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diff --git a/37178-h/37178-h.htm b/37178-h/37178-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..f7c382a --- /dev/null +++ b/37178-h/37178-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,15879 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> +<!-- $Id: header.txt 236 2009-12-07 18:57:00Z vlsimpson $ --> + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xml:lang="en" lang="en"> + <head> + <meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=iso-8859-1" /> + <meta http-equiv="Content-Style-Type" content="text/css" /> + <title> + The Project Gutenberg eBook of Cecil Castlemaine's Gage, Lady Marabout's Troubles, and Other Stories, by Ouida. + </title> + <style type="text/css"> + +body { + margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; +} + + h1,h2,h3,h4,h5,h6 { + text-align: center; /* all headings centered */ + clear: both; +} + +p { + margin-top: .75em; + text-align: justify; + margin-bottom: .75em; +} + +hr { + width: 33%; + margin-top: 2em; + margin-bottom: 2em; + margin-left: auto; + margin-right: auto; + clear: both; +} + +table { + margin-left: auto; + margin-right: auto; +} + +.pagenum { /* uncomment the next line for invisible page numbers */ + /* visibility: hidden; */ + position: absolute; + left: 92%; + font-size: smaller; + text-align: right; +} /* page numbers */ + +.linenum { + position: absolute; + top: auto; + left: 4%; +} /* poetry number */ + +.blockquot { + margin-left: 5%; + margin-right: 10%; +} + +.bb {border-bottom: solid 2px;} + +.bl {border-left: solid 2px;} + +.bt {border-top: solid 2px;} + +.br {border-right: solid 2px;} + +.bbox {border: solid 2px;} + +.center {text-align: center;} + +.smcap {font-variant: small-caps;} + +.u {text-decoration: underline;} + +.caption {font-weight: bold;} + +/* Images */ +.figcenter { + margin: auto; + text-align: center; +} + +.figleft { + float: left; + clear: left; + margin-left: 0; + margin-bottom: 1em; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-right: 1em; + padding: 0; + text-align: center; +} + +.figright { + float: right; + clear: right; + margin-left: 1em; + margin-bottom: + 1em; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-right: 0; + padding: 0; + text-align: center; +} + +/* Poetry */ +.poem { + margin-left:10%; + margin-right:10%; + text-align: left; +} + +.poem br {display: none;} + +.poem .stanza {margin: 1em 0em 1em 0em;} + +.poem span.i0 { + display: block; + margin-left: 0em; + padding-left: 3em; + text-indent: -3em; +} + +.poem span.i2 { + display: block; + margin-left: 2em; + padding-left: 3em; + text-indent: -3em; +} + +.poem span.i4 { + display: block; + margin-left: 4em; + padding-left: 3em; + text-indent: -3em; +} + +ins { + text-decoration:none; + border-bottom: thin dotted gray; +} + +.tnote {border: solid 2px; padding: 1em; margin-left: 5%; margin-right: 5%; background: #CCCCB2; font-size: 0.9em;} + + </style> + </head> +<body> + + +<pre> + +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Cecil Castlemaine's Gage, Lady Marabout's +Troubles, and Other Stories, by Ouida + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Cecil Castlemaine's Gage, Lady Marabout's Troubles, and Other Stories + +Author: Ouida + +Release Date: August 23, 2011 [EBook #37178] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CECIL CASTLEMAINE'S GAGE *** + + + + +Produced by David Edwards, Katherine Becker and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This +book was produced from scanned images of public domain +material from the Google Print project.) + + + + + + +</pre> + + + +<h1>CECIL CASTLEMAINE'S GAGE,</h1> + +<h2>LADY MARABOUT'S TROUBLES,</h2> + +<div class='center'>AND</div> + +<h2>OTHER STORIES.</h2> + +<h2><span class="smcap">By</span> "OUIDA,"</h2> + +<h6>AUTHOR OF "IDALIA," "STRATHMORE," "CHANDOS," "GRANVILLE +DE VIGNE," ETC.</h6> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/cc001.png" alt="* * * * *" /> +</div> + +<div class='center'>PHILADELPHIA:<br /> +J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY.<br /> +1900.</div> + + +<hr style="width: 100%;" /> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/cc003a.png" alt="* * * * *" /> +</div> +<h2>CECIL CASTLEMAINE'S GAGE,</h2> + +<h3>AND OTHER STORIES.</h3> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/cc003b.png" alt="* * * * *" /> +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_vii" id="Page_vii">[Pg vii]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 100%;" /> +<h2>ADVERTISEMENT.</h2> + + +<p>The Publishers have the pleasure of offering to +the many admirers of the writings of "Ouida," the +present volume of Contributions, which have appeared +from time to time in the leading Journals of Europe, +and which have recently been collected and revised by +the author, for publication in book-form.</p> + +<p>They have also in press, to be speedily published, +another similar volume of tales, from the same pen, +together with an unpublished romance entitled +"<span class="smcap">Under Two Flags</span>."</p> + +<p>Our editions of Ouida's Works are published by +express arrangement with the author; and any other +editions that may appear in the American market will +be issued in violation of the courtesies usually extended +both to authors and publishers.</p> + +<p> +<span class="smcap">Philadelphia, May, 1867.</span><br /> +</p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_ix" id="Page_ix">[Pg ix]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 100%;" /> +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/cc007.png" alt="CONTENTS" title="CONTENTS" /> +</div> + + + +<div class="center"> +<table border="0" cellpadding="4" cellspacing="0" summary=""> +<tr><td align="left"></td><td align="right"><small>PAGE</small></td></tr> +<tr><td align="left"><a href="#CECIL_CASTLEMAINES_GAGE">CECIL CASTLEMAINE'S GAGE; <span class="smcap">or, The Story of a Broidered Shield</span></a></td><td align="right">11</td></tr> +<tr><td align="left"><a href="#LITTLE_GRAND_AND_THE_MARCHIONESS">LITTLE GRAND AND THE MARCHIONESS; <span class="smcap">or, Our Maltese Peerage</span></a></td><td align="right">37</td></tr> +<tr><td align="left">LADY MARABOUT'S TROUBLES; <span class="smcap">or, The Worries a Chaperone</span>.—<i>In Three Seasons:</i>—</td></tr> +<tr><td align="left"> <a href="#FIRST">Season the First.—The Eligible</a></td><td align="right">84</td></tr> +<tr><td align="left"> <a href="#SECOND">Season the Second.—The Ogre</a></td><td align="right">121</td></tr> +<tr><td align="left"> <a href="#THIRD">Season the Third.—The Climax</a></td><td align="right">164</td></tr> +<tr><td align="left"><a href="#A_STUDY_A_LA_LOUIS_QUINZE">A STUDY À LA LOUIS QUINZE; <span class="smcap">or, Pendant to a Pastel by La Tour</span></a></td><td align="right">211</td></tr> +<tr><td align="left"> <a href="#FIRSTM">I. The First Morning</a></td><td align="right">212</td></tr> +<tr><td align="left"> <a href="#SECONDM">II. The Second Morning</a></td><td align="right">218</td></tr> +<tr><td align="left"> <a href="#MIDNIGHT">III. Midnight</a></td><td align="right">227</td></tr> +<tr><td align="left"><a href="#DEADLY_DASH">"DEADLY DASH." <span class="smcap">A Story told on the Off Day</span></a></td><td align="right">235</td></tr> +<tr><td align="left"><a href="#THE_GENERALS_MATCH-MAKING">THE GENERAL'S MATCH-MAKING; <span class="smcap">or, Coaches And Cousinship</span></a></td><td align="right">265</td><td><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_x" id="Page_x">[Pg x]</a></span></td></tr> +<tr><td align="left"><a href="#THE_STORY_OF_A_CRAYON-HEAD">THE STORY OF A CRAYON-HEAD; <span class="smcap">or, A Doubled-down Leaf in a Man's Life</span></a></td><td align="right">306</td></tr> +<tr><td align="left"><a href="#THE_BEAUTY_OF_VICQ_DAZYR">THE BEAUTY OF VICQ D'AZYR; <span class="smcap">or, Not at All A Proper Person</span></a></td><td align="right">339</td></tr> +<tr><td align="left"><a href="#A_STUDY_A_LA_LOUIS_QUATORZE">A STUDY À LA LOUIS QUATORZE: <span class="smcap">Pendant To a Portrait By Mignard</span></a></td><td align="right">368</td></tr> +</table></div> + +<p> +<br /> +</p> +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/cc008.png" alt="* * * * *" /> +</div> + + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_11" id="Page_11">[Pg 11]</a></span></p> + +<hr style="width: 100%;" /> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/cc009a.png" alt="* * * * *" /> +</div> +<h2><a name="CECIL_CASTLEMAINES_GAGE" id="CECIL_CASTLEMAINES_GAGE"></a>CECIL CASTLEMAINE'S GAGE;</h2> + +<div class='center'>OR,</div> + +<h3>THE STORY OF A BROIDERED SHIELD.</h3> + + +<p>Cecil Castlemaine was the beauty of her +county and her line, the handsomest of all the +handsome women that had graced her race, when +she moved, a century and a half ago, down the stately +staircase, and through the gilded and tapestried halls of +Lilliesford. The Town had run mad after her, and her +face levelled politics, and was cited as admiringly by the +Whigs at St. James's as by the Tories at the Cocoa-tree, +by the beaux and Mohocks at Garraway's as by the +alumni at the Grecian, by the wits at Will's as by the +fops at Ozinda's.</p> + +<p>Wherever she went, whether to the Haymarket or the +Opera, to the 'Change for a fan or the palace for a state +ball, to Drury Lane to see Pastoral Philips's dreary +dilution of Racine, or to some fair chief of her faction +for basset and ombre, she was surrounded by the best +men of her time, and hated by Whig beauties with virulent +wrath, for she was a Tory to the backbone, indeed a +Jacobite at heart; worshipped Bolingbroke, detested +Marlborough and Eugene, believed in all the horrors of +the programme said to have been plotted by the Whigs +for the anniversary show of 1711, and was thought to +have prompted the satire on those fair politicians who<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_12" id="Page_12">[Pg 12]</a></span> +are disguised as <i>Rosalinda</i> and <i>Nigranilla</i> in the 81st +paper of the <i>Spectator</i>.</p> + +<p>Cecil Castlemaine was the greatest beauty of her day, +lovelier still at four-and-twenty than she had been at seventeen, +unwedded, though the highest coronets in the land +had been offered to her; far above the coquetteries and +minauderies of her friends, far above imitation of the affectations +of "Lady Betty Modley's skuttle," or need of practising +the Fan exercise; haughty, peerless, radiant, unwon—nay, +more—untouched; for the finest gentleman on the +town could not flatter himself that he had ever stirred the +slightest trace of interest in her, nor boast, as he stood in +the inner circle at the Chocolate-house (unless, indeed, he +lied more impudently than Tom Wharton himself), that he +had ever been honored by a glance of encouragement from +the Earl's daughter. She was too proud to cheapen herself +with coquetry, too fastidious to care for her conquests +over those who whispered to her through Nicolini's song, +vied to have the privilege of carrying her fan, drove past +her windows in Soho Square, crowded about her in St. +James's Park, paid court even to her little spaniel Indamara, +and, to catch but a glimpse of her brocaded train +as it swept a ball-room floor, would leave even their play +at the Groom Porter's, Mrs. Oldfield in the green-room, +a night hunt with Mohun and their brother Mohocks, a +circle of wits gathered "within the steam of the coffeepot" +at Will's, a dinner at Halifax's, a supper at Bolingbroke's,—whatever, +according to their several tastes, made +their best entertainment and was hardest to quit.</p> + +<p>The highest suitors of the day sought her smile and +sued for her hand; men left the Court and the Mall to +join the Flanders army before the lines at Bouchain less +for loyal love of England than hopeless love of Cecil +Castlemaine. Her father vainly urged her not to fling +away offers that all the women at St. James's envied her. +She was untouched and unwon, and when her friends, the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_13" id="Page_13">[Pg 13]</a></span> +court beauties, the fine ladies, the coquettes of quality, +rallied her on her coldness (envying her her conquests), +she would smile her slight proud smile and bow her +stately head. "Perhaps she was cold; she might be; +they were personnable men? Oh yes! she had nothing +to say against them. His Grace of Belamour?—A pretty +wit, without doubt. Lord Millamont?—Diverting, but +a coxcomb. He had beautiful hands; it was a pity he +was always thinking of them! Sir Gage Rivers?—As +obsequious a lover as the man in the 'Way of the World,' +but she had heard he was very boastful and facetious at +women over his chocolate at Ozinda's. The Earl of +Argent?—A gallant soldier, surely, but whatever he +might protest, no mistress would ever rival with him the +dice at the Groom Porter's. Lord Philip Bellairs?—A +proper gentleman; no fault in him; a bel esprit and an +elegant courtier; pleased many, no doubt, but he did not +please her overmuch. Perhaps her taste was too finical, +or her character too cold, as they said. She preferred it +should be so. When you were content it were folly to +seek a change. For her part, she failed to comprehend +how women could stoop to flutter their fans and choose +their ribbons, and rack their tirewomen's brains for new +pulvillios, and lappets, and devices, and practise their +curtsy and recovery before their pier-glass, for no better +aim or stake than to draw the glance and win the praise +of men for whom they cared nothing. A woman who +had the eloquence of beauty and a true pride should +be above heed for such affectations, pleasure in such +applause!"</p> + +<p>So she would put them all aside and turn the tables on +her friends, and go on her own way, proud, peerless, Cecil +Castlemaine, conquering and unconquered; and Steele +must have had her name in his thoughts, and honored it +heartily and sincerely, when he wrote one Tuesday, on +the 21st of October, under the domino of his Church Coquette,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_14" id="Page_14">[Pg 14]</a></span> +"I say I do honor to those who <i>can be coquettes +and are not such</i>, but I despise all who would be so, and, +in despair of arriving at it themselves, hate and vilify all +those who can." A definition justly drawn by his keen, +quick graver, though doubtless it only excited the ire of, +and was entirely lost upon, those who read the paper over +their dish of bohea, or over their toilette, while they +shifted a patch for an hour before they could determine +it, or regretted the loss of ten guineas at crimp.</p> + +<p>Cecil Castlemaine was the beauty of the Town: when +she sat at Drury Lane on the Tory side of the house, the +devoutest admirer of Oldfield or Mrs. Porter scarcely +heard a word of the <i>Heroic Daughter</i>, or the <i>Amorous +Widow</i>, and the "beau fullest of his own dear self" forgot +his silver-fringed gloves, his medallion snuff-box, his +knotted cravat, his clouded cane, the slaughter that he +planned to do, from gazing at her where she sat as though +she were reigning sovereign at St. James's, the Castlemaine +diamond's flashing crescent-like above her brow. +At church and court, at park and assembly, there were +none who could eclipse that haughty gentlewoman; therefore +her fond women friends who had caressed her so +warmly and so gracefully, and pulled her to pieces behind +her back, if they could, so eagerly over their dainty cups +of tea in an afternoon visit, were glad, one and all, when +on "Barnabybright," Anglicè, the 22d (then the 11th) +of June, the great Castlemaine chariot, with its three +herons blazoned on its coroneted panels, its laced liveries +and gilded harness, rolled over the heavy, ill-made roads +down into the country in almost princely pomp, the peasants +pouring out from the wayside cottages to stare at my +lord's coach.</p> + +<p>It was said in the town that a portly divine, who wore +his scarf as one of the chaplains to the Earl of Castlemaine, +had prattled somewhat indiscreetly at Child's of +his patron's politics; that certain cipher letters had<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_15" id="Page_15">[Pg 15]</a></span> +passed the Channel enclosed in chocolate-cakes as soon as +French goods were again imported after the peace of +Utrecht; that gentlemen in high places were strongly +suspected of mischievous designs against the tranquillity +of the country and government; that the Earl had, +among others, received a friendly hint from a relative in +power to absent himself for a while from the court where he +was not best trusted, and the town where an incautious +word might be picked up and lead to Tower Hill, and +amuse himself at his goodly castle of Lilliesford, where +the red deer would not spy upon him, and the dark beech-woods +would tell no tales. And the ladies of quality, her +dear friends and sisters, were glad when they heard it as +they punted at basset and fluttered their fans complacently. +They would have the field for themselves, for a +season, while Cecil Castlemaine was immured in her +manor of Lilliesford; would be free of her beauty to +eclipse them at the next birthday, be quit of their most +dreaded rival, their most omnipotent leader of fashion; +and they rejoiced at the whisper of the cipher letter, the +damaging gossipry of the Whig coffee-houses, the bad +repute into which my Lord Earl had grown at St. +James's, at the misfortune of their friend, in a word, as +human nature, masculine or feminine, will ever do—to +its shame be it spoken—unless the <i>fomes peccati</i> be more +completely wrung out of it than it ever has been since the +angel Gabriel performed that work of purification on the +infant Mahomet.</p> + +<p>It was the June of the year '15, and the coming disaffection +was seething and boiling secretly among the +Tories; the impeachment of Ormond and Bolingbroke +had strengthened the distaste to the new-come Hanoverian +pack, their attainder had been the blast of air needed +to excite the smouldering wood to flame, the gentlemen +of that party in the South began to grow impatient of the +intrusion of the distant German branch, to think lovingly<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_16" id="Page_16">[Pg 16]</a></span> +of the old legitimate line, and to feel something of the +chafing irritation of the gentlemen of the North, who +were fretting like stag-hounds held in leash.</p> + +<p>Envoys passed to and fro between St. Germain, and +Jacobite nobles, priests of the church that had fallen out +of favor and was typified as the Scarlet Woman by a +rival who, though successful, was still bitter, plotted with +ecclesiastical relish in the task; letters were conveyed in +rolls of innocent lace, plans were forwarded in frosted +confections, messages were passed in invisible cipher that +defied investigation. The times were dangerous; full of +plot and counterplot, of risk and danger, of fomenting +projects and hidden disaffection—times in which men, +living habitually over mines, learned to like the uncertainty, +and to think life flavorless without the chance of +losing it any hour; and things being in this state, the +Earl of Castlemaine deemed it prudent to take the counsel +of his friend in power, and retire from London for a +while, perhaps for the safety of his own person, perhaps +for the advancement of his cause, either of which were +easier insured at his seat in the western counties than +amidst the Whigs of the capital.</p> + +<p>The castle of Lilliesford was bowered in the thick +woods of the western counties, a giant pile built by Norman +masons. Troops of deer herded under the gold-green +beechen boughs, the sunlight glistened through the +aisles of the trees, and quivered down on to the thick +moss, and ferns, and tangled grass that grew under the +park woodlands; the water-lilies clustered on the river, +and the swans "floated double, swan and shadow," under +the leaves that swept into the water; then, when Cecil +Castlemaine came down to share her father's retirement, +as now, when her name and titles on the gold plate of a +coffin that lies with others of her race in the mausoleum +across the park, where winter snows and sumer sun-rays +are alike to those who sleep within, is all that tells<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_17" id="Page_17">[Pg 17]</a></span> +at Lilliesford of the loveliest woman of her time who once +reigned there as mistress.</p> + +<p>The country was in its glad green midsummer beauty, +and the musk-rosebuds bloomed in profuse luxuriance +over the chill marble of the terraces, and scattered their +delicate odorous petals in fragrant showers on the sward +of the lawns, when Cecil Castlemaine came down to what +she termed her exile. The morning was fair and cloudless, +its sunbeams piercing through the darkest glades in +the woodlands, the thickest shroud of the ivy, the deepest-hued +pane of the mullioned windows, as she passed +down the great staircase where lords and gentlewomen of +her race gazed on her from the canvas of Lely and Jamesone, +Bourdain and Vandyke, crossed the hall with her +dainty step, so stately yet so light, and standing by the +window of her own bower-room, was lured out on to the +terrace overlooking the west side of the park.</p> + +<p>She made such a picture as Vandyke would have liked +to paint, with her golden glow upon her, and the musk-roses +clustering about her round the pilasters of marble—the +white chill marble to which Belamour and many other +of her lovers of the court and town had often likened her. +Vandyke would have lingered lovingly on the hand that +rested on her stag-hound's head, would have caught her +air of court-like grace and dignity, would have painted +with delighted fidelity her deep azure eyes, her proud +brow, her delicate lips arched haughtily like a cupid's +bow, would have picked out every fold of her sweeping +train, every play of light on her silken skirts, every dainty +tracery of her point-lace. Yet even painted by Sir Anthony, +that perfect master of art and of elegance, though +more finished it could have hardly been more faithful, +more instinct with grace, and life, and dignity, than a +sketch drawn of her shortly after that time by one who +loved her well, which is still hanging in the gallery at<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_18" id="Page_18">[Pg 18]</a></span> +Lilliesford, lighted up by the afternoon sun when it +streams in through the western windows.</p> + +<p>Cecil Castlemaine stood on the terrace looking over the +lawns and gardens through the opening vistas of meeting +boughs and interlaced leaves to the woods and hills beyond, +fused in a soft mist of green and purple, with her +hand lying carelessly on her hound's broad head. She +was a zealous Tory, a skilled politician, and her thoughts +were busy with the hopes and fears, the chances for and +against, of a cause that lay near her heart, but whose +plans were yet immature, whose first blow was yet unstruck, +and whose well-wishers were sanguine of a success +they had not yet hazarded, though they hardly ventured +to whisper to each other their previous designs and desires. +Her thoughts were far away, and she hardly heeded the +beauty round her, musing on schemes and projects dear +to her party, that would imperil the Castlemaine coronet +but would serve the only royal house the Castlemaine line +had ever in their hearts acknowledged.</p> + +<p>She had regretted leaving the Town, moreover; a +leader of the mode, a wit, a woman of the world, she +missed her accustomed sphere; she was no pastoral +Phyllis, no country-born Mistress Fiddy, to pass her time +in provincial pleasures, in making cordial waters, in +tending her beau-pots, in preserving her fallen rose-leaves, +in inspecting the confections in the still-room; as +little was she able, like many fine ladies when in similar +exile, to while it away by scolding her tirewomen, and +sorting a suit of ribbons, in ordering a set of gilded leather +hangings from Chelsea for the state chambers, and yawning +over chocolate in her bed till mid-day. She regretted +leaving the Town, not for Belamour, nor Argent, nor any, +of those who vainly hoped, as they glanced at the little +mirror in the lids of their snuff-boxes, that they might +have graven themselves, were it ever so faintly, in her +thoughts; but for the wits, the pleasures, the choice<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_19" id="Page_19">[Pg 19]</a></span> +clique, the accustomed circle to which she was so used, +the courtly, brilliant town-life where she was wont to +reign.</p> + +<p>So she stood on the terrace the first morning of her +exile, her thoughts far away, with the loyal gentlemen of +the North, and the banished court at St. Germain, the +lids drooping proudly over her haughty eyes, and her lips +half parted with a faint smile of triumph in the visions +limned by ambition and imagination, while the wind +softly stirred the rich lace of her bodice, and her fingers +lay lightly, yet firmly, on the head of her stag-hound. +She looked up at last as she heard the ring of a horse's +hoofs, and saw a sorrel, covered with dust and foam, spurred +up the avenue, which, rounding past the terrace, swept +on to the front entrance; the sorrel looked wellnigh +spent, and his rider somewhat worn and languid, as a +man might do with justice who had been in boot and +saddle twenty-four hours at the stretch, scarce stopping +for a stoup of wine; but he lifted his hat, and bowed +down to his saddle-bow as he passed her.</p> + +<p>"Was it the long-looked-for messenger with definite +news from St. Germain?" wondered Lady Cecil, as her +hound gave out a deep-tongued bay of anger at the +stranger. She went back into her bower-room, and toyed +absently with her flowered handkerchief, broidering a +stalk to a violet-leaf, and wondering what additional +hope the horseman might have brought to strengthen the +good Cause, till her servants brought word that his Lordship +prayed the pleasure of her presence in the octagon-room. +Whereat she rose, and swept through the long +corridors, entered the octagon-room, the sunbeams gathering +about her rich dress as they passed through the +stained-glass oriels, and saluted the new-comer, when her +father presented him to her as their trusty and welcome +friend and envoy, Sir Fulke Ravensworth, with her careless +dignity and queenly grace, that nameless air which<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_20" id="Page_20">[Pg 20]</a></span> +was too highly bred to be condescension, but markedly +and proudly repelled familiarity, and signed a pale of +distance beyond which none must intrude.</p> + +<p>The new-comer was a tall and handsome man, of noble +presence, bronzed by foreign suns, pale and jaded just +now with hard riding, while his dark silver-laced suit +was splashed and covered with dust; but as he bowed low +to her, critical Cecil Castlemaine saw that not Belamour +himself could have better grace, not my Lord Millamont +courtlier mien nor whiter hands, and listened with gracious +air to what her father unfolded to her of his mission +from St. Germain, whither he had come, at great +personal risk, in many disguises, and at breathless speed, +to place in their hands a precious letter in cipher from +James Stuart to his well-beloved and loyal subject Herbert +George, Earl of Castlemaine. A letter spoken of +with closed doors and in low whispers, loyal as was the +household, supreme as the Earl ruled over his domains +of Lilliesford, for these were times when men mistrusted +those of their own blood, and when the very figure on +the tapestry seemed instinct with life to spy and betray—when +they almost feared the silk that tied a missive +should babble of its contents, and the hound that slept +beside them should read and tell their thoughts.</p> + +<p>To leave Lilliesford would be danger to the Envoy and +danger to the Cause; to stay as guest was to disarm suspicion. +The messenger who had brought such priceless +news must rest within the shelter of his roof; too much +were risked by returning to the French coast yet awhile, +or even by joining Mar or Derwentwater, so the Earl enforced +his will upon the Envoy, and the Envoy thanked +him and accepted.</p> + +<p>Perchance the beauty, whose eyes he had seen lighten +and proud brow flush as she read the royal greeting and +injunction, made a sojourn near her presence not distasteful; +perchance he cared little where he stayed till the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_21" id="Page_21">[Pg 21]</a></span> +dawning time of action and of rising should arrive, when +he should take the field and fight till life or death for the +"White Rose and the long heads of hair." He was a +soldier of fortune, a poor gentleman with no patrimony +but his name, no chance of distinction save by his sword; +sworn to a cause whose star was set forever; for many +years his life had been of changing adventure and shifting +chances, now fighting with Berwick at Almanza, now +risking his life in some delicate and dangerous errand for +James Stuart that could not have been trusted so well to +any other officer about St. Germain; gallant to rashness, +yet with much of the acumen of the diplomatist, he was +invaluable to his Court and Cause, but, Stuart-like, men-like, +they hastened to employ, but ever forgot to reward!</p> + +<p>Lady Cecil missed her town-life, and did not over-favor +her exile in the western counties. To note down on her +Mather's tablets the drowsy homilies droned out by the +chaplain on a Sabbath noon, to play at crambo, to talk +with her tirewomen of new washes for the skin, to pass her +hours away in knotting?—she, whom Steele might have +writ of when he drew his character of <i>Eudoxia</i>, could +wile her exile with none of these inanities; neither could +she consort with gentry who seemed to her little better +than the boors of a country wake, who had never heard +of Mr. Spectator and knew nothing of Mr. Cowley, +countrywomen whose ambition was in their cowslip +wines, fox-hunters more ignorant and uncouth than the +dumb brutes they followed.</p> + +<p>Who was there for miles around with whom she could +stoop to associate, with whom she cared to exchange a +word? Madam from the vicarage, in her grogram, learned +in syrups, salves, and possets? Country Lady Bountifuls, +with gossip of the village and the poultry-yard? Provincial +Peeresses, who had never been to London since Queen +Anne's coronation? A squirearchy, who knew of no +music save the concert of their stop-hounds, no court save<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_22" id="Page_22">[Pg 22]</a></span> +the court of the county assize, no literature unless by +miracle 't were Tarleton's Jests? None such as these could +cross the inlaid oak parquet of Lilliesford, and be ushered +into the presence of Cecil Castlemaine.</p> + +<p>So the presence of the Chevalier's messenger was not +altogether unwelcome and distasteful to her. She saw him +but little, merely conversing at table with him with that +distant and dignified courtesy which marked her out from +the light, free, inconsequent manners in vogue with other +women of quality of her time; the air which had chilled +half the softest things even on Belamour's lips, and kept +the vainest coxcomb hesitating and abashed.</p> + +<p>But by degrees she observed that the Envoy was a man +who had lived in many countries and in many courts, was +well versed in the tongues of France and Italy and Spain—in +their belles-lettres too, moreover—and had served his +apprenticeship to good company in the salons of Versailles, +in the audience-room of the Vatican, at the receptions of +the Duchess du Maine, and with the banished family at +St. Germain. He spoke with a high and sanguine spirit +of the troublous times approaching and the beloved +Cause whose crisis was at hand, which chimed in with +her humor better than the flippancies of Belamour, the +airy nothings of Millamont. He was but a soldier of +fortune, a poor gentleman who, named to her in the +town, would have had never a word, and would have been +unnoted amidst the crowding beaux who clustered round +to hold her fan and hear how she had been pleasured +with the drolleries of <i>Grief à la Mode</i>. But down in the +western counties she deigned to listen to the Prince's +officer, to smile—a smile beautiful when it came on her +proud lips, as the play of light on the opals of her jewelled +stomacher—nay, even to be amused when he spoke of the +women of foreign courts, to be interested when he told, +which was but reluctantly, of his own perils, escapes, and +adventures, to discourse with him, riding home under the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_23" id="Page_23">[Pg 23]</a></span> +beech avenues from hawking, or standing on the western +terrace at curfew to watch the sunset, of many things on +which the nobles of the Mall and the gentlemen about St. +James's had never been allowed to share her opinions. For +Lady Cecil was deeply read (unusually deeply for her day, +since fine ladies of her rank and fashion mostly contented +themselves with skimming a romance of Scuderi's, or an +act of <i>Aurungzebe</i>); but she rarely spoke of those things, +save perchance now and then to Mr. Addison.</p> + +<p>Fulke Ravensworth never flattered her, moreover, and +flattery was a honeyed confection of which she had long +been cloyed; he even praised boldly before her other +women of beauty and grace whom he had seen at Versailles, +at Sceaux, and at St. Germain; neither did he defer +to her perpetually, but where he differed would combat her +sentiments courteously but firmly. Though a soldier and +a man of action, he had an admirable skill at the limner's +art; could read to her the Divina Commedia, or the +comedies of Lope da' Vega, and transfer crabbed Latin +and abstruse Greek into elegant English for her pleasures +and though a beggared gentleman of most precarious fortunes, +he would speak of life and its chances, of the Cause +and its perils, with a daring which she found preferable +to the lisped languor of the men of the town, who had no +better campaigns than laying siege to a prude, cared for +no other weapons than their toilettes and snuff-boxes, and +sought no other excitement than a <i>coup d'éclat</i> with the +lion-tumblers.</p> + +<p>On the whole, through these long midsummer days, +Lady Cecil found the Envoy from St. Germain a companion +that did not suit her ill, sought less the solitude of +her bower-room, and listened graciously to him in the long +twilight hours, while the evening dews gathered in the +cups of the musk-roses, and the star-rays began to quiver +on the water-lilies floating on the river below, that murmured +along, with endless song, under the beechen-boughs.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_24" id="Page_24">[Pg 24]</a></span> +A certain softness stole over her, relaxing the cold hauteur +of which Belamour had so often complained, giving a +nameless charm, supplying a nameless something, lacking +before, in the beauty of The Castlemaine.</p> + +<p>She would stroke, half sadly, the smooth feathers of her +tartaret falcon Gabrielle when Fulke Ravensworth brought +her the bird from the ostreger's wrist, with its azure velvet +hood, and silver bells and jesses. She would wonder, as +she glanced through Corneille or Congreve, Philips or +Petrarca, what it was, this passion of love, of which they +all treated, on which they all turned, no matter how different +their strain. And now and then would come over +her cheek and brow a faint fitful wavering flush, delicate +and changing as the flush from the rose-hued reflexions +of western clouds on a statue of Pharos marble, and then +she would start and rouse herself, and wonder what she +ailed, and grow once more haughty, calm, stately, dazzling, +but chill as the Castlemaine diamonds that she wore.</p> + +<p>So the summer-time passed, and the autumn came, the +corn-lands brown with harvest, the hazel-copses strewn +with fallen nuts, the beech-leaves turning into reddened +gold. As the wheat ripened but to meet the sickle, as the +nuts grew but to fall, as the leaves turned to gold but to +wither, so the sanguine hopes, the fond ambitions of men, +strengthened and matured only to fade into disappointment +and destruction! Four months had sped by since +the Prince's messenger had come to Lilliesford—months +that had gone swiftly with him as some sweet delicious +dream; and the time had come when he had orders to +ride north, secretly and swiftly, speak with Mr. Forster +and other gentlemen concerned in the meditated rising, +and convey despatches and instructions to the Earl of +Mar; for Prince James was projecting soon to join his +loyal adherents in Scotland, and the critical moment was +close at hand, the moment when, to Fulke Ravensworth's +high and sanguine courage, victory seemed certain; failure,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_25" id="Page_25">[Pg 25]</a></span> +if no treachery marred, no dissension weakened, impossible; +the moment to which he looked for honor, success, +distinction, that should give him claim and title to +aspire—<i>where</i>? Strong man, cool soldier though he was, +he shrank from drawing his fancied future out from the +golden haze of immature hope, lest he should see it wither +upon closer sight. He was but a landless adventurer, +with nothing but his sword and his honor, and kings he +knew were slow to pay back benefits, or recollect the +hands that hewed them free passage to their thrones.</p> + +<p>Cecil Castlemaine stood within the window of her +bower-room, the red light of the October sun glittering +on her gold-broidered skirt and her corsage sewn with +opals and emeralds; her hand was pressed lightly on her +bosom, as though some pain were throbbing there; it was +new this unrest, this weariness, this vague weight that +hung upon her; it was the perils of their Cause, she told +herself; the risks her father ran: it was weak, childish, +unworthy a Castlemaine! Still the pain throbbed there.</p> + +<p>Her hound, asleep beside her, raised his head with a +low growl as a step intruded on the sanctity of the bower-room, +then composed himself again to slumber, satisfied it +was no foe. His mistress turned slowly; she knew the +horses waited; she had shunned this ceremony of farewell, +and never thought any would be bold enough to +venture here without permission sought and gained.</p> + +<p>"Lady Cecil, I could not go upon my way without one +word of parting. Pardon me if I have been too rash to +seek it here."</p> + +<p>Why was it that his brief frank words ever pleased her +better than Belamour's most honeyed phrases, Millamont's +suavest periods? She scarcely could have told, save that +there were in them an earnestness and truth new and rare +to her ear and to her heart.</p> + +<p>She pressed her hand closer on the opals—the jewels +of calamity—and smiled:<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_26" id="Page_26">[Pg 26]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Assuredly I wish you God speed, Sir Fulke, and safe +issue from all perils."</p> + +<p>He bowed low; then raised himself to his fullest height, +and stood beside her, watching the light play upon the +opals:</p> + +<p>"That is all you vouchsafe me?"</p> + +<p>"<i>All?</i> It is as much as you would claim, sir, is it not? +It is more than I would say to many."</p> + +<p>"Your pardon—it <i>is</i> more than I should claim if prudence +were ever by, if reason always ruled! I have no +right to ask for, seek for, even wish for, more; such petitions +may only be addressed by men of wealth and of +high title; a landless soldier should have no pride to +sting, no heart to wound; they are the prerogative of a +happier fortune."</p> + +<p>Her lips turned white, but she answered haughtily; the +crimson light flashing in her jewels, heirlooms priceless +and hereditary, like her beauty and her pride:</p> + +<p>"This is strange language, sir! I fail to apprehend +you."</p> + +<p>"You have never thought that I ran a danger deadlier +than that which I have ever risked on any field? You +have never guessed that I have had the madness, the presumption, +the crime—it may be in your eyes—to love +you."</p> + +<p>The color flushed to her face, crimsoning even her brow, +and then fled back. Her first instinct was insulted pride—a +beggared gentleman, a landless soldier, spoke to her +of love!—of love!—which Belamour had barely had +courage to whisper of; which none had dared to sue of +her in return. He had ventured to feel this for her! he +had ventured to speak of this to her!</p> + +<p>The Envoy saw the rising resentment, the pride spoken +in every line of her delicate face, and stopped her as she +would have spoken.</p> + +<p>"Wait! I know all you would reply. You think it<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_27" id="Page_27">[Pg 27]</a></span> +infinite daring, presumption that merits highest reproof——"</p> + +<p>"Since you divined so justly, it were pity you subjected +yourself and me to this most useless, most unexpected +interview. Why——"</p> + +<p>"<i>Why?</i> Because, perchance, in this life you will see +my face no more, and you will think gently, mercifully +of my offence (if offence it be to love you more than life, +and only less than honor), when you know that I have +fallen for the Cause, with your name in my heart, held +only the dearer because never on my lips! Sincere love +can be no insult to whomsoever proffered; Elizabeth +Stuart saw no shame to her in the devotion of William +Craven!"</p> + +<p>Cecil Castlemaine stood in the crimson glory of the +autumn sunset, her head erect, her pride unshaken, but +her heart stirred strangely and unwontedly. It smote +the one with bitter pain, to think a penniless exile should +thus dare to speak of what princes and dukes had almost +feared to whisper; what had she done—what had she +said, to give him license for such liberty? It stirred the +other with a tremulous warmth, a vague, sweet pleasure, +that were never visitants there before; but that she +scouted instantly as weakness, folly, debasement, in the +Last of the Castlemaines.</p> + +<p>He saw well enough what passed within her, what made +her eyes so troubled, yet her brow and lips so proudly set, +and he bent nearer towards her, the great love that was +in him trembling in his voice:</p> + +<p>"Lady Cecil, hear me! If in the coming struggle I +win distinction, honor, rank—if victory come to us, and +the King we serve remember me in his prosperity as he +does now in his adversity—if I can meet you hereafter +with tidings of triumph and success, my name made one +which England breathes with praise and pride, honors +gained such as even you will deem worthy of your line—then—then—will<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_28" id="Page_28">[Pg 28]</a></span> +you let me speak of what you refuse +to hearken to now—then may I come to you, and seek +a gentler answer?"</p> + +<p>She looked for a moment upon his face, as it bent towards +her in the radiance of the sunset light, the hope +that hopes all things glistening in his eyes, the high-souled +daring of a gallant and sanguine spirit flushing his forehead, +the loud throbs of his heart audible in the stillness +around; and her proud eyes grew softer, her lips quivered +for an instant.</p> + +<p>Then she turned towards him with queenly grace:</p> + +<p>"<i>Yes!</i>"</p> + +<p>It was spoken with stately dignity, though scarce above +her breath; but the hue that wavered in her cheek was +but the lovelier, for the pride that would not let her eyes +droop nor her tears rise, would not let her utter one softer +word. That one word cost her much. That single utterance +was much from Cecil Castlemaine.</p> + +<p>Her handkerchief lay at her feet, a delicate, costly toy +of lace, embroidered with her shield and chiffre; he +stooped and raised it, and thrust it in his breast to +treasure it there.</p> + +<p>"If I fail, I send this back in token that I renounce +all hope; if I can come to you with honor and with fame, +this shall be my gage that I may speak, that you will +listen?"</p> + +<p>She bowed her noble head, ever held haughtily, as +though every crown of Europe had a right to circle it; +his hot lips lingered for a moment on her hand; then +Cecil Castlemaine stood alone in the window of her bower-room, +her hand pressed again upon the opals under which +her heart was beating with a dull, weary pain, looking +out over the landscape, where the golden leaves were +falling fast, and the river, tossing sadly dead branches +on its waves, was bemoaning in plaintive language the +summer days gone by.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_29" id="Page_29">[Pg 29]</a></span></p> + +<p>Two months came and went, the beech-boughs, black +and sear, creaked in the bleak December winds that +sighed through frozen ferns and over the couches of shivering +deer, the snow drifted up on the marble terrace, and +icedrops clung where the warm rosy petals of the musk-rosebuds +had nestled. Across the country came terrible +whispers that struck the hearts of men of loyal faith to +the White Rose with a bolt of ice-cold terror and despair. +Messengers riding in hot haste, open-mouthed peasants +gossiping by the village forge, horsemen who tarried for +a breathless rest at alehouse-doors, Whig divines who +returned thanks for God's most gracious mercy in vouchsafing +victory to the strong, all told the tale, all spread +the news of the drawn battle of Sheriff-Muir, of the surrender +under Preston walls, of the flight of Prince James. +The tidings came one by one to Lilliesford, where my +Lord Earl was holding himself in readiness to co-operate +with the gentlemen of the North to set up the royal +standard, broidered by his daughter's hands, in the western +counties, and proclaim James III. "sovereign lord +and king of the realms of Great Britain and Ireland." +The tidings came to Lilliesford, and Cecil Castlemaine +clenched her white jewelled hands in passionate anguish +that a Stuart should have fled before the traitor of Argyll, +instead of dying with his face towards the rebel crew; +that men had lived who could choose surrender instead +of heroic death; that <i>she</i> had not been there, at Preston, +to shame them with a woman's reading of courage and of +loyalty, and show them how to fall with a doomed city +rather than yield captive to a foe!</p> + +<p>Perhaps amidst her grief for her Prince and for his +Cause mingled—as the deadliest thought of all—a +memory of a bright proud face, that had bent towards +her with tender love and touching grace a month before, +and that might now be lying pale and cold, turned +upwards to the winter stars, on the field of Sheriff-Muir.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_30" id="Page_30">[Pg 30]</a></span></p> + +<p>A year rolled by. Twelve months had fled since the +gilded carriage of the Castlemaines, with the lordly blazonment +upon its panels, its princely retinue and stately +pomp, had come down into the western counties. The +bones were crumbling white in the coffins in the Tower, +and the skulls over Temple-bar had bleached white in +winter snows and spring-tide suns; Kenmuir had gone to +a sleep that knew no wakening, and Derwentwater had +laid his fair young head down for a thankless cause; the +heather bloomed over the mounds of dead on the plains +of Sheriff-Muir, and the yellow gorse blossomed under +the city walls of Preston.</p> + +<p>Another summer had dawned, bright and laughing, +over England; none the less fair for human lives laid +down, for human hopes crushed out; daisies powdering +the turf sodden with human blood, birds carolling their +song over graves of heaped-up dead. The musk-roses +tossed their delicate heads again amidst the marble pilasters, +and the hawthorn-boughs shook their fragrant buds +into the river at Lilliesford, the purple hills lay wrapped +in sunny mist, and hyacinth-bells mingled with the tangled +grass and fern under the woodland shades, where the +red deer nestled happily. Herons plumed their silvery +wings down by the water-side, swallows circled in sultry +air above the great bell-tower, and wood-pigeons cooed +with soft love-notes among the leafy branches. Yet the +Countess of Castlemaine, last of her race, sole owner of +the lands that spread around her, stood on the rose-terrace, +finding no joy in the sunlight about her, no melody +in the song of the birds.