipation of hearing you sing."

He was perfectly careless about provoking her now, or he would have been
more cautious. That particular card was the very last in his hand to
have played. Miss Tresilyan was good-nature itself in placing her
talents at the service of any man, woman, or child who could appreciate
them. She would go through half her _repertoire_ to amuse a sick friend
any day; neither was she averse to displaying them before the world in
general at proper seasons, but she liked the "boards" to be worthy of
the prima donna, and had no idea of "starring it in the provinces." All
the pride of her race gathered on her brow just then, like a
thunder-cloud, and her eyes flashed no summer lightning.

"Madame de Verzenay was wrong to advertise a performer who does not
belong to her _troupe_. I hope the audience will be patient under their
disappointment, and not break up the benches. If not, she must excuse
herself as best she may. I have signed no engagement, so my conscience
is clear. I certainly shall not go."

The bolt struck the granite fairly, but it did not shiver off one
splinter, nor even leave a stain. Royston only remarked, "Then for
to-day it is useless to say _au revoir_;" and so, raising his cap,
passed on.

The poor _mignonne_ had a very rough time of it soon afterward. Cecil
was morally and physically incapable of scolding any one; but she was
very severe on the sin of vacillation and yielding to unauthorized
interference. The culprit did not attempt to justify herself; she only
said, "They both wanted me to go so much, and I did not like to vex
Harry." Then she began to coax and pet her monitress in the pretty,
childish way which interfered so much with matronly dignity, till the
latter was brought to think that she had been cruelly harsh and stern;
at last she got so penitent that she offered to accompany her friend,
and lend the light of her countenance to Madame de Verzenay. For this
infirmity of purpose many female Dracos would have ordered her off to
instant execution--very justly. That silly little Fanny only kissed her,
and said, "She was a dear, kind darling." What can you expect of such
irreclaimably weak-minded offenders? They ought to be sentenced to six
months' hard labor, supervised by Miss Martineau; perhaps even this
would not work a permanent cure. Still, on The Tresilyan's part, it was
an immense effort of self-denial. She was well aware how she laid
herself open to Royston Keene's satire, and how unlikely he was this
time to spare her. Only perfect trust or perfect indifference can make
one careless about giving such a chance to a known bitter tongue.

However, having made up her mind to the self-immolation, she proceeded
to consider how best she should adorn herself for the sacrifice. Others
have done so in sadder seriousness. Doubtless, Curtius rode at his last
leap without a speck on his burnished mail: purple, and gold, and gems
flamed all round Sardanapalus when he fired the holocaust in Nineveh:
even that miserable, dastardly Nero was solicitous about the marble
fragments that were to line his felon's grave. So it befell that, on
this particular evening, Cecil went through a very careful toilet,
though it was as simple as usual; for the ultra-gorgeous style she
utterly eschewed. The lilac trimmings of her dress broke the dead white
sufficiently, but not glaringly, with the subdued effect of color that
you may see in a campanula. The _coiffure_ was not decided on till
several had been rejected. She chose at last a chaplet of those soft,
silvery Venetian shells--such as her bridesmaids may have woven into the
night of Amphitritè's hair when they crowned her Queen of the
Mediterranean.

It was a very artistic picture. So Madame de Verzenay said, in the midst
of a rather too rapturous greeting; so the Frenchmen thought, as a low
murmur of admiration ran through their circle when she entered. Fanny,
too, had her modest success. There were not wanting eyes that turned for
a moment from the brilliant beauty of her companion to repose themselves
on the sweet girlish face shaded by silky brown tresses, and on the
perfect little figure floating so lightly and gracefully along amid its
draperies of pale cloudy blue.