</p> + +<p>She was the last of her name; her father, broken-hearted +at the news from Dumblain and Preston, had +died the very day after his lodgment in the Tower. There +was no heir male of his line, and the title had passed to +his daughter; there had been thoughts of confiscation +and attainder, but others, unknown to her, solicited what<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_31" id="Page_31">[Pg 31]</a></span> +she scorned to ask for herself, and the greed of the hungry +"Hanoverian pack" spared the lands and the revenues of +Lilliesford. In haughty pride, in lonely mourning, the +fairest beauty of the Court and Town withdrew again to +the solitude of her western counties, and tarried there, +dwelling amidst her women and her almost regal household, +in the sacred solitude of grief, wherein none might +intrude. Proud Cecil Castlemaine was yet prouder than +of yore; alone, sorrowing for her ruined Cause and exiled +King, she would hold converse with none of those who +had had a hand in drawing down the disastrous fate she +mourned, and only her staghound could have seen the +weariness upon her face when she bent down to him, or +Gabrielle the falcon felt her hand tremble when it stroked +her folded wings. She stood on the terrace, looking over +her spreading lands, not the water-lilies on the river below +whiter than her lips, pressed painfully together. Perhaps +she repented of certain words, spoken to one whom now +she would never again behold—perhaps she thought of +that delicate toy that was to have been brought back in +victory and hope, that now might lie stained and stiffened +with blood next a lifeless heart, for never a word in the +twelve months gone by had there come to Lilliesford as +tidings of Fulke Ravensworth.</p> + +<p>Her pride was dear to her, dearer than aught else; she +had spoken as was her right to speak, she had done what +became a Castlemaine; it would have been weakness to +have acted otherwise; what was he—a landless soldier—that +he should have dared as he had dared? Yet the +sables she wore were not solely for the dead Earl, not +solely for the lost Stuarts the hot mist that would blind +the eyes of Cecil Castlemaine, as hours swelled to days, +and days to months, and she—the flattered beauty of the +Court and Town—stayed in self-chosen solitude in her +halls of Lilliesford, still unwedded and unwon.</p> + +<p>The noon-hours chimed from the bell-tower, and the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_32" id="Page_32">[Pg 32]</a></span> +sunny beauty of the morning but weighed with heavier +sadness on her heart; the song of the birds, the busy hum +of the gnats, the joyous ring of the silver bell round her +pet fawn's neck, as it darted from her side under the +drooping boughs—none touched an answering chord of +gladness in her. She stood looking over her stretching +woodlands in deep thought, so deep that she heard no +step over the lawn beneath, nor saw the frightened rush +of the deer, as a boy, crouching among the tangled ferns, +sprang up from his hiding-place under the beechen +branches, and stood on the terrace before her, craving her +pardon in childish, yet fearless tones. She turned, bending +on him that glance which had made the over-bold +glance of princes fall abashed. The boy was but a little +tatterdemalion to have ventured thus abruptly into the +presence of the Countess of Castlemaine; still it was with +some touch of a page's grace that he bowed before her.</p> + +<p>"Lady, I crave your pardon, but my master bade me +watch for you, though I watched till midnight."</p> + +<p>"Your master?"</p> + +<p>A flush, warm as that on the leaves of the musk-roses, +rose to her face for an instant, then faded as suddenly. +The boy did not notice her words, but went on in an eager +whisper, glancing anxiously round, as a hare would glance +fearing the hunters.</p> + +<p>"And told me when I saw you not to speak his name, +but only to give you this as his gage, that though all else +is lost he has not forgot <i>his</i> honor nor <i>your</i> will."</p> + +<p>Cecil Castlemaine spoke no word, but she stretched out +her hand and took it—her own costly toy of cambric and +lace, with her broidered shield and coronet.</p> + +<p>"Your master! Then—he lives?"</p> + +<p>"Lady, he bade me say no more. You have his message; +I must tell no further."</p> + +<p>She laid her hand upon his shoulder, a light, snow-white +hand, yet one that held him now in a clasp of steel.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_33" id="Page_33">[Pg 33]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Child! answer me at your peril! Tell me of him +whom you call your master. Tell me all—quick—quick!"</p> + +<p>"You are his friend?"</p> + +<p>"His friend? My Heaven! Speak on!"</p> + +<p>"He bade me tell no more on peril of his heaviest +anger; but if you <i>are</i> his friend, I sure may speak what +you should know without me. It is a poor friend, lady, +who has need to ask whether another be dead or living!"</p> + +<p>The scarlet blood flamed in the Countess's blanched +face, she signed him on with impetuous command; she +was unused to disobedience, and the child's words cut her +to the quick.</p> + +<p>"Sir Fulke sails for the French coast to-morrow night," +the boy went on, in tremulous haste. "He was left for +dead—our men ran one way, and Argyll's men the other—on +the field of Sheriff-Muir; and sure if he had not +been strong indeed, he would have died that awful night, +untended, on the bleak moor, with the winds roaring +round him, and his life ebbing away. He was not one of +those who <i>fled</i>; you know that of him if you know aught. +We got him away before dawn, Donald and I, and hid +him in a shieling; he was in the fever then, and knew +nothing that was done to him, only he kept that bit of +lace in his hand for weeks and weeks, and would not let +us stir it from his grasp. What magic there was in it we +wondered often, but 'twas a magic, mayhap, that got him +well at last; it was an even chance but that he'd died, +God bless him! though we did what best we could. We've +been wandering in the Highlands all the year, hiding +here and tarrying there. Sir Fulke sets no count upon +his life. Sure I think he thanks us little for getting him +through the fever of the wounds, but he could not have +borne to be pinioned, you know, lady, like a thief, and +hung up by the brutes of Whigs, as a butcher hangs sheep +in the shambles! The worst of the danger's over—they've<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_34" id="Page_34">[Pg 34]</a></span> +had their fill of the slaughter; but we sail to-morrow +night for the French coast—England's no place +for my master."</p> + +<p>Cecil Castlemaine let go her hold upon the boy, and +her hand closed convulsively upon the dainty handkerchief—her +gage sent so faithfully back to her!</p> + +<p>The child looked upon her face; perchance, in his master's +delirium, he had caught some knowledge of the story +that hung to that broidered toy.</p> + +<p>"If you <i>are</i> his friend, madame, doubtless you have +some last word to send him?"</p> + +<p>Cecil Castlemaine, whom nothing moved, whom nothing +softened, bowed her head at the simple question, her heart +wrestling sorely, her lips set together in unswerving pride, +a mist before her haughty eyes, the broidered shield upon +her handkerchief—the shield of her stately and unyielding +race—pressed close against her breast.</p> + +<p>"You have no word for him, lady?"</p> + +<p>Her lips parted; she signed him away. Was this child +to see her yielding to such weakness? Had she, Countess +of Castlemaine, no better pride, no better strength, no +better power of resolve, than this?</p> + +<p>The boy lingered.</p> + +<p>"I will tell Sir Fulke then, lady, that the ruined have +no friends?"</p> + +<p>Whiter and prouder still grew the delicate beauty of +her face; she raised her stately head, haughtily as she +had used to glance over a glittering Court, where each +voice murmured praise of her loveliness and reproach of +her coldness; and placed the fragile toy of lace back in +the boy's hands.</p> + +<p>"Go, seek your master, and give him this in gage that +their calamity makes friends more dear to us than their +success. Go, he will know its meaning!"</p> + +<hr style="width: 25%;" /> + +<p>In place of the noon chimes the curfew was ringing<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_35" id="Page_35">[Pg 35]</a></span> +from the bell-tower, the swallows were gone to roost +amidst the ivy, and the herons slept with their heads +under their silvery wings among the rushes by the riverside, +the ferns and wild hyacinths were damp with evening +dew, and the summer starlight glistened amidst the +quivering woodland leaves. There was the silence of +coming night over the vast forest glades, and no sound +broke the stillness, save the song of the grasshopper stirring +the tangled grasses, or the sweet low sigh of the west +wind fanning the bells of the flowers. Cecil Castlemaine +stood once more on the rose-terrace, shrouded in the dense +twilight shade flung from above by the beech-boughs, +waiting, listening, catching every rustle of the leaves, +every tremor of the heads of the roses, yet hearing nothing +in the stillness around but the quick, uncertain throbs +of her heart beating like the wing of a caged bird under +its costly lace. Pride was forgotten at length, and she +only remembered—fear and love.</p> + +<p>In the silence and the solitude came a step that she +knew, came a presence that she felt. She bowed her head +upon her hands; it was new to her this weakness, this +terror, this anguish of joy; she sought to calm herself, to +steel herself, to summon back her pride, her strength; she +scorned herself for it all!</p> + +<p>His hand touched her, his voice fell on her ear once +more, eager, breathless, broken.</p> + +<p>"Cecil! Cecil! is this true? Is my ruin thrice blessed, +or am I mad, and dream of heaven?"</p> + +<p>She lifted her head and looked at him with her old +proud glance, her lips trembling with words that all her +pride could not summon into speech; then her eyes filled +with warm, blinding tears, and softened to new beauty;—scarce +louder than the sigh of the wind among the +flower-bells came her words to Fulke Ravensworth's ear, +as her royal head bowed on his breast.</p> + +<p>"Stay, stay! Or, if you fly, your exile shall be my +exile, your danger my danger!"<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_36" id="Page_36">[Pg 36]</a></span></p> + +<p>The kerchief is a treasured heirloom to her descendants +now, and fair women of her race, who inherit from +her her azure eyes and her queenly grace, will recall how +the proudest Countess of their Line loved a ruined gentleman +so well that she was wedded to him at even, in +her private chapel, at the hour of his greatest peril, his +lowest fortune, and went with him across the seas till +friendly intercession in high places gained them royal +permission to dwell again at Lilliesford unmolested. And +how it was ever noticeable to those who murmured at her +coldness and her pride, that Cecil Castlemaine, cold and +negligent as of yore to all the world beside, would seek +her husband's smile, and love to meet his eyes, and cherish +her beauty for his sake, and be restless in his absence, +even for the short span of a day, with a softer and more +clinging tenderness than was found in many weaker, +many humbler women.</p> + +<p>They are gone now the men and women of that generation, +and their voices come only to us through the faint +echo of their written words. In summer nights the old +beech-trees toss their leaves in the silvery light of the +stars, and the river flows on unchanged, with the ceaseless, +mournful burden of its mystic song, the same now +as in the midsummer of a century and a half ago. The +cobweb handkerchief lies before me with its broidered +shield; the same now as long years since, when it was +treasured close in a soldier's breast, and held by him +dearer than all save his honor and his word. So, things +pulseless and passionless endure, and human life passes +away as swiftly as a song dies off from the air—as quickly +succeeded, and as quickly forgot! Ronsard's refrain is +the refrain of our lives:</p> + + +<p> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Le temps s'en va, le temps s'en va, ma dame!</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Las! le temps, non; mais <i>nous</i> nous, en allons!</span><br /> +</p> + + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_37" id="Page_37">[Pg 37]</a></span></p> + +<hr style="width: 100%;" /> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/cc035a.png" alt="* * * * *" /> +</div> + + + +<h2><a name="LITTLE_GRAND_AND_THE_MARCHIONESS" id="LITTLE_GRAND_AND_THE_MARCHIONESS"></a>LITTLE GRAND AND THE MARCHIONESS;</h2> + +<div class='center'>OR,</div> + +<h3>OUR MALTESE PEERAGE.</h3> + + +<p>All first things are voted the best: first kisses, +first <i>toga virilis</i>, first hair of the first whisker; +first speeches are often so superior that members +subside after making them, fearful of eclipsing themselves; +first money won at play must always be best, as +always the dearest bought; and first wives are always +so super-excellent, that, if a man lose one, he is generally +as fearful of hazarding a second as a trout of biting +twice.</p> + +<p>But of all first things commend me to one's first uniform. +No matter that we get sick of harness, and get +into mufti as soon as we can now; there is no more exquisite +pleasure than the first sight of one's self in shako +and sabretasche. How we survey ourselves in the glass, +and ring for hot water, that the handsome housemaid +may see us in all our glory, and lounge accidentally into +our sisters' schoolroom, that the governess, who is nice +looking and rather flirty, may go down on the spot before +us and our scarlet and gold, chains and buttons! One's +first uniform! Oh! the exquisite sensation locked up for +us in that first box from Sagnarelli, or Bond Street!</p> + +<p>I remember <i>my</i> first uniform. I was eighteen—as raw +a young cub as you could want to see. I had not been<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_38" id="Page_38">[Pg 38]</a></span> +licked into shape by a public school, whose tongue may +be rough, but cleans off grievances and nonsense better +than anything else. I had been in that hotbed of effeminacy, +Church principles and weak tea, a Private Tutor's, +where mamma's darlings are wrapped up, and stuffed with +a little Terence and Horace to show grand at home; and +upon my life I do believe my sister Julia, aged thirteen, +was more wide awake and up to life than I was, when +the governor, an old rector, who always put me in mind +of the Vicar of Wakefield, got me gazetted to as crack a +corps as any in the Line.</p> + +<p>The ——th (familiarly known in the Service as the +"Dare Devils," from old Peninsular deeds) were just then +at Malta, and with, among other trifles, a chest protector +from my father, and a recipe for milk-arrowroot from +my Aunt Matilda who lived in a constant state of catarrh +and of cure for the same, tumbled across the Bay of Biscay, +and found myself in Byron's confounded "little +military hot-house," where most military men, some time +or other, have roasted themselves to death, climbing its +hilly streets, flirting with its Valetta belles, drinking Bass +in its hot verandas, yawning with ennui in its palace, +cursing its sirocco, and being done by its Jew sharpers.</p> + +<p>From a private tutor's to a crack mess at Malta!—from +a convent to a casino could hardly be a greater +change. Just at first I was as much astray as a young +pup taken into a stubble-field, and wondering what the +deuce he is to do there; but as it is a pup's nature to +sniff at birds and start them, so is it a boy's nature to +snatch at the champagne of life as soon as he catches +sight of it, though you may have brought him up on +water from his cradle. I took to it, at least, like a retriever +to water-ducks, though I was green enough to be +a first-rate butt for many a day, and the practical jokes +I had passed on me would have furnished the <i>Times</i> with +food for crushers on "The Shocking State of the Army"<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_39" id="Page_39">[Pg 39]</a></span> +for a twelvemonth. My chief friend and ally, tormentor +and initiator, was a little fellow, Cosmo Grandison; in +Ours he was "Little Grand" to everybody, from the +Colonel to the baggage-women. He was seventeen, and +had joined about a year. What a pretty boy he was, +too! All the fair ones in Valetta, from his Excellency's +wife to our washerwomen, admired that boy, and spoilt +him and petted him, and I do not believe there was a man +of Ours who would have had heart to sit in court-martial +on Little Grand if he had broken every one of the +Queen's regulations, and set every General Order at defiance. +I think I see him now—he was new to Malta as +I, having just landed with the Dare Devils, <i>en route</i> from +India to Portsmouth—as he sat one day on the table in +the mess-room as cool as a cucumber, in spite of the broiling +sun, smoking, and swinging his legs, and settling his +forage-cap on one side of his head, as pretty-looking, +plucky, impudent a young monkey as ever piqued himself +on being an old hand, and a knowing bird not to be +caught by any chaff however ingeniously prepared.</p> + +<p>"Simon," began Little Grand (my "St. John," first +barbarized by Mr. Pope for the convenience of his dactyles +and hexameters into Sinjin, being further barbarized +by this little imp into Simon)—"Simon, do you want to +see the finest woman in this confounded little pepper-box? +You're no judge of a woman, though, you muff—taste +been warped, perhaps, by constant contemplation of that +virgin Aunt Minerva—Matilda, is it? all the same."</p> + +<p>"Hang your chaff," said I; "you'd make one out a +fool."</p> + +<p>"Precisely, my dear Simon; just what you are!" responded +Little Grand, pleasantly, "Bless your heart, +I've been engaged to half a dozen women since I joined. +A man can hardly help it, you see; they've such a way +of drawing you on, you don't like to disappoint them, +poor little dears, and so you compromise yourself out of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_40" id="Page_40">[Pg 40]</a></span> +sheer benevolence. There's such a run on a handsome +man—it's a great bore. Sometimes I think I shall shave +my head, or do something to disfigure myself, as Spurina +did. Poor fellow, I feel for him! Well, Simon, you +don't seem curious to know who my beauty is?"</p> + +<p>"One of those Mitchell girls of the Twenty-first? You +waltzed with 'em all night; but they're too tall for you, +Grand."</p> + +<p>"The Mitchell girls!" ejaculated he, with supreme +scorn. "Great maypoles! they go about with the Fusiliers +like a pair of colors. On every ball-room battlefield +one's safe to see <i>them</i> flaunting away, and as everybody +has a shot at 'em, their hearts must be pretty well +riddled into holes by this time. No, mine's rather higher +game than that. My mother's brother-in-law's aunt's +sister's cousin's cousin once removed was Viscount Twaddle, +and I don't go anything lower than the Peerage."</p> + +<p>"What, is it somebody you've met at his Excellency's?"</p> + +<p>"Wrong again, beloved Simon. It's nobody I've met +at old Stars and Garters', though his lady-wife could no +more do without me than without her sal volatile and +flirtations. No, <i>she</i> don't go there; she's too high for that +sort of thing—sick of it. After all the European +Courts, Malta must be rather small and slow. I was +introduced to her yesterday, and," continued Little +Grand, more solemnly than was his wont, "I do assure +you she's superb, divine; and I'm not very easy to +please."</p> + +<p>"What's her name?" I asked, rather impressed with +this view of a lady too high for old Stars and Garters, as +we irreverently termed her Majesty's representative in +her island of Malta.</p> + +<p>Little Grand took his pipe out of his lips to correct me +with more dignity.</p> + +<p>"Her <i>title</i>, my dear Simon, is the Marchioness St. +Julian."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_41" id="Page_41">[Pg 41]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Is that an English peerage, Grand?"</p> + +<p>"Hum! What! Oh yes, of course! What else +should it be, you owl!"</p> + +<p>Not being in a condition to decide this point, I was +silent, and he went on, growing more impressive at each +phrase:</p> + +<p>"She is splendid, really! And I'm a very <i>difficile</i> +fellow, you know; but such hair, such eyes, one doesn't +see every day in those sun-dried Mitchells or those little +pink Bovilliers. Well, yesterday, after that confounded +luncheon (how I hate all those complimentary affairs!—one +can't enjoy the truffles for talking to the ladies, nor +enjoy the ladies for discussing the truffles), I went for a +ride with Conran out to Villa Neponte. I left him there, +and went down to see the overland steamers come in. +While I was waiting, I got into talk, somehow or other, +with a very agreeable, gentleman-like fellow, who asked +me if I'd only just come to Malta, and all that sort of +thing—you know the introductory style of action—till +we got quite good friends, and he told me he was living +outside this wretched little hole at the Casa di Fiori, and +said—wasn't it civil of him?—said he should be very +happy to see me if I'd call any time. He gave me his +card—Lord Adolphus Fitzhervey—and a man with him +called him 'Dolph.' As good luck had it, my weed went +out just while we were talking, and Fitzhervey was monstrously +pleasant, searched all over him for a fusee, +couldn't find one, and asked me to go up with him to the +Casa di Fiori and get a light. Of course I did, and he +and I and Guatamara had some sherbet and a smoke +together, and then he introduced me to the Marchioness +St. Julian, his sister—by Jove! such a magnificent +woman, Simon, <i>you</i> never saw one like her, I'll wager. +She was uncommonly agreeable, too, and <i>such</i> a smile, my +boy! She seemed to like me wonderfully—not rare that, +though, you'll say—and asked me to go and take coffee<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_42" id="Page_42">[Pg 42]</a></span> +there to-night after mess, and bring one of my chums +with me; and as I like to show you life, young one, and +your taste wants improving after Aunt Minerva, you may +come, if you like. Hallo! there's Conran. I say, don't +tell <i>him</i>. I don't want any poaching on my manor."</p> + +<p>Conran came in at that minute; he was then a Brevet-Major +and Captain in Ours, and one of the older men +who spoilt Little Grand in one way, as much as the +women did in another. He was a fine, powerful fellow, +with eyes like an eagle's, and pluck like a lion's; he had a +grave look, and had been of late more silent and self-reticent +than the other roistering, débonnair, light-hearted +"Dare Devils;" but though, perhaps, tired of the wild +escapades which reputation had once attributed to him, +was always the most lenient to the boy's monkey tricks, +and always the one to whom he went if his larks had cost +him too dear, or if he was in a scrape from which he saw +no exit. Conran had recently come in for a good deal +of money, and there were few bright eyes in Malta that +would not have smiled kindly on him; but he did not +care much for any of them. There was some talk of a +love-affair before he went to India, that was the cause of +his hard-heartedness, though I must say he did not look +much like a victim to the <i>grande passion</i>, in my ideas, +which were drawn from valentines and odes in the "Woman, +thou fond and fair deceiver" style; in love that +turned its collars down and let its hair go uncut and +refused to eat, and recovered with a rapidity proportionate +to its ostentation; and I did not know that, if a man has +lost his treasure, he <i>may</i> mourn it so deeply that he may +refuse to run about like Harpagon, crying for his <i>cassette</i> +to an audience that only laughs at his miseries.</p> + +<p>"Well, young ones," said Conran, as he came in and +threw down his cap and whip, "here you are, spending +your hours in pipes and bad wine. What a blessing it is +to have a palate that isn't blasé, and that will swallow all<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_43" id="Page_43">[Pg 43]</a></span> +wine just because it <i>is</i> wine! That South African goes +down with better relish, Little Grand, than you'll find in +Château Margaux ten years hence. As soon as one begins +to want touching up with olives, one's real gusto is gone."</p> + +<p>"Hang olives, sir! they're beastly," said Little Grand; +"and I don't care who pretends they're not. Olives are +like sermons and wives, everybody makes a wry face, and +would rather be excused 'em, Major; but it's the custom +to call 'em good things, and so men bolt 'em in complaisance, +and while they hate the salt-water flavor, descant +on the delicious rose taste!"</p> + +<p>"Quite true, Little Grand! but one takes olives to +enhance the wine; and so, perhaps, other men's sermons +make one enjoy one's racier novel, and other men's wives +make one appreciate one's liberty still better. Don't +abuse olives; you'll want them figuratively and literally +before you've done either drinking or living!"</p> + +<p>"Oh! confound it, Major," cried Little Grand, "I do +hope and trust a spent ball may have the kindness to +double me up and finish me off before then."</p> + +<p>"You're not philosophic, my boy."</p> + +<p>"Thank Heaven, no!" ejaculated Little Grand, piously. +"I've an uncle, a very great philosopher, beats all the +sages hollow, from Bion to Buckle, and writes in the +Metaphysical Quarterly, but I'll be shot if he don't spend +so much time in trying to puzzle out what life is, that all +his has slipped away without his having <i>lived</i> one bit. +When I was staying with him one Christmas, he began +boring me with a frightful theory on the non-existence of +matter. I couldn't stand that, so I cut him short, and +set him down to the luncheon-table; and while he was +full swing with a Strasbourg pâté and Comet hock, I +stopped him and asked him if, with them in his mouth, +he believed in matter or not? He was shut up, of course; +bless your soul, those theorists always are, if you're down +upon 'em with a little fact!"<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_44" id="Page_44">[Pg 44]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Such as a Strasbourg pâté?—that <i>is</i> an unanswerable +argument with most men, I believe," said Conran, who +liked to hear the boy chatter. "What are you going to +do with yourself to-night, Grand?"</p> + +<p>"I am going to—ar—hum—to a friend of mine," +said Little Grand, less glibly than usual.</p> + +<p>"Very well; I only asked, because I would have taken +you to Mrs. Fortescue's with me; they're having some +acting proverbs (horrible exertion in this oven of a place, +with the thermometer at a hundred and twenty degrees); +but if you've better sport it's no matter. Take care what +friends you make, though, Grand; you'll find some Maltese +acquaintances very costly."</p> + +<p>"Thank you. I should say I can take care of myself," +replied Little Grand, with immeasurable scorn and +dignity.</p> + +<p>Conran laughed, struck him across the shoulders with +his whip, stroked his own moustaches, and went out again, +whistling one of Verdi's airs.</p> + +<p>"I don't want him bothering, you know," explained +Little Grand; "she's such a deuced magnificent woman!"</p> + +<p>She was a magnificent woman, this Eudoxia Adelaida, +Marchioness St. Julian; and proud enough Little Grand +and I felt when we had that soft, jewelled hand held out +to us, and that bewitching smile beamed upon us, and +that joyous presence dazzling in our eyes, as we sat in +the drawing-room of that Casa di Fiori. She was about +thirty-five, I should say (boys always worship those who +might have been schoolfellows of their mothers), tall and +stately, and imposing, with the most beautiful pink and +white skin, with a fine set of teeth, raven hair, and eyes +tinted most exquisitely. Oh! she was magnificent, our +Marchioness St. Julian! Into what unutterable insignificance, +what miserable, washed-out shadows sank +Stars and Garters' lady, and the Mitchell girls, and all +the belles of La Valetta, whom we hadn't thought so very +bad-looking before.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_45" id="Page_45">[Pg 45]</a></span></p> + +<p>There was a young creature sitting a little out of the +radiance of light, reading; but we had no eyes for anybody +except the Marchioness St. Julian. We were in +such high society, too; there was her brother, Lord +Adolphus, and his bosom Pylades, the Baron Guatamara; +and there was a big fellow, with hooked nose and very +curly hair, who was introduced to us as the Prince of +Orangia Magnolia; and a little wiry fellow, with bits of +red and blue ribbon, and a star or two in his button-hole, +who was M. le Due de Saint-Jeu. We were quite dazzled +with the coruscations of so much aristocracy, especially +when they talked across to each other—so familiarly, +too—of Johnnie (that we Lord Russell), and Pam, and +"old Buck" (my godfather Buckingham, Lord Adolphus +explained to us), and Montpensier and old Joinville; +and chatted of when they dined at the Tuileries, +and stayed at Compiègne, and hunted at Belvoir, and +spent Christmas at Holcombe or Longleat. We were in +such high society! How contemptible appeared Mrs. +Maberly's and the Fortescue soirées; how infinitesimally +small grew Charlie Ruthven, and Harry Villiers, and +Grey and Albany, and all the other young fellows who +thought it such great guns to be <i>au mieux</i> with little +Graziella, or invited to Sir George Dashaway's. <i>We</i> +were a cut above those things now—rather!</p> + +<p>That splendid Marchioness! There was a head for a +coronet, if you like! And how benign she was! Grand +sat on the couch beside her, and I on an ottoman on her +left, and she leaned back in her magnificent toilette, +flirting her fan like a Castilian, and flashing upon us her +superb eyes from behind it; not speaking very much, but +showing her white teeth in scores of heavenly smiles, till +Little Grand, the <i>blasé</i> man of seventeen, and I the raw +Moses of private tutelage, both felt that we had never +come across anything like this; never, in fact, seen a +woman worth a glance before.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_46" id="Page_46">[Pg 46]</a></span></p> + +<p>She listened to us—or rather to him; I was too awestruck +to advance much beyond monosyllables—and +laughed at him, and smiled encouragingly on my <i>gaucherie</i> +(and when a boy is <i>gauche</i>, how ready he is to worship +such a helping hand!), and beamed upon us both with +an effulgence compared with which the radiance of Helen, +Galatea, [OE]none, Messalina, Laïs, and all the legendary +beauties one reads about, must have been what the railway +night-lamps that <i>never</i> burn are to the prismatic +luminaries of Cremorne. They were all uncommonly +pleasant, all except the girl who was reading, whom they +introduced as the Signorina da' Guari, a Tuscan, and +daughter to Orangia Magnolia, with one of those marvellously +beautiful faces that one sees in the most splendid +painters' models of the Campagna, who never lifted her +head scarcely, though Guatamara and Saint-Jeu did their +best to make her. But all the others were wonderfully +agreeable, and quite <i>fête'd</i> Little Grand and me, at which, +they, being more than double our age, and seemingly at +home alike with Belgravia and Newmarket, the Faubourg +and the Pytchley, we felt to grow at least a foot +each in the aroma of this Casa di Fiori.</p> + +<p>"This is rather stupid, Doxie," began Lord Adolphus, +addressing his sister; "not much entertainment for our +guests. What do you say to a game of vingt-et-un, eh, +Mr. Grandison?"</p> + +<p>Little Grand fixed his blue eyes on the Marchioness, and +said he should be very happy, but, as for entertainment—<i>he</i> +wanted no other.</p> + +<p>"No compliments, <i>petit ami</i>," laughed the Marchioness, +with a dainty blow of her fan. "Yes, Dolph, have vingt-et-un, +or music, or anything you like. Sing us something, +Lucrezia."</p> + +<p>The Italian girl thus addressed looked up with a passionate, +haughty flush, and answered, with wonderfully +little courtesy I considered, "I shall not sing to-night."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_47" id="Page_47">[Pg 47]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Are you unwell, fairest friend?" asked the Duc de +Saint-Jeu, bending his little wiry figure over her.</p> + +<p>She shrank away from him, and drew back, a hot color +in her cheeks.</p> + +<p>"Signore, I did not address <i>you</i>."</p> + +<p>The Marchioness looked angry, if those divine eyes +could look anything so mortal. However, she shrugged +her shoulders.</p> + +<p>"Well, my dear Lucrezia, we can't make you sing, of +course, if you won't. I, for my part, always do any little +thing I can to amuse anybody; if I fail, I fail; I have +done my best, and my friends will appreciate the effort, +if not the result. No, my dear Prince, do not tease her," +said the Marchioness to Orangia Magnolia, who was arguing, +I thought, somewhat imperatively for such a well-bred +and courtly man, with Lucrezia; "we will have vingt-et-un, +and Lucrezia will give us the delight of her voice +some other evening, I dare say."</p> + +<p>We had vingt-et-un; the Marchioness would not play, +but she sat in her rose velvet arm-chair, just behind Little +Grand, putting in pretty little speeches, and questions, +and bagatelles, and calling attention to the gambols of +her darling greyhound Cupidon, and tapping Little Grand +with her fan, till, I believe, he neither knew how the +game went, nor what money he lost; and I, gazing at her, +and cursing him for his facile tongue, never noticed my +naturels, couldn't have said what the maximum was if +you had paid me for it, and might, for anything I knew +to the contrary, have been seeing my life slip away with +each card as Balzac's hero with the Peau de Chagrin. +Then we had sherbet, and wine, and cognac for those +who preferred it; and the Marchioness gave us permission +to smoke, and took a dainty hookah with an amber +mouthpiece for her own use (divine she did look, too, +with that hookah between her ruby lips!); and the +smoke, and the cognac, and the smiles, unloosed our<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_48" id="Page_48">[Pg 48]</a></span> +tongues, and we spake like very great donkeys, I dare +say, but I'm sure with not a tenth part the wisdom that +Balaam's ass developed in his brief and pithy conversation.</p> + +<p>However great the bosh we talked, though, we found +very lenient auditors. Fitzhervey and Guatamara +laughed at all our witticisms; the Prince of Orangia +Magnolia joined in with a "Per Baccho!" and a "Bravo!" +and little Saint-Jeu wheezed, and gave a faint echo of +"Mon Dieu!" and "Très bien, très bien, vraiment!" and +the Marchioness St. Julian laughed too, and joined in our +nonsense, and, what was much more, bent a willing ear +to our compliments, no matter how florid; and Saint-Jeu +told us a story or two, more amusing than <i>comme il faut</i>, +at which the Marchioness tried to look grave, and <i>did</i> +look shocked, but laughed for all that behind her fan; +and Lucrezia da' Guari sat in shadow, as still and as +silent as the Parian Euphrosyne on the console, though +her passionate eyes and expressive face looked the very +antipodes of silence and statuetteism, as she flashed half-shy, +half-scornful, looks upon us.</p> + +<p>If the first part of the evening had been delightful, +this was something like Paradise! It was such high +society! and with just dash enough of Mabille and coulisses +laisseraller to give it piquancy. How different was +the pleasantry and freedom of these <i>real</i> aristos, after the +humdrum dinners and horrid bores of dances that those +snobs of Maberlys, and Fortescues, and Mitchells, made +believe to call Society!</p> + +<p>What with the wine, and the smoke, and the smiles, I +wasn't quite clear as to whether I saw twenty horses' heads +or one when I was fairly into saddle, and riding back to +the town, just as the first dawn was rising, Aphrodite-like, +from the far blue waves of the Mediterranean. +Little Grand was better seasoned, but even he was dizzy<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_49" id="Page_49">[Pg 49]</a></span> +with the parting words of the Marchioness, which had +softly breathed the delicious passport, "Come to-morrow."</p> + +<p>"By Jupiter!" swore Little Grand, obliged to give +relief to his feelings—"by Jupiter, Simon! did you ever +see such a glorious, enchanting, divine, delicious, adorable +creature? Faugh! who could look at those Mitchell +girls after her? Such eyes! such a smile! such a figure! +Talk of a coronet! no imperial crown would be half good +enough for her! And how pleasant those fellows are! I +like that little chaffy chap, the Duke; what a slap-up +story that was about the bal de l'Opéra. And Fitzhervey, +too; there's something uncommonly thorough-bred +about him, ain't there? And Guatamara's an immensely +jolly fellow. Ah, myboy! that's something like society; +all the ease and freedom of real rank; no nonsense about +them, as there is about snobs. I say, what wouldn't the +other fellows give to be in our luck? I think even Conran +would warm up about her. But, Simon, she's deucedly +taken with me—she is, upon my word; and she knows +how to show it you, too! By George! one could die for +a woman like that—eh?"</p> + +<p>"Die!" I echoed, while my horse stumbled along up +the hilly road, and I swayed forward, pretty nearly over +his head, while poetry rushed to my lips, and electric +sparks danced before my eyes:</p> + +<p> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">"To die for those we love! oh, there is power</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">In the true heart, and pride, and joy, for this</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">It is to live without the vanished light</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">That strength is needed!"</span><br /> +</p> + +<p>"But I'll be shot if it shall be vanished light," returned +Little Grand; "it don't look much like it yet. +The light's only just lit, 'tisn't likely it's going out again +directly; but she is a stunner! and——"</p> + +<p>"A stunner!" I shouted; "she's much more than that—she's +an angel, and I'll be much obliged to you to call<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_50" id="Page_50">[Pg 50]</a></span> +her by her right name, sir. She's a beautiful, noble, +loving woman; the most perfect of all Nature's masterworks. +She is divine, sir, and you and I are not worthy +merely to kiss the hem of her garment."</p> + +<p>"Ain't we, though? I don't care much about kissing +her dress; it's silk, and I don't know that I should derive +much pleasure from pressing my lips on its texture; but +her cheek——"</p> + +<p> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">"Her cheek is like the Catherine pear,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">The side that's next the sun!"</span><br /> +</p> + +<p>I shouted, as my horse went down in a rut. "She's like +Venus rising from the sea-shell; she's like Aurora, when +she came down on the first ray of the dawn to Tithonus; +she's like Briseis——"</p> + +<p>"Bother classics! she's like herself, and beats 'em all +hollow. She's the finest creature ever seen on earth, and +I should like to see the man who'd dare to say she wasn't. +And—I say, Simon—<i>how much did you lose to-night</i>?"</p> + +<p>From sublimest heights I tumbled straight to bathos. +The cold water of Grand's query quenched my poetry, +extinguished my electric lights, and sobered me like a +douche bath.</p> + +<p>"I don't know," I answered, with a sense of awe and +horror stealing over me; "but I had a pony in my waistcoat-pocket +that the governor had just sent me; Guatamara +changed it for me, and—<i>I've only sixpence left</i>!"</p> + +<p>"Old boy," said Little Grand to me, the next morning, +after early parade, "come in my room, and let's make up +some despatches to the governors. You see," he continued, +five minutes after,—"you see, we're both of us +pretty well cleared out; I've only got half a pony, and +you haven't a couple of fivers left. Now you know they +evidently play rather high at the Casa di Fiori; do everything +<i>en prince</i>, like nobs who've Barclays at their back; +and one mustn't hang fire; horrid shabby that would<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_51" id="Page_51">[Pg 51]</a></span> +look. Besides, fancy seeming mean before <i>her</i>! So I've +been thinking that, though governors are a screwy lot +generally, if we put it to 'em clearly the sort of set we've +got into, and show 'em that we can't help, now that we +are at Rome, doing as the Romans do, I should say they +could hardly help bleeding a little—eh? Now, listen +how I've put it. My old boy has a weakness for titles; +he married my mother on the relationship to Viscount +Twaddles (who doesn't know of her existence; but who +does to talk about as 'our cousin'), and he'd eat up miles +of dirt for a chance of coming to a strawberry-leaf; so I +think this will touch him up beautifully. Listen! ain't +I sublimely respectful? 'I'm sure, my dear father, you +wilt be delighted to learn, that by wonderful luck, or +rather I ought to say Providence, I have fallen on my +feet in Malta, and got introduced to the very highest' +(wait! let me stick a dash under very)—'the <i>very</i> highest +society here. They are quite tip-top. To show you what +style, I need only mention Lord A. Fitzhervey, the Baron +Guatamara, and the Marchioness St. Julian, as among +my kindest friends. They have been yachting in the +Levant, and are now staying in Malta: they are all most +kind to me; and I know you will appreciate the intellectual +advantages that such contact must afford me; at the +same time you will understand that I can hardly enter +such circles as a snob, and you will wish your son to comport +himself as a gentleman; but gentlemanizing comes +uncommon dear, I can tell you, with all the care in the +world: and if you <i>could</i> let me have another couple of +hundred, I should vote you'—a what, Simon?—'an out-and-out +brick' is the sensible style, but I suppose 'the +best and kindest of parents' is the filial dodge, eh? +There! 'With fond love to mamma and Florie, ever +your affectionate son, <span class="smcap">Cosmo Grandison</span>.' Bravo! that's +prime; that'll bring the yellows down, I take it. Here, +old fellow, copy it to your governor; you couldn't have<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_52" id="Page_52">[Pg 52]</a></span> +a more stunning effusion—short, and to the purpose, as +cabinet councils ought to be, and ain't. Fire away, my +juvenile."</p> + +<p>I did fire away; only I, of a more impressionable and +poetic nature than Little Grand, gave a certain vent to +my feelings in expatiating on the beauty, grace, condescension, +&c., &c., of the Marchioness to my mother; I +did <i>not</i> mention the grivois stories, the brandy, and the +hookah: I was quite sure they were the sign of that delirious +ease and disregard of snobbish etiquette and convenances +peculiar to the "Upper Ten," but I thought the +poor people at home, in vicarage seclusion, would be too +out of the world to fully appreciate such revelations of +our <i>crême de la crême</i>; besides, my governor had James's +own detestation of the divine weed, and considered that +men who "made chimneys of their mouths" might just +as well have the mark of the Beast at once.</p> + +<p>Little Grand and I were hard-up for cash, and <i>en attendant</i> +the governors' replies and remittances, we had +recourse to the tender mercies and leather bags of napoleons, +ducats, florins, and doubloons of a certain Spanish +Jew, one Balthazar Miraflores, a shrivelled-skinned, +weezing old cove, who was "most happy to lent anytink +to his tear young shentlesmen, but, by Got! he was as +poor as Job, he was indeed!" Whether Job ever lent +money out on interest or not, I can't say; perhaps he did, +as in the finish he ended with having quadrupled his +cattle and lands, and all his goods—a knack usurers +preserve in full force to this day; but all I can say is, +that if he was not poorer than Mr. Miraflores, he was not +much to be pitied, for he, miserly old shark, lived in his +dark, dirty hole, like a crocodile embedded in Nile mud, +and crushed the bones of all unwary adventurers who +came within range of his great bristling jaws.</p> + +<p>Money, however, Little Grand and I got out of him in +plenty, only for a little bit of paper in exchange; and at<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_53" id="Page_53">[Pg 53]</a></span> +that time we didn't know that though the paper tax +would be repealed at last, there would remain, as long as +youths are green and old birds cunning, a heavy and a +bitter tax on certain bits of paper to which one's hand is +put, which Mr. Gladstone, though he achieve the herculean +task of making draymen take kindly to vin ordinaire, +and the popping of champagne corks a familiar +sound by cottage-hearths, will never be able to include in +his budgets, to come among the Taxes that are Repealed!</p> + +<p>Well, we had our money from old Balthazar that +morning, and we played with it again that night up at +the Casa di Fiori. Loo this time, by way of change. +Saint-Jeu said he always thought it well to change your +game as you change your loves: constancy, whether to +cards or women, was most fatiguing. We liked Saint-Jeu +very much, we thought him such a funny fellow. They +said they did not care to play much—of course they +didn't, when Guatamara had had écarté with the Grand-Duke +of Chaffsandlarkstein at half a million a side, and +Lord Dolph had broken the bank at Homburg "just for +fun—no fun to old Blanc, who farms it, though, you +know." But the Marchioness, who was doubly gracious +that night, told them they must play, because it amused +her <i>chers petits amis</i>. Besides, she said, in her pretty, +imperious way, she liked to see it—it amused her. After +that, of course, there was no more hesitation; down we +sat, and young Heavystone with us.</p> + +<p>The evening before we had happened to mention him, +said he was a fellow of no end of tin, though as stupid an +owl as ever spelt his own name wrong when he passed a +military examination, and the Marchioness, recalling the +name, said she remembered his father, and asked us to +bring him to see her; which we did, fearing no rival in +"old Heavy."</p> + +<p>So down we three sat, and had the evening before over +again, with the cards, and the smiles, and wiles of our<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_54" id="Page_54">[Pg 54]</a></span> +divinity, and Saint-Jeu's stories and Fitzhervey's cognac +and cigars; with this difference, that we found loo more +exciting than vingt-et-un. They played it so fast, too, it +was like a breathless heat for the Goodwood Cup, and the +Marchioness watched it, leaning alternately over Grand's, +and Heavy's, and my chair, and saying, with such naïve +delight, "Oh, do take miss, Cosmo; I would risk it if I +were you, Mr. Heavystone; <i>pray</i> don't let my naughty +brother win everything," that I'd have defied the stiffest +of the Stagyrites or the chilliest of Calvinists to have +kept their head cool with that syren voice in their ear.</p> + +<p>And La Lucrezia sat, as she had sat the night before, +by the open window, still and silent, the Cape jasmines +and Southern creepers framing her in a soft moonlight +picture, contrast enough to the brilliantly lighted room, +echoing with laughter at Saint-Jeu's stories, perfumed +with Cubas and narghilés, and shrining the magnificent, +full-blown, jewelled beauty of our Marchioness St. Julian, +with which we were as rapidly, as madly, as unreasoningly, +and as sentimentally in love as any boys of seventeen +or eighteen ever could be. What greater latitude, +you will exclaim, recalling certain buried-away episodes +of <i>your</i> hobbedehoyism, when you addressed Latin distichs +to that hazel-eyed Hebe who presided over oyster +patties and water ices at the pastrycook's in Eton; or +ruined your governor's young plantations cutting the +name of Adeliza Mary, your cousin, at this day a portly +person in velvet and point, whom you can now call, with +a thanksgiving in the stead of the olden tremor, Mrs. +Hector M'Cutchin? Yes, we were in love in a couple of +evenings, Little Grand vehemently and unpoetically, I +shyly and sentimentally, according to our temperament, +and as the fair Emily stirred feud between the two Noble +Kinsmen, so the Marchioness St. Julian began to sow +seeds of jealousy and detestation between us, sworn allies +as we were. But "<i>le véritable amant ne connaît point</i><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_55" id="Page_55">[Pg 55]</a></span> +<i>d'amis</i>," and as soon as we began to grow jealous of each +other, Little Grand could have kicked me to the devil, +and I could have kicked <i>him</i> with the greatest pleasure +in life.</p> + +<p>But I was shy, Little Grand was blessed with all the +audacity imaginable; the consequence was, that when our +horses came round, and the Maltese who acted as cherub +was going to close the gates of Paradise upon us, he managed +to slip into the Marchioness's boudoir to get a tête-à-tête +farewell, while I strode up and down the veranda, +not heeding Saint-Jeu, who was telling me a tale, to +which, in any other saner moments, I should have listened +greedily, but longing to execute on Little Grand +some fierce and terrible vengeance, to which the vendetta +should be baby's play. Saint-Jeu left me to put his arm +over Heavy's shoulder, and tell him if ever he came to +Paris he should be transported to receive him at the +Hôtel de Millefleurs, and present him at the Tuileries; +and I stood swearing to myself, and breaking off sprays +of the veranda creepers, when I heard somebody say, +very softly and low,—</p> + +<p>"Signore, come here a moment."</p> + +<p>It was that sweetly pretty mute whom we had barely +noticed, absorbed as we were in the worship of our maturer +idol, leaning out of the window, her cheeks flushed, +her lips parted, her eyes sad and anxious. Of course I +went to her, surprised at her waking up so suddenly to +any interest in me. She put her hand on my coat-sleeve, +and drew me down towards her.</p> + +<p>"Listen to me a moment. I hardly know how to warn +you, and yet I must. I cannot sit quietly by and see you +and your young friends being deceived as so many have +been before you. Do not come here again—-do not——"</p> + +<p>"Figlia mia! are you not afraid of the night-air?" +said the Prince of Orangia Magnolia, just behind us.</p> + +<p>His words were kind, but there was a nasty glitter in<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_56" id="Page_56">[Pg 56]</a></span> +his eyes. Lucrezia answered him in passionate Italian—of +which I had no knowledge—with such fire in her +eyes, such haughty gesticulation, and such a torrent of +words, that I really began to think, pretty soft little dear +as she looked, that she must positively be a trifle out of +her mind, her silence before, and her queer speech to me, +seemed such odd behavior for a young lady in such high +society. She was turning to me again when Little Grand +came out into the veranda, looking flushed, proud, and +self-complaisant, as such a winner and slayer of women +would do. My hand clenched on the jasmine, I thirsted +to spring on him as he stood there with his provoking, +self-contented smile, and his confounded coxcombical air, +and his cursed fair curls—<i>my</i> hair was dust-colored and +as rebellious as porcupine-quills—and wash out in his +blood or mine——A touch of a soft hand thrilled through +my every nerve and fibre: the Marchioness was there, +and signed me to her. Lucrezia, Little Grand, and all +the rest of the universe vanished from my mind at the +lightning of that angel smile and the rustle of that +moire-antique dress. She beckoned me to her into the +empty drawing-room.</p> + +<p>"Augustus" (I never thought my name could sound so +sweet before), "tell me, what was my niece Lucrezia saying +to you just now?"</p> + +<p>Now I had a sad habit of telling the truth; it was an +out-of-the-world custom taught me, among other old-fashioned +things, at home, though I soon found how inconvenient +a <i>bêtise</i> modern society considers it; and I +blurted the truth out here, not distinctly or gracefully, +though, as Little Grand would have done, for I was in +that state of exaltation ordinarily expressed as not knowing +whether one is standing in one's Wellingtons or not.</p> + +<p>The Marchioness sighed.</p> + +<p>"Ah, did she say that? Poor dear girl! She dislikes +me so much, it is quite an hallucination, and yet, O<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_57" id="Page_57">[Pg 57]</a></span> +Augustus, I have been to her like an elder sister, like a +mother. Imagine how it grieves me," and the Marchioness +shed some tears—pearls of price, thought I, worthy +to drop from angel eyes—"it is a bitter sorrow to me, +but, poor darling! she is not responsible."</p> + +<p>She touched her veiny temple significantly as she spoke, +and I understood, and felt tremendously shocked at it, +that the young, fair Italian girl was a fierce and cruel +maniac, who had the heart (oh! most extraordinary madness +did it seem to me; if <i>I</i> had lost my senses I could +never have harmed <i>her</i>!) to hate, absolutely hate, the +noblest, tenderest, most beautiful of women!</p> + +<p>"I never alluded to it to any one," continued the Marchioness. +"Guatamara and Saint-Jeu, though such intimate +friends, are ignorant of it. I would rather have +any one think ever so badly of me, than reveal to them +the cruel misfortune of my sweet Lucrezia——"</p> + +<p>How noble she looked as she spoke!</p> + +<p>"But you, Augustus, you," and she smiled upon me till +I grew as dizzy as after my first taste of milk-punch, "I +have not the courage to let <i>you</i> go off with any bad impression +of me. I have known you a very little while, it +is true—but a few hours, indeed—yet there are affinities +of heart and soul which overstep the bounds of time, and, +laughing at the chill ties of ordinary custom, make strangers +dearer than old friends——"</p> + +<p>The room revolved round me, the lights danced up and +down, my heart beat like Thor's hammer, and my pulse +went as fast as a favorite saving the distance. <i>She</i> speaking +so to me! My senses whirled round and round like +fifty thousand witches on a Walpurgis Night, and down +I went on my knees before my magnificent idol, raving +away I couldn't tell you what now—the essence of +everything I'd ever read, from Ovid to Alexander Smith. +It must have been something frightful to hear, though +Heaven knows I meant it earnestly enough. Suddenly I<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_58" id="Page_58">[Pg 58]</a></span> +was pulled up with a jerk, as one throws an unbroken colt +back on his haunches in the middle of his first start. <i>I +thought I heard a laugh.</i></p> + +<p>She started up too. "Hush! another time! We may +be overheard." And drawing her dress from my hands, +which grasped it as agonisingly as a cockney grasps his +saddle-bow, holding on for dear life over the Burton or +Tedworth country, she stooped kindly over me, and +floated away before <i>I</i> was recovered from the exquisite +delirium of my ecstatic trance.</p> + +<p>She loved me! This superb creature loved me! There +was not a doubt of it; and how I got back to the barracks +that night in my heavenly state of mind I could +never have told. All I know is, that Grand and I never +spoke a word, by tacit consent, all the way back; that I +felt a fiendish delight when I saw his proud triumphant +air, and thought how little he guessed, poor fellow!——And +that Dream of One Fair Woman was as superior +in rapture to the "Dream of Fair Women" as Tokay to +the "Fine Fruity Port" that results from damsons and a +decoction of sloes!</p> + +<p>The next day there was a grand affair in Malta to receive +some foreign Prince, whose name I do not remember +now, who called on us <i>en route</i> to England. Of +course all the troops turned out, and there was an inspection +of us, and a grand luncheon and dinner, and ball, +and all that sort of thing, which a month before I should +have considered prime fun, but which now, as it kept me +out of my paradise, I thought the most miserable bore +that could possibly have chanced.</p> + +<p>"I say," said Heavy to me as I was getting into harness—"I +say, don't you wonder Fitzhervey and the Marchioness +ain't coming to the palace to-day? One would +have thought Old Stars and Garters would have been +sure to ask them."</p> + +<p>"Ask them? I should say so," I returned, with immeasurable<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_59" id="Page_59">[Pg 59]</a></span> +disdain. "Of course he asked them; but she +told me she shouldn't come, last night. She is so tired +of such things. She came yachting with Fitzhervey +solely to try and have a little quiet. She says people +never give her a moment's rest when she is in Paris or +London. She was sorry to disappoint Stars and Garters, +but I don't think she likes his wife much: she don't consider +her good ton."</p> + +<p>On which information Heavy lapsed into a state of profoundest +awe and wonderment, it having been one of his +articles of faith, for the month that we had been in Malta, +that the palace people were exalted demigods, whom it +was only permissible to worship from a distance, and a +very respectful distance too. Heavy had lost some twenty +odd pounds the night before—of course we lost, young +hands as we were, unaccustomed to the society of that +entertaining gentleman, Pam—and had grumbled not a +little at the loss of his gold bobs. But now I could see +that such a contemptibly pecuniary matter was clean +gone from his memory, and that he would have thought +the world well lost for the honor of playing cards with +people who could afford to disappoint Old Stars and +Garters.</p> + +<p>The inspection was over at last; and if any other than +Conran had been my senior officer, I should have come +off badly, in all probability, for the abominable manner +in which I went through my evolutions. The day came +to an end somehow or other, though I began to think it +never would, the luncheon was ended, the bigwigs were +taking their sieste, or otherwise occupied, and I, trusting +to my absence not being noticed, tore off as hard as man +can who has Cupid for his Pegasus. With a bouquet as +large as a drum-head, clasped round with a bracelet, +about which I had many doubts as to the propriety of +offering to the possessor of such jewelry as the Marchioness +must have, yet on which I thought I might venture after<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_60" id="Page_60">[Pg 60]</a></span> +the scene of last night, I was soon on the veranda of the +Casa di Fiori, and my natural shyness being stimulated +into a distant resemblance of Little Grand's enviable +brass, seeing the windows of the drawing-room open, I +pushed aside the green venetians and entered noiselessly. +The room did not look a quarter so inviting as the night +before, though it was left in precisely a similar state. I +do not know how it was, but those cards lying about on +the floor, those sconces with the wax run down and dripping +over them, those emptied caraffes that had diffused an +odor not yet dissipated, those tables and velvet couches +all <i>à tort et à travers</i>, did not look so very inviting after +all, and even to my unsophisticated senses, scarcely +seemed fit for a Peeress.</p> + +<p>There was nobody in the room, and I walked through +it towards the boudoir; from the open door I saw Fitzhervey, +Guatamara, and my Marchioness—but oh! what +horror unutterable! doing—<i>que pensez-vous?</i> Drinking +bottled porter!—and drinking bottled porter in a <i>peignoir</i> +not of the cleanliest, and with raven tresses not of the +neatest!</p> + +<p>Only fancy! she, that divine, <i>spirituelle</i> creature, who +had talked but a few hours before of the affinity of souls, +to have come down, like any ordinary woman, to Guinness's +stout, and a checked dressing-gown and unbrushed +locks! To find your prophet without his silver veil, or +your Leila dead drowned in a sack, or your Guinevere +flown over with Sir Lancelot to Boulogne, or your long-esteemed +Griselda gone off with your cockaded Jeames, +is nothing to the torture, the unutterable anguish, of seeing +your angel, your divinity, your bright particular star, +your hallowed Arabian rose, come down to—Bottled +Porter! Do not talk to me of Doré, sir, or Mr. Martin's +pictures; their horrors dwindle into insignificance compared +with the horror of finding an intimate liaison between +one's first love and Bottled Porter!<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_61" id="Page_61">[Pg 61]</a></span></p> + +<p>In my first dim, unutterable anguish, I should have +turned and fled; but my syren's voice had not lost all its +power, despite the stout and dirty dressing-gown, for +she was a very handsome woman, and could stand such +things as well as anybody. She came towards me, with +her softest smile, glancing at the bracelet on the bouquet, +apologizing slightly for her négligé:—"I am so indolent. +I only dress for those I care to please—and I never hoped +to see <i>you</i> to-day." In short, magnetizing me over again, +and smoothing down my outraged sensibilities, till I +ended by becoming almost blind (<i>quite</i> I could not manage) +to the checked <i>robe de chambre</i> and the unbrushed +bandeaux, by offering her my braceleted bouquet, which +was very graciously accepted, and even by sharing the +atrocious London porter, "that horrid stuff," she called +it, "how I hate it! but it is the only thing Sir Benjamin +Brodie allows me, I am so very delicate, you know, my +sensibilities so frightfully acute!"</p> + +<p>I had not twenty minutes to stay, having to be back at +the barracks, or risk a reprimand, which, happily, the +checked <i>peignoir</i> had cooled me sufficiently to enable me +to recollect. So I took my farewell—one not unlike +Medora's and Conrad's, Fitzhervey and Guatamara having +kindly withdrawn as soon as the bottled porter was +finished—and I went out of the house in a very blissful +state, despite Guinness and the unwelcome demi-toilette, +which did not accord with Eugène Sue's and the Parlor +Library's description of the general getting-up and stunning +appearance of heroines and peeresses, "reclining, in +robes of cloud-like tissue and folds of the richest lace, on +a cabriole couch of amber velvet, while the air was +filled with the voluptuous perfume of the flower-children +of the South, and music from unseen choristers lulled the +senses with its divinest harmony," &c., &c., &c.</p> + +<p>Bottled porter and a checked dressing-gown! Say +what you like, sirs, it takes a very strong passion to overcome<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_62" id="Page_62">[Pg 62]</a></span> +<i>those</i>. I have heard men ascribe the waning of their +affections after the honeymoon to the constant sight of +their wives—whom before they had only seen making +papa's coffee with an angelic air and a toilette <i>tirée à +quatre épingles</i>—everlastingly coming down too late for +breakfast in a dressing-gown; and, upon my soul, if ever +I marry, which Heaven in pitiful mercy forfend! and my +wife make her appearance in one of those confounded +<i>peignoirs</i>, I will give that much-run-after and deeply-to-be-pitied +public character, the Divorce Judge, some more +work to do—I will, upon my honor.</p> + +<p>However, the <i>peignoir</i> had not iced me enough that +time to prevent my tumbling out of the house in as delicious +an ecstasy as if I had been eating some of Monte +Cristo's "hatchis." As I went out, not looking before +me, I came bang against the chest of somebody else, who, +not admiring the rencontre, hit my cap over my eyes, and +exclaimed, in not the most courtly manner you will acknowledge, +"You cursed owl, take that, then! What +are you doing here, I should like to know?"</p> + +<p>"Confound your impudence!" I retorted, as soon as +my ocular powers were restored, and I saw the blue eyes, +fair curls, and smart figure of my ancient Iolaüs, now my +bitterest foe—"confound your impertinence! what are +<i>you</i> doing here? you mean."</p> + +<p>"Take care, and don't ask questions about what doesn't +concern you," returned Little Grand, with a laugh—a +most irritating laugh. There are times when such cachinnations +sting one's ears more than a volley of oaths. +"Go home and mind your own business, my chicken. +You are a green bird, and nobody minds you, but still +you'll find it as well not to come poaching on other men's +manors."</p> + +<p>"Other men's manors! Mine, if you please," I shouted, +so mad with him I could have floored him where he stood.</p> + +<p>"Phew!" laughed Little Grand, screwing up his lips<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_63" id="Page_63">[Pg 63]</a></span> +into a contemptuous whistle, "you've been drinking too +much Bass, my daisy; 'tis n't good for young heads—can't +stand it. Go home, innocent."</p> + +<p>The insult, the disdainful tone, froze my blood. My +heart swelled with a sense of outraged dignity and injured +manhood. With a conviction of my immeasurable superiority +of position, as the beloved of that divine creature, +I emancipated myself from the certain sort of slavery I +was generally in to Little Grand, and spoke as I conceived +it to be the habit of gentlemen whose honor had +been wounded to speak.</p> + +<p>"Mr. Grandison, you will pay for this insult. I shall +expect satisfaction."</p> + +<p>Little Grand laughed again—absolutely grinned, the +audacious young imp—and he twelve months younger +than I, too!</p> + +<p>"Certainly, sir. If you wish to be made a target of, I +shall be delighted to oblige you. I can't keep ladies +waiting. It is always Place aux dames! with me; so, for +the present, good morning!"</p> + +<p>And off went the young coxcomb into the Casa di +Fiori, and I, only consoled by the reflection of the different +reception he would receive to what mine had been +(<i>he</i> had a braceleted bouquet, too, the young pretentious +puppy!), started off again, assuaging my lacerated feelings +with the delicious word of Satisfaction. I felt myself +immeasurably raised above the heads of every other +man in Malta—a perfect hero of romance; in fact, fit to +figure in my beloved Alexandre's most highly-wrought +yellow-papered <i>roman</i>, with a duel on my hands, and the +love of a magnificent creature like my Eudoxia Adelaida. +She had become Eudoxia Adelaida to me now, and I had +forgiven, if not forgotten, the dirty dressing-gown: the +bottled porter lay, of course, at Brodie's door. If he +would condemn spiritual forms of life and light to the +common realistic aliments of horrible barmaids and draymen,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_64" id="Page_64">[Pg 64]</a></span> +she could not help it, nor I either. If angels come +down to earth, and are separated from their natural nourishment +of manna and nectar, they must take what they +can get, even though it be so coarse and sublunary a +thing as Guinness's XXX, must they not, sir? Yes, I +felt very <i>exalté</i> with my affair of honor and my affair of +the heart, Little Grand for my foe, and my Marchioness, +for a love. I never stopped to remember that I might be +smashing with frightful recklessness the Sixth and the +Seventh Commandments. If Little Grand got shot, he +must thank himself; he should not have insulted me; +and if there was a Marquis St. Julian, why—I pitied +him, poor fellow! that was all.</p> + +<p>Full of these sublime sensations—grown at least three +feet in my varnished boots—I lounged into the ball-room, +feeling supreme pity for ensigns who were chattering +round the door, admiring those poor, pale garrison girls. +<i>They</i> had not a duel and a Marchioness; <i>they</i> did not +know what beauty meant—what life was!</p> + +<p>I did not dance—I was above that sort of thing now—there +was not a woman worth the trouble in the room; +and about the second waltz I saw my would-be rival +talking to Ruthven, a fellow in Ours. Little Grand did +not look glum or dispirited, as he ought to have done +after the interview he must have had; but probably that +was the boy's brass. He would never look beaten if you +had hit him till he was black and blue. Presently Ruthven +came up to me. He was not over-used to his business, +for he began the opening chapter in rather school-boy +fashion.</p> + +<p>"Hallo, Gus! so you and Little Grand have been falling +out. Why don't you settle it with a little mill? A +vast deal better than pistols. Duels always seem to me +no fun. Two men stand up like fools, and——"</p> + +<p>"Mr. Ruthven," said I, very haughtily, "if your principal +desires to apologize——"<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_65" id="Page_65">[Pg 65]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Apologize! Bless your soul, no! But——"</p> + +<p>"Then," said I, cutting him uncommonly short indeed, +"you can have no necessity to address yourself to me, and +I beg to refer you to my friend and second, Mr. Heavystone."</p> + +<p>Wherewith I bowed, turned on my heel, and left him.</p> + +<p>I did not sleep that night, though I tried hard, because +I thought it the correct thing for heroes to sleep sweetly +till the clock strikes the hour of their duel, execution, +&c., or whatever it may hap. Egmont slept, Argyle +slept, Philippe Egalité, scores of them, but I could not. +Not that I funked it, thank Heaven—I never had a +touch of that—but because I was in such a delicious +state of excitement, self-admiration, and heroism, which +had not cooled when I found myself walking down to the +appointed place by the beach with poor old Heavy, who +was intensely impressed by being charged with about five +quires of the best cream-laid, to be given to the Marchioness +in case I fell. Little Grand and Ruthven came +on the ground at almost the same moment, Little Grand +eminently jaunty and most <i>confoundedly</i> handsome. We +took off our caps with distant ceremony; the Castilian +hidalgos were never more stately; but, then, what Knights +of the Round Table ever splintered spears for such a +woman?</p> + +<p>The paces were measured, the pistols taken out of their +case. We were just placed, and Ruthven, with a handkerchief +in his hand, had just enumerated, in awful +accents, "One! two!"—the "three!" yet hovered on his +lips, when we heard a laugh—the third laugh that had +chilled my blood in twenty-four hours. Somebody's hand +was laid on Little Grand's shoulder, and Conran's voice +interrupted the whole thing.</p> + +<p>"Hallo, young ones! what farce is this?"</p> + +<p>"Farce, sir!" retorted Little Grand, hotly—"farce! +It is no farce. It is an affair of honor, and——"<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_66" id="Page_66">[Pg 66]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Don't make me laugh, my dear boy," smiled Conran; +"it is so much too warm for such an exertion. Pray, why +are you and your once sworn friend making popinjays of +each other?"</p> + +<p>"Mr. Grandison has grossly insulted me," I began, +"and I demand satisfaction. I will not stir from the +ground without it, and——"</p> + +<p>"You <i>sha'n't</i>," shouted Little Grand. "Do you dare +to pretend I want to funk, you little contemptible——"</p> + +<p>Though it was too warm, Conran went off into a fit of +laughter.</p> + +<p>I dare say our sublimity had a comic touch in it of +which we never dreamt. "My dear boys, pray don't, it +is too fatiguing. Come, Grand, what is it all about?"</p> + +<p>"I deny your right to question me, Major," retorted +Little Grand, in a fury. "What have you to do with it? +I mean to punish that young owl yonder—who didn't +know how to drink anything but milk-and-water, didn't +know how to say bo! to a goose, till I taught him—for +very abominable impertinence, and I'll——"</p> + +<p>"My impertinence! I like that!" I shouted. "It is +your unwarrantable, overbearing self-conceit, that makes +you the laughing-stock of all the mess, which——"</p> + +<p>"Silence!" said Conran's still stern voice, which subdued +us into involuntary respect. "No more of this nonsense! +Put up those pistols, Ruthven. You are two hot-headed, +silly boys, who don't know for what you are quarrelling. +Live a few years longer, and you won't be so +eager to get into hot water, and put cartridges into your +best friends. No, I shall not hear any more about it. If +you do not instantly give me your words of honor not to +attempt to repeat this folly, as your senior officer I shall +put you under arrest for six weeks."</p> + +<p>O Alexandra Dumas!—O Monte Cristo!—O heroes +of yellow paper and pluck invincible! I ask pardon of +your shades; I must record the fact, lowering and melancholy<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_67" id="Page_67">[Pg 67]</a></span> +as it is, that before our senior officer our heroism +melted like Vanille ice in the sun, our glories tumbled +to the ground like twelfth-cake ornaments under children's +fingers, and before the threat of arrest the lions lay down +like lambs.</p> + +<p>Conran sent us back, humbled, sulky, and crestfallen, +and resumed his solitary patrol upon the beach, where, before +the sun was fairly up, he was having a shot at curlews. +But if he was a little stern, he was no less kind-hearted; +and in the afternoon of that day, while he lay, after his +siesta, smoking on his little bed, I unburdened myself to +him. He did not laugh at me, though I saw a quizzical +smile under his black moustaches.</p> + +<p>"What is your divinity's name?" he asked, when I had +finished.</p> + +<p>"Eudoxia Adelaida, Marchioness St. Julian."</p> + +<p>"The Marchioness St. Julian! Oh!"</p> + +<p>"Do you know her?" I inquired, somewhat perplexed +by his tone.</p> + +<p>He smiled straight out this time.</p> + +<p>"I don't know <i>her</i>, but there are a good many Peeresses +in Malta and Gibraltar, and along the line of the Pacific, +as my brother Ned, in the <i>Belisarius</i>, will tell you. I +could count two score such of my acquaintance off at this +minute."</p> + +<p>I wondered what he meant. I dare say he knew all +the Peerage; but that had nothing to do with me, and I +thought it strange that all the Duchesses, and Countesses, +and Baronesses should quit their country-seats and town-houses +to locate themselves along the line of the Pacific.</p> + +<p>"She's a fine woman, St. John?" he went on.</p> + +<p>"Fine!" I reiterated, bursting into a panegyric, with +which I won't bore you as I bored him.</p> + +<p>"Well, you're going there to-night, you say; take me +with you, and we'll see what I think of your Marchioness."</p> + +<p>I looked at his fine figure and features, recalled certain<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_68" id="Page_68">[Pg 68]</a></span> +tales of his conquests, remembered that he knew French, +Italian, German, and Spanish, but, not being very able to +refuse, acquiesced with a reluctance I could not entirely +conceal. Conran, however, did not perceive it, and after +mess took his cap, and went with me to the Casa di Fiori.</p> + +<p>The rooms were all right again, my Marchioness was +<i>en grande tenue</i>, amber silk, black lace, diamonds, and all +that sort of style. Fitzhervey and the other men were in +evening dress, drinking coffee; there was not a trace of +bottled porter anywhere, and it was all very brilliant and +presentable. The Marchioness St. Julian rose with the +warmest effusion, her dazzling white teeth showing in the +sunniest of smiles, and both hands outstretched.</p> + +<p>"Augustus, <i>bien aimé</i>, you are rather——"</p> + +<p>"Late," I suppose she was going to say, but she stopped +dead short, her teeth remained parted in a stereotyped +smile, a blankness of dismay came over her luminous eyes. +She caught sight of Conran, and I imagined I heard a very +low-breathed "Curse the fellow!" from courteous Lord +Dolph. Conran came forward, however, as if he did not +notice it; there was only that queer smile lurking under +his moustaches. I introduced him to them, and the +Marchioness smiled again, and Fitzhervey almost resumed +his wonted extreme urbanity. But they were somehow or +other wonderfully ill at ease—wonderfully, for people in +such high society; and I was ill at ease too, from being +only able to attribute Eudoxia Adelaida's evident consternation +at the sight of Conran to his having been some +time or other an old love of hers. "Ah!" thought I, +grinding my teeth, "that comes of loving a woman older +than one's self."</p> + +<p>The Major, however, seemed the only one who enjoyed +himself. The Marchioness was beaming on him graciously, +though her ruffled feathers were not quite smoothed down, +and he was sitting by her with an intense amusement in +his eyes, alternately talking to her about Stars and Garters,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_69" id="Page_69">[Pg 69]</a></span> +whom, by her answers, she did not seem to know so +very intimately after all, and chatting with Fitzhervey +about hunting, who, for a man that had hunted over every +country, according to his own account, seemed to confuse +Tom Edge with Tom Smith, the Burton with the Tedworth, +a bullfinch with an ox-rail, in queer style, under Conran's +cross-questioning. We had been in the room about ten +minutes, when a voice, rich, low, sweet, rang out from +some inner room, singing the glorious "Inflammatus." +How strange it sounded in the Casa di Fiori!</p> + +<p>Conran started, the dark blood rose over the clear +bronze of his cheek. He turned sharply on to the Marchioness. +"Good Heaven! whose voice is that?"</p> + +<p>"My niece's," she answered, staring at him, and touching +a hand-bell. "I will ask her to come and sing to us +nearer. She has really a lovely voice."</p> + +<p>Conran grew pale again, and sat watching the door with +the most extraordinary anxiety. Some minutes went by; +then Lucrezia entered, with the same haughty reserve +which her soft young face always wore when with her aunt. +It changed, though, when her glance fell on Conran, into +the wildest rapture I ever saw on any countenance. He +fixed his eyes on her with the look Little Grand says he's +seen him wear in battle—a contemptuous smile quivering +on his face.</p> + +<p>"Sing us something, Lucrezia dear," began the Marchioness. +"You shouldn't be like the nightingales, and +give your music only to night and solitude."</p> + +<p>Lucrezia seemed not to hear her. She had never taken +her eyes off Conran, and she went, as dreamily as that +dear little <i>Amina</i> in the "Sonnambula," to her seat under +the jasmines in the window. For a few minutes Conran, +who didn't seem to care two straws what the society in +general thought of him, took his leave, to the relief, apparently, +of Fitzhervey and Guatamara.</p> + +<p>As he went across the veranda—that memorable veranda!—I<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_70" id="Page_70">[Pg 70]</a></span> +sitting in dudgeon near the other window, +while Fitzhervey was proposing écarté to Heavy, whom +we had found there on our entrance, and the Marchioness +had vanished into her boudoir for a moment, I saw the +Roman girl spring out after him, and catch hold of his +arm:</p> + +<p>"Victor! Victor! for pity's sake!—I never thought +we should meet like this!"</p> + +<p>"Nor did I."</p> + +<p>"Hush! hush! you will kill me. In mercy, say some +kinder words!"</p> + +<p>"I can say nothing that it would be courteous to you +to say."</p> + +<p>I couldn't have been as inflexible, whatever her sins +might have been, with her hands clasped on me, and her +face raised so close to mine. Lucrezia's voice changed to +a piteous wail:</p> + +<p>"You love me no longer, then?"</p> + +<p>"Love!" said Conran, fiercely—"love! How dare +you speak to me of love? I held you to be fond, innocent, +true as Heaven; as such, you were dearer to me than +life—as dear as honor. I loved you with as deep a passion +as ever a man knew—Heaven help me! I love you +now! How am I rewarded? By finding you the companion +of blackguards, the associate of swindlers, one of +the arch-intrigantes who lead on youths to ruin with base +smiles and devilish arts. Then you dare talk to me of +love!"</p> + +<p>With those passionate words he threw her off him. She +fell at his feet with a low moan. He either did not hear, +or did not heed it; and I, bewildered by what I heard, +mechanically went and lifted her from the ground. Lucrezia +had not fainted, but she looked so wild, that I believed +the Marchioness, and set her down as mad; but +then Conran must be mad as well, which seemed too incredible +a thing for me to swallow—our cool Major mad!<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_71" id="Page_71">[Pg 71]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Where does he live?" asked Lucrezia of me, in a +breathless whisper.</p> + +<p>"He? Who?"</p> + +<p>"Victor—your officer—Signor Conran."</p> + +<p>"Why, he lives in Valetta, of course."</p> + +<p>"Can I find him there?"</p> + +<p>"I dare say, if you want him."</p> + +<p>"Want him! Oh, Santa Maria! is not his absence +death? Can I find him?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, yes, I dare say. Anybody will show you Conran's +rooms."</p> + +<p>"Thank you."</p> + +<p>With that, this mysterious young lady left me, and I +turned in through the window again. Heavy and the +men were playing at lansquenet, that most perilous, rapid, +and bewitching of all the resistless Card Circes. There +was no Marchioness, and having done it once with impunity, +I thought I might do it again, and lifted the amber +curtain that divided the boudoir from the drawing-room. +What did I behold? Oh! torture unexampled! +Oh! fiendish agony! There was Little Grand—self-conceited, +insulting, impertinent, abominable, unendurable +Little Grand—on the amber satin couch, with the Marchioness +leaning her head on his shoulder, and looking up +in his thrice-confounded face with her most adorable +smile, <i>my</i> smile, that had beamed, and, as I thought, +beamed only upon me!</p> + +<p>If Mephistopheles had been by to tempt me, I would +have sold my soul to have wreaked vengeance on them +both. Neither saw me, thank Heaven! and I had self-possession +enough not to give them the cruel triumph of +witnessing my anguish. I withdrew in silence, dropped +the curtain, and rushed to bury my wrongs and sorrows +in the friendly bosom of the gentle night. It was my first +love, and I had made a fool of myself. The two are +synonymous.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_72" id="Page_72">[Pg 72]</a></span></p> + +<p>How I reached the barracks I never knew. All the +night long I sat watching the stars out, raving to them +of Eudoxia Adelaida, and cursing in plentiful anathemas +my late Orestes. How should I bear his impudent grin +every mortal night of my life across the mess-table? I +tore up into shreds about a ream of paper, inscribed with +tender sonnets to my faithless idol. I trampled into fifty +thousand shreds a rosette off her dress, for which, fool-like, +I had begged the day before. I smashed the looking-glass, +which could only show me the image of a pitiful +donkey. I called on Heaven to redress my wrongs. Oh! +curse it! never was a fellow at once so utterly done for +and so utterly done brown!</p> + +<p>And in the vicarage, as I learnt afterwards, when my +letter was received at home, there was great glorification +and pleasure. My mother and the girls were enraptured +at the high society darling Gussy was moving in; "but +then, you know, mamma, dear Gussy's manners are so +gentle, so gentleman-like, they are sure to please wherever +he goes!" Wherewith my mother cried, and dried her +eyes, and cried again, over that abominable letter copied +from Little Grand's, and smelling of vilest tobacco.</p> + +<p>Then entered a rectoress of a neighboring parish, to +whom my mother and the girls related with innocent exultation +of my grand friends at Malta; how Lord A. +Fitzhervey was my sworn ally, and the Marchioness St. +Julian had quite taken me under her wing. And the +rectoress, having a son of her own, who was not doing +anything so grand at Cambridge, but principally sotting +beer at a Cherryhinton public, smiled and was wrathful, +and said to her lord at dinner:</p> + +<p>"My dear, did you ever hear of a Marchioness St. +Julian?"</p> + +<p>"No, my love, I believe not—never."</p> + +<p>"Is there one in the peerage?"</p> + +<p>"Can't say, my dear. Look in Burke."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_73" id="Page_73">[Pg 73]</a></span></p> + +<p>So the rectoress got Burke and closed it, after deliberate +inspection, with malignant satisfaction.</p> + +<p>"I thought not. How ridiculous those St. Johns are +about that ugly boy Augustus. As if Tom were not +worth a hundred of him!"</p> + +<p>I was too occupied with my own miseries then to think +about Conran and Lucrezia, though some time after I +heard all about it. It seems, that, a year before, Conran +was on leave in Rome, and at Rome, loitering about the +Campagna one day, he made a chance acquaintance with +an Italian girl, by getting some flowers for her she had +tried to reach and could not. She was young, enthusiastic, +intensely interesting, and had only an old Roman +nurse, deaf as a post and purblind, with her. The girl +was Lucrezia da Guari, and Lucrezia was lovely as one +of her own myrtle or orange flowers. Somehow or other +Conran went there the next day, and the next, and the +next, and so on for a good many days, and always found +Lucrezia. Now, Conran had at bottom a touch of unstirred +romance, and, moreover, his own idea of what +sort of woman he could love. Something in this untrained +yet winning Campagna flower answered to both. +He was old to trust his own discernment, and, +after a month or two's walks and talks, Conran, one of +the proudest men going, offered himself and his name to +a Roman girl of whom he knew nothing, except that she +seemed to care for him as he had had a fancy to be cared +for all his life. It was a deucedly romantic thing—however, +he did it! Lucrezia had told him her father was a +military officer, but somehow or other this father never +came to light, and when he called at their house—or +rather rooms—Conran always found him out, which he +thought queer, but, on the whole, rather providential, and +he set the accident down to a foreigner's roaming habits.</p> + +<p>The day Conran had really gone the length of offering +to make an unknown Italian his wife, he went, for the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_74" id="Page_74">[Pg 74]</a></span> +first time in the evening, to Da Guari's house. The servant +showed him in unannounced to a brightly-lighted +chamber, reeking with wine and smoke, where a dozen +men were playing trente et quarante at an amateur bank, +and two or three others were gathered round what he had +believed his own fair and pure Campagna flower. He +understood it all; he turned away with a curse upon him. +He wanted love and innocence; adventuresses he could +have by the score, and he was sick to death of them. From +that hour he never saw her again till he met her at the +Casa di Fiori.</p> + +<p>The next day I went to Conran while he was breakfasting, +and unburdened my mind to him. He looked ill +and haggard, but he listened to me very kindly, though he +spoke of the people at the Casa di Fiori in a hard, brief, +curious manner.</p> + +<p>"Plenty have been taken in like you, Gus," he said +"I was, years ago, in my youth, when I joined the Army. +There are scores of such women, as I told you, down the +line of the Pacific, and about here; anywhere, in fact, +where the army and navy give them fresh pigeons to be +gulled. They take titles that sound grand in boys' ears, +and fascinate them till they've won all their money, and +then—send them to the dogs. Your Marchioness St. +Julian's real name is Sarah Briggs."</p> + +<p>I gave an involuntary shriek. Sarah Briggs finished +me. It was the death-stroke, that could never be got +over.</p> + +<p>"She was a ballet-girl in London," continued Conran; +"then, when she was sixteen, married that Fitzhervey, +<i>alias</i> Briggs, <i>alias</i> Smith, <i>alias</i> what you please, and set +up in her present more lucrative employment with her +three or four confederates. Saint-Jeu was expelled from +Paris for keeping a hell in the Chaussée d'Antin, Fitzhervey +was a leg at Newmarket, Orangia Magnolia a +lawyer's clerk, who was had up for forgery, Guatamara is—by<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_75" id="Page_75">[Pg 75]</a></span> +another name—a scoundrel of Rome. There is +the history of your Maltese Peerage, Gussy. Well, +you'll be wider awake next time. Wait, there is somebody +at my door. Stay here a moment, I'll come back +to you."</p> + +<p>Accordingly, I stayed in his bedroom, where I had +found him writing, and he went into his sitting-room, of +which, from the diminutiveness of his domicile, I commanded +a full view, sit where I would. What was my +astonishment to see Lucrezia! I went to his bedroom +door; it was locked from the outside, so I perforce remained +where I was, to, <i>nolens volens</i>, witness the finish +of last night's interview.</p> + +<p>Stern to the last extent and deadly pale, Conran stood, +too surprised to speak, and most probably at a loss for +words.</p> + +<p>Lucrezia came up to him nevertheless with the abandonment +of youth and southern blood.</p> + +<p>"Victor! Victor! let me speak to you. You shall +listen; you shall not judge me unheard."</p> + +<p>"Signorina, I have judged you by only too ample +evidence."</p> + +<p>He had recovered himself now, and was as cool as +needs be.</p> + +<p>"I deny it. But you love me still?"</p> + +<p>"Love you? More shame on me! A laugh, a compliment, +a caress, a cashmere, is as much as such women +as you are worth. Love becomes ridiculous named in +the same breath with you."</p> + +<p>She caught hold of his hand and crushed it in both her +own.</p> + +<p>"Kill me you will. Death would have no sting +from your hand, but never speak such words to <i>me</i>."</p> + +<p>His voice trembled.</p> + +<p>"How can I choose but speak them? You know that +I believed you in Italy, and how on that belief I offered<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_76" id="Page_76">[Pg 76]</a></span> +you my name—a name never yet stained, never yet held +unworthy. I lost you, to find you in society which +stamped you for ever. A lovely fiend, holding raw boys +enchained, that your associates might rifle their purses +with marked cards and cogged dice. I hoped to have +found a diamond, without spot or flaw. I discovered my +error too late; it was only glass, which all men were free +to pick up and trample on at their pleasure."</p> + +<p>He tried to wrench his hand away, but she would not +let it go.</p> + +<p>"Hush! hush! listen to me first. If you once thought +me worthy of your love, you may, surely, now accord me +pity. I shall not trouble you long. After this, you need +see me no more. I am going back to my old convent. +You and the world will soon forget me, but I shall remember +you, and pray for you, as dearer than my own +soul."</p> + +<p>Conran's head was bent down now, and his voice was +thick, as he answered briefly,</p> + +<p>"Go on."</p> + +<p>This scene half consoled me for Eudoxia Adelaida—(I +mean, O Heavens, Sarah Briggs!)—it was so exquisitely +romantic, and Conran and Lucrezia wouldn't have +done at all badly for Monte Cristo and that dear little +Haidee. I was fearfully poetic in those days.</p> + +<p>"When I met you in Rome," Lucrezia went on, in +obedience to his injunction, "two years ago, you remember +I had only left my convent and lived with my father +but a month or two. I told you he was an officer. I +only said what I had been told, and I knew no more than +you that he was the keeper of a gambling house."</p> + +<p>She shuddered as she paused, and leaned her forehead +on Conran's hand. He did not repulse her, and she continued, +in her broken, simple English:</p> + +<p>"The evening you promised me what I should have +needed to have been an angel to be worthy of—your love<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_77" id="Page_77">[Pg 77]</a></span> +and your name—that very evening, when I reached +home, my father bade me dress for a soirée he was going +to give. I obeyed him, of course. I knew nothing but +what he told me, and I went down, to find a dozen young +nobles and a few Englishmen drinking and playing on a +table covered with green cloth. Some few of them came +up to me, but I felt frightened; their looks, their tones, +their florid compliments, were so different to yours. But +my father kept his eye on me, and would not let me +leave. While they were leaning over my chair, and +whispering in my ear, <i>you</i> came to the door of the salon, +and I went towards you, and you looked cold, and harsh, +as I had never seen you before, and put me aside, and +turned away without a word. Oh, Victor! why did you +not kill me then? Death would have been kindness. +Your Othello was kinder to Desdemona; he slew her—he +did not <i>leave</i> her. From that hour I never saw you, +and from that hour my father persecuted me because I +would never join in his schemes, nor enter his vile gaming-rooms. +Yet I have lived with him, because I could not +get away. I have been too carefully watched. We +Italians are not free, like your happy English girls. A +few weeks ago we were compelled to leave Rome, the +young Contino di Firenze had been stilettoed leaving my +father's rooms, and he could stay in Italy no longer. We +came here, and joined that hateful woman, who calls herself +Marchioness St. Julian; and, because she could not +bend me to her will, gives out that I am her niece, and +mad! I wonder I am <i>not</i> mad, Victor. I wish hearts +would break, as the romancers make them; but how long +one suffers and lives on! Oh, my love, my soul, my life, +only say that you believe me, and look kindly at me once +again, then I will never trouble you again, I will only +pray for you. But believe me, Victor. The Mother +Superior of my convent will tell you it is the truth that<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_78" id="Page_78">[Pg 78]</a></span> +I speak. Oh, for the love of Heaven, believe me! Believe me +or I shall die!"</p> + +<p>It was not in the nature of man to resist her; there +was truth in the girl's voice and face, if ever truth walked +abroad on earth. And Conran did believe her, and told +her so in a few unconnected words, lifting her up in his +arms, and vowing, with most unrighteous oaths, that her +father should never have power to persecute her again as +long as he himself lived to shelter and take care of her.</p> + +<p>I was so interested in my Monte Cristo and Haidee (it +was so like a chapter out of a book), that I entirely forgot +my durance vile, and my novel and excessively disgraceful, +though enforced, occupation of spy; and there I +stayed, alternating between my interest in them and my +agonies at the revelations concerning my Eudoxia Adelaida—oh, +hang it! I mean Sarah Briggs—till, after a +most confounded long time, Conran saw fit to take Lucrezia +off, to get asylum for her with the Colonel's wife +for a day or two, that "those fools might not misconstrue +her." By which comprehensive epithet he, I suppose, +politely designated "Ours."</p> + +<p>Then I went my ways to my own room, and there I +found a scented, mauve-hued, creamy billet-doux, in uncommon +bad handwriting, though, from my miserable +Eudoxia Adelaida to the "friend and lover of her soul." +Confound the woman!—how I swore at that daintily-perfumed +and most vilely-scrawled letter. To think that +where that beautiful signature stretched from one side to +the other—"Eudoxia Adelaida St. Julian"—there +<i>ought</i> to have been that short, vile, low-bred, hideous, +Billingsgate cognomen of "Sarah Briggs!"</p> + +<p>In the note she reproached me—the wretched hypocrite!