Miss Tresilyan felt that there might be _one_ glance that it would be a
trial to meet unconcernedly, and she had been schooling herself
sedulously for the encounter. She might have spared herself some
trouble; for Royston Keene was not there when they arrived. She knew
that Mrs. Molyneux had told him of the change in their plans; but the
latter did not choose to confess how she had been puzzled by the very
peculiar smile with which the major greeted the intelligence: it was the
only notice he took of it. So the evening went on, with nothing to raise
it above the dead level of average _soirées_. Cecil delayed going to the
piano till she was ashamed of making more excuses, and was obliged to
"execute herself" with the best grace she could manage. Even while she
was singing, her glance turned more than once toward the door; but the
stalwart figure, beside which all others seemed dwarfed and
insignificant, never showed itself. It was clear _he_ was not among
those who had given up other engagements to hear her songs. If we have
been at some trouble and mental expense in getting ourselves into any
one frame of mind--whether it be enthusiasm, or self-control, or
fortitude, or heroism--it is an undeniable nuisance to find out suddenly
that there is to be no scope for its exercise. Take a very practical
instance. Here is Lieutenant Colonel Asahel ready on the ground,
looking, as his conscience and his backers tell him, "as fine as a star,
and fit to run for his life;" at the last moment his opponent pays
forfeit. Just ascertain the sentiments of that gallant fusileer. Does
the result at all recompense him for the futile privations and wasted
asceticism of those long weary months of training--when pastry was, as
it were, an abomination unto him--when his lips kept themselves
undefiled from dryest Champagne or soundest claret--when he fled, fast
as Cinderella, from the pleasantest company at the stroke of the
midnight chimes? Of course he feels deeply injured, and would have
forgiven the absentee far more easily if the latter had beaten him
fairly, on his merits, breasting the handkerchief first by half a dozen
yards.

On this principle, Miss Tresilyan labored all that evening under an
impression that Keene had treated her very ill, and was prepared to
resent it accordingly. Another there besides herself felt puzzled and
uncomfortable. Harry Molyneux could not understand it at all. Royston
had seemed so very anxious in the morning to induce Fanny to go--a
proceeding which would probably involve the presence of her
"inseparable;" and disinterested persuasion was by no means in the Cool
Captain's line. So Harry went wandering about in a purposeless,
disconsolate fashion for some time, till he found himself near Cecil. I
fancy he had an indistinct idea that some apology was owing to _her_ for
his chief's unaccountable absence; at all events, he began to confide
his misgivings on the subject as soon as the men who surrounded her
moved away. They soon did so; for The Tresilyan had a way, quite
peculiar to herself, of conveying to those whom she wished to get rid of
that their audience was ended, without speaking one word. There was a
very unusual element of impatient pettishness in her reply.

"What a curious fascination Major Keene appears to exercise over his
friends! I suppose you would think it quite wrong to be amused any where
unless he were present to sanction it. Do you become a free agent again
when you are given up entirely to your own devices? And do _all_
subalterns keep up that veneration for their senior officers after they
have left the service? It seems to be carrying the _esprit du corps_
rather far."

Harry laughed out his own musical laugh; even the imputation of
dependency and helplessness which is apt to ruffle most people fell back
harmlessly from his impenetrable good-humor. "I dare say it does look
very absurd. But you ought to have lived with him as long as I have done
to understand how naturally Royston gains his influence, and makes us do
what he chooses."

"Certainly I can not understand it. The _poco-curante_ style is so very
common just now that one gets rather tired of it. I do not like the
affectation at all, but I dislike the reality still more. I believe it
_is_ a reality with Major Keene. I can not fancy him betraying any
unrestrained excitement, however strong the passion that moved him might
be. You have never known him do so, now? Confess it."

"Yes I have, once," he answered, gravely, "and I never wish to see it
again."

Cecil always liked talking to Harry Molyneux. On the present occasion
the mere sound of his voice seemed to go far toward soothing her
irritation: many others had experienced the same effect from those
kindly gentle tones. Perhaps, too, the subject had an interest for her
that she would not own. "Would it tire you to tell me about it? I am not
particularly curious, but I have been so much bored to-night that a very
little would amuse me."