—for +my departure the previous night, "without +one farewell to your Eudoxia, O cruel Augustus!" and +asked me to give her a rendezvous at some vineyards +lying a little way off the Casa di Fiori, on the road to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_79" id="Page_79">[Pg 79]</a></span> +Melita. Now, being a foolish boy, and regarding myself +as having been loved and wronged, whereas I had only +been playing the very common <i>rôle</i> of pigeon, I could not +resist the temptation of going, just to take one last look +of that fair, cruel face, and upbraid her with being the +first to sow the fatal seeds of lifelong mistrust and misery +in my only too fond and faithful, &c. &c. &c.</p> + +<p>So, at the appointed hour, just when the sun was setting +over the far-away Spanish shore, and the hush of +night was sinking over the little, rocky, peppery, military-thick, +Mediterranean isle, I found myself <i>en route</i> to +the vineyards; which, till I came to Malta, had been one +of my delusions, Idea picturing them in wreaths and +avenues, Reality proving them hop-sticks and parched +earth. I drew near; it was quite dark now, the sun had +gone to sleep under the blue waves, and the moon was +not yet up. Though I knew she was Sarah Briggs, and +an adventuress who had made game of me, two facts that +one would fancy might chill the passion out of anybody, +so mad was I about that woman, that, if I had met her +then and there, I should have let her wheedle me over, +and gone back to the Casa di Fiori with her and been +fleeced again: I am sure I should, sir, and so would you, +if, at eighteen, new to life, you had fallen in with Eudox——pshaw!—with +Sarah Briggs, my Marchioness St +Julian.</p> + +<p>I drew near the vineyards: my heart beat thick, I could +not see, but I was certain I heard the rustle of her dress, +caught the perfume of her hair. All her sins vanished: +how could I upbraid her, though she were three times +over Sarah Briggs? Yes, she was coming; I <i>felt</i> her +near; an electric thrill rushed through me as soul met +soul. I heard a murmured "Dearest, sweetest!" I felt +the warm clasp of two arms, but—a cold row of undress +waistcoat-buttons came against my face, and a voice I +knew too well cried out, as I rebounded from him, impelled +thereto by a not gentle kick,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_80" id="Page_80">[Pg 80]</a></span>—</p> + +<p>"The devil! get out! Who the deuce are you?"</p> + +<p>We both stopped for breath. At that minute up rose +the silver moon, and in its tell-tale rays we glared on one +another, I and Little Grand.</p> + +<p>That silence was sublime: the pause between Beethoven's +andante allegro—the second before the Spanish +bull rushes upon the torreador.</p> + +<p>"You little miserable wretch!" burst out Grand, slowly +and terribly; "you little, mean, sneaking, spying, contemptible +milksop! I should like to know what you mean +by bringing out your ugly phiz at this hour, when you +used to be afraid of stirring out for fear of nurse's bogies? +And to dare to come lurking after me!"</p> + +<p>"After you, Mr. Grandison!" I repeated, with grandiloquence. +"Really you put too much importance on +your own movements. I came by appointment to meet +the Marchioness St. Julian, whom, I presume, as you are +well acquainted with her, you know in her real name of +Sarah Briggs, and to——"</p> + +<p>"Sarah Briggs!—<i>you</i> come by appointment?" stammered +Little Grand.</p> + +<p>"Yes, sir; if you disbelieve my word of honor, I will +condescend to show you my invitation."</p> + +<p>"You little ape!" swore Grand, coming back to his +previous wrath; "it is a lie, a most abominable, unwarrantable +lie! <i>I</i> came by appointment, sir; you did no +such thing. Look there!"</p> + +<p>And he flaunted before my eyes in the moonlight the +fac-simile of my letter, verbatim copy, save that in his +Cosmo was put in the stead of Augustus.</p> + +<p>"Look there!" said I, giving him mine.</p> + +<p>Little Grand snatched it, read it over once, twice, thrice, +then drooped his head, with a burning color in his face, +and was silent.</p> + +<p>The "knowing hand" was done!</p> + +<p>We were both of us uncommonly quiet for ten minutes, +neither of us liked to be the first to give in.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_81" id="Page_81">[Pg 81]</a></span></p> + +<p>At last Little Grand looked up and held out his hand, +no more nonsense about him now.</p> + +<p>"Simon, you and I have been two great fools; we can't +chaff one another. She's a cursed actress, and—let's +make it up, old boy."</p> + +<p>We made it up accordingly—when Little Grand was +not conceited he was a very jolly fellow—and then I +gave him my whole key to the mysteries, intricacies, and +charms of our Casa di Fiori. We could not chaff one +another, but poor Little Grand was pitiably sore then, and +for long afterwards. He, the "old bird," the cool hand, +the sharp one of Ours, to have been done brown, to be the +joke of the mess, the laugh of all the men, down to the +weest drummer-boy! Poor Little Grand! He was too +done up to swagger, too thoroughly angry with himself to +swear at anybody else. He only whispered to me, "Why +the dickens could she want you and me to meet our selves?"</p> + +<p>"To give us a finishing hoax, I suppose," I suggested.</p> + +<p>Little Grand drew his cap over his eyes, and hung his +head down in abject humiliation.</p> + +<p>"I suppose so. What fools we have been, Simon! +And, I say, I've borrowed three hundred of old Miraflores, +and it's all gone up at that devilish Casa; and +how I shall get it from the governor, Heaven knows, for +<i>I</i> don't."</p> + +<p>"I'm in the same pickle, Grand," I groaned. "I've +given that old rascal notes of hand for two hundred +pounds, and, if it don't drop from the clouds, I shall never +pay it. Oh, I say, Grand, love comes deucedly expensive."</p> + +<p>"Ah!" said he, with a sympathetic shiver, "think what +a pair of hunters we might have had for the money!" +With which dismal and remorseful remembrance the old +bird, who had been trapped like a young pigeon, swore +mightily, and withdrew into humbled and disgusted +silence.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_82" id="Page_82">[Pg 82]</a></span></p> + +<p>Next morning we heard, to our comfort—what lots of +people there always are to tell us how to lock our stable-door +when our solitary mare has been stolen—that, with a +gentle hint from the police, the Marchioness St. Julian, +with her <i>confrères</i>, had taken wing to the Ionian Isles, +where, at Corfu or Cephalonia, they will re-erect the Casa +di Fiori, and glide gently on again from vingt-et-un to loo, +and from loo to lansquenet, under eyes as young and +blinded as our own. They went without Lucrezia. Conran +took her into his own hands. Any other man in the +regiment would have been pretty well ridiculed at taking +a bride out of the <ins title="Transcriber's Note: original reads 'Cara'">Casa</ins> di Fiori; but the statements made +by the high-born Abbess of her Roman convert were so +clear, and so to the girl's honor, and he had such a way +of holding his own, of keeping off liberties from himself +and anything belonging to him, and was, moreover, known +to be of such fastidious honor, that his young wife was +received as if she had been a Princess in her own right. +With her respected parent Conran had a brief interview +previous to his flight from Malta, in which, with a few +gentle hints, he showed that worthy it would be wiser to +leave his daughter unmolested for the future, and I doubt +if Mr. Orangia Magnolia, <i>alias</i> Pepe Guari, would know +his own child in the joyous, graceful, daintily-dressed +mistress of Conran's handsome Parisian establishment.</p> + +<p>Little Grand and I suffered cruelly. We were the butts +of the mess for many a long month afterwards, when +every idiot's tongue asked us on every side after the health +of the Marchioness St. Julian? when we were going to +teach them lansquenet? how often we heard from the +aristocratic members of the Maltese Peerage? with like +delightful pleasantries, which the questioners deemed high +wit. We paid for it, too, to that arch old screw Balthazar; +but I doubt very much if the money were not well +lost, and the experience well gained. It cured me of my +rawness and Little Grand of his self-conceit, the only<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_83" id="Page_83">[Pg 83]</a></span> +thing that had before spoilt that good-hearted, quick-tempered, +and clever-brained little fellow. Oh, Pater +and Materfamilias, disturb not yourselves so unnecessarily +about the crop of wild oats which your young ones are +sowing broadcast. Those wild oats often spring from a +good field of high spirit, hot courage, and thoughtless +generosity, that are the sign and basis of nobler virtues +to come, and from them very often rise two goodly plants—Experience +and Discernment.</p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/cc081.png" alt="* * * * *" /> +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_84" id="Page_84">[Pg 84]</a></span></p> + +<hr style="width: 100%;" /> +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/cc082a.png" alt="* * * * *" /> +</div> + + + + +<h2>LADY MARABOUT'S TROUBLES:</h2> + +<div class='center'>OR,</div> + +<h3>THE WORRIES OF A CHAPERONE.<br /> + +<br /> +<br />IN THREE SEASONS.</h3> + +<h4><a name="FIRST" id="FIRST"></a>SEASON THE FIRST.—THE ELIGIBLE.</h4> + + +<p>One of the kindest-natured persons that I ever +knew on this earth, where kind people are as rare +as black eagles or red deer, is Helena, Countess +of Marabout, <i>née</i> De Bonc[oe]ur. She has foibles, she has +weaknesses—who amongst us has not?—she will wear +her dresses <i>décolletées</i>, though she's sixty, if Burke tells +us truth; she will rouge and practise a thousand other +little toilette tricks, but they are surely innocent, since +they deceive nobody; and if you wait for a woman who +is no artifices, I am afraid you shall have to forswear +the sex <i>in toto</i>, my friends, and come growling back to +your Diogenes' tub in the Albany, with your lantern still +lit every day of your lives.</p> + +<p>Lady Marabout is a very charming person. As for +her weaknesses, she is all the nicer for them, to my taste. +I like people with weaknesses myself; those without them +do look so dreadfully scornfully and unsympathizingly +upon one from the altitude of their superiority, <i>de toute +la hauteur de sa bêtise</i>, as a witty Frenchman says. Humanity +was born with weaknesses. If I were a beggar, I<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_85" id="Page_85">[Pg 85]</a></span> +might hope for a coin from a man with some; a man +without any, I know, would shut up his porte-monnaie, +with an intensified click, to make me feel trebly envious, +and consign me to D 15 and his truncheon, on the score +of vagrancy.</p> + +<p>Lady Marabout is a very charming person, despite her +little foibles, and she gives very pleasant little dinners, +both at her house in Lowndes Square and in her jointure +villa at Twickenham, where the bad odors of Thames are +drowned in the fragrance of the geraniums, piled in great +heaps of red, white, and variegated blossom in the flowerbeds +on the lawn. She has been married twice, but has +only one son, by her first union—Carruthers, of the +Guards—a very good fellow, whom his mother thinks +perfection, though if she <i>did</i> know certain scenes in her +adored Philip's life, the good lady might hesitate before +she endowed her son with all the cardinal virtues as she +does at the present moment. She has no daughters, +therefore you will wonder to hear that the prime misery, +burden, discomfort, and worry of her life is chaperonage. +But so it is.</p> + +<p>Lady Marabout is the essence of good nature; she +can't say No: that unpleasant negative monosyllable was +never heard to issue from her full, smiling, kind-looking +lips: she is in a high position, she has an extensive circle, +thanks to her own family and those of the baronet and +peer she successively espoused; and some sister, or cousin, +or friend, is incessantly hunting her up to bring out their +girls, and sell them well off out of hand; young ladies +being goods extremely likely to hang <i>on</i> hand nowadays.</p> + +<p>"Of all troubles, the troubles of a chaperone are the +greatest," said Lady Marabout to me at the wedding +déjeûner of one of her protegées. "In the first place, one +looks on at others' campaigns instead of conducting them +one's self; secondly, it brings back one's own bright days<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_86" id="Page_86">[Pg 86]</a></span> +to see the young things' smiles and blushes, like that +girl's just now (I do hope she'll be happy!); and thirdly, +one has all the responsibility, and gets all the blame if +anything goes wrong. I'll never chaperone anybody +again now I have got rid of Leila."</p> + +<p>So does Lady Marabout say twenty times; yet has she +invariably some young lady under her wing, whose relatives +are defunct, or invalided, or in India, or out of +society somehow; and we all of us call her house The +Yard, and her (among ourselves) not Lady Marabout +but Lady Tattersall. The worries she has in her chaperone's +office would fill a folio, specially as her heart inclines +to the encouragement of romance, but her reason +to the banishment thereof; and while her tenderness suffers +if she thwarts her protégées' leanings, her conscience +gives her neuralgic twinges if she abets them to unwise +matches while under her dragonnage.</p> + +<p>"What's the matter, mother?" asked Carruthers, one +morning. He's very fond of his mother, and will never +let any one laugh at her in his hearing.</p> + +<p>"Matter? Everything!" replied Lady Marabout, +concisely and comprehensively, as she sat on the sofa in +her boudoir, with her white ringed hands and her <i>bien +conservé</i> look, and her kindly pleasant eyes and her rich +dress; one could see what a pretty woman she has been, +and that Carruthers may thank her for his good looks. +"To begin with, Félicie has been so stupid as to marry; +married the greengrocer (whom she will ruin in a week!), +and has left me to the mercies of a stupid woman who +puts pink with cerise, mauve with magenta, and sky-blue +with azureline, and has no recommendation except that +she is as ugly as the Medusa, and so will not tempt you +to——"</p> + +<p>"Make love to her, as I did to Marie," laughed Carruthers. +"Marie was a pretty little dear; it was very +severe in you to send her away."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_87" id="Page_87">[Pg 87]</a></span></p> + +<p>Lady Marabout tried hard to look severe and condemnatory, +but failed signally, nature had formed the smooth +brow and the kindly eyes in far too soft a mould.</p> + +<p>"Don't jest about it, Philip; you know it was a great +pain, annoyance, and scandal to me. Well! Félicie is +gone, and Oakes was seen pawning some of my Mechlin +the other day, so I have been obliged to discharge <i>her</i>; +and they both of them suited me so well! Then Bijou +is ill, poor little pet——"</p> + +<p>"With repletion of chicken panada?"</p> + +<p>"No; Bijou isn't such a gourmet. You judge him by +yourself, I suppose; men always do! Then Lady Hautton +told me last night that you were the wildest man on +town, and at forty——"</p> + +<p>"You think I ought to <i>ranger</i>? So I will, my dear +mother, some day; but at present I am—so very comfortable; +it would be a pity to alter! What pains one's +friends are always at to tell unpalatable things; if they +would but be only half so eager to tell us the pleasant +ones! I shall expect you to cut Lady Hautton if she +speak badly of me, I can't afford to lose your worship, +mother!"</p> + +<p>"My worship? How conceited you are, Philip! As +for Lady Hautton, I believe she does dislike you, because +you did not engage yourself to Adelina, and were selected +aide-de-camp to her Majesty, instead of Hautton; still, I +am afraid she spoke too nearly the truth."</p> + +<p>"Perhaps Marie has entered her service and told tales."</p> + +<p>But Lady Marabout wouldn't laugh, she always looks +very grave about Marie.</p> + +<p>"My worst trouble," she began hastily, "is that your +aunt Honiton is too ill to come to town; no chance of her +being well enough to come at all this season; and of +course the charge of Valencia has devolved on me. You +know how I hate chaperoning, and I did <i>so</i> hope I should +be free this year; besides, Valencia is a great responsibility,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_88" id="Page_88">[Pg 88]</a></span> +very great; a girl of so much beauty always is; +there will be sure to be so many men about her at once, +and your aunt will expect me to marry her so very well. +It is excessively annoying."</p> + +<p>"My poor dear mother!" cried Carruthers. "I grant +you <i>are</i> an object of pity. You are everlastingly having +young fillies sent you to break in, and they want such a +tight hand on the ribbons."</p> + +<p>"And a tight hand, as you call it, I never had, and +never shall have," sighed Lady Marabout. "Valencia +will be no trouble to me on that score, however; she has +been admirably educated, knows all that is due to her +position, and will never give me a moment's anxiety by +any imprudence or inadvertence. But she is excessively +handsome, and a beauty is a great responsibility when +she first comes out."</p> + +<p>"Val was always a handsome child, if I remember. I +dare say she is a beauty now. When is she coming up? +because I'll tell the men to mark the house and keep +clear of it," laughed Carruthers. "You're a dreadfully +dangerous person, mother; you have always the best-looking +girl in town with you. Fulke Nugent says if he should +ever want such a thing as a wife when he comes into the +title, he shall take a look at the Marabout Yearlings +Sale."</p> + +<p>"Abominably rude of you and your friends to talk me +over in your turf slang! I wish <i>you</i> would come and bid +at the sale, Philip; I should like to see you married—well +married, of course."</p> + +<p>"My beloved mother!" cried Carruthers. "Leave me +in peace, if you please, and catch the others if you can. +There's Goodey, now; every chaperone and débutante in +London has set traps for him for the last I don't know +how many years; wouldn't he do for Valencia?"</p> + +<p>"Goodwood? Of course he would; he would do for any +one; the Dukedom's the oldest in the peerage. Goodwood<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_89" id="Page_89">[Pg 89]</a></span> +is highly eligible. Thank you for reminding me, +Philip. Since Valencia is coming, I must do my best for +her." Which phrase meant with Lady Marabout that +she must be very lynx-eyed as to settlements, and a perfect +dragon to all detrimental connections, must frown +with Medusa severity on all horrors of younger sons, and +advocate with all the weight of personal experience the +advantage and agrémens of a good position, in all of which +practicalities she generally broke down, with humiliation +unspeakable, immediately her heart was enlisted and her +sympathies appealed to on the enemy's side. She sighed, +played with her bracelets thoughtfully, and then, heroically +resigning herself to her impending fate, brightened +up a little, and asked her son to go and choose a new +pair of carriage-horses for her.</p> + +<p>To look at Lady Marabout as she sat in her amber +satin couch that morning, pleasant, smiling, well-dressed, +well-looking, with the grace of good birth and the sunniness +of good nature plainly written on her smooth brow +and her kindly eyes, and wealth—delicious little god!—stamping +itself all about her, from the diamond rings on +her soft white fingers to the broidered shoe on the feet, +of whose smallness she was still proud, one might have +ignorantly imagined her to be the most happy, enviable, +well-conditioned, easy-going dowager in the United Kingdom. +But appearances are deceptive, and if we believe +what she constantly asserted, Lady Marabout was very +nearly worn into her grave by a thousand troubles; +her almshouses, whose roofs would eternally blow off +with each high wind; her dogs, whom she would overfeed; +her ladies' maids, who were only hired to steal, tease, +or scandalize her; the begging letter-writers, who distilled +tears from her eyes and sovereigns from her purse, let +Carruthers disclose their hypocrisies as he might; the +bolder begging-letters, written by hon. secs., and headed +by names with long handles, belonging to Pillars of the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_90" id="Page_90">[Pg 90]</a></span> +State and Lights of the Church, which compelled her to +make a miserable choice between a straitened income or a +remorseful conscience—tormented, in fine, with worries +small and large, from her ferns, on which she spent a +large fortune, and who drooped maliciously in their glass +cases, with an ill-natured obstinacy characteristic of +desperately-courted individuals, whether of the floral or +the human world, to those marriageable young ladies +whom she took under her wing to usher into the great +world, and who were certain to run counter to her wishes +and overthrow her plans, to marry ill, or not marry at all, +or do something or other to throw discredit on her chaperoning +abilities. She was, she assured us, <i>pétrie</i> with +worries, small and large, specially as she was so eminently +sunny, affable, and radiant a looking person, that all the +world took their troubles to her, selected her as their confidante, +and made her the repository of their annoyances; +but her climax of misery was to be compelled to chaperone, +and as a petition for some débutante to be intrusted +to her care was invariably made each season, and "No" +was a monosyllable into which her lips utterly refused to +form themselves, each season did her life become a burden +to her. There was never any rest for the soul of +Helena, Countess of Marabout, till her house in Lowndes +Square was shut up, and her charges off her hand, and she +could return in peace to her jointure-villa at Twickenham, +or to Carruthers' old Hall of Deepdene, and among +her flowers, her birds, and her hobbies, throw off for a +while the weary burden of her worries as a chaperone.</p> + +<p>"Valencia will give me little trouble, I hope. So admirably +brought-up a girl, and so handsome as she is, will +be sure to marry soon, and marry well," thought Lady +Marabout, self-congratulatorily, as she dressed for dinner +the day of her niece's arrival in town, running over mentally +the qualifications and attractions of Valencia Valletort, +while Félicie's successor, Mademoiselle Despréaux,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_91" id="Page_91">[Pg 91]</a></span> +whose crime was then to put pink with cerise, mauve with +magenta, and sky-blue with azureline, gave the finishing +touches to her toilette—"Valencia will give me no +trouble; she has all the De Boncoeur beauty, with the +Valletort dignity. Who would do for her? Let me see; +eligible men are not abundant, and those that are eligible +are shy of being marked as Philip would say—perhaps +from being hunted so much, poor things! There is Fulke +Nugent, heir to a barony, and his father is ninety—very +rich, too—he would do; and Philip's friend, Caradoc, +poor, I know, but their Earldom's the oldest peerage +patent. There is Eyre Lee, too; I don't much like the +man, supercilious and empty-headed; still he's an unobjectionable +alliance. And there is Goodwood. Every +one has tried for Goodwood, and failed. I should like +Valencia to win him; he is decidedly the most eligible +man in town. I will invite him to dinner. If he is not +attracted by Valencia's beauty, nothing can attract him——<i>Despréaux! +comme vous êtes bête! Otez ces panaches, +de grace!</i>"</p> + +<p>"Valencia will give me no trouble; she will marry at +once," thought Lady Marabout again, looking across the +dinner-table at her niece.</p> + +<p>If any young patrician might be likely to marry at +once, it was the Hon. Valencia Valletort; she was, to the +most critical, a beauty: her figure was perfect, her features +were perfect, and if you complained that her large +glorious eyes were a trifle too changeless in expression, +that her cheek, exquisitely independent of Maréchale +powder, Blanc de Perle, and liquid rouge, though it was, +rarely varied with her thoughts and feelings, why, you +were very exacting, my good fellow, and should remember +that nothing is quite perfect on the face of the earth—not +even a racer or a woman—and that whether you +bid at the Marabout yearling sales or the Rawcliffe, if +you wish to be pleased you'd better leave a hypercritical<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_92" id="Page_92">[Pg 92]</a></span> +spirit behind you, and not expect to get <i>all</i> points to your +liking. The best filly will have something faulty in +temper or breeding, symmetry or pace, for your friend +Jack Martingale to have the fun of pointing out to you +when your money is paid and the filly in your stall; and +your wife will have the same, only Martingale will point +<i>her</i> flaws out behind your back, and only hint them to +you with an all-expressive "Not allowed to smoke in the +dining-room <i>now</i>!" "A little bit of a flirt, madame—n'est-ce +pas, Charlie?" "Reins kept rather tight, eh, old +fellow?" or something equally ambiguous, significant, and +unpleasant.</p> + +<p>"I must consider, Philip, I have brought out the beauty +of the season," said Lady Marabout to Carruthers, eying +her niece as she danced at her first ball at the Dowager-Duchess +of Amandine's, and beginning to brighten up a +little under the weight of her responsibilities.</p> + +<p>"I think you have, mother. Val's indisputably handsome. +You must tell her to make play with Goodwood or +Nugent."</p> + +<p>Lady Marabout unfurled her fan, and indignantly interrupted +him:</p> + +<p>"My dear Philip! do you suppose I would teach Valencia, +or any girl under my charge, to lay herself out for +any man, whoever or whatever it might be? I trust +your cousin would not stoop to use such man[oe]uvres, did +I even stoop to counsel them. Depend upon it, Philip, +it is precisely those women who try to 'make play,' as +you call it, with your sex that fail most to charm them. +It is abominable the way in which you men talk, as if we +all hunted you down, and would drive you to St. George's +<i>nolens volens</i>!"</p> + +<p>"So you would, mother," laughed Carruthers. "We +'eligible men' have a harder life of it than rabbits in a +warren, with a dozen beagles after them. From the minute +we're of age we're beset with traps for the unwary, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_93" id="Page_93">[Pg 93]</a></span> +the spring-guns are so dexterously covered, with an inviting, +innocent-looking turf of courtesies and hospitalities +that it's next to a mural impossibility to escape them, let +one retire into one's self, keep to monosyllables through all +the courses of all the dinners and all the turns of all the +valses, and avoid everything 'compromising,' as one may. +I've suffered, and can tell you. I suffer still, though I +believe and hope they are beginning to look on me as an +incurable, given over to the clubs, the coulisses, and the +cover-side. There's a fellow that's known still more of +the <i>peines fortes et dures</i> than I. Goodwood's coming to +ask for an introduction to Val, I would bet."</p> + +<p>He was coming for that purpose, and, though Lady +Marabout had so scornfully and sincerely repudiated her +son's counsel relative to making play with Goodwood, +blandly ignorant of her own weaknesses like a good many +other people, Lady Marabout was not above a glow of +chaperone gratification when she saw the glance of admiration +which the Pet Eligible of the season bestowed on +Valencia Valletort. Goodwood was a good-looking fellow—a +clever fellow—though possibly he shone best alone +at a mess luncheon, in a chat driving to Hornsey Wood, +round the fire in a smoking-room, on a yacht deck, or anywhere +where ladies of the titled world were not encountered, +he having become afraid of them by dint of much +persecution, as any October partridge of a setter's nose. +He was passably good-looking, ordinarily clever, a very +good fellow as I say, and—he was elder son of his Grace +of Doncaster, which fact would have made him the desired +of every unit of the <i>beau sexe</i>, had he been hideous +as the Veiled Prophet or Brutal Gilles de Rayes. The +Beauty often loves the Beast in our day, as in the days +of fairy lore. We see that beloved story of our petticoat +days not seldom acted out, and when there is no possibility +of personal transmogrification and amelioration for +the Beast moreover; only—the Beauty has always had<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_94" id="Page_94">[Pg 94]</a></span> +whispered in her little ear the title she will win, and the +revenues she will gain, and the cloth of gold she will wear, +if she caresses Bruin the enamoured, swears his ugly head +is god-like, and vows fidelity unswerving!</p> + +<p>Goodwood was no uncouth Bruin, and he had strawberry-leaves +in his gift; none of your lacquered, or ormolu, +or silver-gilt coronets, such as are cast about nowadays +with a liberality that reminds one of flinging a handful of +halfpence from a balcony, where the nimblest beggar is +first to get the prize; but of the purest and best gold; and +Goodwood had been tried for accordingly by every woman +he came across for the last dozen years. Women of every +style and every order had primed all their rifles, and had +their shot at him, and done their best to make a centre +and score themselves as winner: belles and bas bleus, +bewitching widows and budding débutantes, fast young +ladies who tried to capture him in the hunting-field by +clearing a bullfinch; saintly young ladies, who illuminated +missals, and hinted they would like to take his conversion +in hand; brilliant women, who talked at him all +through a long rainy day, when Perthshire was flooded, +and the black-fowl unattainable; showy women, who +<i>posê'd</i> for him whole evenings in their opera-boxes, whole +mornings in their boudoir—all styles and orders had set +at him, till he had sometimes sworn in his haste that all +women were man-traps, and that he wished to Heaven he +were a younger son in the Foreign Office, or a poor devil +in the Line, or anything, rather than what he was; the +Pet Eligible of his day.</p> + +<p>"Goodwood is certainly struck with her," thought Lady +Marabout, as Despréaux disrobed her that night, running +over with a retrogressive glance Valencia Valletort's successes +at her first ball. "Very much struck, indeed, I +should say. I will issue cards for another 'At Home.' +As for 'making play' with him, as Philip terms it, of +course that is only a man's nonsense. Valencia will need<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_95" id="Page_95">[Pg 95]</a></span> +none of those trickeries, I trust; still, it is any one's duty +to make the best alliance possible for such a girl, and—dear +Adeliza would be very pleased."</p> + +<p>With which amiable remembrance of her sister (whom, +conceiving it her duty to love, Lady Marabout persuaded +herself that she <i>did</i> love, from a common feminine opticism +that there's an eleventh commandment which makes +it compulsory to be attached to relatives <i>n'importe</i> of +whatever degree of disagreeability, though Lady Honiton +was about the most odious hypochondriac going, in a perpetual +state of unremitting battle with the whole outer +world in general, and allopathists, hom[oe]opathists, and +hydropathists in especial), the most amiable lady in all +Christendom bade Despréaux bring up her cup of coffee +an hour earlier in the morning, she had so much to do! +asked if Bijou had had some panada set down by his +basket in case he wanted something to take in the night; +wished her maid good night, and laid her head on her +pillow as the dawn streamed through the shutters, already +settling what bridal presents she should give her niece +Valencia, when she became present Marchioness of Goodwood +and prospective Duchess of Doncaster before the +altar rails of St. George's.</p> + +<p>"That's a decidedly handsome girl, that cousin of yours, +Phil," said Goodwood, on the pavement before her Grace +of Amandine's, in Grosvenor Place, at the same hour that +night.</p> + +<p>"I think she <i>is</i> counted like me!" said Carruthers. "Of +course she's handsome; hasn't she De Bonc[oe]ur blood in +her, my good fellow? We're all of us good-looking, always +have been, thank God! If you're inclined to sacrifice, +Goodwood, now's your time, and my mother'll be delighted. +She's brought out about half a million of débutantes, +I should say, in her time, and all of 'em have +gone wrong, somehow; wouldn't go off at all, like damp +gunpowder, or would go off too quick in the wrong direction,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_96" id="Page_96">[Pg 96]</a></span> +like a volunteer's rifle charge; married ignominiously, +or married obstinately, or never excited pity in the breast +of any man, but had to retire to single-blessedness in the +country, console themselves with piety and an harmonium, +and spread nets for young clerical victims. Give her a +triumph at last, and let her have glory for once, as a +chaperone, in catching <i>you</i>!"</p> + +<p>Goodwood gave a little shiver, and tried to light a +Manilla, which utterly refused to take light, for the +twelfth time in half a minute.</p> + +<p>"Hold your tongue! If the Templars' Order were extant, +wouldn't I take the vows and bless them! What an +unspeakable comfort and protection that white cross would +be to us, Phil, if we could stick it on our coats, and know +it would say to every woman that looked at us, 'No go, +my pretty little dears—not to be caught!' Marriage! I +can't remember any time that that word wasn't my bugbear. +When I was but a little chicken, some four years +old, I distinctly remember, when I was playing with little +Ida Keane on the terrace, hearing her mother simper to +mine, 'Perhaps darling Goodwood may marry my little +Ida some day, who knows?' I never would play with Ida +afterwards; instinct preserved me; she's six or seven-and +thirty now, and weighs ten stone, I'm positive. Why <i>won't</i> +they let us alone? The way journalists and dowagers, the +fellows who want to write a taking article, and the women +who want to get rid of a taking daughter, all badger us, in +public and private, about marriage just now, is abominable, +on my life; the affair's <i>ours</i>, I should say, not theirs, and +to marry isn't the ultimatum of a man's existence, nor +anything like it."</p> + +<p>"I hope not! It's more like the extinguisher. Good +night, old fellow." And Carruthers drove away in his +hansom, while Goodwood got into his night-brougham, +thinking that for the sake of the title, the evil (nuptial) +day <i>must</i> come, sooner or later, but dashed off to forget<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_97" id="Page_97">[Pg 97]</a></span> +the disagreeable obligation over the supper-table of the +most sparkling empress of the demi-monde.</p> + +<p>Lady Marabout had her wish; she brought out the belle +of the season, and when a little time had slipped by, when +the Hon. Val had been presented at the first Drawing-room, +and shone there despite the worry, muddle, and +squeeze incidental to that royal and fashionable ceremony, +and she had gathered second-hand from her son what was +said in the clubs relative to this new specimen of the +Valletort beauty, she began to be happier under her duties +than she had ever been before, and wrote letters to "dearest +Adeliza," brimful of superlative adjectives and genuine +warmth.</p> + +<p>"Valencia will do me credit: I shall see her engaged +before the end of June; she will have only to choose," +Lady Marabout would say to herself some twenty times +in the pauses of the morning concerts, the morning parties, +the bazaar committees, the toilette consultations, the audiences +to religious beggars, whose name was Legion and +rapacity unmeasured, the mass of unanswered correspondence +whose debt lay as heavily on Lady Marabout as his +chains on a convict, and were about as little likely to be +knocked off, and all the other things innumerable that +made her life in the season one teetotum whirl of small +worries and sunshiny cares, from the moment she began +her day, with her earliest cup of Mocha softened with +cream from that pet dairy of hers at Fernditton, where, +according to Lady Marabout, the cows were constantly +<i>in articulo mortis</i>, but the milk invariably richer than +anywhere else, an agricultural anomaly which presented +no difficulties to <i>her</i> reason. Like all women, she loved +paradoxes, defied logic recklessly, and would clear at a +bound a chasm of solecisms that would have kept Plato +in difficulties about crossing it, and in doubt about the +strength of his jumping-pole, all his life long.</p> + +<p>"She will do me great credit," the semi-consoled chaperone<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_98" id="Page_98">[Pg 98]</a></span> +would say to herself with self-congratulatory relief; +and if Lady Marabout thought now and then, "I wish she +were a trifle—a trifle more—demonstrative," she instantly +checked such an ungrateful and hypercritical +wish, and remembered that a heart is a highly treacherous +and unadvisable possession for any young lady, and +a most happy omission in her anatomy, though Lady +Marabout had, she would confess to herself on occasions +with great self-reproach, an unworthy and lingering weakness +for that contraband article, for which she scorned and +scolded herself with the very worst success.</p> + +<p>Lady Marabout <i>had</i> a heart herself; to it she had had +to date the greatest worries, troubles, imprudences, and +vexations of her life; she had had to thank it for nothing, +and to dislike it for much; it had made her grieve most +absurdly for other people's griefs; it had given her a +hundred unphilosophical pangs at philosophic ingratitude +from people who wanted her no longer; it had teased, +worried, and plagued her all her life long, had often interfered +in the most meddling and inconvenient manner +between her and her reason, her comfort and her prudence; +and yet she had a weakness for the same detrimental +organ in other people—a weakness of which she +could no more have cured herself than of her belief in +the detection-defying powers of liquid rouge, the potentiality +of a Liliputian night-bolt against an army of burglars, +the miraculous properties of sal volatile, the efficacy +of sermons, and such-like articles of faith common to +feminine orthodoxy. A weakness of which she never felt +more ignominiously convicted and more secretly ashamed +than in the presence of Miss Valletort, that young lady +having a lofty and magnificent disdain for all such follies, +quite unattainable to ordinary mortals, which oppressed +Lady Marabout with a humiliating sense of inferiority to +her niece of eighteen summers. "So admirably educated! +so admirably brought up!" she would say to herself over<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_99" id="Page_99">[Pg 99]</a></span> +and over again, and if heretic suggestions that the stiffest +trained flowers are not always the best, that the upright +and spotless arum-lily isn't so fragrant as the careless, +brilliant, tangled clematis; that rose-boughs, tossing free +in sunshine and liberty, beat hollow the most carefully-pruned +standard that ever won a medal at Regent's Park, +with such-like allegories, arising from contemplation of +her conservatory or her balcony flowers, <i>would</i> present +themselves, Lady Marabout repressed them dutifully, and +gratefully thought how many pounds' weight lighter became +the weary burden of a chaperone's responsibilities +when the onerous charge had been educated "on the best +system."</p> + +<p>"Goodwood's attentions <i>are</i> serious, Philip, say what +you like," said the Countess to her son, as determinedly +as a theologian states his pet points with wool in his ears, +that he may not hear any Satan-inspired, rational, and +mathematical disproval of them, with which you may +rashly seek to soil his tympana and smash his arguments—"Goodwood's +attentions <i>are</i> serious, Philip, say what +you like," said her ladyship, at a morning party at Kew, +eating her Neapolitan ice, complacently glancing at the +"most eligible alliance of the season," who was throwing +the balls at lawn-billiards, and talking between whiles to +the Hon. Val with praiseworthy and promising animation.</p> + +<p>"Serious indeed, mother, if they tend matrimony-wards!" +smiled Carruthers. "It's a very serious time indeed for +unwary sparrows when they lend an ear to the call-bird, +and think about hopping on to the lime-twigs. I should +think it's from a sense of compunction for the net you've +led us into, that you all particularize our attentions, whenever +they point near St. George's, by that very suggestive +little adjective 'serious!' Yes, I am half afraid poor +Goodey is a little touched. He threw over our Derby +sweepstakes up at Hornsey Wood yesterday to go and +stifle himself in Willis's rooms at your bazaar, and buy<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_100" id="Page_100">[Pg 100]</a></span> +a guinea cup of Souchong from Valencia; and, considering +he's one of the best shots in England, I don't think +you could have a more conclusive, if you could have a more +poetic, proof of devoted renunciation. <i>I</i>'d fifty times +rather get a spear in my side, à la Ivanhoe, for a woman +than give up a Pigeon-match, a Cup-day, or a Field-night!"</p> + +<p>"You'll never do either!" laughed Lady Marabout, +who made it one of her chief troubles that her son would +not marry, chiefly, probably, because if he <i>had</i> married +she would have been miserable, and thought no woman +good enough for him, would have been jealous of his +wife's share of his heart, and supremely wretched, I have +no doubt, at his throwing himself away, as she would have +thought it, had his handkerchief lighted on a Princess +born, lovely as Galatea, and blessed with Venus's cestus.</p> + +<p>"Never, <i>plaise à Dieu</i>!" responded her son, piously over +his ice; "but if Goodwood's serious, what's Cardonnel? +<i>He</i>'s lost his head, if you like, after the Valletort beauty."</p> + +<p>"Major Cardonnel!" said Lady Marabout, hastily. +"Oh no, I don't think so. I hope not—I trust not."</p> + +<p>"Why so? He's one of the finest fellows in the +Service."</p> + +<p>"I dare say; but you see, my dear Philip, he's not—not—desirable."</p> + +<p>Carruthers stroked his moustaches and laughed:</p> + +<p>"Fie, fie, mother! if all other Belgraviennes are Mammon-worshippers, +I thought you kept clear of the paganism. +I thought your freedom from it was the only touch +by which you weren't 'purely feminine,' as the lady novelists +say of their pet bits of chill propriety."</p> + +<p>"Worship Mammon! Heaven forbid!" ejaculated +Lady Marabout. "But there are duties, you see, my +dear; your friend is a very delightful man, to be sure; I +like him excessively, and if Valencia felt any <i>great</i> preference +for him——"<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_101" id="Page_101">[Pg 101]</a></span></p> + +<p>"You'd feel it <i>your</i> duty to counsel her to throw him +over for Goodwood."</p> + +<p>"I never said so, Philip," interrupted Lady Marabout, +with as near an approach to asperity as she could achieve, +which approach was less like vinegar than most people's +best honey.</p> + +<p>"But you implied it. What are 'duties' else, and why +is poor Cardonnel 'not desirable'?"</p> + +<p>Lady Marabout played a little tattoo with her spoon in +perplexity.</p> + +<p>"My dear Philip, you know as well as I do what I +mean. One might think you were a boy of twenty to +hear you!"</p> + +<p>"My dear mother, like all disputants, when beaten in +argument and driven into a corner, you resort to vituperation +of your opponent!" laughed Carruthers, as he left +her and lounged away to pick up the stick with which +pretty Flora Elmers had just knocked the pipe out of +Aunt Sally's head on to the velvet lawn of Lady George +Frangipane's dower-house, leaving his mother by no means +tranquillized by his suggestions.</p> + +<p>"Dear me!" thought Lady Marabout, uneasily, as she +conversed with the Dowager-Countess of Patchouli on the +respective beauties of two new pelargonium seedlings, the +Leucadia and the Beatrice, for which her gardener had +won prizes the day before at the Regent's Park Show—"dear +me! why is there invariably this sort of cross-purposes +in everything? It will be so grievous to lose +Goodwood (and he <i>is</i> decidedly struck with her; when he +bought that rosebud yesterday of her at the bazaar, and +put it in the breast of his waistcoat, I heard what he said, +and it was no nonsense, no mere flirting complaisance +either)—it would be so grievous to lose him; and yet if +Valencia really care for Cardonnel—and sometimes I +almost fancy she does—I shouldn't know which way +to advise. I thought it would be odd if a season could<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_102" id="Page_102">[Pg 102]</a></span> +pass quietly without my having some worry of this sort! +With fifty men always about Valencia, as they are, how +<i>can</i> I be responsible for any mischief that may happen, +though, to hear Philip talk, one would really imagine it +was <i>my</i> fault that they lost their heads, as he calls it! As +if a forty-horse steam-power could stop a man when he's +once off down the incline into love! The more you try +to pull him back the more impetus you give him to go +headlong down. I wish Goodwood would propose, and +we could settle the affair definitively. It is singular, but +she has had no offers hardly with all her beauty. It is +very singular, in <i>my</i> first season I had almost as many as +I had names on my tablets at Almack's. But men don't +marry now, they say. Perhaps 'tisn't to be wondered at, +though I wouldn't allow it to Philip. Poor things! they +lose a very great many pleasant things by it, and get +nothing, I'm sure, nine times out of ten, except increased +expenses and unwelcome worries. I don't think I would +have married if I'd been a man, though I'd never admit +it, of course, to one of them. There are plenty of women +who know too much of their own sex ever to wonder that +a man doesn't marry, though of course we don't say so; +'twouldn't be to our interest. Sculptors might as well +preach iconoclasm, or wine-merchants tee-totalism, as +women misoganism, however little in our hearts we may +marvel at it. Oh, my dear Lady Patchouli! you praise +the Leucadia too kindly—you do indeed—but if you +really think so much of it, let me send you some slips. I +shall be most happy, and Fenton will be only too proud; +it is his favorite seedling."</p> + +<p>Carruthers was quite right. One fellow at least had lost +his head after the beauty of the season, and he was Cardonnel, +of the—Lancers, as fine a fellow, as Philip said, +as any in the Queen's, but a dreadful detrimental in the +eyes of all chaperones, because he was but the fourth son +of one of the poorest peers in the United Kingdom, a fact<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_103" id="Page_103">[Pg 103]</a></span> +which gave him an ægis from all assaults matrimonial, +and a freedom from all smiles and wiles, traps and +gins, which Goodwood was accustomed to tell him he bitterly +envied him, and on which Cardonnel had fervently +congratulated himself, till he came under the fire of the +Hon. Val's large luminous eyes one night, when he was +levelling his glass from his stall at Lady Marabout's box, +to take a look at the new belle, as advised to do by that +most fastidious female critic, Vane Steinberg. Valencia +Valletort's luminous eyes had gleamed that night under +their lashes, and pierced through the lenses of his lorgnon. +He saw her, and saw nothing but her afterwards, as men +looking on the sun keep it on their retina to the damage +and exclusion of all other objects.</p> + +<p>Physical beauty, even when it is a little bit soulless, is +an admirable weapon for instantaneous slaughter, and the +trained and pruned standard roses show a very effective +mass of bloom; though, as Lady Marabout's floral tastes +and experiences told her, they don't give one the lasting +pleasure that a careless bough of wild rose will do, with +its untutored grace and its natural fragrance. With the +standard you see we keep in the artificial air of the horticultural +tent, and are never touched out of it for a second; +its perfume seems akin to a bouquet, and its destiny +is, we are sure, to a parterre. The wild-rose fragrance +breathes of the hill-side and the woodlands, and brings +back to us soft touches of memory, of youth, of a fairer +life and a purer air than that in which we are living now.</p> + +<p>The Hon. Val did <i>not</i> have as many offers as her aunt +and chaperone had on the first flush of her pride in her +anticipated. Young ladies, educated on the "best systems," +are apt to be a trifle wearisome, and <i>don't</i>, somehow +or other, take so well as the sedulous efforts of their +pruners and trainers—the rarefied moral atmosphere of +the conservatories, in which they are carefully screened +from ordinary air, and the anxiety evinced lest the flower<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_104" id="Page_104">[Pg 104]</a></span> +should ever forget itself, and sway naturally in the wind—deserve. +But Cardonnel had gone mad after her, that +perfect face of hers had done for him; and whatever Goodwood +might be, <i>he</i> was serious—he positively haunted the +young beauty like her own shadow—he was leaning on +the rails every morning of his life that she took her early +ride—he sent her bouquets as lavishly as if he'd been a +nursery gardener. By some species of private surveillance, +or lover's clairvoyance, he knew beforehand where +she would go, and was at the concert, fête, morning party, +bazaar, or whatever it happened to be, as surely as was +Lady Marabout herself. Poor Cardonnel was serious, and +fiercely fearful of his all-powerful and entirely eligible +rival; though greater friends than he and Goodwood had +been, before this girl's face appeared on the world of Belgravia, +never lounged arm-in-arm into Pratt's, or strolled +down the "sweet shady side of Pall-Mall."</p> + +<p>Goodwood's attentions were very marked, too, even to +eyes less willing to construe them so than Lady Marabout's. +Goodwood himself, if chaffed on the subject, vouchsafed +nothing; laughed, stroked his moustaches, or puffed his +cigar, if he happened to have that blessed resource in all +difficulties, and comforter under all embarrassments, between +his lips at the moment; but decidedly he sought +Valencia Valletort more, or, to speak more correctly, he +shunned her less than he'd ever done any other young +lady, and one or two Sunday mornings—<i>mirabile dictu!</i>—he +was positively seen at St. Paul's, Knightsbridge, in +the seat behind Lady Marabout's sittings. A fact which, +combining as it did a brace of miracles at once, of early +rising and unusual piety, set every Belgravienne in that +fashionable sanctuary watching over the top of her illuminated +prayer-book, to the utter destruction of her hopes +and interruption of her orisons.</p> + +<p>Dowagers began to tremble behind their fans, young +ladies to quake over their bouquets; the topic was eagerly<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_105" id="Page_105">[Pg 105]</a></span> +discussed by every woman from Clarges Street to Lowndes +Square; their Graces of Doncaster smiled well pleased on +Valencia—she was unquestionable blood, and they so +wished dear Goodwood to settle! There was whispered an +awful whisper to the whole female world; whispered over +matutinal chocolate, and luncheon Strasbourg pâtés, ball-supper +Moëts', and demi-monde-supper Silleri, over Vane +Steinberg's cigar and Eulalie Rosière's cigarette, over the +<i>Morning Post</i> in the clubs, and <i>Le Follet</i> in the boudoir, +that—the Pet Eligible would—marry! That the Pet +Prophecy of universal smash was going to be fulfilled +could hardly have occasioned greater consternation.</p> + +<p>The soul of Lady Marabout had been disquieted ever +since her son's suggestions at Lady George Frangipane's +morning party, and she began to worry: for herself, for +Valencia, for Goodwood, for Cardonnel, for her responsibilities +in general, and for her "dearest Adeliza's" alternate +opinions of her duenna qualifications in particular. +Lady Marabout had an intense wish, an innocent wish +enough, as innocent and very similar in its way to that +of an Eton boy to make a centre at a rifle-contest, viz., to +win the Marquis of Goodwood; innocent, surely, for +though neither the rifle prize nor the Pet Eligible could +be won without mortification unspeakable to a host of +unsuccessful aspirants, if we decree that sort of thing +sinful and selfish, as everything natural seems to me to +get decreed nowadays, we may as well shut up at once; +if we may not try for the top of the pole, why erect poles +at all, monsieur? If we must not do our best to pass +our friend and brother, we must give up climbing forever, +and go on all fours placably with Don and Pontos.</p> + +<p>Everybody has his ambition: one sighs for the Woolsack, +another for the Hunt Cup; somebody longs to be +First Minister, somebody else pines to be first dancer; one +man plumes himself on a new fish-sauce, another on a fresh +reform bill; A. thirsts to get a single brief, B. for the time<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_106" id="Page_106">[Pg 106]</a></span> +when he shall be worried with no briefs at all; C. sets his +hopes on being the acrobat at Cremorne, D. on being the +acrobat of the Tuileries; fat bacon is Hodge the hedger's +<i>summum bonum</i>, and Johannisberg <i>pur</i> is mine; Empedocles +thinks notoriety everything, and Diogenes thinks +quiet everything—each has his own reading of ambition, +and Lady Marabout had hers; the Duchess of Doncaster +thirsted for the Garter for her husband, Lady Elmers's +pride was to possess the smallest terrier that ever took +daisy tea and was carried in a monkey-muff, her Grace of +Amandine slaved night and day to bring her party in and +throw the ministry out. Lady Marabout sighed but for +one thing—to win the Pet Eligible of the season, and give +éclat for once to one phase of her chaperone's existence.</p> + +<p>Things were nicely in train. Goodwood was beginning +to bite at that very handsome fly the Hon. Val, and promised +to be hooked and landed without much difficulty +before long, and placed, hopelessly for him, triumphantly +for her, in the lime-basket of matrimony. Things were +beautifully in train, and Lady Marabout was for once flattering +herself she should float pleasantly through an unruffled +and successful season, when Carruthers poured the +one drop of <i>amari aliquid</i> into her champagne-cup by his +suggestion of Cardonnel's doom. And then Lady Marabout +begun to worry.</p> + +<p>She who could not endure to see a fly hurt or a flower +pulled needlessly, had nothing for it but to worry for Cardonnel's +destiny, and puzzle over the divided duties which +Carruthers had hinted to her. To reject the one man because +he was not well off did seem to her conscience, uncomfortably +awakened by Phil's innuendoes, something +more mercenary than she quite liked to look at; yet to +throw over the other, future Duke of Doncaster, the eligible, +the darling, the yearned-for of all May Fair and Belgravia, +seemed nothing short of madness to inculcate to +Valencia; a positive treason to that poor absent, trusting,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_107" id="Page_107">[Pg 107]</a></span> +"dearest Adeliza," who, after the visions epistolarily +spread out before her, would utterly refuse to be comforted +if Goodwood any way failed to become her son-in-law, +and, moreover, the heaviest blow to Lady Marabout herself +that the merciless axe of that brutal headsman Contretemps +could deal her.</p> + +<p>"I do not know really what to do or what to advise," +would Lady Marabout say to herself over and over again +(so disturbed by her onerous burden of responsibilities +that she would let Despréaux arrange the most outrageous +coiffures, and, never noticing them, go out to dinner with +emeralds on blue velvet, or something as shocking to +feminine nerves in her temporary aberration), forgetting +one very great point, which, remembered, would have +saved her all trouble, that nobody asked her to do anything, +and not a soul requested her advice. "But Goodwood +is decidedly won, and Goodwood must not be lost; +in our position we owe something to society," she would +invariably conclude these mental debates; which last +phase, being of a vagueness and obscure application that +might have matched it with any Queen's speech or electional +address upon record, was a mysterious balm to +Lady Marabout's soul, and spoke volumes to <i>her</i>, if a +trifle hazy to you and to me.</p> + +<p>But Lady Marabout, if she was a little bit of a sophist, +had not worn her eye-glass all these years without being +keen-sighted on some subjects, and, though perfectly satisfied +with her niece's conduct with Goodwood, saw certain +symptoms which made her tremble lest the detrimental +Lancer should have won greater odds than the eligible +Marquis.</p> + +<p>"Arthur Cardonnel is excessively handsome! Such +very good style! Isn't it a pity they're all so poor! +His father played away everything—literally everything. +The sons have no more to marry upon, any one of them, +than if they were three crossing-sweepers," said her ladyship,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_108" id="Page_108">[Pg 108]</a></span> +carelessly, driving home from St. Paul's one Sunday +morning.</p> + +<p>And, watching the effect of her stray arrow, she had +beheld an actual flush on the beauty's fair, impassive +cheek, and had positively heard a smothered sigh from +an admirably brought-up heart, no more given ordinarily +to such weaknesses than the diamond-studded heart pendent +from her bracelet, the belle's heart and the bracelet's +heart being both formed alike, to fetch their price, and +bid to do no more:—power of volition would have been +as inconvenient in, and interfered as greatly with, the +sale of one as of the other.</p> + +<p>"She does like him!" sighed Lady Marabout over that +Sabbath's luncheon wines. "It's always my fate—always; +and Goodwood, never won before, will be thrown—actually +thrown—away, as if he were the younger son +of a Nobody!" which horrible waste was so terrible to +her imagination that Lady Marabout could positively +have shed tears at the bare prospect, and might have shed +them, too, if the Hon. Val, the butler, two footmen, and +a page had not inconveniently happened to be in the room +at the time, so that she was driven to restrain her feelings +and drink some Amontillado instead. Lady Marabout +is not the first person by a good many who has had to +smile over sherry with a breaking heart. Ah! lips have +quivered as they laughed over Chambertin, and trembled +as they touched the bowl of a champagne-glass. Wine +has assisted at many a joyous festa enough, but some that +has been drunk in gayety has caught gleams, in the +eyes of the drinkers, of salt water brighter than its +brightest sparkles: water that no other eyes can see. +Because we may drink Badminton laughingly when the +gaze of Society the Non-Sympathetic is on us, do you +think we must never have tasted any more bitter dregs? +<i>Va-t'en, bécasse!</i> where have you lived! Nero does not +always fiddle while Rome is burning from utter heartlessness,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_109" id="Page_109">[Pg 109]</a></span> +believe me, but rather—sometimes, perhaps—because +his heart is aching!</p> + +<p>"Goodwood will propose to-night, I fancy, he is so +very attentive," thought Lady Marabout, sitting with her +sister chaperones on the cosy causeuses of a mansion in +Carlton Terrace, at one of the last balls of the departing +season. "I never saw dear Valencia look better, and +certainly her waltzing is——Ah! good evening, Major +Cardonnel! Very warm to-night, is it not? I shall be +so glad when I am down again at Fernditton. Town, in +the first week of July, is really not habitable."</p> + +<p>And she furled her fan, and smiled on him with her +pleasant eyes, and couldn't help wishing he hadn't been +on the Marchioness Rondeletia's visiting list, he <i>was</i> such +a detrimental, and he was ten times handsomer than +Goodwood!</p> + +<p>"Will Miss Valletort leave you soon?" asked Cardonnel, +sitting down by her.</p> + +<p>"<i>Ah! monsieur, vous êtes là!</i>" thought Lady Marabout, +as she answered, like a guarded diplomatist as she was, +that it was not all settled at present what her niece's post-season +destiny would be, whether Devon or Fernditton, or +the Spas, with her mother, Lady Honiton; and then +unfurled her fan again, and chatted about Baden and her +own indecision as to whether she should go there this +September.</p> + +<p>"May I ask you a question, and will you pardon me +for its plainness?" asked Cardonnel, when she'd exhausted +Baden's desirable and non-desirable points.</p> + +<p>Lady Marabout shuddered as she bent her head, and +thought, "The creature is never going to confide in me! +He will win me over if he do, he looks so like his mother! +And what shall I say to Adeliza!"</p> + +<p>"Is your niece engaged to Goodwood or not?"</p> + +<p>If ever a little fib was tempting to any lady, from Eve +downward, it was tempting to Lady Marabout now! A<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_110" id="Page_110">[Pg 110]</a></span> +falsehood would settle everything, send Cardonnel off the +field, and clear all possibility of losing the "best match +of the season." Besides, if not engaged to Goodwood +actually to-night, Val would be, if she liked, to-morrow, +or the next day, or before the week was over at the furthest—would +it be such a falsehood after all? She colored, +she fidgeted her fan, she longed for the little fib!—how +terribly tempting it looked! But Lady Marabout is a +bad hand at prevarication, and she hates a lie, and she +answered bravely, with a regretful twinge, "Engaged? +No; not——"</p> + +<p>"Not yet! Thank God!"</p> + +<p>Lady Marabout stared at him and at the words muttered +under his moustaches:</p> + +<p>"Really, Major Cardonnel, I do not see why you——"</p> + +<p>"Should thank Heaven for it? Yet I do—it is a reprieve. +Lady Marabout, you and my mother were close +friends; will you listen to me for a second, while we are +not overheard? That I have loved your niece—had the +madness to love her, if you will—you cannot but have +seen; that she has given me some reasonable encouragement +it is no coxcombry to say, though I have known +from the first what a powerful rival I had against me; +but that Valencia loves me and does not love him, I believe—nay, +I <i>know</i>. I have said nothing decided to her; +when all hangs on a single die we shrink from hazarding +the throw. But I must know my fate to-night. If she +come to you—as girls will, I believe, sometimes—for +countenance and counsel, will you stand my friend?—will +you, for the sake of my friendship with your son, +your friendship with my mother, support my cause, and +uphold what I believe Valencia's heart will say in my +favor?"</p> + +<p>Lady Marabout was silent: no Andalusian ever worried +her fan more ceaselessly in coquetry than she did in<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_111" id="Page_111">[Pg 111]</a></span> +perplexity. Her heart was appealed to, and when that +was enlisted, Lady Marabout was lost!</p> + +<p>"But—but—my dear Major Cardonnel, you are +aware——" she began, and stopped. I should suppose +it may be a little awkward to tell a man to his face he is +"not desirable!"</p> + +<p>"I am aware that I cannot match with Goodwood? I +am; but I know, also, that Goodwood's love cannot match +with mine, and that your niece's affection is not his. That +he may win her I know women too well not to fear, therefore +I ask <i>you</i> to be my friend. If she refuse me, will +you plead for me?—if she ask for counsel, will you give +such as your own heart dictates (I ask no other)—and, +will you remember that on Valencia's answer will rest +the fate of a man's lifetime?"</p> + +<p>He rose and left her, but the sound of his voice rang +in Lady Marabout's ears, and the tears welled into her +eyes: "Dear, dear! how like he looked to his poor dear +mother! But what a position to place me in! Am I +<i>never</i> to have any peace?"</p> + +<p>Not at this ball, at any rate. Of all the worried chaperones +and distracted duennas who hid their anxieties +under pleasant smiles or affable lethargy, none were a +quarter so miserable as Helena, Lady Marabout. Her +heart and her head were enlisted on opposite sides; her +wishes pulled one way, her sympathies another; her sense +of justice to Cardonnel urged her to one side, her sense +of duty to "dearest Adeliza" urged her to the other; +her pride longed for one alliance, her heart yearned for +the other. Cardonnel had confided in her and appealed +to her; <i>sequitur</i>, Lady Marabout's honor would not allow +her to go against him: yet, it was nothing short of grossest +treachery to poor Adeliza, down there in Devon, expecting +every day to congratulate her daughter on a +prospective duchy won, to counsel Valencia to take one<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_112" id="Page_112">[Pg 112]</a></span> +of these beggared Cardonnels, and, besides—to lose all +her own laurels, to lose the capture of Goodwood!</p> + +<p>No Guelphs and Ghibelins, no Royalists and Imperialists, +ever fought so hard as Lady Marabout's divided +duties.</p> + +<p>"Valencia, Major Cardonnel spoke to me to-night," +began that best-hearted and most badgered of ladies, as +she sat before her dressing-room fire that night, alone +with her niece.</p> + +<p>Valencia smiled slightly, and a faint idea crossed Lady +Marabout's mind that Valencia's smile was hardly a +pleasant one, a trifle too much like the play of moonbeams +on ice.</p> + +<p>"He spoke to me about you."</p> + +<p>"Indeed!"</p> + +<p>"Perhaps you can guess, my dear, what he said?"</p> + +<p>"I am no clairvoyante, aunt;" and Miss Val yawned +a little, and held out one of her long slender feet to admire +it.</p> + +<p>"Every woman, my love, becomes half a clairvoyante +when she is in love," said Lady Marabout, a little bit +impatiently; she hadn't been brought up on the best +systems herself, and though she admired the refrigeration +(on principle), it irritated her just a little now and +then. "Did he—did he say anything to <i>you</i> to-night?"</p> + +<p>"Oh yes!"</p> + +<p>"And what did you answer him, my love?"</p> + +<p>"What would you advise me?"</p> + +<p>Lady Marabout sighed, coughed, played nervously with +the tassels of her peignoir, crumpled Bijou's ears with a +reckless disregard to that priceless pet's feelings, and +wished herself at the bottom of the Serpentine. Cardonnel +had trusted her, she couldn't desert <i>him</i>; poor +dear Adeliza had trusted her, she couldn't betray <i>her</i>; +what was right to one would be wrong to the other, and +to reconcile her divided duties was a Danaid's labor.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_113" id="Page_113">[Pg 113]</a></span> +For months she had worried her life out lest her advice +should be asked, and now the climax was come, and +asked it was.</p> + +<p>"What a horrible position!" thought Lady Marabout.</p> + +<p>She waited and hesitated till the pendule had ticked +off sixty seconds, then she summoned her courage and +spoke:</p> + +<p>"My dear, advice in such matters is often very harmful, +and always very useless; plenty of people have asked +my counsel, but I never knew any of them take it unless +it chanced to chime in with their fancy. A woman's best +adviser is her own heart, specially on such a subject as +this. But before I give my opinion, may I ask if you +have accepted him?"</p> + +<p>Lady Marabout's heart throbbed quick and fast as she +put the momentous question, with an agitation for which +she would have blushed before her admirably nonchalante +niece; but the tug of war was coming, and if Goodwood +should be lost!</p> + +<p>"You have accepted him?" she asked again.</p> + +<p>"No! I—refused him."</p> + +<p>The delicate rose went out of the Hon. Val's cheeks +for once, and she breathed quickly and shortly.</p> + +<p>Goodwood was <i>not</i> lost then!</p> + +<p>Was she sorry—was she glad? Lady Marabout hardly +knew; like Wellington, she felt the next saddest thing +after a defeat is a victory.</p> + +<p>"But you love him, Valencia?" she asked, half ashamed +of suggesting such weakness, to this glorious beauty.</p> + +<p>The Hon. Val unclasped her necklet as if it were a +chain, choking her, and her face grew white and set: the +coldest will feel on occasion, and all have <i>some</i> tender +place that can wince at the touch.</p> + +<p>"Perhaps; but such folly is best put aside at once. Certainly +I prefer him to others, but to accept him would +have been madness, absurdity. I told him so!"<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_114" id="Page_114">[Pg 114]</a></span></p> + +<p>"You told him so! If you had the heart to do so, +Valencia, he has not lost much in losing you!" burst in +Lady Marabout, her indignation getting the better of her +judgment, and her heart, as usual, giving the coup de +grace to her reason. "I am shocked at you! Every +tender-hearted woman feels regret for affection she is +obliged to repulse, even when she does not return it; and +you, who love this man——"</p> + +<p>"Would you have had me accept him, aunt?"</p> + +<p>"Yes," cried Lady Marabout, firmly, forgetting every +vestige of "duty," and every possibility of dear Adeliza's +vengeance, "if you love him, I would, decidedly. When +I married my dear Philip's father, he was what Cardonnel +is, a cavalry man, as far off his family title then as Cardonnel +is off his now."</p> + +<p>"The more reason I should not imitate your imprudence, +my dear aunt; death might not carry off the intermediate +heirs quite so courteously in this case! No, I +refused Major Cardonnel, and I did rightly; I should +have repented it by now had I accepted him. There is +nothing more silly than to be led away by romance. You +De Bonc[oe]urs <i>are</i> romantic, you know; we Valletorts are +happily free from the weakness. I am very tired, aunt, +so good night."</p> + +<p>The Hon. Val went, the waxlight she carried shedding +a paler shade on her handsome face, whiter and more +set than usual, but held more proudly, as if it already +wore the Doncaster coronet; and Lady Marabout sighed +as she rang for her maid.</p> + +<p>"Of course she acted wisely, and I ought to be very +pleased; but that poor dear fellow!—his eyes <i>are</i> so like +his mother's!"</p> + +<p>"I congratulate you, mother, on a clear field. You've +sent poor Arthur off very nicely," said Carruthers, the +next morning, paying his general visit in her boudoir before +the day began, which is much the same time in Town<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_115" id="Page_115">[Pg 115]</a></span> +as in Greenland, and commences, whatever almanacs +may say, about two or half-past <span class="smcap">P.M.</span> "Cardonnel left +this morning for Heaven knows where, and is going to +exchange, Shelleto tells me, into the ——th, which is ordered +to Bengal, so <i>he</i> won't trouble you much more. When +shall I be allowed to congratulate my cousin as the future +Duchess of Doncaster?"</p> + +<p>"Pray, don't tease me, Philip. I've been vexed enough +about your friend. When he came to me this morning, +and asked me if there was no hope, and I was obliged to +tell him there was none, I felt wretched," said Lady Marabout, +as nearly pettishly as she ever said anything; "but +I am really not responsible, not in the least. Besides, +even you must admit that Goodwood is a much more +desirable alliance, and if Valencia had accepted Cardonnel, +pray what would all Belgravia have said? Why, +that, disappointed of Goodwood, she took the other out of +pure pique! We owe something to society, Philip, and +something to ourselves."</p> + +<p>Carruthers laughed:</p> + +<p>"Ah, my dear mother, you women will never be worth +all you ought to be till you leave off kowtow-ing to 'what +will be said,' and learn to defy that terrible oligarchy of +the Qu'en dira-t-on?"</p> + +<p>"When will Goodwood propose?" wondered Lady +Marabout, fifty times a day, and Valencia Valletort +wondered too. Whitebait was being eaten, and yachts +being fitted, manned, and victualled, outstanding Ascot +debts were being settled, and outstanding bills were being +passed hurriedly through St. Stephen's; all the clockwork +of the season was being wound up for the last time previous +to a long standstill, and going at a deuce of a pace, +as if longing to run down, and give its million wheels +and levers peace; while everybody who'd anything to +settle, whether monetary or matrimonial, personal or +political, was making up his mind about it and getting it<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_116" id="Page_116">[Pg 116]</a></span> +off his hands, and some men were being pulled up by +wide-awake Jews to see what they were "made of," while +others were pulled up by adroit dowagers to know what +they had "meant" before the accounts of the season were +scored out and settled. "Had Goodwood proposed?" +asked all Belgravia. "Why hadn't Goodwood proposed?" +asked Lady Marabout and Valencia. Twenty +most favorable opportunities for the performance of that +ceremony had Lady Marabout made for him "accidentally +on purpose" the last fortnight; each of those times +she had fancied the precious fish hooked and landed, and +each time she had seen him, free from the hook, floating +on the surface of society.</p> + +<p>"He <i>must</i> speak definitely to-morrow," thought Lady +Marabout. But the larvæ of to-morrow burst into the +butterfly of to-day, and to-day passed into the chrysalis +of yesterday, and Goodwood was always very nearly +caught, and never <i>quite</i>!</p> + +<p>"Come up-stairs, Philip; I want to show you a little +Paul Potter I bought the other day," said Lady Marabout +one morning, returning from a shopping expedition +to Regent Street, meeting her son at her own door just +descending from his tilbury. "Lord Goodwood calling, +did you say, Soames? Oh, very well."</p> + +<p>And Lady Marabout floated up the staircase, but +signed to her footman to open the door, not of the drawing-room, +but of her own boudoir.</p> + +<p>"The Potter is in my own room, Philip; you must +come in here if you wish to see it," said that adroit lady, +for the benefit of Soames. But when the door was shut, +Lady Marabout lowered her voice confidentially: "The +Potter isn't here, dear; I had it hung in the little cabinet +through the drawing-rooms, but I don't wish to go +up there for a few moments—you understand."</p> + +<p>Carruthers threw himself in a chair, and laughed till +the dogs Bijou, Bonbon, and Pandore all barked in a +furious concert.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_117" id="Page_117">[Pg 117]</a></span></p> + +<p>"I understand! So Goody's positively coming to the +point up there, is he?"</p> + +<p>"No doubt he is," said Lady Marabout, reprovingly. +"Why else should he come in when I was not at home? +There is nothing extraordinary in it. The only thing I +have wondered at is his having delayed so long."</p> + +<p>"If a man had to hang himself, would you wonder he +put off pulling the bolt?"</p> + +<p>"I don't see any point in your jests at all!" returned +Lady Marabout. "There is nothing ridiculous in winning +such a girl as Valencia."</p> + +<p>"No; but the question here is not of winning her, but +of buying her. The price is a little high—a ducal coronet +and splendid settlements, a wedding-ring and bondage +for life; but he will buy her, nevertheless. Cardonnel +couldn't pay the first half of the price, and so he was +swept out of the auction-room. You are shocked, mother! +Ah, truth <i>is</i> shocking sometimes, and always <i>maladroit</i>; +one oughtn't to bring it into ladies' boudoirs."</p> + +<p>"Hold your tongue, Philip! I will not have you so +satirical. Where do you take it from? Not from me, I +am sure! Hark! there is Goodwood going! That is his +step on the stairs, I think! Dear me, Philip, I wish you +sympathized with me a little more, for I <i>do</i> feel happy, +and I can't help it; dear Adeliza will be so gratified."</p> + +<p>"My dear mother, I'll do my best to be sympathetic, +I'll go and congratulate Goodwood as he gets in his cab, +if you fancy I ought; but, you see, if I were in Dahomey +beholding the head of my best friend coming off, I +couldn't quite get up the amount of sympathy in their +pleasure at the refreshing sight the Dahomites might +expect from me, and so——"</p> + +<p>But Lady Marabout missed the comparison of herself +to a Dahomite, for she had opened the door and was +crossing to the drawing-rooms, her eyes bright, her step +elastic, her heart exultant at the triumph of her man[oe]uvres.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_118" id="Page_118">[Pg 118]</a></span> +The Hon. Val was playing with some ferns in an +étagère at the bottom of the farthest room, and responded +to the kiss her aunt bestowed on her about as much as if +she had been one of the statuettes on the consoles.</p> + +<p>"Well, love, <i>what did he say</i>?" asked Lady Marabout, +breathlessly, with eager delight and confident +anticipation.</p> + +<p>Like drops of ice on warm rose-leaves fell each word +of the intensely chill and slightly sulky response on Lady +Marabout's heart.</p> + +<p>"He said that he goes to Cowes to-morrow for the +Royal Yacht Squadron dinner, and then on in the <i>Anadyomene</i> +to the Spitzbergen coast for walruses. He left a +P. P. C. card for you."</p> + +<p>"<i>Walruses!</i>" shrieked Lady Marabout.</p> + +<p>"Walruses," responded the Hon. Val.</p> + +<p>"And said no more than that?"</p> + +<p>"No more than that!"</p> + +<p>The Pet Eligible had flown off uncaught after all! +Lady Marabout needed no further explanation—<i>tout fut +dit</i>. They were both silent and paralyzed. Do you suppose +Pompey and Cornelia had much need of words when +they met at Lesbos after the horrible déroute of Pharsalia?</p> + +<hr style="width: 25%;" /> + +<p>"I'm in your mother's blackest books for ever, Phil," +said Goodwood to Carruthers in the express to Southampton +for the R.Y.C. Squadron Regatta of that year, "but +I can't help it. It's no good to badger us into marriage; +it only makes us double, and run to earth. I <i>was</i> near +compromising myself with your cousin, I grant, but the +thing that chilled me was, she's too <i>studied</i>. It's all got +up beforehand, and goes upon clockwork, and it don't +interest one accordingly; the mechanism's perfect, but we +know when it will raise its hand, and move its eyes, and +bow its head, and when we've looked at its beauty once +we get tired of it. That's the fault in Valencia, and in<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_119" id="Page_119">[Pg 119]</a></span> +scores of them, and as long as they <i>won't</i> be natural, why, +they can't have much chance with us!"</p> + +<p>Which piece of advice Carruthers, when he next saw +his mother, repeated to her, for the edification of all future +débutantes, adding a small sermon of his own:</p> + +<p>"My dear mother, I ask you, is it to be expected that +we can marry just to oblige women and please the newspapers? +Would you have me marched off to Hanover +Square because it would be a kindness to take one of Lady +Elmers' marriageable daughters, or because a leading +journal fills up an empty column with farcical lamentation +on our dislike to the bondage? Of course you +wouldn't; yet, for no better reasons, you'd have chained +poor Goodwood, if you could have caught him. Whether +a man likes to marry or not is certainly his own private +business, though just now it's made a popular public discussion. +Do you wonder that we shirk the institution? +If we have not fortune, marriage cramps our energies, +our resources, our ambitions, loads us with petty cares, +and trebles our anxieties. To one who rises with such a +burden on his shoulders, how many sink down in obscurity, +who, but for the leaden weight of pecuniary difficulties +with which marriage has laden their feet, might +have climbed the highest round in the social ladder? On +the other side, if we have fortune, if we have the unhappy +happiness to be eligible, is it wonderful that we are not +flattered by the worship of young ladies who love us for +what we shall give them, that we don't feel exactly honored +by being courted for what we are worth, and that +we're not over-willing to give up our liberty to oblige +those who look on us only as good speculations? What +think you, eh?"</p> + +<p>Lady Marabout looked up and shook her head mournfully:</p> + +<p>"My dear Philip, you are right. I see it—I don't dispute +it; but when a thing becomes personal, you know<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_120" id="Page_120">[Pg 120]</a></span> +philosophy becomes difficult. I have such letters from +poor dear Adeliza—such letters! Of course she thinks +it is all my fault, and I believe she will break entirely +with me. It is so very shocking. You see all Belgravia +coupled their names, and the very day that he went off +to Cowes in that heartless, abominable manner, if an +announcement of the alliance as arranged did not positively +appear in the <i>Court Circular</i>! It did indeed! I +am sure Anne Hautton was at the bottom of it; it would +be just like her. Perhaps poor Valencia cannot be +pitied after her treatment of Cardonnel, but it is very hard +on <i>me</i>."</p> + +<p>Lady Marabout is right: when a thing becomes personal, +philosophy becomes difficult. When your gun +misses fire, and a fine cock bird whirrs up from the covert +and takes wing unharmed, never to swell the number of +your triumphs and the size of your game-bag, could you +by any chance find it in your soul to sympathize with the +bird's gratification at your mortification and its own good +luck? I fancy not.</p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/cc118.png" alt="* * * * *" /> +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_121" id="Page_121">[Pg 121]</a></span></p> +<hr style="width: 60%;" /> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/cc119a.png" alt="* * * * *" /> +</div> + + + +<h2>LADY MARABOUT'S TROUBLES;</h2> + +<div class='center'>OR,</div> + +<h3>THE WORRIES OF A CHAPERONE.<br /> + +<br /><br />IN THREE SEASONS.</h3> + +<h4><a name="SECOND" id="SECOND"></a>SEASON THE SECOND—THE OGRE.</h4> + + +<p>"If there be one class I dislike more than another, +it is that class; and if there be one person in +town I utterly detest, it is that man!" said our +friend Lady Marabout, with much unction, one morning, +to an audience consisting of Bijou, Bonbon, and Pandore, +a cockatoo, an Angora cat, and a young lady sitting in a +rocking-chair, reading the magazines of the month. The +dogs barked, the cockatoo screamed, the cat purred a +vehement affirmative, the human auditor looked up, and +laughed:</p> + +<p>"What is the class, Lady Marabout, may I ask?"</p> + +<p>"Those clever, detestable, idle, good-for-nothing, fashionable, +worthless men about town, who have not a penny +to their fortune, and spend a thousand a year on gloves +and scented tobacco—who are seen at everybody's house, +and never at their own—who drive horses fit for a Duke's +stud, and haven't money enough to keep a donkey on +thistles—who have handsome faces and brazen consciences—who +are positively leaders of ton, and yet are glad to +write feuilletons before the world is up to pay their stall<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_122" id="Page_122">[Pg 122]</a></span> +at the Opera—who give a guinea for a bouquet, and +can't pay a shilling of their just debts,—I detest the +class, my dear!"</p> + +<p>"So it seems, Lady Marabout. I never heard you so +vehement. And who is the particular scapegoat of this +type of sinners?"</p> + +<p>"Chandos Cheveley."</p> + +<p>"Chandos Cheveley? Isn't he that magnificent man +Sir Philip introduced to me at the Amandines' breakfast +yesterday? Why, Lady Marabout, his figure alone +might outbalance a multitude of sins!"</p> + +<p>"He is handsome enough. <i>Did</i> Philip introduce him +to you, my dear? I wonder! It was very careless of him. +But men <i>are</i> so thoughtless; they will know anybody +themselves, and they think we may do the same. The +men called here while we were driving this morning. I +am glad we were out: he very seldom comes to <i>my</i> house."</p> + +<p>"But why is he so dreadful? The Amandines are tremendously +exclusive, I thought."</p> + +<p>"Oh, he goes everywhere! No party is complete without +Chandos Cheveley, and I have heard that at September +or Christmas he has more invitations than he could +possibly accept; but he is a most objectionable man, all +the same—a man every one dreads to see come near her +daughters. He has extreme fascination of manner, but +he has not a farthing! How he lives, dresses, drives the +horses he does, is one of those miracles of London men's +lives which <i>we</i> can never hope to puzzle out. Philip says +he likes him, but Philip never speaks ill of anybody, except +a woman now and then, who teases him; but the +man is my detestation—has been for years. I was annoyed +to see his card: it is the first time he has called +this season. He knows I can't endure his class or him."</p> + +<p>With which Lady Marabout wound up a very unusually +lengthy and uncharitable disquisition, length and +uncharitableness being both out of her line; and Lady<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_123" id="Page_123">[Pg 123]</a></span> +Cecil Ormsby rolled her handkerchief into a ball, threw +it across the room for Bonbon, the spaniel puppy, and +laughed till the cockatoo screamed with delight:</p> + +<p>"Dear Lady Marabout, do forgive me, but it is such +fun to hear you positively, for once, malicious! Who is +your Horror, genealogically speaking? this terrible—what's +his name?—Chandos Cheveley?"</p> + +<p>"The younger son of a younger son of one of the Marquises +of Danvers, I believe, my dear; an idle man about +town, you know, with not a sou to be idle upon, who sets +the fashion, but never pays his tailor. I am never malicious, +I hope, but I do consider men of that stamp very +objectionable."</p> + +<p>"But what is Sir Philip but a man about town?"</p> + +<p>"My son! Of course he is a man about town. My +dear, what else should he be? But if Philip likes to +lounge all his days away in a club-window, he has a perfect +right; he has fortune. Chandos Cheveley is not +worth a farthing, and yet yawns away his day in White's +as if he were a millionnaire; the one can support his <i>far +niente</i>, the other cannot. There are gradations in everything, +my love, but in nothing more than among the men, +of the same set and the same style, whom one sees in +Pall-Mall."</p> + +<p>"There are chestnut horses and horse-chestnuts, chevaliers +and chevaliers d'industrie, rois and rois d'Yvetot, +Carrutherses and Chandos Cheveleys!" laughed Lady +Cecil. "I understand, Lady Marabout. Il y a femmes +et femmes—men about town and men about town, I +shall learn all the classes and distinctions soon. But how +is one to know the sheep that may be let into the fold +from the wolves in sheep's clothing, that must be kept +out of it? Your Ogre is really very distinguished-looking."</p> + +<p>"Distinguished? Oh yes, my love; but the most distinguished +men are the most objectionable sometimes. I<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_124" id="Page_124">[Pg 124]</a></span> +assure you, my dear Cecil, I have seen an elder son whom +sometimes I could hardly have told from his own valet, +and a younger of the same family with the style of a +D'Orsay. Why, did I not this very winter, when I went +to stay at Rochdale, take Fitzbreguet himself, whom I +had not chanced to see since he was a child, for one of +the men out of livery, and bid him bring Bijou's basket +out of the carriage. I did indeed—<i>I</i> who hate such +mistakes more than any one! And Lionel, his second +brother, has the beauty of an Apollo and the <i>air noble</i> to +perfection. One often sees it; it's through the doctrine +of compensation, I suppose, but it's very perplexing, and +causes endless <i>embrouillements</i>."</p> + +<p>"When the mammas fall in love with Lord Fitz's +coronet, and the daughters with Lord Lionel's face, I +suppose?" interpolated Lady Cecil.</p> + +<p>"Exactly so, dear. As for knowing the sheep from the +wolves, as you call them," went on Lady Marabout, sorting +her embroidery silks, "you may very soon know more +of Chandos Cheveley's class—(this Magenta braid is good +for nothing; it's a beautiful color, but it fades immediately)—you +meet them in the country at all fast houses, +as they call them nowadays, like the Amandines'; they +are constantly invited, because they are so amusing, or so +dead a shot, or so good a whip, and live on their invitations, +because they have no <i>locale</i> of their own. You see, +all the women worth nothing admire, and all the women +worth anything shun, them. They have a dozen accomplishments, +and not a single reliable quality; a hundred +houses open to them, and not a shooting-box of their own +property or rental. You will meet this Chandos Cheveley +everywhere, for instance, as though he were somebody desirable. +You will see him in his club-window, as though +he were born only to read the papers; in the Ride, mounted +on a much better animal than Fitzbreguet, though the one +pays treble the price he ought, and the other, I dare say,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_125" id="Page_125">[Pg 125]</a></span> +no price at all; at Ascot, on Amandine's or Goodwood's +drag, made as much of among them all as if he were an +heir-apparent to the throne; and yet, my love, that man +hasn't a penny, lives Heaven knows where, and how he +gets money to keep his cab and buy his gloves is, as I say, +one of those mysteries of settling days, whist-tables, periodical +writing, Baden <i>coups de bonheur</i>, and such-like fountains +of such men's fortunes which we can never hope to +penetrate—and very little we should benefit if we could! +My dearest Cecil! if it is not ten minutes to five! We +must go and drive at once."</p> + +<p>Lady Ormsby was a great pet of Lady Marabout's; she +had been so from a child; so much so, that when, the year +after Valencia Valletort's discomfiture (a discomfiture so +heavy and so public, that that young beauty was seized +with a fit of filial devotion, attended her mamma to Nice, +and figured not in Belgravia the ensuing season, and even +Lady Marabout's temper had been slightly soured by it, as +you perceive), another terrible charge was shifted on her +shoulders by an appeal from the guardians of the late Earl +of Rosediamond's daughter for her to be brought out under +the Marabout wing, she had consented, and surrendered +herself to be again a martyr to responsibility for the sake +of Cecil and Cecil's lost mother. The young lady was a +beauty; she was worse, she was an heiress; she was worse +still, she was saucy, wayward, and notable for a strong will +of her own—a more dangerous young thorough-bred was +never brought to a gentler Rarey; and yet she was the +first charge of this nature that Lady Marabout had ever +accepted in the whole course of her life with no misgivings +and with absolute pleasure. First, she was very fond of +Cecil Ormsby; secondly, she longed to efface her miserable +failure with Valencia by a brilliant success, which should +light up all the gloom of her past of chaperonage; thirdly, +she had a sweet and long-cherished diplomacy nestling in +her heart to throw her son and Lord Rosediamond's<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_126" id="Page_126">[Pg 126]</a></span> +daughter together, for the eventual ensnaring and fettering +of Carruthers, which policy nothing could favor so well +as having the weapon for that deadly purpose in her own +house through April, May, and June.</p> + +<p>Cecil Ormsby was a beauty and an heiress—spirited, +sarcastic, brilliant, wilful, very proud; altogether, a more +spirited young filly never needed a tight hand on the +ribbons, a light but a firm seat, and a temperate though +judicious use of the curb to make her endure being ridden +at all, even over the most level grass countries of life. +And yet, for the reasons just mentioned, Lady Marabout, +who never had a tight hand upon anything, who is to be +thrown in a moment by any wilful kick or determined +plunge, who is utterly at the mercy of any filly that +chooses to take the bit between her own teeth and bolt +off, and is entirely incapable of using the curb, even to +the most ill-natured and ill-trained Shetland that ever +deserved to have its mouth sawed,—Lady Marabout +undertook the jockeyship without fear.</p> + +<p>"I dare say you wonder, after my grief with Valencia, +that I have consented to bring another girl out, but when +I heard it was poor Rosediamond's wish—his dying wish, +one may almost say—that Cecil should make her début +with me, what <i>was</i> I to do, my dear?" she explained, +half apologetically, to Carruthers, when the question was +first agitated. Perhaps, too, Lady Marabout had in her +heart been slightly sickened of perfectly trained young +ladies brought up on the best systems, and admitted to +herself that the pets of the foreign houses may <i>not</i> be the +most attractive flowers after all.</p> + +<p>So Lady Cecil Ormsby was installed in Lowndes +Square, and though she was the inheritor of her mother's +wealth, which was considerable, and possessor of her own +wit and beauty, which were not inconsiderable either, and +therefore a prize to fortune-hunters and a lure to misogamists, +as Lady Marabout knew very well how to keep the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_127" id="Page_127">[Pg 127]</a></span> +first off, and had her pet project of numbering her refractory +son among the converted second, she rather congratulated +herself than otherwise in having the pleasure and +éclat of introducing her; and men voted the Marabout +Yearlings Sale of that season, since it comprised Rosediamond's +handsome daughter, as dangerous as a horse-dealer's +auction to a young greenhorn, or a draper's +"sale, without reserve, at enormous sacrifice," to a lady +with a soul on bargains bent.</p> + +<p>"How very odd! Just as we have been talking of +him, there is that man again! I must bow to him, I suppose; +though if there <i>be</i> a person I dislike——" said +Lady Marabout, giving a frigid little bend of her head +as her barouche, with its dashing roans, rolled from her +door, and a tilbury passed them, driving slowly through +the square.</p> + +<p>Cecil Ormsby bowed to its occupant with less severity, +and laughed under the sheltering shadow of her white +parasol-fringe.</p> + +<p>"The Ogre has a very pretty trap, though, Lady Marabout, +and the most delicious gray horse in it! Such +good action!"</p> + +<p>"If its action is good, my love, I dare say it is more +than could be said of its master's actions. He is going +to call on that Mrs. Maréchale, very probably; he was +always there last season."</p> + +<p>And Lady Marabout shook her head and looked grave, +which, combined with the ever-damnatory demonstrative +conjunction, blackened Mrs. Maréchale's moral character +as much as Lady Marabout could blacken any one's, she +loving as little to soil her own fingers and her neighbors' +reputations with the indelible Italian chalk of scandal as +any lady I know; being given, on the contrary, when +compelled to draw any little social croquis of a back-biting +nature, to sketch them in as lightly as she could, +take out as many lights as possible, and rub in the shadows<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_128" id="Page_128">[Pg 128]</a></span> +with a very chary and pitying hand, except, indeed, +when she took the portrait of such an Ogre as Chandos +Cheveley, when I can't say she was quite so merciful, +specially when policy and prejudice combined to suggest +that it would be best (and not unjust) to use the blackest +Conté crayons obtainable.