He hesitated for an instant. "It is not _that_; but I don't know if _I_
am right in telling you. Perhaps you would not like him the better for
it, though he could not help it. Shall I? Well, it was in the second of
our Indian battles, and the first time we had really been under fire;
before it was only nominal. We had been sitting idle for two hours or
more, watching the infantry and the gunners do their work; and right
well they did it. The Sikhs were giving ground in all directions; but
they began to gather again on our right, and at last we were told to
send out three squadrons and break them at three different points. Keene
was in command of mine. I never saw him look so enchanted as he did when
the orders came down. I heard the chief warning him to be cautious, not
to go too far (for there was a good deal of broken ground ahead), but to
wheel about as soon as we had got through their lines, and to fall back
immediately on our position. Royston listened and saluted, but I know he
didn't catch one word; he kept looking over his shoulder all the time
the colonel was speaking, as if he grudged every second. We were very
soon off; and almost before I realized the situation we were closing in
on the enemy, wrapped up in our own dust and in their smoke, for the
firing became heavy directly we got within range. Now I don't think I
ought to be telling you all this: it is not quite a woman's story."

"Please go on. I like it." How grandly it flashed up in her cheek as she
spoke--the fiery Tresilyan blood that had boiled in the veins of so many
brilliant soldiers, but through twenty generations had never cooled down
enough to breed one statesman!

He had taken breath by this time. "I won't make it longer than I can
help, but it is difficult to tell some things very briefly. It was my
first real charge, you know; I suppose every man's sensations are rather
peculiar under such circumstances. I did not feel much alarmed--there
wasn't time for that--but the smoke, and the noise, and the excitement
made me so dizzy that I could hardly sit straight in my saddle. When we
got within a hundred and fifty yards of the Sikhs their fire began to
tell. I heard a bubbling, smothered sort of cry close behind me, and I
looked back just in time to see a trooper fall forward over his horse's
shoulder shot through the throat. Several more were hit, and our fellows
began to waver a little--not much. Just then Royston's voice broke in:
it was so clear and strong that it set my nerves right directly, and the
dizzy, stifling feeling went away, as it might have done before a
draught of fresh pure air. 'Close up there, the rear rank. Keep cool,
men! Steady with your bridle-hands, and strike fairly with the edge.
_Now!_'

"He was three lengths ahead of his squadron, and well in among the
enemy, when that last word came out. It was sharp work while it lasted,
for the Sikhs fought like wounded wildcats: one fixed his teeth in my
boot, and was dragged there till my covering-sergeant cut him loose; but
we were soon through them. When we had wheeled, and were dressing into
line, I caught sight of Keene's face. It was so changed that I should
hardly have known it: every fibre was quivering with passion; and his
eyes--I've not forgotten them yet. We ought to have fallen back
immediately on our old ground, but it was so evident he did not mean
this, that I ventured to suggest to him what our orders had been. I was
not second in command; but of my two seniors one was helpless (the
stupidest man you ever saw), and the other hard hit. Royston faced round
on me with a savage oath, 'How dare you interfere, sir! Are you in
command of this squadron?' Then he turned to the troopers, 'Have you had
half enough yet, men? _I haven't._' I am very sure he had lost his head,
or he would never have spoken to me so, still less have made that last
appeal, for he was the strictest disciplinarian, and looked upon his men
as the merest machines. It seemed as if the devil that possessed him had
gone out into the others too, for they all shouted in reply--not a
cheery honest hurra! but a hoarse, hungry roar, such as you hear in wild
beasts' dens before feeding-time. An old troop-sergeant, a rigid pious
Presbyterian, spoke for the rest, grinding and gnashing his teeth:
'We'll follow the captain any where--follow him to hell!'" (Harry's
voice had all along been subdued, but it was almost a whisper now:) "I
do hope those words were not reckoned against poor Donald Macpherson,
for when we got back his was one of the thirteen empty saddles. So we
broke up, and went in again at the Sikhs, who were collecting in
black-looking knots and irregular squares all round. It was an
indescribable sort of a _mêlée_, every man for himself, and--I dare not
say--God for us all. I suppose I was as bad as the rest when once fairly
launched, and we all thought we were doing our duty; but I should not
like to have so many lives on my head and hand as Royston could count
that night. Remember _we_ suffered rather severely.