</p> + +<p>The subject of it would not have denied the correctness +of the silhouette Lady Marabout had snipped out +for the edification of Lady Cecil, had he caught a glimpse +of it: he had no habitation, nor was ever likely to have +any, save a bachelor's suite in a back street; he had been +an idle man for the last twenty years, with not a sou to +be idle upon; the springs of his very precarious fortunes, +his pursuits, habits, reputation, ways and means, were all +much what she had described them; yet he set the fashion +much oftener than Goodwood, and dukes and millionnaires +would follow the style of his tie, or the shape of his hat; +he moved in the most brilliant circles as Court Circulars +have it, and all the best houses were open to him. At +his Grace of Amandine's, staying there for the shooting, +he would alter the stud, find fault with the claret, arrange +a Drive for deer in the forest, and flirt with her Grace +herself, as though, as Lady Marabout averred, he had +been Heir-apparent or Prince Regent, who honored the +Castle by his mere presence, Amandine all the while +swearing by every word he spoke, thinking nothing well +done without Cheveley, and submitting to be set aside in +his own Castle, with the greatest gratification at the +extinction.</p> + +<p>But that Chandos Cheveley was not worth a farthing, +that he was but a Bohemian on a brilliant scale, that any +day he might disappear from that society where he now +glittered, never to reappear, everybody knew; how he +floated there as he did, kept his cab and his man, paid +for his stall at the Opera, his club fees, and all the other +trifles that won't wait, was an eternal puzzle to every one<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_129" id="Page_129">[Pg 129]</a></span> +ignorant of how expensively one may live upon nothing +if one just gets the knack, and of how far a fashionable +reputation, like a cake of chocolate, will go to support +life when nothing more substantial is obtainable. Lady +Marabout had sketched him correctly enough, allowing +for a little politic bitterness thrown in to counteract Carruthers's +thoughtlessness in having introduced him to +Rosediamond's daughter (that priceless treasure for whom +Lady Marabout would fain have had a guard of Janissaries, +if they would not have been likely to look singular +and come expensive); and ladies of the Marabout class +did look upon him as an Ogre, guarded their daughters +from his approach at a ball as carefully, if not as demonstratively, +as any duck its ducklings from the approach +of a water-rat, did not ask him to their dinners, and +bowed to him chillily in the Ring. Others regarded him +as harmless, from his perfect pennilessness; what danger +was there in the fascinations of a man whom all Belgravia +knew hadn't money enough to buy dog-skin +gloves, though he always wore the best Paris lavender +kid? While others, the pretty married women chiefly, +from her Grace of Amandine downwards to Mrs. Maréchale, +of Lowndes Square, flirted with him, fearfully, +and considered Chandos Cheveley what nobody ever succeeded +in disproving him, the most agreeable man on +town, with the finest figure, the best style, and the most +perfect bow, to be seen in the Park any day between +March and July. But then, as Lady Marabout remarked +on a subsequent occasion, a figure, a style, and a bow are +admirable and enviable things, but they're not among +the cardinal virtues, and don't do to live upon; and +though they're very good buoys to float one on the smooth +sparkling sea of society, if there come a storm, one may +go down, despite them, and become helpless prey to the +sharks waiting below.</p> + +<p>"Philip certainly admires her very much; he said the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_130" id="Page_130">[Pg 130]</a></span> +other day there was something in her, and that means a +great deal from him," thought Lady Marabout, complacently, +as she and Cecil Ormsby were wending their way +through some crowded rooms. "Of course I shall not +influence Cecil towards him; it would not be honorable +to do so, since she might look for a higher title than my +son's; still, if it should so fall out, nothing would give +me greater pleasure, and really nothing would seem more +natural with a little judicious manage——"</p> + +<p>"May I have the honor of this valse with you?" was +spoken in, though not to, Lady Marabout's ear. It was +a soft, a rich, a melodious voice enough, and yet Lady +Marabout would rather have heard the hiss of a Cobra +Capella, for the footmen <i>might</i> have caught the serpent +and carried it off from Cecil Ormsby's vicinity, and she +couldn't very well tell them to rid the reception-chambers +of Chandos Cheveley.</p> + +<p>Lady Marabout vainly tried to catch Cecil's eye, and +warn her of the propriety of an utter and entire repudiation +of the valse in question, if there were no "engaged" +producible to softly chill the hopes and repulse the advances +of the aspirant; but Lady Cecil's soul was obstinately +bent saltatory-wards; her chaperone's ocular telegram +was lost upon her, and only caught by the last +person who should have seen it, who read the message off +the wires to his own amusement, but naturally was not +magnanimous enough to pass it on.</p> + +<p>"I ought to have warned her never to dance with that +detestable man. If I could but have caught her eye even +now!" thought Lady Marabout, restlessly. The capella +<i>would</i> have been much the more endurable of the two; +the serpent couldn't have passed its arm round Rosediamond's +priceless daughter and whirled her down the +ball-room to the music of Coote and Timney's band, as +Chandos Cheveley was now doing.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_131" id="Page_131">[Pg 131]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Why did <i>you</i> not ask her for that waltz, Philip?" cried +the good lady, almost petulantly.</p> + +<p>Carruthers opened his eyes wide.</p> + +<p>"My dear mother, you know I never dance! I come +to balls to oblige my hostesses and look at the women, but +not to carry a seven-stone weight of tulle illusion and white +satin, going at express pace, with the thermometer at 80 +deg., and a dense crowd jostling one at every turn in the +circle. <i>Bien obligé!</i> that's not my idea of pleasure; if +it were the Pyrrhic dance, now, or the Tarantella, or the +Bolero, under a Castilian chestnut-tree——"</p> + +<p>"Hold your tongue! You might have danced for once, +just to have kept her from Chandos Cheveley."</p> + +<p>"From the best waltzer in London? Not so selfish. +Ask Amandine's wife if women don't like to dance with +that fellow!"</p> + +<p>"I should be very sorry to mention his name to her, or +any of her set," responded Lady Marabout, getting upon +certain virtuous stilts of her own, which she was given to +mount on rare occasion and at distant intervals, always +finding them very uncomfortable and unsuitable elevations, +and being as glad to cast them off as a traveller to kick +off the <i>échasses</i> he has had to strap on over the sandy +plains of the Landes.</p> + +<p>"What could possess you to introduce him to Cecil, +Philip? It was careless, silly, unlike you; you know how +I dislike men of his—his—objectionable stamp," sighed +Lady Marabout, the white and gold namesakes in her +coiffure softly trembling a gentle sigh in the perfumy +zephyr raised by the rotatory whirl of the waltzers, among +whom she watched with a horrible fascination, as one +watches a tiger being pugged out of its lair, or a deserter +being led out to be shot, Chandos Cheveley, waltzing +Rosediamond's priceless daughter down the ball-room.</p> + +<p>"He is so dreadfully handsome! I wonder why it is +that men and women, who have no fortune but their faces,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_132" id="Page_132">[Pg 132]</a></span> +will be so dangerously, so obstinately, so provokingly attractive +as one sees them so often!" thought Lady Marabout, +determining to beat an immediate retreat from the +present salons, since they were infested by the presence of +her Ogre, to Lady Hautton's house in Wilton Crescent.</p> + +<p>Lady Hautton headed charitable bazaars, belonged to +the Cummingite nebulæ, visited Homes and Hospitals +(floating to the bedside of luckless feminine patients to +read out divers edifying passages, whose effect must have +been somewhat neutralized to the hearers, one would imagine, +by the envy-inspiring rustle of her silks, the flash +of her rings, and the chimes of her bracelets, chains, and +châtelaine), looked on the "Amandine set" as lost souls, +and hence "did not know" Chandos Cheveley—a fact +which, though the Marabout and Hautton antagonism was +patent to all Belgravia, served to endear her all at once +to her foe; Lady Marabout, like a good many other +people, being content to sink personal resentment, and +make a truce with the infidels for the sake of enjoying a +mutual antipathy—that closest of all links of union!</p> + +<p>Lady Marabout and Lady Hautton were foes, but they +were dear Helena and dear Anne, all the same; dined at +each other's tables, and smiled in each other's faces. +They might be private foes, but they were public friends; +and Lady Marabout beat a discreet retreat to the Hautton's +salons—"so many engagements" is so useful a plea!—and +from the Hautton she passed on to a ball at the Duke +of Doncaster's; and, as at both, if Lady Cecil Ormsby +did not move "a goddess from above," she moved a brilliant, +sparkling, nonchalante, dangerous beauty, with +some of her sex's faults, all her sex's witcheries, and +more than her sex's mischief, holding her own royally, +saucily, and proudly, and Chandos Cheveley was encountered +no more, but happily detained at petit souper in a +certain Section of the French Embassy, Lady Marabout +drove homewards, in the gray of the morning, relieved,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_133" id="Page_133">[Pg 133]</a></span> +complacent, and gratified, dozing deliciously, till she was +woke up with a start.</p> + +<p>"Lady Marabout, what a splendid waltzer your Ogre, +Chandos Cheveley, is!"</p> + +<p>Lady Marabout opened her eyes with a jerk that set her +feathers trembling, her diamonds scintillating, and her +bracelets ringing an astonished little carillon.</p> + +<p>"My love, how you frightened me!"</p> + +<p>Cecil Ormsby laughed—a gay, joyous laugh, innocent +of having disturbed a doze, a lapse into human weakness of +which her chaperone never permitted herself to plead guilty.</p> + +<p>"Frightened you, did I? Why, your <i>bête noire</i> is as +terrible to you as C[oe]ur de Lion to the Saracen children, +or Black Douglas to the Lowland! And, really, I can't +see anything terrible in him; he is excessively brilliant +and agreeable, has something worth hearing to say to you, +and his waltzing is——!"</p> + +<p>Lady Cecil Ormsby had not a word in her repertory—though +it was an enthusiastic and comprehensive one, and +embraced five languages—sufficiently commendatory to +finish her sentence.</p> + +<p>"I dare say, dear! I never denied, or heard denied, +his having every accomplishment under the sun. The +only pity is, he has nothing more substantial!" returned +Lady Marabout, a little bit tartly for <i>her</i> lips, only used +to the softest (and most genuine) milk of roses.</p> + +<p>Lord Rosediamond's daughter laughed a little mournfully, +and played with her fan.</p> + +<p>"Poor man! Brilliant and beggared, fashionable and +friendless, courted and cashiered—a sad destiny! Do you +know, Lady Marabout, I have half a mind to champion +your Ogre!"</p> + +<p>"My love, don't talk nonsense!" said Lady Marabout, +hastily, at which Lady Cecil only laughed still more softly +and gayly again, and sprung down as the carriage stopped +in Lowndes Square.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_134" id="Page_134">[Pg 134]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Rosediamond's daughter's deucedly handsome, eh, +Cheveley? I saw you waltzing with her last night," said +Goodwood at Lord's the next morning, watching a match +between the Household Cavalry and the Zingari Eleven.</p> + +<p>"Yes, she is the best thing we have seen for some time," +said Cheveley, glancing round to see if the Marabout +liveries were on the ground.</p> + +<p>"Don't let the Amandine or little Maréchale hear you +say so, or you'll have a deuce of a row," laughed Goodwood. +"She's worth a good deal, too; she's all her +mother's property, and that's something, I know. The +deaths in her family have kept her back two years or more, +but now she <i>is</i> out, I dare say Lady Tattersall will put her +up high in the market."</p> + +<p>"No doubt. Why don't <i>you</i> make the investment—she's +much more attractive than that Valletort ice statue +who hooked you so nearly last year? Fortescue's out! +Well done, little Jimmy! Ah! there's the Marabout +carriage. I am as unwelcome to that good lady, I know, +as if I were Quasimodo or Quilp, and as much to be +shunned, in her estimation, as Vidocq, armed to the teeth; +nevertheless, I shall go and talk to them, if only in revenge +for the telegraphic warning of 'dangerous' she shot +at Lady Cecil last night when I asked her to waltz. Goodwood, +don't you envy me my happy immunity from traps +matrimonial?"</p> + +<p>"There is that man again—how provoking! I wish +we had not come to see Philip's return match. He is +positively coming up to talk to us," thought Lady Marabout, +restlessly, as her Ogre lifted his hat to her. In vain +did she do her best to look severe, to look frigid, to chill +him with a withering "good morning," (a little word, +capable, if you notice, of expressing every gradation in +feeling, from the nadir of delighted intimacy to the zero +of rebuking frigidity;) her coldest ice was as warm as a +pine-apple ice that has been melting all day under a refreshment<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_135" id="Page_135">[Pg 135]</a></span> +tent at a horticultural fête? Her <i>rôle</i> was <i>not</i> +chilliness, and never could be; she would have beamed +benign on a headsman who had led her out to instant decapitation, +and been no more able to help it than a peach +to help its bloom or a claret its bouquet. She did her +utmost to freeze Chandos Cheveley, but either she failed +signally, or he, being blessed with the brazen conscience +she had attributed to him, was steeled to all the tacit +repulses of her looks, for he leant against the barouche-door, +let her freeze him away as she might, and chatted to +Cecil Ormsby, "positively," Lady Marabout remarked to +that safest confidante, herself, "positively as if the man +had been welcome at my house for the last ten years! If +Cecil <i>would</i> but second me, he couldn't do it; but she <i>will</i> +smile and talk with him just as though he were Goodwood +or Fitzbreguet! It is very disagreeable to be forced against +one's will like this into countenancing such a very objectionable +person; and yet what <i>can</i> one do?"</p> + +<p>Which query she could by no means satisfactorily +answer herself, being a regular female Nerva for clemency, +utterly incapable of the severity with which that stern +Catiline, Lady Hautton, would have signed the unwelcome +intruder out of the way in a brace of seconds. And +under Nerva's gentle rule, though Nerva was longing +with all her heart to have the courage to call the lictors +and say, "Away with him!" Cheveley leant against the +door of the carriage unmolested, though decidedly undesired +by one of its occupants, talked to by Lady Cecil, +possibly because she found him as agreeable as her Grace +of Amandine and Lillia Maréchale had done before her, +possibly only from that rule of contrariety which is such +a pet motor-power with her sex; and Lady Marabout +reclined among her cushions, tucked up in her tiger-skin +in precisely that state of mind in which Fuseli said to his +wife, "Swear, my dear, you don't know how much good +it will do you," dreading in herself the possible advent<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_136" id="Page_136">[Pg 136]</a></span> +of the Hautton carriage, for that ancient enemy and +rigid pietist, of whose keen tongue and eminent virtue +she always stood secretly in awe, to see this worthless and +utterly objectionable member of that fast, graceless, and +"very incorrect" Amandine set, absolutely <i>en sentinelle</i> +at the door of her barouche!</p> + +<p>Does your best friend <i>ever</i> come when you want him +most? Doesn't your worst foe <i>always</i> come when you +want him least? Of course, at that juncture, the Hautton +carriage came on the ground (Hautton was one of the +Zingari Club, and maternal interest brought her foe to +Lord's as it had brought herself), and the Hautton eye-glass, +significantly and surprisedly raised, said as distinctly +to Lady Marabout, as though elfishly endowed with vocal +powers, "You allow <i>that</i> man acquaintance with Rosediamond's +daughter!" Lady Marabout was stung to the +soul by the deserved rebuke, but she didn't know how on +earth to get rid of the sinner! There he leaned, calmly, +nonchalantly, determinedly, as if he were absolutely welcome; +and Lady Cecil talked on to him as if he were +absolutely welcome too.</p> + +<p>Lady Marabout felt branded in the eyes of all Belgravia +to have Chandos Cheveley at her carriage-door, the +most objectionable man of all his most objectionable class.</p> + +<p>"It is very strange!" she thought. "I have seen that +man about town the last five-and-twenty years—ever since +he was a mere boy, taken up and petted by Adeline Patchouli +for some piece of witty Brummelian impudence +he said to her on his first introduction—and he has never +sought my acquaintance before, but always seemed to be +quite aware of my dislike to him and all his set. It is +very grievous he should have chosen the very season I +have poor dear Rosediamond's daughter with me; but +it is always my fate—if a thing can happen to annoy me +it always will!"</p> + +<p>With which Lady Marabout, getting fairly distracted<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_137" id="Page_137">[Pg 137]</a></span> +under the iron hand of adverse fate, and the ruthless surveillance +of the Hautton glass, invented an impromptu +necessity for immediate shopping at Lewis and Allonby's, +and drove off the ground at the sole moment of interest +the match possessed for her—viz., when Carruthers was +rattling down Hautton's stumps, and getting innings innumerable +for the Household.</p> + +<p>"Mais ce n'est que le premier pas qui coûte;" the old +proverb's so true we wear it threadbare with repeating it! +Lady Marabout might as well have stayed on Lord's +ground, and not lacerated her feelings by leaving at the +very hour of the Household Cavalry's triumphs, for any +good that she did thereby. The Hautton eye-glass had +lighted on Chandos Cheveley, and Chandos Cheveley's +eye-glass on Rosediamond's daughter;—and Cecil Ormsby +arched her eyebrows, and gave her parasol a little impatient +shake as they quitted Lord's.</p> + +<p>"Lady Marabout, I never could have believed you ill-natured; +you interrupted my ball last night, and my conversation +this morning! I shall scold you if you ever do +so again. And now tell me (as curiosity is a weakness +incidental to all women, no woman ought to refuse to +relieve it in another) why <i>are</i> you so prejudiced against +that very handsome, and very amusing person?"</p> + +<p>"Prejudiced, my dear child! I am not in the least prejudiced," +returned Lady Marabout. (Nobody ever admitted +to a prejudice that <i>I</i> ever heard. It's a plant +that grows in all gardens, and is sedulously matted up, +watered, and strengthened; but invariably disavowed by +its sturdiest cultivators.) "As for Chandos Cheveley, +I merely mentioned to you what all town knows about +him; and the dislike I have to his class is one of principle, +not of prejudice."</p> + +<p>Lady Cecil made a <i>moue mutine</i>:</p> + +<p>"Oh, Lady Marabout! if you go to 'principle,' <i>tout +est perdu!</i> 'Principle' has been made to bear the onus<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_138" id="Page_138">[Pg 138]</a></span> +of every private pique since the world began, and has had +to answer for more cruelties and injustice than any word +in the language. The Romans flung the Christians to +the lions 'on principle,' and the Europeans slew the Mahomedans +'on principle,' and 'principle' lighted the autos-da-fé, +and signed to the tormentor to give a turn more +to the rack! Please don't appeal to anything so severe +and hypocritical. Come, what are the Ogre's sins?"</p> + +<p>Lady Marabout laughed, despite the subject.</p> + +<p>"Do you think I am a compiler of such catalogues, +my love? Pray do not let us talk any more about Chandos +Cheveley, he is very little worth it; all I say to you +is, be as cool to him as you can, without rudeness, of +course. I am never at home when he calls, and were I +you, I would be always engaged when he asks you to waltz; +his acquaintance can in no way benefit you."</p> + +<p>Lady Cecil gave a little haughty toss of her head, and +lay back in the barouche.</p> + +<p>"<i>I</i> will judge of that! I am not made for fetters of +any kind, you know, and I like to choose my own acquaintance +as well as to choose my own dresses. I cannot +obey you either this evening, for he asked me to put +him on my tablets for the first waltz at Lord Anisette's +ball, and I consented. I had no 'engaged' ready, unless +I had had a falsehood ready too, and <i>you</i> wouldn't counsel +that, Lady Marabout, I am very sure?"</p> + +<p>With which straightforward and perplexing question +Cecil Ormsby successfully silenced her chaperone, by +planting her in that disagreeable position known as between +the horns of a dilemma; and Lady Marabout, +shrinking alike from the responsibility of counselling a +"necessary equivocation," as society politely terms its indispensable +lies, and the responsibility of allowing Cecil +acquaintance with the "very worst" of the Amandine set, +sighed, wondered envyingly how Anne Hautton would act +in her place, and almost began to wish somebody else had<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_139" id="Page_139">[Pg 139]</a></span> +had the onerous stewardship of that brilliant and priceless +jewel, Rosediamond's daughter, now that the jewel +threatened to be possessed with a will of its own:—the +greatest possible flaw in a gem of pure water, which they +only want to scintillate brilliantly among the bijouterie +of society, and let itself be placed passively in the setting +most suitable for it, that can be conceived in the eyes of +lady lapidaries intrusted with its sale.</p> + +<p>"It is very odd," thought Lady Marabout; "she seems +to have taken a much greater fancy to that odious man +than to Philip, or Goodwood, or Fitz, or any one of the +men who admire her so much. I suppose I always <i>am</i> to +be worried in this sort of way! However, there can be +no real danger; Chandos Cheveley is the merest butterfly +flirt, and with all his faults none ever accused him of +fortune-hunting. Still, they say he is wonderfully fascinating, +and certainly he has the most beautiful voice I +ever heard; and if Cecil should ever like him at all, I +could never forgive myself, and what <i>should</i> I say to +General Ormsby?"</p> + +<p>The General, Cecil's uncle and guardian, is one of the +best-humored, best-tempered, and most <i>laissez-faire</i> men +in the Service, but was, for all that, a perpetual dead +weight on Lady Marabout's mind just then, for was not +he the person to whom, at the end of the season, she +would have to render up account of the successes and +the shortcomings of her chaperone's career?</p> + +<p>"Do you think of proposing Chandos Cheveley as a +suitable alliance for Cecil Ormsby, my dear Helena?" +asked Lady Hautton, with that smile which was felt to +be considerably worse than strychnine by her foes and +victims, at a house in Grosvenor Place, that night.</p> + +<p>"God forbid!" prayed Lady Marabout, mentally, as +she joined in the Hautton laugh, and shivered under the +stab of the Hautton sneer, which was an excessively sharp +one. Lady Hautton being one of a rather numerous class<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_140" id="Page_140">[Pg 140]</a></span> +of eminent Christians, so panoplied in the armor of righteousness +that they can tread, without feeling it, on the +tender feet of others.</p> + +<p>The evening was spoiled to Lady Marabout; she felt +morally and guiltily responsible for an unpardonable +indiscretion:—with that man waltzing with Cecil Ormsby, +her "graceful, graceless, gracious Grace" of Amandine +visibly irritated with jealousy at the sight, and Anne +Hautton whispering behind her fan with acidulated significance. +Lady Marabout had never been more miserable +in her life! She heard on all sides admiration of +Rosediamond's daughter; she was gratified by seeing +Goodwood, Fitzbreguet, Fulke Nugent, every eligible +man in the room, suing for a place on her tablets; she +had the delight of beholding Carruthers positively join +the negligent beauty's train; and yet the night was a +night of purgatory to Lady Marabout, for Chandos +Cheveley had his first waltz, and several after it, and the +Amandine set were there to gossip, and the Hautton +clique to be shocked, at it.</p> + +<p>"Soames, tell Mason, when Mr. Chandos Cheveley +calls, I am not at home," said Lady Marabout at +breakfast.</p> + +<p>"Yes, my lady," said Soames, who treasured up the +order, and told it to Mr. Chandos Cheveley's man at the +first opportunity, though, greatly to his honor, we must +admit, he did <i>not</i> imitate the mild formula of fib, and +tell his mistress her claret was not corked when it was so +incontestably.</p> + +<p>Cecil Ormsby lifted her head and looked across the +table at her hostess, and the steady gaze of those violet +eyes, which were Rosediamond's daughter's best weapons +of war, so discomposed Lady Marabout, that she forgot +herself sufficiently to proffer Bijou a piece of bread, an +unparalleled insult, which that canine Sybarite did not +forget all day long.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_141" id="Page_141">[Pg 141]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Not at home, sir," said Mason, as duly directed, when +Cheveley's cab pulled up, a week or two after the general +order, at the door.</p> + +<p>Cheveley smiled to himself as his gray had her head +turned, and the wheel grated off the trottoir, while he +lifted his hat to Cecil Ormsby, just visible between the +amber curtains and above the balcony flowers of one of +the windows of the drawing-room—quite visible enough +for her return smile and bow to be seen in the street by +Cheveley, in the room by Lady Marabout.</p> + +<p>"Some of Lady Tattersall's generalship!" he thought, +as the gray trotted out of the square. "Well! I have +no business there. Cecil Ormsby is not her Grace of +Amandine, nor little Maréchale, and the good lady is +quite right to brand me 'dangerous' to her charge, and +pronounce me 'inadmissible' to her footman. I've very +little title to resent her verdict."</p> + +<p>"My dearest Cecil, whatever possessed you to bow to +that man!" cried Lady Marabout, in direst distress.</p> + +<p>"Is it not customary to bow to one's acquaintances—I +thought it was?" asked Lady Cecil, with demure mischief.</p> + +<p>"But, my dear, from a window!—and when Mason is +saying we are not at home!"</p> + +<p>"That isn't <i>Mason's</i> fib, or <i>Mason's</i> fault, Lady Marabout!" +suggested Cecil, with wicked emphasis.</p> + +<p>"There is no falsehood or fault at all anywhere—everybody +knows well enough what 'not at home' means," +returned Lady Marabout, almost pettishly.</p> + +<p>"Oh yes," laughed the young lady, saucily. "It +means 'I am at home and sitting in my drawing room, +but I shall not rise to receive you, because you are not +worth the trouble.' It's a polite cut direct, and a honeyed +rudeness—a bitter almond wrapped up in a sugar +dragée, like a good many other bonbons handed about in +society."</p> + +<p>"My dear Cecil, you have some very strange ideas;<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_142" id="Page_142">[Pg 142]</a></span> +you will get called satirical if you don't take care," said +Lady Marabout, nervously.</p> + +<p>Cecil Ormsby's tone worried her, and made her feel +something as she felt when she had a restive, half-broken +pair of horses in her carriage, for the direction of whose +next plunge or next kick nobody could answer.</p> + +<p>"And if I be—what then?"</p> + +<p>"My dear child, you could not anyhow get a more +disadvantageous reputation! It may amuse gentlemen +though it frightens half <i>them</i>; but it offends all women +irremediably. You see, there are so few whom it doesn't +hit somewhere," returned Lady Marabout, quite innocent +of the neat satire of her own last sentence.</p> + +<p>Cecil Ormsby laughed, and threw herself down by her +chaperone's side:</p> + +<p>"Never mind: I can bear their enmity; it is a greater +compliment than their liking. The women whom women +love are always quiet, colorless, inoffensive—foils. Lady +Marabout, tell me, why did you give that general order +to Mason?"</p> + +<p>"I have told you before, my dear. Because I have no +wish to know Mr. Chandos Cheveley," returned Lady +Marabout, as stiffly as she could say anything. "It is, as +I said, not from prejudice, but from prin——"</p> + +<p>"Lady Marabout, if you use that word again, I will +drive to uncle Ormsby's rooms in the Albany and stay +with him for the season; I will, positively! I am sure +all the gentlemen there will be delighted to have my society! +Pray, what <i>are</i> your Ogre's crimes? Did you +ever hear anything dishonorable, mean, ungenerous, attributed +to him? Did you ever hear he broke his word, +or failed to act like a gentleman, or was a defaulter at +any settling day?"</p> + +<p>Lady Marabout required some explanation of what a +defaulter at a settling day might be, and, on receiving it,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_143" id="Page_143">[Pg 143]</a></span> +was compelled to confess that she never <i>had</i> heard anything +of that kind imputed to Chandos Cheveley.</p> + +<p>"Of course I have not, my dear. The man is a gentleman, +everybody knows, however idle and improvident +a one. If he could be accused of anything of that kind, +he would not belong to such clubs, and associate with +such men as he does. Besides, Philip would not know +him; certainly would not think well of him, which I +confess he does. But that is not at all the question."</p> + +<p>"<i>Ne vous en déplaise</i>, I think it very much and very +entirely the question," returned Lady Cecil, with a toss +of her haughty little head. "If you can bring nothing +in evidence against a man, it is not right to send him to +the galleys and mark him 'Forçat.'"</p> + +<p>"My dear Cecil, there is plenty in evidence against +him," said Lady Marabout, with a mental back glance to +certain stories told of the "Amandine set," "though not +of that kind. A man may be perfectly unexceptionable +in his conduct with his men friends, but very objectionable +acquaintance for us to seek, all the same."</p> + +<p>"Ah, I see! Lord Goodwood may bet, and flirt, and +lounge his days away, and be as fast a man as he likes, +and it is all right; but if Mr. Cheveley does the same, it +is all wrong, because he is not worth forgiving."</p> + +<p>"Naturally it is," returned Lady Marabout, seriously +and naïvely. "But how very oddly you put things, my +love; and why you should interest yourself in this man, +when everything I tell you is to his disadvantage, I +cannot imagine."</p> + +<p>A remark that showed Lady Marabout a skilful tactician, +insomuch as it silenced Cecil—a performance +rather difficult of accomplishment.</p> + +<p>"I am very glad I gave the order to Mason," thought +that good lady. "I only wish we did not meet the man +in society; but it is impossible to help that. We are all +cards of one pack, and get shuffled together, whether we<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_144" id="Page_144">[Pg 144]</a></span> +like it or not. I wish Philip would pay her more attention; +he admires her, I can see, and he can make any +woman like him in ten days when he takes the trouble; +but he is so tiresome! She would be exactly suited to +him; she has all he would exact—beauty, talent, good +blood, and even fortune, though that he would not need. +The alliance would be a great happiness to me. Well, he +dines here to-night, and he gives that concert at his barracks +to-morrow morning, purely to please Cecil, I am +sure. I think it may be brought about with careful management."</p> + +<p>With which pleasant reflection she went to drive in +the Ring, thinking that her maternal and duenna duties +would be alike well fulfilled, and her chaperone's career +well finished, if by any amount of tact, intrigue, finesses, +and diplomacy she could live to see Cecil Ormsby sign +herself Cecil Carruthers.</p> + +<p>"If that man were only out of town!" she thought, +as Cheveley passed them in Amandine's mail-phaeton at +the turn.</p> + +<p>Lady Marabout might wish Cheveley were out of town—and +wish it devoutly she did—but she wasn't very likely +to have her desire gratified till the general migration +should carry him off in its tide to the deck of a yacht, a +lodge in the Highlands, a German Kursaal, or any one +of those myriad "good houses" where nobody was so +welcome as he, the best shot, the best seat, the best wit, +the best billiard-player, the best whist-player, and the +best authority on all fashionable topics, of any man in +England. Cheveley used to aver that he liked Lady +Marabout, though she detested him; nay, that he liked +her <i>for</i> her detestation; he said it was cordial, sincere, +and refreshing, therefore a treat in the world of Belgravia; +still, he didn't like her so well as to leave Town in the +middle of May to oblige her; and though he took her +hint as it was meant, and pulled up his hansom no more<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_145" id="Page_145">[Pg 145]</a></span> +at her door, he met her and Rosediamond's daughter at dinners, +balls, concerts, morning-parties innumerable. He +saw them in the Ring; he was seen by them at the Opera; +he came across them constantly in the gyration of London +life. Night after night Lady Cecil persisted in writing +his name in her tablets; evening after evening a bizarre +fate worried Lady Marabout, by putting him on the left +hand of her priceless charge at a dinner-party. Day after +day all the harmony of a concert was marred to her ear +by seeing her Ogre talking of Beethoven and Mozart, +chamber music and bravura music in Cecil's: morning +after morning gall was poured into her luncheon sherry, +and wormwood mingled in her vol-au-vent, by being told, +with frank mischief, by her desired daughter-in-law, that +she "had seen Mr. Cheveley leaning on the rails, smoking," +when she had taken her after-breakfast canter.</p> + +<p>"Chandos Cheveley getting up before noon! He <i>must</i> +mean something unusual!" thought her chaperone.</p> + +<p>"Helena has set her heart on securing Cecil Ormsby for +Carruthers. I hope she may succeed better than she did +with poor Goodwood last season," laughed Lady Hautton, +with her inimitable sneer, glancing at the young lady in +question at a bazaar in Willis's Rooms, selling rosebuds +for anything she liked to ask for them, and cigars tied up +with blue ribbon a guinea the half-dozen, at the Marabout +stall. Lady Hautton <ins title="Transcriber's Note: original reads 'has'">had</ins> just been paying a charitable +visit to St. Cecilia's Refuge, of which she was head patroness, +where, having floated in with much benignity, +been worshipped by a select little toady troop, administered +spiritual consolation with admirable condescension, +and distributed illuminated texts for the adornment of +the walls and refreshment of the souls, she was naturally +in a Christian frame of mind towards her neighbors. +Lady Marabout caught the remark—as she was intended +to do—and thought it not quite a pleasant one; but, my +good sir, did you ever know those estimable people, who<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_146" id="Page_146">[Pg 146]</a></span> +spend all their time fitting themselves for another world, +ever take the trouble to make themselves decently agreeable +in the present one? The little pleasant courtesies, +affabilities, generosities, and kindnesses, that rub the edge +off the flint-stones of the Via Dolorosa, are quite beneath +the attention of Mary the Saint, and only get attended to +by Martha the Worldly, poor butterfly thing! who is fit +for nothing more serviceable and profitable!</p> + +<p>Lady Marabout <i>had</i> set her heart on Cecil Ormsby's +filling that post of honor—of which no living woman +was deserving in her opinion—that of "Philip's wife;" +an individual who had been, for so many years, a fond +ideal, a haunting anxiety, and a dreaded rival, en même +temps, to her imagination. She <i>was</i> a little bit of a +match-maker: she had, over and over again, arranged +the most admirable and suitable alliances; alliances that +would have shamed the scepticism of the world in general, +as to the desirability of the holy bonds, and brought every +refractory man to the steps of St. George's; alliances, +that would have come off with the greatest éclat, but for +one trifling hindrance and difficulty—namely, the people +most necessary to the arrangements could never by any +chance be brought to view them in the same light, and +were certain to give her diplomacy the <i>croc-en-jambe</i> at +the very moment of its culminating glory and finishing +finesses. She was a little bit of a match-maker—most +kind-hearted women are; the tinder they play with is +much better left alone, but <i>they</i> don't remember that! +Like children in a forest, they think they'll light a pretty +bright fire, just for fun, and never remember what a +seared, dreary waste that fire may make, or what a prairie +conflagration it may stretch into before it's stopped.</p> + +<p>"Cecil Ormsby is a terrible flirt," said Lady Hautton, +to another lady, glancing at the rapid sale of the rosebuds +and cigars, the bunches of violets and the sprays of lilies +of the valley, in which that brilliant beauty was doing<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_147" id="Page_147">[Pg 147]</a></span> +such thriving business at such extravagant profits, while +the five Ladies Hautton presided solemnly over articles +of gorgeous splendor, which threatened to be left on +hand, and go in a tombola, as ignominiously as a beauty +after half a dozen seasons, left unwooed and unwon, +goes to the pêle-mêle raffle of German Bad society, and +is sold off at the finish to an unknown of the Line, or a +Civil Service fellow, with five hundred a year.</p> + +<p>"Was Cecil a flirt?" wondered Lady Marabout. Lady +Marabout was fain to confess to herself that she thought +she was—nay, that she hoped she was. If it wasn't flirting, +that way in which she smiled on Chandos Cheveley, +sold him cigarettes, laughed with him over the ices and +nectarines he fetched her, and positively invested him with +the cordon d'honneur of a little bouquet of Fairy roses, +for which twenty men sued, and he (give Satan his due) +did not even ask—if it wasn't flirting, <i>what was it</i>? +Lady Marabout shivered at the suggestion; and though +she was, on principle, excessively severe on flirting, she +could be very glad of what she didn't approve, when it +aided her, on occasion—like most other people—and +would so far have agreed with Talleyrand, as to welcome +the worst crime (of coquetry) as far less a sin than the +unpardonable blunder of encouraging an Ogre!</p> + +<p>"I can't send Cecil away from the stall, as if she were +a naughty child, and I can't order the man out of Willis's +Rooms," thought that unhappy and fatally-worried lady, +as she presided behind her stall, an emphatic witness of +the truth of the poeticism that "grief smiles and gives +no sign," insomuch as she looked the fairest, sunniest, +best-looking, and best-tempered Dowager that ever +shrouded herself in Chantilly lace.</p> + +<p>"I do think those ineligible, detrimental, objectionable +persons ought not to be let loose on society as they are," +she pondered; "let them have their clubs and their mess +breakfasts, their Ascot and their Newmarket, their lansquenet<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_148" id="Page_148">[Pg 148]</a></span> +parties and their handicap pigeon matches, if they +like; but to have them come amongst <i>us</i> as they do, +asked everywhere if they happen to have good blood and +good style, free to waltz and flirt and sing, and show all +sorts of attention to marriageable girls, while all the while +they are no more available for anything serious than if +they were club stewards or cabmen—creatures that live +on their fashionable aroma, and can't afford to buy the +very bottles of bouquets on their toilette-tables—fast +men, too, who, knowing they can never marry themselves, +make a practice of turning marriage into ridicule, and +help to set all the rich men more dead against it than +they are,—to have them come promiscuously among the +very best people, with nothing to distinguish them as +dangerous, or label them as 'ought to be avoided,'—it's +dreadful! it's a social evil! it <i>ought</i> to be remedied! +They muzzle dogs in June, why can't they label Ogres in +the season? I mustn't send poor little Bijou out for a +walk in Kensington Gardens without a string, these men +ought not to go about in society without restriction: a +snap of Bijou's doesn't do half such mischief as a smile +of theirs!"</p> + +<p>And Lady Marabout chatted across the stall to his +Grace of Doncaster, and entrapped him into purchases +of fitting ducal prodigality, and smiled on scores of people +she didn't know, in pleasant <i>pro tempore</i> expediency that +had, like most expediency in our day, its ultimate goal in +their purses and pockets, and longed for some select gendarmerie +to clear Willis's Rooms of her Cobra Capella, +and kept an eye all the while on Cecil Ormsby—Cecil, +selling off everything on the stall by sheer force of her +bright violet eyes, receiving ten-pound notes for guinea +trifles, making her Bourse rise as high as she liked, +courted for a spray of mignonette as entreatingly as ever +Law was courted in the Rue Quincampoix for Mississippi +scrip, served by a Corps d'Elite, in whom she had actually<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_149" id="Page_149">[Pg 149]</a></span> +enlisted Carruthers, Goodwood, Fulke Nugent, Fitzbreguet, +and plenty of the most desirable and most desired +men in town, yet of which—oh the obstinacy of women! +she had actually made Chandos Cheveley, with those +wicked little Fairy roses in his coat, positively the captain +and the chief!</p> + +<p>"It is enough to break one's heart!" thought Lady +Marabout, wincing under the Hautton glance, which she +saw only the plainer because she <i>wouldn't</i> see it at all, +and which said with horrible distinctness, "There is that +man, who can hardly keep his own cab, who floats on +society like a pleasure-boat, without rudder, ballast, or +anchors, of whom I have told you, in virtuous indignation +and Christian charity, fifty thousand naughty stories, +who visits that wicked, notorious little Maréchale, who +belongs to the Amandine set, who is everything that he +ought not and nothing that he ought to be, who hasn't +a penny he doesn't make by a well-made betting-book or +a dashed-off magazine article,—there he is flirting all +day at your own stall with Rosediamond's daughter, and +you haven't the <i>savoir faire</i>, the strength of will, the tact, +the proper feeling, to stop it!"</p> + +<p>To all of which charges Lady Marabout humbly bent +her head, metaphorically speaking, and writhed, in secret, +under the glance of her ancient enemy, while she talked +and laughed with the Duke of Doncaster. C. Petronius, +talking epicureanisms and witicisms, while the life-blood +was ebbing away at every breath, was nothing to the suffering +and the fortitude of Helena, Lady Marabout, turning +a smiling, sunny, tranquil countenance to the world +in front of her stall, while that world could see Chandos +Cheveley admitted behind it!</p> + +<p>"I must do something to stop this!" thought Lady +Marabout, with the desperation of a Charlotte Corday.</p> + +<p>"Is Cheveley going in for the Ormsby tin?" said +Amandine to Eyre Lee. "Best thing he could do, eh?<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_150" id="Page_150">[Pg 150]</a></span> +But Lady Tattersall and the trustees would cut rough, +I am afraid."</p> + +<p>"What does Chandos mean with that daughter of +Rosediamond's?" wondered her Grace, annoyedly. She +had had him some time in her own rose chains, and when +ladies have driven a lover long in that sort of harness, +they could double-thong him with all the might of their +little hands, if they fancy he is trying to break away.</p> + +<p>"Is Chandos Cheveley turning fortune-hunter? I suppose +he would like Lady Cecil's money to pay off his +Ascot losses," said Mrs. Maréchale, with a malicious +laugh. At Ascot, the day before, he had not gone near +her carriage; the year before he had driven her down in +her mail-phaeton: what would there be too black to say +of him <i>now</i>?</p> + +<p>"I must do something to stop this!" determined Lady +Marabout, driving homewards, and glancing at Cecil +Ormsby, as that young lady lay back in the carriage, a +little grave and dreamy after her day's campaign—signs +of the times terrifically ominous to her chaperone, skilled +in reading such meteorological omens. But how was the +drag to be put on the wheel? That momentous question +absorbed Lady Marabout through her toilette that evening, +pursued her to dinner, haunted her through two soirées, +kept her wide awake all night, woke up with her to +her early coffee, and flavored the potted tongue and the +volaille à la Richelieu she took for her breakfast. "I +can't turn the man out of town, and I can't tell people +to strike him off their visiting-lists, and I can't shut +Cecil and myself up in this house as if it were a convent, +and, as to speaking to her, it is not the slightest use. She +has such a way of putting things that one can never deny +their truth, or reason them away, as one can with other +girls. Fond as I am of her, she's fearfully difficult to +manage. Still I owe it as a sacred duty to poor Rosediamond +and the General, who says he places such implicit<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_151" id="Page_151">[Pg 151]</a></span> +confidence in me, to interfere. It is my duty; it +can't be helped. I must speak to Chandos Cheveley himself. +I have no right to consult my own scruples when +so much is at stake," valorously determined Lady Marabout, +resolved to follow stern moral rules, and, when right +was right, to let "le diable prendre le fruit."</p> + +<p>To be a perfect woman of the world, I take it, ladies +must weed out early in life all such little contemptible +weaknesses as a dislike to wounding other people; and +a perfect woman of the world, therefore, Lady Marabout +was not, and never would be. Nohow could she acquire +Anne Hautton's invaluable sneer—nohow could she +imitate that estimable pietist's delightful way of dropping +little icy-barbed sentences, under which I have known the +bravest to shrink, frozen, out of her path. Lady Marabout +was grieved if she broke the head off a flower needlessly, +and she could not cure herself of the same lingering +folly in disliking to say a thing that pained anybody; +it is incidental to the De Bonc[oe]ur blood—Carruthers +inherits it—and I have seen fellows spared through it, +whom he could else have withered into the depths of their +boots by one of his satirical mots. So she did not go to +her task of speaking to Chandos Cheveley, armed at all +points for the encounter, and taking pleasure in feeling +the edge of her rapier, as Lady Hautton would have +done. The Cobra was dangerous, and must be crushed, +but Lady Marabout did not very much relish setting her +heel on it; it was a glittering, terrible, much-to-be-feared, +and much-to-be-abused serpent,—but it might <i>feel</i> all the +same, you see.</p> + +<p>"I dislike the man on principle, but I don't want to +pain him," she thought, sighing for the Hautton stern +<i>savoir faire</i> and Achilles impenetrability, and goading +herself on with the remembrance of duty and General +Ormsby, when the opportunity she had resolved to seek +presented itself accidentally at a breakfast at Lady<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_152" id="Page_152">[Pg 152]</a></span> +George Frangipane's toy villa at Fulham, and she found +herself comparatively alone in the rose-garden with +Cheveley, for once without Cecil's terrible violet eyes +upon her.</p> + +<p>"Will you allow me a few words with you, Mr. Cheveley?" +she asked, in her blandest manner—the kindly +hypocrite!</p> + +<p>The blow must be dealt, but it might as well be softened +with a few chloroform fumes, and not struck savagely +with an iron-spiked mace.</p> + +<p>Cheveley raised his eyes.</p> + +<p>"With me? With the greatest pleasure!"</p> + +<p>"He is a mere fortune-hunter. I will <i>not</i> spare him, I +am resolved," determined Lady Marabout, as she toyed +with her parasol-handle, remarked incidentally how unequalled +Lady George was in roses, especially in the tea-rose, +and dealt blow No. 1. "Mr. Cheveley, I am going +to speak to you very frankly. I consider frankness in all +things best, myself——"</p> + +<p>Cheveley bowed, and smiled slightly.</p> + +<p>"I wish he would answer, it would make it so much +easier; he will only look at one with those eyes of his, +and certainly they <i>are</i> splendid!" thought Lady Marabout, +as she went on quickly, on the same principle as the +Chasseurs Indiens approach an abattis at double-quick. +"When Lord Rosediamond died last year he left, as +probably you are aware, his daughter in my sole care; it +was a great responsibility—very great—and I feel, of +course, that I shall have to answer to him for my discharge +of it."</p> + +<p>Lady Marabout didn't say whether Rosediamond was +accustomed to visit her per medium, and hear her account +of her stewardship nightly through a table-claw; but we +must suppose that he was. Cheveley bowed again, and +didn't inquire, not being spiritually interested.</p> + +<p>"Why <i>won't</i> he answer?" thought Lady Marabout.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_153" id="Page_153">[Pg 153]</a></span> +"That I have not been blind to your very marked attention +to my dear Cecil, I think you must be aware, Mr. +Cheveley, and it is on that subject, indeed, that I——"</p> + +<p>"Wished to speak to me? I understand!" said Cheveley +as she paused, with that faint smile, half sad, half +proud, that perplexed Lady Marabout. "You are about +to insinuate to me gently that those attentions have been +exceedingly distasteful to you, exceedingly unacceptable +in me; you would remind me that Lady Cecil Ormsby is +a beauty and an heiress, and that I am a fortune-hunter, +whose designs are seen through and motives found out; +you would hint to me that our intercourse must cease: is +it not so?"</p> + +<p>Lady Marabout, cursed with that obstinate, ill-bred, +unextinguishable weakness for truth incidental and ever +fatal to the De Bonc[oe]urs, couldn't say that it was <i>not</i> +what she was going to observe to him, but it was exceedingly +unpleasant, now it was put in such plain, uncomplimentary +terms, to admit to the man's face that she was +about to tell him he was a mercenary schemer, whose +attentions only sprang from a lawless passion for the +<i>beaux yeux</i> of Cecil's <i>cassette</i>.</p> + +<p>She would have told him all that, and much more, with +greatest dignity and effect, if he hadn't anticipated her; +but to have her weapon parried before it was fairly out +of its sheath unnerved her arm at the outset.</p> + +<p>"What <i>would</i> Anne Hautton do? Dear me! there +never was anybody perpetually placed in such wretched +positions as I am!" thought Lady Marabout, as she +played with her parasol, and murmured something not very +clear relative to "responsibility" and "not desirable," +two words as infallibly a part of Lady Marabout's stock +in trade as a sneer at the "swells" is of <i>Punch's</i>. How +she sighed for some cold, nonchalant, bitter sentence, such +as the Hautton répertoire could have supplied! how she +scorned herself for her own weakness and lack of severity!<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_154" id="Page_154">[Pg 154]</a></span> +But she would not have relished hurting a burglar's feelings, +though she had seen him in the very act of stealing +her jewel-boxes, by taxing him with the theft; and though +the Ogre <i>must</i> be crushed, the crushing began to give +Lady Marabout neuralgic twinges. She was no more +able to say the stern things she had rehearsed and resolved +upon, than she was able to stab him with her parasol, or +strangle him with her handkerchief.</p> + +<p>"I guessed rightly what you were about to say to me?" +said Cheveley, who seemed somehow or other to have taken +all the talk into his own hands, and to have become the +master of the position. "I thought so. I do not wonder +at your construction; I cannot blame you for your resolution. +Lady Cecil has some considerable fortune, they say; +it is very natural that you should have imagined a man +like myself, with no wealth save a good name, which only +serves to make lack of wealth more conspicuous, incapable +of seeking her society for any better, higher, more +disinterested motive than that of her money; it was not +charitable, perhaps, to decide unhesitatingly that it was +impossible I could be drawn to her by any other attraction, +that it was imperative I must be dead to everything +in her that gives her a nobler and a higher charm; but +it was very natural, and one learns never to hope for +the miracle of a charitable judgment, <i>even</i> from Lady +Marabout!"</p> + +<p>"My dear Mr. Cheveley, indeed you mistake!" began +Lady Marabout, restlessly. That was a little bit of a +story, he didn't mistake at all; but Lady Marabout, collapsing +like an india-rubber ball under the prick of a +sarcasm, shivered all over at his words, his voice, his slight +sad smile. "The man is as dreadful as Cecil," she +thought; "he puts things so horribly clearly!"</p> + +<p>"Mistake? I do not think I do. You have thought +all this, and very naturally; but now hear me for a moment. +I have sought Lady Cecil's society, that is perfectly<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_155" id="Page_155">[Pg 155]</a></span> +true; we have been thrown together in society, very often +accidentally; sometimes, I admit, through my own seeking. +Few men could be with her and be steeled against her. I +have been with her too much; but I sought her at first +carelessly, then irresistibly and unconsciously, never with +the motive you attribute to me. I am not as utterly +beggared as you deem me, but neither am I entirely barren +of honor. Believe me, Lady Marabout, my pride alone +would be amply sufficient to raise a barrier between me +and Cecil stronger than any that could be opposed to me +by others. Yesterday I casually overheard words from +Amandine which showed me that society, like you, has +put but one construction on the attention I have paid her—a +construction I might have foreseen had I not been +unconsciously fascinated, and forgetful, for the time, of +the infallible whispers of my kind friends. Her fortune, +I know, was never numbered among her attractions for +me; so little, that now that Amandine's careless words +have reminded me of the verdict of society, I shall +neither seek her nor see her again. Scores of men marry +women for their money, and their money alone, but I am +not one of them; with my own precarious fortunes, only +escaping ruin because I am not rich enough to tempt ruin. +I would never take advantage of any interest I may have +excited in her, to speak to her of a passion that the world +would tell her was only another name for avarice and +selfishness. I dare not trust myself with her longer, +perhaps. I am no god to answer for my self-control; +but you need not fear; I will never seek her love—never +even tell her of mine. I shall leave town to-morrow; +what <i>I</i> may suffer matters not. Lady Cecil is safe from +me! Whatever you may have heard of my faults, follies, +or vices, none ever told you, I think, that I broke my +word?"</p> + +<hr style="width: 25%;" /> + +<p>"And when the man said that, my dear Philip, I assure<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_156" id="Page_156">[Pg 156]</a></span> +you I felt as guilty as if I had done him some horrible +wrong; he stood there with his head up, looking at me +with his sad proud eyes—and they are beautiful!—till, +positively, I could almost have cried—I could, indeed, +for though I don't like him on principle, I couldn't help +pitying him," said Lady Marabout, in a subsequent relation +of the scene to her son. "Wasn't it a terrible position? +I was as near as possible forgetting everything due +to poor Rosediamond, and saying to him that I believed +Cecil liked him and would never like anybody else, but, +thank Heaven! I remembered myself, and checked myself +in time. If it had been anybody but Chandos Cheveley, +I should really have admired him, he spoke so +nobly! When he lifted his hat and left me, though I +<i>ought</i> to have been glad (and I <i>was</i> glad, of course) that +Cecil would be free from the society of anybody so objectionable +and so dangerous, I felt wretched for him—I +did indeed. It <i>is</i> so hard always to be placed in such +miserable positions!"</p> + +<p>By which you will perceive that the triumphant crushing +of Lady Marabout's Cobra didn't afford her the unmixed +gratification she had anticipated.</p> + +<p>"I have done what was my duty to poor Rosediamond, +and what General Ormsby's confidence merited," she solaced +herself that day, feeling uncomfortably and causelessly +guilty, she hardly knew why, when she saw Chandos +Cheveley keeping sedulously with the "Amandine +set," and read in Cecil's tell-tale face wonder, perplexity, +and regret thereat, till the Frangipane fête came to an +end. She had appeased the manes of the late Rosediamond, +who, to her imagination, always appeared sitting +up aloft keeping watch over the discharge of her chaperone's +duties, but she had a secret and horrible dread that +she had excited the wrath of Rosediamond's daughter. +She had driven her Ogre off the scene, it is true, but +she could not feel that she had altogether come off the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_157" id="Page_157">[Pg 157]</a></span> +best in the contest. Anne Hautton had congratulated +her, indeed, on having "acted with decision <i>at last</i>," but +then she had marred it all by asking if Carruthers was +likely to be engaged to Cecil? And Lady Marabout had +been forced to confess he was not; Philip, when pressed +by her that very morning to be a little attentive to Cecil, +having shaken his head and laughed:</p> + +<p>"She's a bewitching creature, mother, but she don't +bewitch <i>me</i>! You know what Shakspeare says of wooing, +wedding, and repentance. I've no fancy for the inseparable +trio!"</p> + +<p>Altogether, Lady Marabout was far from peace and tranquillity, +though the Cobra <i>was</i> crushed, as she drove away +from the Frangipane breakfast, and she was little nearer +them when Cecil turned her eyes upon her with a question +worse to Lady Marabout's ear than the roar of a Lancaster +battery.</p> + +<p>"What have you said to him?"</p> + +<p>"My dear Cecil! What have I said to whom?" returned +Lady Marabout, with Machiavellian surprise.</p> + +<p>"You know well enough, Lady Marabout! What have +you said to him—to Mr. Cheveley?"</p> + +<p>Cecil's impetuosity invariably knocked Lady Marabout +down at one blow, as a ball knocks down the pegs at lawn +billiards. She rallied after the shock, but not successfully, +and tried at coldness and decision, as recommended by +Hautton prescriptions.</p> + +<p>"My dear Cecil, I have said to him what I think it my +duty to say to him. Responsible as I am for you——"</p> + +<p>"Responsible for me, Lady Marabout? Indeed you are +not. I am responsible for myself!" interrupted Lady +Cecil, with that haughty arch of her eyebrows and that +flush on her face before which Lady Marabout was powerless. +"What have you said to him? I <i>will</i> know!"</p> + +<p>"I said very little to him, indeed, my dear; he said it +all himself."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_158" id="Page_158">[Pg 158]</a></span></p> + +<p>"What did he say himself?"</p> + +<p>"I <i>must</i> tell her—she is so dreadfully persistent," +thought the unhappy and badgered Peeress; and tell her +she did, being a means of lessening the young lady's interest +in the subject of discussion as little judicious as she +could well have hit upon.</p> + +<p>Lady Cecil listened, silent for once, shading her face +with her parasol, shading the tears that gathered on her +lashes and rolled down her delicate flushed cheeks, at the +recital of Chandos Cheveley's words, from her chaperone's +sight.</p> + +<p>Lady Marabout gathered courage from the tranquillity +with which her recital was heard.</p> + +<p>"You see, my love, Chandos Cheveley's own honor +points in the same direction with my judgment," she +wound up, in conclusion. "He has acted rightly at last, +I allow, and if you—if you have for the moment felt a +tinge of warmer interest in him—if you have been taken +by the fascination of his manner, and invested him with a +young girl's romance, you will soon see with us how infinitely +better it is that you should part, and how impossible +it is that——"</p> + +<p>Lady Cecil's eyes flashed such fire through their tears, +that Lady Marabout stopped, collapsed and paralyzed.</p> + +<p>"It is by such advice as that you repay his nobility, +his generosity, his honor!—it is by such words as those +you reward him for acting as not one man in a hundred +would have acted! Hush, hush, Lady Marabout, I thought +better of you!"</p> + +<p>"Good Heavens! <i>where will it end?</i>" thought Lady +Marabout, distractedly, as Rosediamond's wayward daughter +sprang down at the door with a flush in her face, and +a contemptuous anger in her eyes, that made Bijou, jumping +on her, stop, stare, and whine in canine dismay.</p> + +<p>"And I fancied she was listening passively!" thought +Lady Marabout.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_159" id="Page_159">[Pg 159]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Well! the man is gone to-day, that is one comfort. I +am very thankful I acted as I did," reasoned that ever-worried +lady in her boudoir the next morning. "I am +afraid Cecil is really very fond of him, there were such +black shadows under her eyes at breakfast, poor child! +But it is much better as it is—much better. I should +never have held up my head again if I had allowed her to +make such a disadvantageous alliance. I can hardly bear +to think of what would have been said, even now the danger +is over!"</p> + +<p>While Lady Marabout was thus comforting herself over +her embroidery silks, Cecil Ormsby was pacing into the +Park, with old Twitters the groom ten yards behind her, +taking her early ride before the world was up—it was only +eleven o'clock; Cecil had been used to early rising, and +would never leave it off, having discovered some recipe that +made her independent of ordinary mortals' quantum of +sleep.</p> + +<p>"Surely he will be here this morning to see me for the +last time," thought that young lady, as she paced up the +New Ride under the Kensington Gardens trees, with her +heart beating quickly under the gold aiglettes of her riding-jacket.</p> + +<p>"I must see her once more, and then——" thought +Chandos Cheveley, as he leaned against the rails, smoking, +as he had done scores of mornings before. His man had +packed his things; his hansom was waiting at the gates +to take him to the station, and his portmanteau was lettered +"Ischl." He had only come to take one last look +of the face that haunted him as no other had ever succeeded +in doing. The ring of a horse's hoof fell on his +ear. There she came, on her roan hack, with the sun +glancing off her chestnut hair. He looked up to bow to +her as she passed on, for the Ride had never been a rendezvous +for more than a bow (Cecil's insurrectionary +tactics had always been carried on before Lady Marabout's<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_160" id="Page_160">[Pg 160]</a></span> +face), but the roan was pulled up by him that +morning for the very first time, and Cecil's eyes fell on +him through their lashes.</p> + +<p>"Mr. Cheveley—is it true you are going out of town?"</p> + +<p>"Quite true."</p> + +<p>If her voice quivered as she asked the question, he +barely kept his own from doing the same as he answered it.</p> + +<p>"Will you be gone long?"</p> + +<p>"Till next season, at earliest."</p> + +<p>His promise to Lady Marabout was hard to keep! He +would not have trusted his strength if he had known she +would have done more than canter on with her usual bow +and smile.</p> + +<p>Cecil was silent. The groom waited like a statue his +ten yards behind them. She played with her reins nervously, +the color coming and going painfully in her face.</p> + +<p>"Lady Marabout told me of—of some conversation you +had with her yesterday?"</p> + +<p>Low as the words were, Cheveley heard them, and his +hand, as it lay on the rails, shook like a girl's.</p> + +<p>Cecil was silent again; she looked at him, her eyes full +of unshed tears, as the color burned in her face, and she +drooped her head almost to a level with her hands as they +played with the reins.</p> + +<p>"She told me—you——"</p> + +<p>She stopped again. Cecil was new to making proposals, +though not to rejecting them. Cheveley set his teeth to +keep in the words that rushed to his lips, and Cecil saw +the struggle as she bent her head lower and lower to the +saddle, and twisted the reins into a Gordian knot.</p> + +<p>"Do you—must we—why should——"</p> + +<p>Fragmentary monosyllables enough, but sufficient to fell +his strength.</p> + +<p>"For God's sake do not tempt me!" he muttered. "You +little know——"</p> + +<p>"I know all!" she whispered softly.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_161" id="Page_161">[Pg 161]</a></span></p> + +<p>"You cannot! My worthless life!—my honor! I +could not take such a sacrifice, I would not!——"</p> + +<p>"But—if my peace——"</p> + +<p>She could not end her phrase, yet it said enough;—his +hand closed on hers.</p> + +<p>"Your peace! Good God! in <i>my</i> hands! I stay; +then—let the world say what it likes!"</p> + +<hr style="width: 25%;" /> + +<p>"Drive back; I have changed my mind about going +abroad to-day," said Cheveley, as he got into his hansom +at Albert Gate.</p> + +<p>"How soon she has got over it! Girls do," thought +Lady Marabout, as Cecil Ormsby came in from her ride +with the brightest bloom on her cheeks a June breeze ever +fanned there. She laid her hat on the table, flung her +gauntlets at Bijou, and threw herself on her knees by Lady +Marabout, a saucy smile on her face, though her lashes +were wet.</p> + +<p>"Dear Lady Marabout, I can forgive you now, but you +will never forgive me!"</p> + +<p>Lady Marabout turned white as her point-lace cap, +gave a little gasp of paralyzed terror, and pushed back +her chair as though a shell had exploded on the hearth-rug.</p> + +<p>"Cecil! Good Heaven!—you don't mean——"</p> + +<p>"Yes I do," said Cecil, with a fresh access of color, +and a low, soft laugh.</p> + +<p>Lady Marabout gasped again for breath:</p> + +<p>"General Ormsby!" was all she could ejaculate.</p> + +<p>"General Ormsby? What of him? Did you ever +know uncle Johnnie refuse to please <i>me</i>? And if my +money be to interfere with my happiness, and not promote +it, as I conceive it its duty and purpose to do, why, +I am of age in July, you know, and I shall make a deed +of gift of it all to the Soldiers' Home or the Wellington +College, and there is only one person who will care for +me <i>then</i>."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_162" id="Page_162">[Pg 162]</a></span></p> + +<p>Lady Cecil was quite capable of carrying her threat +into execution, and Lady Cecil had her own way accordingly, +as she had had it from her babyhood.</p> + +<hr style="width: 25%;" /> + +<p>"I shall never hold up my head again! And what a +horrible triumph for Anne Hautton! I am always the +victim—always!" said Lady Marabout, that day two +months, when the last guest at Cecil Ormsby's wedding +déjeûner had rolled away from the house. "A girl who +might have married anybody, Philip; she refused twenty +offers this season—she did, indeed! It is heart-breaking, +say what you like; you needn't laugh, it <i>is</i>. Why did I +offer them Fernditton for this month, you say, if I didn't +countenance the alliance? Nonsense! that is nothing to +the purpose. Of course, I seemed to countenance it to a +degree, for Cecil's sake, and I admire Chandos Cheveley, +I confess (at least I should do, if I didn't dislike his class +on principle); but, say what you like, Philip, it is the +most terrible thing that could have happened for <i>me</i>. +Those men <i>ought</i> to be labelled, or muzzled, or done something +with, and not be let loose on society as they are. +He has a noble nature, you say. I don't say anything +against his nature! She worships him? Well, I know +she does. What is that to the point? He will make her +happy? I am sure he will. He has the gentlest way +with her possible. But how does that console <i>me</i>? Think +what <i>you</i> feel when an outsider, as you call it, beats all +the favorites, upsets all your betting-books, and carries +off the Doncaster Cup, and then realize, if you've any +humanity in you, what <i>we</i> feel under such a trial as this +is to me! Only to think what Anne Hautton will +always say!"</p> + +<p>Lady Marabout is not the only person to whom the +first thought, the most dreaded ghost, the ghastliest skeleton, +the direst aggravation, the sharpest dagger-thrust,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_163" id="Page_163">[Pg 163]</a></span> +under all troubles, is the remembrance of that one omnipotent +Ogre—"<span class="smcap">Qu'en dira-t-on?</span>"</p> + +<p>"Laugh at her, mother," counselled Carruthers; and, +<i>amis lecteurs</i>, I pass on his advice to you as the best and +sole bowstring for strangling the ogre in question, which +is the grimmest we have in all Bogeydom.</p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/cc161.png" alt="* * * * *" /> +</div> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_164" id="Page_164">[Pg 164]</a></span></p> +<hr style="width: 60%;" /> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/cc162a.png" alt="* * * * *" /> +</div> + + + +<h2>LADY MARABOUT'S TROUBLES;</h2> + +<div class='center'>OR,</div> + +<h3>THE WORRIES OF A CHAPERONE.<br /> + +<br /><br />IN THREE SEASONS.</h3> + +<h4><a name="THIRD" id="THIRD"></a>SEASON THE THIRD.—THE CLIMAX.</h4> + + +<p>"My dear Philip, the most unfortunate thing has +happened," said Lady Marabout, one morning; +"really the greatest contretemps that could have +occurred. I suppose I never <i>am</i> to be quiet!"</p> + +<p>"What's the row <i>now</i>, madre carissima?" asked her son.</p> + +<p>"It is no row, but it is an annoyance. You have heard +me speak of my poor dear friend Mrs. Montolieu; you +know she married unhappily, poor thing, to a dreadful +creature, something in a West India regiment—nobody +at all. It is very odd, and it is very wrong, and there +must be a great mistake somewhere, but certainly most +marriages <i>are</i> unhappy."</p> + +<p>"And yet you are always recommending the institution! +What an extraordinary obstinacy and opticism, +my dear mother! I suppose you do it on the same principle +as nurses recommend children nasty medicines, or +as old Levett used to tender me dry biscuit <i>sans confiture</i>: +''Tisn't so nice as marmalade, I know, Master Philip, but +then, dear, it's <i>so</i> wholesome!'"<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_165" id="Page_165">[Pg 165]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Hold your tongue, Philip," cried Lady Marabout; +"I don't mean it in that sense at all, and you know I +don't. If poor Lilla Montolieu is unhappy, I am sure it +is all her abominable odious husband's fault; she is the +sweetest creature possible. But she has a daughter, and +concerning that daughter she wrote to me about a month +ago, and—I never was more vexed in my life—she +wants me to bring her out this season."</p> + +<p>"A victim again! My poor dear mother, you certainly +deserve a Belgravian testimonial; you shall have a statue +set up in Lowndes Square commemorative of the heroic +endurance of a chaperone's existence, subscribed for +gratefully by the girls you married well, and penitentially +by the girls you couldn't marry at all."</p> + +<p>Lady Marabout laughed a little, but sighed again:</p> + +<p>"'It is fun to you, but it is death to me'——"</p> + +<p>"As the women say when we flirt with them," interpolated +Carruthers.</p> + +<p>"You see, poor dear Lilla didn't know what to do. +There she is, in that miserable island with the unpronounceable +name that the man is governor of; shut out +of all society, with nobody to marry this girl to if she +had her there, except their secretary, or a West Indian +planter. Of course, no mother would ruin her daughter's +prospects, and take her into such an out-of-the-world +corner. She knew no one so well as myself, and so to me +she applied. She is the sweetest creature! I would do +anything to oblige or please her, but I can't help being +very sorry she has pounced upon me. And I don't the +least know what this girl is like, not even whether she is +presentable. I dare say she was petted and spoiled in +that lazy, luxurious, tropical life when she was little, and +she has been brought up the last few years in a convent +in France, the very last education <i>I</i> should choose for a +girl. Fancy, if I should find her an ignorant, unformed +hoyden, or a lethargic, overgrown child, or an artificial<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_166" id="Page_166">[Pg 166]</a></span> +French girl, who goes to confession every day, and carries +on twenty undiscoverable love affairs—fancy, if she +should be ugly, or awkward, or brusque, or gauche, as +ten to one she will be—fancy, if I find her utterly unpresentable!—what +in the world shall I do?"</p> + +<p>"Decline her," suggested Carruthers. "I wouldn't +have a horse put in my tilbury that I'd never seen, and +risk driving a spavined, wall-eyed, underbred brute +through the Park; and I suppose the ignominy of the +début would be to you much what the ignominy of such +a turn-out would be to me."</p> + +<p>"Decline her? I can't, my dear Philip! I agreed to +have her a month ago. I have never seen you to tell you +till now, you know; you've been so sworn to Newmarket +all through the Spring Meetings. Decline her? she comes +to-night!"</p> + +<p>"Comes to-night?" laughed Carruthers. "All is lost, +then. We shall see the Countess of Marabout moving +through London society with a West Indian, who has a +skin like Othello; has as much idea of manners as a housemaid +that suddenly turns out an heiress, and is invited by +people to whom she yesterday carried up their hot water; +reflects indelible disgrace on her chaperone by gaucheries +unparalleled; throws glass or silver missiles at Soames's +head when he doesn't wait upon her at luncheon to +her liking, as she has been accustomed to do at the +negroes——"</p> + +<p>"Philip, pray don't!" cried Lady Marabout, piteously.</p> + +<p>"Or, we shall welcome under the Marabout wing a +young lady fresh from convent walls and pensionnaire +flirtations, who astonishes a dinner-party by only taking +the first course, on the score of jours maigres and conscientious +scruples; who is visited by révérends pères from +Farm Street, and fills your drawing-room with High +Church curates, whom she tries to draw over from their +'mother's' to their 'sister's' open arms; who goes every<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_167" id="Page_167">[Pg 167]</a></span> +day to early morning mass instead of taking an early +morning canter, and who, when invited to sing at a soirée +musicale, begins 'Sancta Maria adorata!'"</p> + +<p>"Philip, <i>don't</i>!" cried Lady Marabout. "Bark at him, +Bijou, the heartless man! It is as likely as not little +Montolieu may realize one of your horrible sketches. Ah, +Philip, you don't know what the worries of a chaperone +are!"</p> + +<p>"Thank Heaven, no!" laughed Carruthers.</p> + +<p>"It is easy to make a joke of it, and very tempting, I +dare say—one's woes always <i>are</i> amusing to other people, +they don't feel the smart themselves, and only laugh at the +grimace it forces from one—but I can tell you, Philip, it is +anything <ins title="Transcriber's Note: original reads 'put'">but</ins> a pleasant prospect to have to go about in +society with a girl one may be ashamed of!—I don't know +anything more trying; I would as soon wear paste diamonds +as introduce a girl that is not perfectly good style."</p> + +<p>"But why not have thought of all this in time?"</p> + +<p>Lady Marabout sank back in her chair, and curled +Bijou's ears, with a sigh.</p> + +<p>"My dear Philip, if everybody always thought of things +in time, would there be any follies committed at all? It's +precisely because repentance comes too late, that repentance +is such a horrible wasp, with such a merciless sting. Besides, +<i>could</i> I refuse poor Lilla Montolieu, unhappy as she is with +that bear of a man?"</p> + +<p>"I never felt more anxious in my life," thought Lady +Marabout, as she sat before the fire in her drawing-room—it +was a chilly April day—stirring the cream into her pre-prandial +cup of tea, resting one of her small satin-slippered +feet on Bijou's back, while the firelight sparkled on the +Dresden figures, the statuettes, the fifty thousand costly +trifles, in which the Marabout rooms equalled any in Belgravia. +"I never felt more anxious—not on any of Philip's +dreadful yachting expeditions, nor even when he <ins title="Transcriber's Note: original reads 'went that'">went on that</ins> +perilous exploring tour into Arabia Deserta, I do think. If<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_168" id="Page_168">[Pg 168]</a></span> +she <i>should</i> be unpresentable—and then poor dear Lilla's +was not much of a match, and the girl will not have a +sou, she tells me frankly; I can hardly hope to do anything +for her. There is one thing, she will not be a responsibility +like Valencia or Cecil, and what would have +been a bad match for <i>them</i> will be a good one for her. +She must accept the first offer made her, if she have any +at all, which will be very doubtful; few Benedicts bow +to Beatrices nowadays, unless Beatrice is a good 'investment,' +as they call it. She will soon be here. That is the +carriage now stopped, I do think. How anxious I feel! +Really it can't be worse for a Turkish bridegroom never +to see his wife's face till after the ceremony than it is for +one not to have seen a girl till one has to introduce her. +If she shouldn't be good style!"</p> + +<p>And Lady Marabout's heart palpitated, possibly prophetically, +as she set down her little Sèvres cup and rose +out of her arm-chair, with Bijou shaking his silver collar +and bells, to welcome the new inmate of Lowndes Square, +with her sunny smile and her kindly voice, and her soft +beaming eyes, which, as I have often stated, would have +made Lady Marabout look amiable at an Abruzzi bandit +who had demanded her purse, or an executioner who had +led her out to capital punishment, and now made her radiate, +warm and bright, on a guest whose advent she +dreaded. Hypocrisy, you say. Not a bit of it! Hypocrisy +may be eminently courteous, but take my word for it, +it's never <i>cordial</i>! There are natures who throw such +golden rays around them naturally, as there are others +who think brusquerie and acidity cardinal virtues, and +deal them out as points of conscience; are there not sunbeams +that shine kindly alike on fragrant violet tufts and +barren brambles, velvet lawns and muddy trottoirs? are +there not hail-clouds that send jagged points of ice on all +the world pêle-mêle, as mercilessly on the broken rose as +on the granite boulder?<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_169" id="Page_169">[Pg 169]</a></span></p> + +<p>"She <i>is</i> good style, thank Heaven!" thought Lady +Marabout, as she went forward, with her white soft hands, +their jewels flashing in the light, outstretched in welcome. +"My dear child, how much you are like your mother! +You must let me be fond of you for her sake, first, and +then—for your own!"</p> + +<p>The conventional thought did not make the cordial utterance +insincere. The two ran in couples—we often +drive such pairs, every one of us—and if they entail insincerity, +<i>Veritas, vale!</i></p> + +<p>"Madre mia, I called to inquire if you have survived +the anxiety of last night, and to know what <i>jeune sauvage</i> +or feir <i>religieuse</i> you may have had sent you for the galvanizing +of Belgravia?" said Carruthers, paying his accustomed +visit in his mother's boudoir, and throwing +macaroons at Bijou's nose.</p> + +<p>"My dear Philip, I hardly know; she puzzles me. She's +what, if she were a man, I should classify as a detrimental."</p> + +<p>"Is she awkward?"</p> + +<p>"Not in the least. Perfect manners, wherever she +learned them."</p> + +<p>"Brusque?"</p> + +<p>"Soft as a gazelle. Very like her mother."</p> + +<p>"Brown?"</p> + +<p>"Fair as that statuette, with a beautiful bloom; lovely +gold hair, too, and hazel eyes."</p> + +<p>"What are the shortcomings, then?"</p> + +<p>"There are none; and it's that that puzzles me. She's +been six years in that convent, and yet, I do assure you, +her style is perfect. She's hardly eighteen, but she's the +air of the best society. She is—a—well, <i>almost</i> nobody, +as people rank now, you know, for poor dear Lilla's marriage +was not what she should have made, but the girl +might be a royal duke's daughter for manner."</p> + +<p>"A premature artificial <i>femme du monde</i>? Bah! nothing +more odious," said Carruthers, poising a macaroon on Pandore's<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_170" id="Page_170">[Pg 170]</a></span> +nose. "Make ready!—present!—fire! There's a +good dog!"</p> + +<p>"No, nothing of that sort: very natural, frank, vivacious. +Nothing artificial about her; very charming indeed! +But she might be a young Countess, the queen of +a <i>monde</i> rather than a young girl just out of a French +convent; and, you know, my dear Philip, that sort of wit +and nonchalance may be admirable for Cecil Cheveley, +assured of her position, but they're dangerous to a girl +like this Flora Montolieu: they will make people remark +her and ask who she is, and try to pull her to pieces, if +they don't find her somebody they <i>dare</i> not hit. I would +much rather she were of the general pattern, pleasing, but +nothing remarkable, well-bred, but nothing to envy, thoroughly +educated, but monosyllabic in society; such a +girl as that passes among all the rest, suits mediocre men +(and the majority of men <i>are</i> mediocre, you know, my +dear Philip), and pleases women because she is a nice girl, +and no rival; but this little Montolieu——"</p> + +<p>And Lady Marabout sighed with a prescience of coming +troubles, while Carruthers laughed and rose.</p> + +<p>"Will worry your life out! I must go, for I have to +sit in court-martial at two (for a mere trifle, a deuced bore +to us, but <i>le service oblige</i>!), so I shall escape introduction +to your little Montolieu to-day. Why <i>will</i> you fill your +house with girls, my dear mother?—it is fifty times more +agreeable when you are reigning alone. Henceforth, I +can't come in to lunch with you without going through +the formula of a mild flirtation—women think you so ill-natured +if you don't flirt a little with them, that amiable +men like myself haven't strength of mind to refuse. You +should keep <i>your</i> house an open sanctuary for me, when +you know I've no other in London except when I retreat +into White's and the U. S.!"</p> + +<p>"She puzzles me!" pondered Lady Marabout, as Despréaux +disrobed her that night. "I always <i>am</i> to be<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_171" id="Page_171">[Pg 171]</a></span> +puzzled, I think! I never <i>can</i> have one of those quiet, +mediocre, well-mannered, remarkable-for-nothing girls, +who have no idiosyncrasies and give nobody any trouble; +one marries them safely to some second-rate man; nobody +admires them, and nobody dislikes them; they're to society +what neutral tint is among body-colors, or rather +what grays are among dresses, inoffensive, unimpeachable, +always look ladylike, but never look brilliant; colorless +dresses are very useful, and so are characterless girls; and +I dare say the draper would tell us the grays in the long +run are the easiest to sell, as the girls are to marry; they +please the commonplace taste of the generality, and do +for every-day wear! Flora Montolieu puzzles me; she +is very charming, very striking, very lovable, but she +puzzles me! I have a presentiment that that child will +give me a world of anxiety, an infinitude of trouble!"</p> + +<p>And Lady Marabout laid her head on her pillow, not +the happier that Flora Montolieu was lying asleep in the +room next her, dreaming of the wild-vine shadows and +the night-blooming flowers of her native tropics, under the +rose-curtains of her new home in Lowndes Square, already +a burden on the soul and a responsibility on the mind of +that home's most genial and generous mistress.</p> + +<p>"If she were a man, I should certainly call her a detrimental," +said Lady Marabout, after a more deliberate +study of her charge. "You know, my dear Philip, the +sort of man one call detrimental; attractive enough to +do a great deal of damage, and ineligible enough to make +the damage very unacceptable: handsome and winning, +but a younger son, or a something nobody wants; a delightful +flirtation, but a terrible alliance; you know what +I mean! Well, that is just what this little Montolieu is +in our sex; I am quite sure it is what she will be considered; +and if it be bad for a man, it is very much worse +for a woman! Everybody will admire her, and nobody +will marry her; I have a presentiment of it!"<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_172" id="Page_172">[Pg 172]</a></span></p> + +<p>With which prophetical mélange of the glorious and +the inglorious for her charge's coming career, Lady Marabout +sighed, and gave a little shiver, such as</p> + +<p> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Sous des maux ignorés nous fait gémir d'avance,</span><br /> +</p> + +<p>as Delphine Gay well phrased it. And she floated out +of her boudoir to the dining-room for luncheon, at which +unformal and pleasant meal Carruthers chanced to stay, +criticise a new dry sherry, and take a look at this unsalable +young filly of the Marabout Yearling Sales.</p> + +<p>"I don't know about her being detrimental, mother, +nor about her being little; she in more than middle +height," laughed he; "but I vow she is the prettiest +thing you've had in your list for some time. You've +had much greater beauties, you say? Well, perhaps so; +but I bet you any money she will make a sensation."</p> + +<p>"I'm sure she will," reiterated Lady Marabout, despairingly. +"I have no doubt she will have a brilliant season; +there is something very piquante, taking, and uncommon +about her; but who will marry her at the end +of it?"</p> + +<p>Carruthers shouted with laughter.</p> + +<p>"Heaven forbid that I should attempt to prophesy! I +would undertake as readily to say who'll be the owner of +the winner of the Oaks ten years hence! I can tell you +who <i>won't</i>——"</p> + +<p>"Yourself; because you'll never marry anybody at +all," cried Lady Marabout. "Well! I must say I should +not wish you to renounce your misogamistic notions here. +The Montolieus are not at all what <i>you</i> should look for; +and a child like Flora would be excessively ill suited to +you. If I could see you married, as I should desire, to +some woman of weight and dignity, five or six-and-twenty, +fit for you in every way——"</p> + +<p>"<i>De grace, de grace!</i> My dear mother, the mere sketch +will kill me, if you insist on finishing it! Be reasonable!<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_173" id="Page_173">[Pg 173]</a></span> +Can anything be more comfortable, more tranquil, than I +am now? I swing through life in a rocking-chair; if I'm +a trifle bored now and then, it's my heaviest trial. I float +as pleasantly on the waves of London life, in my way, as +the lotus-eaters of poetry on the Ganges in theirs; and +<i>you'd</i> have the barbarity to introduce into my complacent +existence the sting of matrimony, the phosphorus of +Hymen's torch, the symbolical serpent of a wedding-ring?—for +shame!"</p> + +<p>Lady Marabout laughed despite herself, and the solemnity, +in <i>her</i> eyes, of the subject.</p> + +<p>"I <i>should</i> like to see you happily married, for all that, +though I quite despair of it now; but perhaps you are +right."</p> + +<p>"Of course I am right! Adam was tranquil and unworried +till fate sent him a wife, and he was typical of the +destinies of his descendants. Those who are wise, take +warning; those who are not, neglect it and repent. Lady +Hautton <ins title="Transcriber's Note: abbreviation for the French 'compagnie'">et C<sup>ie</sup></ins> are very fond of twisting scriptural obscurities +into 'types.' <i>There's</i> a type plain as day, and +salutary to mankind, if detrimental to women!"</p> + +<p>"Philip, you are abominable! don't be so wicked!" +cried Lady Marabout, enjoying it all the more because +she was a little shocked at it, as your best women will on +occasion; human nature is human nature everywhere, +and the female heart gives pleasurable little pulses at the +sight of forbidden fruits now, as in the days of Eve.</p> + +<p>"Who's that Miss Montolieu with your mother this +year, Phil?" dozens of men asked Carruthers, that season, +across the mess-table, in the smoking-room of the Guards, +in the Ride or the Ring, in the doorways of ball-rooms, or +anywhere where such-like questions are asked and new +pretty women discussed.</p> + +<p>"What is it in her that takes so astonishingly?" wondered +Lady Marabout, who is, like most women, orthodox +on all points, loving things by rule, worrying if they go<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_174" id="Page_174">[Pg 174]</a></span> +out of the customary routine, and was, therefore, quite +incapable of reconciling herself to so revolutionary a fact +as a young lady being admired who was not a beauty, and +sought while she was detrimental in every way. It was +"out of the general rule," and your orthodox people hate +anything "out of the general run," as they hate their +prosperous friends: the force of hatred can no further +go! Flora Montolieu's crime in Belgravia was much akin +to the Bonapartes' crimes to the Bourbons. Thrones +must be filled legitimately, if not worthily, in the eyes +of the orthodox people, and this Petit Caporal of Lady +Marabout's had no business to reign where the Hereditary +Princesses and all the other noble lines failed to sway the +sceptre. Lady Marabout, belonging to the noble lines +herself, agreed in her heart with them, and felt a little +bit guilty to have introduced this democratic and unwelcome +element in society.</p> + +<p>Flora Montolieu "took," as people say of bubble companies, +meaning that they will pleasantly ruin a million +or two: or of new fashions, meaning that they will become +general with the many and, <i>sequitur</i>, unwearable +with the few. She had the brilliance and grace of one +of her own tropical flowers, with something piquante and +attractive about her that one had to leave nameless, but +that was all the more charming for that very fact perhaps; +full of life and animation, but soft as a gazelle, as her +chaperone averred; not characterless, as Lady Marabout +fondly desired (on the same principle, I suppose, as a +timid whip likes a horse as spiritless as a riding-school +hack), but gifted with plenty of very marked character, +so much, indeed, that it rather puzzled her <i>camériste</i>.</p> + +<p>"Girls shouldn't have marked character; they should +be clay that one can mould, not a self-chiselled statuette, +that will only go into its own niche, and won't go into +any other. This little Montolieu would make just such +a woman as Vittoria Colonna or Madame de Sablé, but<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_175" id="Page_175">[Pg 175]</a></span> +one doesn't want <i>those</i> qualities in a girl, who is but a +single little ear in the wheat-sheaf of society, and whom +one wants to marry off, but can't expect to marry well. +Her poor mother, of course, will look to me to do something +advantageous for her, and I verily believe she is that sort +of girl that will let me do nothing," thought Lady Marabout, +already beginning to worry, as she talked to Lady +George Frangipane at a breakfast in Palace Gardens, +and watched Flora Montolieu, with Carruthers on her +left and Goodwood on her right, amusing them both, to +all semblance, and holding her own to the Lady Hautton's +despite, who held <i>their</i> own so excessively chillily and +loftily that no ordinary mortals cared to approach them, +but, beholding them, thought involuntarily of the stately +icebergs off the Spitzbergen coast, only that the icebergs +<i>could</i> melt or explode when their time came, and the +time was never known when the Hautton surface could +be moved to anger or melt to any sunshine whatever. +At least, whether their maids or their mother ever beheld +the first of the phenomena, far be it from me to say, but +the world never saw either.</p> + +<p>"Well, Miss Montolieu, how do you like our life here?" +Carruthers was asking. "Which is preferable—Belgravia +or St. Denis?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, Belgravia, decidedly," laughed Lady Marabout's +charge. "I think your life charming. All change, excitement, +gayety, who would not like it?"</p> + +<p>"Nobody—that is not fresh to it?"</p> + +<p>"Fresh to it? Ah! are you one of the class who find +no beauty in anything unless it is new? If so, do not +charge the blame on to the thing, as your tone implies; +take it rather to yourself and your own fickleness."</p> + +<p>"Perhaps I do," smiled Carruthers. "But whether +one's self or 'the thing' is to blame, the result's much the +same—satiety! Wait till you have had two or three +seasons, and then tell me if you find this mill-wheel routine,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_176" id="Page_176">[Pg 176]</a></span> +these circus gyrations, so delightful! We are the +performing stud, who go round and round in the hippodrome, +day after day for show, till we are sick of the +whole programme, knowing our white stars are but a +daub of paint, and our gay spangles only tinfoil. You +are a little pony just joined to the troupe, and just pleased +with the glitter of the arena. Wait till you've had a +few years of it before you say whether going through the +same hoops and passing over the same sawdust is so very +amusing."</p> + +<p>"If I do not, I shall desert the troupe, and form a circus +of my own less mechanical and more enjoyable."</p> + +<p>"<i>Il faut souffrir pour être belle, il faut souffrir encore +plus pour être à la mode!</i>" said Goodwood, on her right, +while Lady Egidia Hautton thought, "How bold that +little Montolieu is!" and her sister, Lady Feodorowna, +wondered what her cousin Goodwood <i>could</i> see there.</p> + +<p>"I do not see the necessity," interrupted Flora, "and I +certainly would never bow to the 'il faut.' I would make +fashion follow me; I would not follow fashion." ("That +child talks as though she were the Duchess of Amandine;" +thought Lady Marabout, catching fragmentary portions +across the table, the Marabout oral and oracular organs +being always conveniently multiplied when she was armed +cap à pie as a chaperone.) "Sir Philip, you talk as if +you belonged to the 'nothing-is-new, and nothing-is-true, +and it-don't-signify' class. I should have thought you +were above the nil admirari affectation."