"As we took up our position again I saw the colonel was not well
pleased. He had little of the romance of war about him, and did not
understand his officers acting much on their own discretion. Without
hearing the words, I could guess, from the expression of his hard old
face, that he came down on the squadron-leader heavily. When I ranged up
by Keene's side soon afterward, he looked up at me absently. 'I was
thinking,' he said (now one naturally expected a sentiment about the
scene we had just gone through, or a reflection on the injustice of
chiefs in general)--'I was thinking what rubbish those army-cutlers
sell, and call it a sword-blade.' He held up a sort of apology for a
sabre, all notched, and bent, and blunted; then he began to inquire if I
had been hit at all. I had escaped with hardly a scratch; but I saw an
ugly cut above his knee, and blood stealing down his bridle-arm. 'Bah!
it's nothing,' Royston observed, answering the direction of my eyes;
'but--if the tulwar and the reprimand had both been sharper--confess,
Hal, that this time, _Le jeu valait bien la chandelle?_'

"We never had a real rattling charge after that day, at least none
exciting enough to warm him thoroughly. Now I am very sorry I have told
you all this: it is not a nice story; but it is your own fault if I have
bored you. Besides, Madame de Verzenay will never forgive me for
monopolizing you so long. I do think she does me the honor to believe in
a flirtation."

Cecil's heightened color and sparkling eyes might have justified such a
suspicion in a distant and unprejudiced observer. Does not this show us
how very cautious we ought to be in forming hasty conclusions from
appearances which are proverbially deceptive? I protest I am filled with
remorse and contrition while I reflect how often, in thought, I may have
wronged and misjudged the innocent. I dare say, in many outwardly
flagrant cases, the offenders were only expatiating on the merits or
demerits of absent friends. Such a subject is quite engrossing enough to
excuse a certain amount of "sitting out," and some people _always_ blush
when they are at all interested. The selection of the staircase, the
balcony, or the conservatory for the discussion is the merest
atmospheric question. I subscribe to Mr. Weller's idea--only "turnips"
are incredulous. _Vive la charité!_

After a minute or two Miss Tresilyan spoke: "No, I don't think worse of
Major Keene. As you say, I suppose he could not help it; but it must be
terrible, when passions that are habitually restrained do break loose.
No wonder that you do not wish to see such a sight again. It is very
different, reading of battles and hearing of them from one who was an
actor. Do you know, I think you have an undeveloped talent for
narration. There, that ought to console you, even if Madame de Verzenay
should asperse your character."

At this moment Harry was contemplating the proceedings of his pretty
little wife at the opposite side of the room with an intense
satisfaction and pride.

"If I _had_ yielded to temptation," he said, "I am sure Fan could not
reproach me. She would keep a much greater sinner in countenance. Miss
Myrtle is a thousand times worse since she married. Just remark that
by-play with the handkerchief. You don't suppose M. de Riberac cares one
straw about Valenciennes lace? It makes one feel _Moorish_ all over.
You need not be surprised if she is found smothered or strangled in the
morning. I am 'not easily moved to jealousy, but being moved--'"

"Don't be too murderous," laughed Cecil; "you are certain to regret it
afterward. We will reproach her as she deserves on our way home. Is it
not very late?"

She wanted to be alone to think over what she had heard; and in good
truth, waking or sleeping, the watches of that night were crowded with
dreams.

All this time where was Royston Keene? He had been really anxious to
induce Miss Tresilyan to present herself at Madame de Verzenay's, for he
liked her well enough already to feel a personal interest in her
triumphs; but, after their interview in the morning (though he thought
it probable that Fanny's persuasive powers might prevail), he had
determined himself not to go, and he did not change his resolutions
lightly. Still he could not resist the temptation of getting one glimpse
at her in "review order." If Cecil had been very observant when she went
down to her carriage, she must have noticed a tall figure standing back,
half masked by a pillar, whose eyes literally flashed in the darkness as
they fastened on her in her passage through the lighted hall, and drank
in every item of her loveliness. He stood still for some moments after
she was gone, and then walked slowly down to the Cercle. While they were
talking about him at Madame de Verzenay's, Royston was holding his own
gallantly at _écarté_ with Armand de Châteaumesnil, for the honor of
England and--ten Napoleons a side. As was his wont, he played superbly;
but he spoke seldom, and hardly seemed to hear the comments of the
crowded _galèrie_. In truth, at some most critical points--when the game
was in abeyance at _quatre à_--a delicate proud face, and a shell wreath
glistening in velvet hair, _would_ rise before him, and dethrone in his
thoughts the painted kings and queens. His adversary did not fail to
observe this; but he said nothing till the play was ended and most of
the others had left the room. Then he laid his hand on Keene's arm, and
drew his head down to the level of his own lips, and spoke low:

"Mon camarade, je me rappelle, d'avoir vu, il y a quelques ans, au Café
de la Régence, un homme qui tenait tête, aux échecs, à quatre
concurrens. Les habitués en disaient des merveilles. Mais ce n'était
qu'un bon bourgeois après tout; et, nous autres, nous sommes plus forts
que les bourgeois. Vouz avez joué ce soir les deux parties que, dit le
proverbe, c'est presque impossible de remporter simultanément; et je ne
me tiens pas pour le seul perdant."

Royston did not seem in the least inclined to smile; had he done so
Armand would have been bitterly disappointed. As it was, he answered
very coldly, without a shade of consciousness on his face.

"Un compliment mérite toujours des remercimens, M. le Vicomte, même
quand on ne le comprend pas. Pardon, si je vous engage, de ne pas
expliquer plus clairement votre allégorie."

The other looked up at him with an expression that might almost have
been mistaken for sympathy.

"Parbleu!" he muttered, "si beau joueur merite bien de gagner!"




CHAPTER XII.


Sometimes, lying on the cliffs of Kerry or Clare, on a cloudless autumn
day, when not a breath of wind is stirring, you may see rank after rank
of heavy purple billows rolling sullenly in from the offing: these are
messengers coming to tell us of battles fought a thousand leagues to the
westward, in which they, too, have borne their part. Before the mail
comes in we are prepared to hear of a storm that has worked its wicked
will for nights and days, thundering among the granite boulders of
Labrador, or tearing through the fog-banks of Newfoundland. This is
perhaps the most commonplace of all ancient comparisons; but where will
you find so apt a parallel for the vagaries of the human heart as the
phases of the deep, false, beautiful sea?

On the morning after Madame de Verzenay's party, Cecil rose in a very
troubled frame of mind. She had no feeling of irritation left against
Royston Keene; but she was uneasy, and uncomfortable, and loth to meet
him. What she had felt and what she had heard had moved her too deeply
for her to resume at once her wonted composure. So it was that she
accepted very readily an invitation from Mrs. Fullarton to accompany
herself and children on a mild botanizing excursion among the hills.
These small _fêtes_ went a long way with that hard-working and
meritorious woman; what with anticipation and retrospect, each lasted
her about two months. Miss Tresilyan was prevented from starting with
the rest of the party; but the chaplain himself was to escort her to the
place of rendezvous, his little daughter Katie being retained to be
invested with the temporary and "local" rank of chaperone--a formality
which, in these days of scanty faith, even married divines are not
allowed to dispense with. The quartette was completed by the
mule-driver--one of those remarkable boys who converse invariably in a
tongue which the beasts of burden seem to understand and sympathize
with, but which, to any other creature whatsoever, is absolutely
destitute of meaning. They had some way to go; so Cecil had taken up
Katie before her on her mule; the pastor walked by her side, glozing
(for the road was not very steep) on all sorts of subjects, gravely and
smoothly, as was his wont. They had crossed the first line of hills, and
were descending into the valley beyond, when, turning a sharp corner
where a projecting rock almost barred the path, they came suddenly on
Royston Keene. He was lying at full length, his head resting against the
knotted root of an olive, with eyes half closed, and the cigar between
his lips, that seldom left them when he was alone. It _was_ odd that he
should have selected that especial spot for the scene of his _siesta_.
Cecil did her very utmost to look unconcerned: it was too provoking that
she could not help blushing! Mr. Fullarton evidently looked 

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