</p> + +<p>"He admires, as we all do, when we find something +that compels our homage," said Goodwood, with an emphasis +that would have made the hearts of any of the +Hereditary Princesses palpitate with gratification, but +at which the ungrateful Petit Caporal only glanced at +him a little surprisedly with her large hazel eyes, as +though she by no means saw the point of the speech.</p> + +<p>Carruthers laughed:<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_177" id="Page_177">[Pg 177]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Nil admirari? Oh no. I enjoy life, but then it is +thanks to the clubs, my yacht, my cigar-case, my stud, +a thousand things,—not thanks at all to Belgravia."</p> + +<p>"Complimentary to the Belgraviennes!" cried Flora, +with a shrug of her shoulders. "They have not known +how to amuse you, then?"</p> + +<p>"Ladies never <i>do</i> amuse us!" sighed Carruthers. "<i>Tant +pis pour nous!</i>"</p> + +<p>"Are you going to Lady Patchouli's this evening?" +asked Goodwood.</p> + +<p>"I believe we are. I think Lady Marabout said so."</p> + +<p>"Then I shall exert myself, and go too. It will be a +terrible bore—balls always are. But to waltz with <i>you</i> +I will try to encounter it!"</p> + +<p>Flora Montolieu arched her eyebrows, and gave him a +little disdainful glance.</p> + +<p>"Lord Goodwood, do not be so sure that I shall waltz +at all with you. If <i>you</i> take vanity for wit, <i>I</i> cannot +accept discourtesy as compliment!"</p> + +<p>"Well hit, little lady!" thought Carruthers, with a +mental bravissima.</p> + +<p>"What a speech!" thought Lady Marabout, across the +table, as shocked as though a footman had dropped a +cascade of iced hock over her.</p> + +<p>"You got it for once, Goodwood," laughed Carruthers, +as they drove away in his tilbury. "You never had such +a sharp brush as that."</p> + +<p>"By Jove, no! Positively it was quite a new sensation—refreshing, +indeed! One grows so tired of the women +who agree with one eternally. She's charming, on my +word. Who <i>is</i> she, Phil? In an heraldic sense, I mean."</p> + +<p>"My dear child, what could possess you to answer +Lord Goodwood like that?" cried Lady Marabout, as her +barouche rolled down Palace Gardens.</p> + +<p>"Possess me? The Demon of Mischief, I suppose."</p> + +<p>"But, my love, it was a wonderful compliment from +him!"<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_178" id="Page_178">[Pg 178]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Was it? I do not see any compliment in those vain, +impertinent, Brummelian amour-propreisms. I must coin +the word, there is no good one to express it."</p> + +<p>"But, my dear Flora, you know he is the Marquis of +Goodwood, the Duke of Doncaster's son! It is not as if +he were a boy in the Lancers, or an unfledged <i>petit maître</i> +from the Foreign Office——"</p> + +<p>"Were he her Majesty's son, he should not gratify his +vanity at my expense! If he expected me to be flattered +by his condescension, he mistook me very much. He has +been allowed to adopt that tone, I suppose; but from a +man to a woman a chivalrous courtesy is due, though the +man be an emperor."</p> + +<p>"Perhaps so—of course; but that <i>is</i> their tone nowadays, +my love, and you cannot alter it. I always say the +Regency-men inaugurated it, and their sons and grandsons +out-Herod Herod. But to turn a tide, or be a wit +with impunity, a woman wants to occupy a prominent and +unassailable position. Were you the Duchess of Amandine, +you might say that sort of thing, but a young girl +just out <i>must not</i>—indeed she must not! The Hauttons +heard you, and the Hauttons are very merciless people; +perfectly bred themselves, and pitiless on the least infringement +of the convenances. Besides, ten to one you +may have gained Goodwood's ill-will; and he is a man +whose word has immense weight, I assure you."</p> + +<p>"I do not see anything remarkable in him to give him +weight," said the literal and unimpressible little Montolieu. +"He is a commonplace person to my taste, neither +so brilliant nor so handsome by a great deal as many +gentlemen I see—as Sir Philip, for instance, Lady Marabout?"</p> + +<p>"An my son? No, my love, he is not; very few men +have Philip's talents and person," said Lady Marabout, +consciously mollified and propitiated, but going on, nevertheless, +with a Spartan impartiality highly laudable<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_179" id="Page_179">[Pg 179]</a></span> +"Goodwood's rank, however, is much higher than Philip's +(at least it stands so, though really the Carruthers are by +far the older, dating as far back as Ethelbert II., while +the Doncaster family are literally unknown till the fourteenth +century, when Gervaise d'Ascotte received the +acolade before Ascalon from Godfrey de Bouillon); Goodwood +<i>has</i> great weight, my dear, in the best circles. A +compliment from him is a great compliment to any woman, +and the sort of answer you gave him——"</p> + +<p>"Must have been a great treat to him, dear Lady Marabout, +if every one is in the habit of kow-towing before +him. Princes, you know, are never so happy as when +they can have a little bit of nature; and my speech must +have been as refreshing to Lord Goodwood as the breath +of his Bearnese breezes and the freedom of his Pyrenean +forests were to Henri Quatre after the court etiquette and +the formal ceremonial of Paris."</p> + +<p>"I don't know about its being a treat to him, my dear; +it was more likely to be a shower-bath. And your illustration +isn't to the point. The Bearnese breezes were +Henri Quatre's native air, and might be pleasant to him; +but the figurative ones are not Goodwood's, and I am sure +cannot please him."</p> + +<p>"But, Lady Marabout, I do not want to please him!" +persisted the young lady, perversely. "I don't care in +the least what he thinks, or what he says of me!"</p> + +<p>"Dear me, how oddly things go!" thought Lady Marabout. +"There was Valencia, one of the proudest girls +in England, his equal in every way, an acknowledged +beauty, who would have said the dust on the trottoir was +diamonds, and worn turquoises on azureline, or emeralds +on rose, I verily believe, if such opticisms and gaucheries +had been Goodwood's taste; and here is this child—for +whom the utmost one can do will be to secure a younger +son out of the Civil Service, or a country member—cannot +be made to see that he is of an atom more importance<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_180" id="Page_180">[Pg 180]</a></span> +than Soames or Mason, and treats him with downright +nonchalant indifference. What odd anomalies one sees +in everything!"</p> + +<p>"Who <i>is</i> that young lady with you this season?" Lady +Hautton asked, smiling that acidulated smile with which +that amiable saint always puts long questions to you of +which she knows the answer would be <i>peine forte et dure</i>. +"Not the daughter of that horrid John Montolieu, who +did all sorts of dreadful things, and was put into a West +India regiment? Indeed! that man? Dear me! Married +the sister of your incumbent at Fernditton? Ah, +really!—very singular! But how do you come to have +brought out the daughter?"</p> + +<p>At all of which remarks Lady Marabout winced, and +felt painfully guilty of a gross democratic dereliction +from legitimate and beaten paths, conscious of having +sinned heavily in the eyes of the world and Lady Hautton, +by bringing within the sacred precincts of Belgravia the +daughter of a <i>mauvais sujet</i> in a West India corps and a +sister of a perpetual curate. The world was a terrible +dragon to Lady Marabout; to her imagination it always +appeared an incarnated and omniscient bugbear, Argus-eyed, +and with all its hundred eyes relentlessly fixed on +her, spying out each item of her shortcomings, every little +flaw in the Marabout diamonds, any spur-made tear +in her Honiton flounces, any crease in her train at a +Drawing-room, any lèse-majesté against the royal rule of +conventionalities, any glissade on the polished oak floor +of society, though like a good many other people she +often worried herself needlessly; the flaws, tears, creases, +high treasons, and false glissades being fifty to one too +infinitesimal or too unimportant to society for one of the +hundred eyes (vigilant and unwinking though I grant +they are) to take note of them. The world was a terrible +bugbear to Lady Marabout, and its special impersonation +was Anne Hautton. She disliked Anne Hautton; she<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_181" id="Page_181">[Pg 181]</a></span> +didn't esteem her; she knew her to be a narrow, censorious, +prejudiced, and strongly malicious lady; but she +was the personification of the World to Lady Marabout, +and had weight and terror in consequence. Lady Marabout +is not the first person who has burnt incense and +bowed in fear before a little miserable clay image she cordially +despised, for no better reason—for the self-same +reason, indeed.</p> + +<p>"She evidently thinks I ought not to have brought +Flora out; and perhaps I shouldn't; though, poor little +thing, it seems very hard she may not enjoy society—fitted +for society, too, as she is—just because her father is in a +West India regiment, and poor Lilla was only a clergyman's +daughter. Goodwood really seems to admire her. +I can never forgive him for his heartless flirtation with +Valencia; but if he <i>were</i> to be won by a Montolieu, what +would the Hauttons say?"</p> + +<p>And sitting against the wall, with others of her sisterhood, +at a ball, a glorious and golden vision rose up before +Lady Marabout's eyes.</p> + +<p>If the unknown, unwelcome, revolutionary little Montolieu +should go in and win where the Lady Hauttons +had tried and failed through five seasons—if this little +tropical flower should be promoted to the Doncaster conservatory, +where all the stately stephanotises of the +peerage had vainly aspired to bloom—if this Petit Caporal +should be crowned with the Doncaster diadem, +that all the legitimate rulers had uselessly schemed to +place on their brows! The soul of Lady Marabout rose +elastic at the bare prospect—it would be a great triumph +for a chaperone as for a general to conquer a valuable +position with a handful of boy recruits.</p> + +<p>If it <i>should</i> be! Anne Hautton would have nothing +to say after <i>that</i>!</p> + +<p>And Lady Marabout, though she was the most amiable +lady in Christendom, was not exempt from a feeling of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_182" id="Page_182">[Pg 182]</a></span> +longing for a stone to roll to the door of her enemy's +stronghold, or a flourish of trumpets to silence the boastful +and triumphant <i>fanfare</i> that was perpetually sounding +at sight of her defeats from her opponent's ramparts.</p> + +<p>Wild, visionary, guiltily scheming, sinfully revolutionary +seemed such a project in her eyes. Still, how tempting! +It would be a terrible blow to Valencia, who'd +tried for Goodwood fruitlessly, to be eclipsed by this unknown +Flora; it would be a terrible blow to their Graces +of Doncaster, who held nobody good enough, heraldically +speaking, for their heir-apparent, to see him give the best +coronet in England to a bewitching little interloper, sans +money, birth, or rank. "They wouldn't like it, of course; +I shouldn't like it for Philip, for instance, though she's +a very sweet little thing; all the Ascottes would be very +vexed, and all the Valletorts would never forgive it; but +it would be <i>such</i> a triumph over Anne Hautton!" pondered +Lady Marabout, and the last clause carried the day. +Did you ever know private pique fail to carry the day over +public charity?</p> + +<p>And Lady Marabout glanced with a glow of prospective +triumph, which, though erring to her Order, was delicious +to her individuality, at Goodwood waltzing with the little +Montolieu a suspicious number of times, while Lady Egidia +Hautton was condemned to his young brother, Seton +Ascotte, and Lady Feodorowna danced positively with +nobody better than their own county member, originally +a scion of Goodwood's bankers! Could the force of +humiliation further go? Lady Hautton sat smiling and +chatting, but the tiara on her temples was a figurative +thorn crown, and Othello's occupation was gone. When +a lady's daughters are dancing with an unavailable <i>cadet</i> +of twenty, and a parvenu, only acceptable in the last extremities +of despair, what good is it for her to watch the +smiles and construe the attentions?</p> + +<p>"We shall see who triumphs now," thought Lady Marabout,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_183" id="Page_183">[Pg 183]</a></span> +with a glow of pleasure, for which her heart reproached +her a moment afterwards. "It is very wrong," +she thought; "if those poor girls don't marry, one ought +to pity them; and as for her—going through five seasons, +with a fresh burden of responsibility leaving the schoolroom, +and added on your hands each year, <i>must</i> sour the +sweetest temper; it would do mine, I am sure. I dare +say, if I had had daughters, I should have been ten times +more worried even than I am."</p> + +<p>Which she would have been, undoubtedly, and the eligibles +on her visiting-list ten times more too! Men +wouldn't have voted the Marabout dinners and soirées so +pleasant as they did, under the sway of that sunshiny +hostess, if there had been Lady Maudes and Lady Marys +to exact attention, and lay mines under the Auxerre carpets, +and man-traps among the épergne flowers of Lowndes +Square. Nor would Lady Marabout have been the same; +the sunshine couldn't have shone so brightly, nor the +milk of roses flowed so mildly under the weight and wear +of marriageable but unmarried daughters; the sunshine +would have been fitful, the milk of roses curdled at best. +And no wonder! Those poor women! they have so much +to go through in the world, and play but such a monotonous +rôle, taken at its most brilliant and best, from first +to last, from cradle to grave, from the berceaunettes in +which they commence their existence to the mausoleum +in which they finish it. If they <i>do</i> get a little bit soured +when they have finished their own game, and have to sit +at the card-tables, wide awake however weary, vigilant +however drowsy, alert however bored to death, superintending +the hands of the fresh players, surreptitiously +suggesting means for securing the tricks, keeping a +dragon's eye out for revokes, and bearing all the brunt +of the blame if the rubber be lost—if they do get a little +bit soured, who can, after all, greatly wonder?</p> + +<p>"That's a very brilliant little thing, that girl Montolieu,"<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_184" id="Page_184">[Pg 184]</a></span> +said Goodwood, driving over to Hornsey Wood, the morning +after, with Carruthers and some other men, in his +drag.</p> + +<p>"A deuced pretty waltzer!" said St. Lys, of the Bays; +"turn her round in a square foot."</p> + +<p>"And looks very well in the saddle; sits her horse +better than any woman in the Ride, except Rosalie +Rosière, and as she came from the Cirque Olympique +originally, one don't count <i>her</i>," said Fulke Nugent. "I +<i>do</i> like a woman to ride well, I must say. I promised +your mother to take a look at the Marabout Yearling +Sale, Phil, if ever I wanted the never-desirable and ever-burdensome +article she has to offer, and if anything could +tempt me to pay the price she asks, I think it would be +that charming Montolieu."</p> + +<p>"She's the best thing Lady Tattersall ever had on +hand," said Goodwood, drawing his whip over his off-wheeler's +back. "You know, Phil—gently, gently, +Coronet!—what spoilt your handsome cousin was, as I +said, that it was all mechanism; perfect mechanism, I +admit, but all artificial, prearranged, put together, wound +up to smile in this place, bow in that, and frown in the +other; clockwork every inch of it! Now—so-ho, +Zouave! confound you, <i>won't</i> you be quiet?—little Montolieu +hasn't a bit of artifice about her; 'tisn't only that +you don't know what she's going to say, but that <i>she</i> +doesn't either; and whether it's a smile or a frown, a +jest or a reproof, it's what the moment brings out, not +what's planned beforehand."</p> + +<p>"The hard hit you had the other day seems to have +piqued your interest," said Carruthers, smoothing a loose +leaf of his Manilla.</p> + +<p>"Naturally. The girl didn't care a button about my +compliment (I only said it to try her), and the plucky +answer she gave me amused me immensely. Anything<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_185" id="Page_185">[Pg 185]</a></span> +unartificial and frank is as refreshing as hock-and-seltzer +after a field-day—one likes it, don't you know?"</p> + +<p>"Wonderfully eloquent you are, Goody. If you come +out like that in St. Stephen's, we sha'n't know you, and +the ministerialists will look down in the mouth with a +vengeance!"</p> + +<p>"Don't be satirical, Phil! If I admire Mademoiselle +Flora, what is it to you, pray?"</p> + +<p>"Nothing at all," said Carruthers, with unnecessary +rapidity of enunciation.</p> + +<p>"My love, what are you going to wear to-night? The +Bishop of Bonviveur is coming. He was a college friend +of your poor uncle's; knew your dear mother before she +married. I want you to look your very best and charm +him, as you certainly do most people," said Lady Marabout. +Adroit intriguer! The bishop was going, sans +doute; the bishop loved good wine, good dinners, and good +society, and found all three in Lowndes Square, but the +bishop was entirely unavailable for purposes matrimonial, +having had three wives, and being held tight in hand by a +fourth; however, a bishop is a convenient piece to cover +your king, in chess, and the bishop served admirably just +then in Lady Marabout's moves as a <i>locum tenens</i> for +Goodwood. Flora Montolieu, in her innocence, made +herself look her prettiest for her mother's old friend, and +Flora Montolieu was conveniently ready, looking her +prettiest, for her chaperone's pet-eligible, when Goodwood—who +hated to dine anywhere in London except at the +clubs, the Castle, or the Guards' mess, and was as difficult +to get for your dinners as birds'-nests soup or Tokay +pur—entered the Marabout drawing-rooms.</p> + +<p>"Anne Hautton will see he dined here to-night, in the +<i>Morning Post</i> to-morrow morning, and she will know +Flora must attract him very unusually. What <i>will</i> she, +and Egidia, and Feodorowna say?" thought Lady Marabout, +with a glow of pleasure, which she was conscious<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_186" id="Page_186">[Pg 186]</a></span> +was uncharitable and sinful, and yet couldn't repress, let +her try how she might.</p> + +<p>In scheming for the future Duke of Doncaster for John +Montolieu's daughter, she felt much as democratically and +treasonably guilty to her order as a prince of the blood +might feel heading a Chartist émeute; but then, suppose +the Chartist row was that Prince's sole chance of crushing +an odious foe, as it was the only chance for her to +humiliate the Hautton, don't you think it might look +tempting? Judge nobody, my good sir, till you've been +in similar circumstances yourself—a golden rule, which +might with advantage employ those illuminating colors +with which ladies employ so much of their time just now. +Remembering it, they might hold their white hands from +flinging those sharp flinty stones, that surely suit them so +ill, and that soil their fingers in one way quite as much +as they soil the victim's bowed head in another? Illuminate +the motto, mesdames and demoiselles! Perhaps you +<i>will</i> do that—on a smalt ground, with a gold Persian +arabesque round, and impossible flowers twined in and +out of the letters; but, <i>remember</i> it!—pardon! It were +asking too much.</p> + +<p>"My dear Philip, did you notice how very marked +Goodwood's attentions were to Flora last night?" asked +Lady Marabout, the morning after, in one of her most +sunshiny and radiant moods, as Carruthers paid her his +general matutinal call in her boudoir.</p> + +<p>"Marked?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, marked! Why do you repeat it in that tone? +If they <i>were</i> marked, there is nothing to be ridiculed that +I see. They were very marked, indeed, especially for +him; he's such an unimpressible, never-show-anything +man. I wonder you did not notice it!"</p> + +<p>"My dear mother!" said Carruthers, a little impatiently, +brushing up the Angora cat's ruff the wrong +way with his cane, "do you suppose I pass my evenings<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_187" id="Page_187">[Pg 187]</a></span> +noticing the attentions other men may see fit to pay to +young ladies?"</p> + +<p>"Well—don't be impatient. You never used to be," +said Lady Marabout. "If you were in my place just for +a night or two, or any other chaperone's, you'd be more +full of pity. But people never <i>will</i> sympathize with anything +that doesn't touch themselves. The only chords +that strike the key-note in anybody is the chord that +sounds 'self;' and that is the reason why the world is as +full of crash and tumult as Beethoven's 'Storm.'"</p> + +<p>"Quite right, my dear mother!"</p> + +<p>"Of course it's quite right. I always think you have +a great deal of sympathy for a man, Philip, even for +people you don't harmonize with—(you could sympathize +with that child Flora, yesterday, in her rapturous delight +at seeing that Coccoloba Uvifera in the Patchouli conservatory, +because it reminded her of her West Indian +home, and you care nothing whatever about flowers, nor +yet about the West Indies, I should suppose)—but you +never will sympathize with me. You know how many +disappointments and grievances and vexations of every +kind I have had the last ten, twenty, ay, thirty, forty +seasons—ever since I had to chaperone your aunt +Eleanore, almost as soon as I was married, and was worried, +more than anybody ever <i>was</i> worried, by her coquetteries +and her inconsistencies and her vacillations—so +badly as she married, too, at the last! Those flirting +beauties so often do; they throw away a hundred admirable +chances and put up with a wretched <i>dernier resort</i>;—let +a thousand salmon break away from the line +out of their carelessness, and end by being glad to land +a little minnow. I don't know when I <i>haven't</i> been worried +by chaperoning. Flora Montolieu is a great anxiety, +a great difficulty, little detrimental that she is!"</p> + +<p>"Detrimental! What an odd word you choose for her."</p> + +<p>"I don't choose it for her; she <i>is</i> it," returned Lady +Marabout, decidedly.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_188" id="Page_188">[Pg 188]</a></span></p> + +<p>"How so?"</p> + +<p>"How so! Why, my dear Philip, I told you the very +first day she came. How so! when she is John Montolieu's +daughter, when she has no birth to speak of, and +not a farthing to her fortune."</p> + +<p>"If she were Jack Ketch's daughter, you could not +speak much worse. Her high-breeding might do credit +to a Palace; I only wish one found it in all Palaces! +and I never knew you before measure people by their +money."</p> + +<p>"My dear Philip, no more I do. I can't bear you when +you speak in that tone; it's so hard and sarcastic, and +unlike you. <i>I</i> don't know what you mean either. I +should have thought a man of the world like yourself +knew well enough what I intend when I say Flora is a +detrimental. She has a sweet temper, very clever, very +lively, very charming, as any one knows by the number +of men that crowd about her, but a detrimental she +is——"</p> + +<p>"Poor little heart!" muttered Carruthers in his beard, +too low for his mother to hear.</p> + +<p>"—And yet I am quite positive that if she herself act +judiciously, and it is well managed for her, Goodwood +may be won before the season is over," concluded Lady +Marabout.</p> + +<p>Carruthers, not feeling much interest, it is presumed, in +the exclusively feminine pursuit of match-making, returned +no answer, but played with Bijou's silver bells, +and twisted his own tawny moustaches.</p> + +<p>"I am quite positive it <i>may be</i>, if properly managed," +reiterated Lady Marabout. "You might second me a +little, Philip."</p> + +<p>"<i>I?</i> Good Heavens! my dear mother, what are you +thinking of? I would sooner turn torreador, and throw +lassos over bulls at Madrid, than help you to fling nuptial +cables over poor devils in Belgravia. Twenty to one?<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_189" id="Page_189">[Pg 189]</a></span> +I'm going to the Yard to look at a bay filly of Cope +Fielden's, and then on to a mess-luncheon of the Bays."</p> + +<p>"Must you go?" said his mother, looking lovingly on +him. "You look tired, Philip. Don't you feel well?"</p> + +<p>"Perfectly; but Cambridge had us out over those confounded +Wormwood Scrubs this morning, and three hours +in this June sun, in our harness, makes one swear. If it +were a sharp brush, it would put life into one; as it is, it +only inspires one with an intense suffering from boredom, +and an intense desire for hock and seltzer."</p> + +<p>"I am very glad you haven't a sharp brush, as you +call it, for all that," said Lady Marabout. "It might be +very pleasant to you, Philip, but it wouldn't be quite so +much so to me. I wish you would stay to luncheon."</p> + +<p>"Not to-day, thanks; I have so many engagements."</p> + +<p>"You have been very good in coming to see me this +season—even better than usual. It <i>is</i> very good of you, +with all your amusements and distractions. You have +given me a great many days this month," said Lady Marabout, +gratefully. "Anne Hautton sees nothing of Hautton, +she says, except at a distance in Pall-Mall or the +Park, all the season through. Fancy if I saw no more +of you! Do you know, Philip, I am almost reconciled to +your never marrying. I have never seen anybody I +should like at all for you, unless you had chosen Cecil +Ormsby—Cecil Cheveley I mean; and I am sure I should +be very jealous of your wife if you had one. I couldn't +help it!"</p> + +<p>"Rest tranquil, my dear mother; you will never be +put to the test!" said Carruthers, with a laugh, as he bid +her good morning.</p> + +<p>"Perhaps it <i>is</i> best he shouldn't marry: I begin to +think so," mused Lady Marabout, as the door closed on +him. "I used to wish it very much for some things. He +is the last of his name, and it seems a pity; there ought +to be an heir for Deepdene; but still marriage <i>is</i> such a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_190" id="Page_190">[Pg 190]</a></span> +lottery (he is right enough there, though I don't admit it +to him: it's a tombola where there is one prize to a million +of blanks; one can't help seeing that, though, on +principle, I never allow it to him or any of his men), and +if Philip had any woman who didn't appreciate him, or +didn't understand him, or didn't make him happy, how +wretched <i>I</i> should be! I have often pictured Philip's +wife to myself, I have often idealized the sort of woman +I should like to see him marry, but it's very improbable +I shall ever meet my ideal realized; one never does! +And, after all, whenever I have fancied, years ago, he +<i>might</i> be falling in love, I have always felt a horrible +dread lest she shouldn't be worthy of him—a jealous +fear of her that I could not conquer. It's much better as +it is; there is no woman good enough for him."</p> + +<p>With which compliment to Carruthers at her sex's expense +Lady Marabout returned to weaving her pet projected +toils for the ensnaring of Goodwood, for whom +also, if asked, I dare say the Duchess of Doncaster would +have averred on <i>her</i> part, looking through <i>her</i> maternal +Claude glasses, no woman was good enough either. When +ladies have daughters to marry, men always present to +their imaginations a battalion of worthless, decalogue-smashing, +utterly unreliable individuals, amongst whom +there is not one fit to be trusted or fit to be chosen; but +when their sons are the candidates for the holy bond, they +view all women through the same foggy and non-embellishing +medium, which, if it does not speak very much +for their unprejudiced discernment, at least speaks to the +oft-disputed fact of the equality of merit in the sexes, +and would make it appear that, in vulgar parlance, there +must be six of the one and half a dozen of the other.</p> + +<p>"Flora, soft and careless, and rebellious as she looks, +<i>is</i> ambitious, and has set her heart on winning Goodwood, +I do believe, as much as ever poor Valencia did. True, +she takes a different plan of action, as Philip would call<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_191" id="Page_191">[Pg 191]</a></span> +it, and treats him with gay nonchalante indifference, which +certainly seems to pique him more than ever my poor +niece's beauty and quiet deference to his opinions did; +but that is because she reads him better, and knows more +cleverly how to rouse him. She has set her heart on winning +Goodwood, I am certain, ambitious as it seems. How +eagerly she looked out for the Blues yesterday at that +Hyde Park inspection—though I am sure Goodwood +does not look half so handsome as Philip does in harness, +as they call it; Philip is so much the finer man! I will +just sound her to-day—or to-night as we come back from +the opera," thought Lady Marabout, one morning.</p> + +<p>Things were moving to the very best of her expectations. +Learning experience from manifold failures, Lady +Marabout had laid her plans this time with a dexterity +that defied discomfiture: seconded by both the parties +primarily necessary to the accomplishment of her man[oe]uvres, +with only a little outer-world opposition to give +it piquancy and excitement, she felt that she might defy +the fates to checkmate her here. This should be her +Marathon and Lemnos, which, simply reverted to, should +be sufficient to secure her immunity from the attacks of +any feminine Xantippus who should try to rake up her +failures and tarnish her glory. To win Goodwood with a +nobody's daughter would be a feat as wonderful in its +way as for Miltiades to have passed "in a single day and +with a north wind," as Oracle exacted, to the conquest of +the Pelasgian Isles; and Lady Marabout longed to do it, +as you, my good sir, may have longed in your day to take +a king in check with your only available pawn, or win +one of the ribands of the turf with a little filly that +seemed to general judges scarcely calculated to be in the +first flight at the Chester Consolation Scramble.</p> + +<p>Things were beautifully in train; it even began to dawn +on the perceptions of the Hauttons, usually very slow to +open to anything revolutionary and unwelcome. Her<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_192" id="Page_192">[Pg 192]</a></span> +Grace of Doncaster, a large, lethargic, somnolent dowager, +rarely awake to anything but the interests and restoration +of the old ultra-Tory party in a Utopia always +dreamed of and never realized, like many other Utopias +political and poetical, public and personal, had turned +her eyes on Flora Montolieu, and asked her son the question +inevitable, "<i>Who</i> is she?" to which Goodwood had +replied with a devil-may-care recklessness and a headlong +indefiniteness which grated on her Grace's ears, and imparted +her no information whatever: "One of Lady +Tattersall's yearlings, and the most charming creature <i>I</i> +ever met. You know that? Why did you ask me, then? +You know all I do, and all I care to do!"—a remark +that made the Duchess wish her very dear and personal +friend, Lady Marabout, were comfortably and snugly interred +in the mausoleum of Fern Ditton, rather than alive +in the flesh in Belgravia, chaperoning young ladies whom +nobody knew, and who were not to be found in any of +Sir E. Burke's triad of volumes.</p> + +<p>Belgravia, and her sister Mayfair, wondered at it, and +talked over it, raked up the parental Montolieu lineage +mercilessly, and found out, from the Bishop of Bonviveur +and Sauceblanche, that the uncle on the distaff side had +been only a Tug at Eton, and had lived and died at Fern +Ditton a perpetual curate and nothing else—not even a +dean, not even a rector! Goodwood <i>couldn't</i> be serious, +settled the coteries. But the more hints, innuendoes, +questions, and adroitly concealed but simply suggested +animadversion Lady Marabout received, the greater was +her glory, the warmer her complacency, when she saw her +Little Montolieu, who was not little at all, leading, as she +undoubtedly did lead, the most desired eligible of the day +captive in her chains, sent bouquets by him, begged for +waltzes by him, followed by him at the Ride, riveting his +lorgnon at the Opera, monopolizing his attention—though, +clever little intriguer, she knew too well how to pique him +ever to let him monopolize hers.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_193" id="Page_193">[Pg 193]</a></span></p> + +<p>"She certainly makes play, as Philip would call it, +admirably with Goodwood," said Lady Marabout, admiringly, +at a morning party, stirring a cup of Orange Pekoe, +yet with a certain irrepressible feeling that she should +almost prefer so very young a girl not to be quite so adroit +a schemer at seventeen. "That indifference and nonchalance +is the very thing to pique and retain such a +courted fastidious creature as Goodwood; and she knows +it, too. Now a clumsy casual observer might even fancy +that she liked some others—even you, Philip, for instance—much +better; she talks to you much more, appeals to +you twice as often, positively teases you to stop and lunch +or come to dinner here, and really told you the other +night at the Opera she missed you when you didn't come +in the morning; but to anybody who knows anything of +the world, it is easy enough to see which way her inclinations +(yes, I <i>do</i> hope it is inclination as well as ambition—I +am not one of those who advocate pure <i>mariages de +convenance</i>; I don't think them right, indeed, though +they are undoubtedly very expedient sometimes) turn. I +do not think <i>anybody</i> ever could prove me to have erred +in my quick-sightedness in those affairs. I may have +been occasionally mistaken in other things, or been the +victim of adverse and unforeseen circumstances which +were beyond my control, and betrayed me; but I know +no one can read a girl's heart more quickly and surely +than I, or a man's either, for that matter."</p> + +<p>"Oh, we all know you are a clairvoyante in heart +episodes, my dear mother; they are the one business of +your life!" smiled Carruthers, setting down his ice, and +lounging across the lawn to a group of cedars, where +Flora Montolieu stood playing at croquet, and who, like +a scheming adventuress, as she was, immediately verified +Lady Marabout's words, and piqued Goodwood à outrance +by avowing herself tired of the game, and entering with +animated verve into the prophecies for Ascot with Carruthers,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_194" id="Page_194">[Pg 194]</a></span> +whose bay filly Sunbeam, sister to Wild-Falcon, +was entered to run for the Queen's Cup.</p> + +<p>"What an odd smile that was of Philip's," thought +Lady Marabout, left to herself and her Orange Pekoe. +"He has been very intimate with Goodwood ever since +they joined the Blues, cornets together, three-and-twenty +years ago; surely he can't have heard him drop anything +that would make him fancy he was <i>not serious</i>?"</p> + +<p>An idle fear, which Lady Marabout dismissed contemptuously +from her mind when she saw how entirely +Goodwood—in defiance of the Hauttons' sneer, the drowsy +Duchess's unconcealed frown, all the comments sure to be +excited in feminine minds, and all the chaff likely to be +elicited from masculine lips at the mess-table, and in the +U. S., and in the Guards' box before the curtain went up +for the ballet—vowed himself to the service of the little +detrimental throughout that morning party, and spoke a +temporary adieu, whose tenderness, if she did not exactly +catch, Lady Marabout could at least construe, as he pulled +up the tiger-skin over Flora's dainty dress, before the Marabout +carriage rolled down the Fulham Road to town. +At which tenderness of farewell Carruthers—steeled to +all such weaknesses himself—gave a disdainful glance +and a contemptuous twist of his moustaches, as he stood +by the door talking to his mother.</p> + +<p>"You too, Phil?" said Goodwood, with a laugh, as the +carriage rolled away.</p> + +<p>Carruthers stared at him haughtily, as he will stare at +his best friends if they touch his private concerns more +nearly than he likes; a stare which said disdainfully, "I +don't understand you," and thereby told the only lie to +which Carruthers ever stooped in the whole course of his +existence.</p> + +<p>Goodwood laughed again.</p> + +<p>"If you poach on my manor <i>here</i>, I shall kill you +Phil; so <i>gare à vous</i>!"<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_195" id="Page_195">[Pg 195]</a></span></p> + +<p>"You are in an enigmatical mood to-day! I can't say +I see much wit in your riddles," said Carruthers, with +his grandest and most contemptuous air, as he lit his +Havana.</p> + +<p>"Confound that fellow! I'd rather have had any other +man in London for a rival! Twenty and more years ago +how he cut me out with that handsome Virginie Peauderose, +that we were both such mad boys after in Paris. +However, it will be odd if <i>I</i> can't win the day here. A +Goodwood rejected—pooh! There isn't a woman in +England that would do it!" thought Goodwood, as he +drove down the Fulham Road.</p> + +<p>"'<i>His</i> manor!' Who's told him it's his? And if it +be, what is that to me?" thought Carruthers, as he got +into his tilbury. "Philip, <i>you</i>'re not a fool, like the rest +of them, I hope? You've not forsworn yourself surely? +Pshaw!—nonsense!—impossible!"</p> + +<p>"Certainly she <i>has</i> something very charming about her. +If I were a man I don't think I could resist her," thought +Lady Marabout, as she sat in her box in the grand tier, +tenth from the Queen's, moving her fan slowly, lifting +her lorgnon now and then, listening vaguely to the music +of the second act of the "Barbiere," for probably about +the two hundredth time in her life, and looking at Flora +Moutolieu, sitting opposite to her.</p> + +<p>"The women are eternally asking me who she is, I +don't care a hang <i>who</i>, but she's the prettiest thing in +London," said Fulke Nugent, which was the warmest +praise that any living man about town remembered to +have heard fall from his lips, which limited themselves +religiously to one legitimate laudation, which is a superlative +nowadays, though Mr. Lindley Murray, if alive, +wouldn't, perhaps, receive or recognize it as such: "Not +bad-looking."</p> + +<p>"It isn't <i>who</i> a woman is, it's <i>what</i> she is, that's the +question, I take it," said Goodwood, as he left the Guards' +box to visit the Marabout.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_196" id="Page_196">[Pg 196]</a></span></p> + +<p>"By George!" laughed Nugent to Carruthers, "Goodey +must be serious, eh, Phil? He don't care a button for +little Bibi; he don't care even for Zerlina. When the +ballet begins, I verily believe he's thinking less of the +women before him than of the woman who has left the +house; and if a fellow can give more ominous signs of +being 'serious,' as the women phrase it, I don't know 'em, +do you?"</p> + +<p>"I don't know much about that sort of thing at all!" +muttered Carruthers, as he went out to follow Goodwood +to the Marabout box.</p> + +<p>That is an old, old story, that of the fair Emily stirring +feud between Palamon and Arcite. It has been +acted out many a time since Beaumont and Fletcher lived +and wrote their twin-thoughts and won their twin laurels; +but the bars that shut the kinsmen in their prison-walls, +the ivy-leaves that filled in the rents of their prison-stones, +were not more entirely and blissfully innocent of +the feud going on within, and the battle foaming near +them, than the calm, complacent soul of Lady Marabout +was of the rivalry going on close beside her for the sake +of little Montolieu.</p> + +<p>She certainly thought Philip made himself specially +brilliant and agreeable that night; but then that was +nothing new, he was famous for talking well, and liked +his mother enough not seldom to shower out for her some +of his very best things; certainly she thought Goodwood +did not shine by the contrast, and looked, to use an undignified +word, rather cross than otherwise; but then nobody +<i>did</i> shine beside Philip, and she knew a reason that made +Goodwood pardonably cross at the undesired presence of +his oldest and dearest chum. Even <i>she</i> almost wished +Philip away. If the presence of her idolized son could +have been unwelcome to her at any time, it was so that +night.</p> + +<p>"It isn't like Philip to monopolize her so, he who has<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_197" id="Page_197">[Pg 197]</a></span> +so much tact usually, and cares nothing for girls himself," +thought Lady Marabout; "he must do it for mischief, +and yet <i>that</i> isn't like him at all; it's very tiresome, at +any rate."</p> + +<p>And with that skilful diplomacy in such matters, on +which, if it was sometimes overthrown, Lady Marabout +not unjustly plumed herself, she dexterously entangled +Carruthers in conversation, and during the crash of one +of the choruses whispered, as he bent forward to pick up +her fan, which she had let drop,</p> + +<p>"Leave Flora a little to Goodwood; he has a right—he +spoke decisively to her to-day."</p> + +<p>Carruthers bowed his head, and stooped lower for the fan.</p> + +<p>He left her accordingly to Goodwood till the curtain +fell after the last act of the "Barbiere;" and Lady Marabout +congratulated herself on her own adroitness. +"There is nothing like a little tact," she thought; "what +would society be without the guiding genius of tact, I +wonder? One dreadful Donnybrook Fair!"</p> + +<p>But, someway or other, despite all her tact, or because +her son inherited that valuable quality in a triple measure +to herself, someway, it was Goodwood who led her to her +carriage, and Carruthers who led the little Montolieu.</p> + +<p>"Terribly <i>bête</i> of Philip; how very unlike him!" +mused Lady Marabout, as she gathered her burnous round +her.</p> + +<p>Carruthers talked and laughed as he led Flora Montolieu +through the passages, more gayly, perhaps, than +usual.</p> + +<p>"My mother has told me some news to-night, Miss +Montolieu," he said, carelessly. "Am I premature in +proffering you my congratulations? But even if I be so, +you will not refuse the privilege to an old friend—to a +very sincere friend—and will allow me to be the first to +wish you happiness?"</p> + +<p>Lady Marabout's carriage stopped the way. Flora<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_198" id="Page_198">[Pg 198]</a></span> +Montolieu colored, looked full at him, and went to it, +without having time to answer his congratulations, in +which the keenest-sighted hearer would have failed to +detect anything beyond every-day friendship and genuine +indifference. The most truthful men will make the most +consummate actors when spurred up to it.</p> + +<p>"My dear child, you look ill to-night; I am glad you +have no engagements," said Lady Marabout, as she sat +down before the dressing-room fire, toasting her little +satin-shod foot—she has a weakness for fire even in the +hottest weather—while Flora Montolieu lay back in a +low chair, crushing the roses mercilessly. "You <i>do</i> feel +well? I should not have thought so, your face looks so +flushed, and your eyes so preternaturally dark. Perhaps +it is the late hours; you were not used to them in France, +of course, and it must be such a change to this life from +your unvarying conventual routine at St. Denis. My love, +what was it Lord Goodwood said to you to-day?"</p> + +<p>"Do not speak to me of him, Lady Marabout, I hate +his name!"</p> + +<p>Lady Marabout started with an astonishment that +nearly upset the cup of coffee she was sipping.</p> + +<p>"Hate his name? My dearest Flora, why, in Heaven's +name?"</p> + +<p>Flora did not answer; she pulled the roses off her hair +as though they had been infected with Brinvilliers' poison.</p> + +<p>"What has he done?"</p> + +<p>"<i>He</i> has done nothing!"</p> + +<p>"Who has done anything, then?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, no one—no one has done anything, but—I am +sick of Lord Goodwood's name—tired of it!"</p> + +<p>Lady Marabout sat almost speechless with surprise.</p> + +<p>"Tired of it, my dear Flora?"</p> + +<p>Little Montolieu laughed:</p> + +<p>"Well, tired of it, perhaps from hearing him praised +so often, as the Athenian trader grew sick of Aristides,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_199" id="Page_199">[Pg 199]</a></span> +and the Jacobin of Washington's name. Is it unpardonably +heterodox to say so?"</p> + +<p>Lady Marabout stirred her coffee in perplexity:</p> + +<p>"My dear child, pray don't speak in that way; that's +like Philip's tone when he is enigmatical and sarcastic, +and worries me. I really cannot in the least understand +you about Lord Goodwood, it is quite incomprehensible +to me. I thought I overheard him to-day at Lady +George's concert speak very definitely to you indeed, and +when he was interrupted by the Duchess before you could +give him his reply, I thought I heard him say he should +call to-morrow morning to know your ultimate decision. +Was I right?"</p> + +<p>"Quite right."</p> + +<p>"He really proposed marriage to you to-day?"</p> + +<p>"Yes."</p> + +<p>"And yet you say you are sick of his name?"</p> + +<p>"Does it follow, imperatively, Lady Marabout, that +because the Sultan throws his handkerchief, it must be +picked up with humility and thanksgiving?" asked Flora +Montolieu, furling and unfurling her fan with an impatient +rapidity that threatened entire destruction of its +ivory and feathers, with their Watteau-like group elaborately +painted on them—as pretty a toy of the kind as +could be got for money, which had been given her by Carruthers +one day in payment of some little bagatelle of a bet.</p> + +<p>"Sultan!—Humility!" repeated Lady Marabout, +scarcely crediting her senses. "My dear Flora, do you +know what you are saying? You must be jesting! There +is not a woman in England who would be insensible to +the honor of Goodwood's proposals. You are jesting, +Flora!"</p> + +<p>"I am not, indeed!"</p> + +<p>"You mean to say, you could positively think of <i>rejecting</i> +him!" cried Lady Marabout, rising from her chair in +the intensity of her amazement, convinced that she was +the victim of some horrible hallucination.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_200" id="Page_200">[Pg 200]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Why should it surprise you if I did?"</p> + +<p>"<i>Why?</i>" repeated Lady Marabout, indignantly. "Do +you ask me <i>why</i>? You must be a child, indeed, or a +consummate actress, to put such a question; excuse me, +my dear, if I speak a little strongly: you perfectly bewilder +me, and I confess I cannot see your motives or +your meaning in the least. You have made a conquest +such as the proudest women in the peerage have vainly +tried to make; you have one of the highest titles in the +country offered to you; you have won a man whom everybody +declared would never be won; you have done this, +pardon me, without either birth or fortune on your own +side, and then you speak of rejecting Goodwood—Goodwood, +of all the men in England! You cannot be serious, +Flora, or, if you are, you must be mad!"</p> + +<p>Lady Marabout spoke more hotly than Lady Marabout +had ever spoken in all her life. Goodwood absolutely +won—Goodwood absolutely "come to the point"—the +crowning humiliation of the Hauttons positively within +her grasp—her Marathon and Lemnos actually gained! +and all to be lost and flung away by the unaccountable +caprice of a wayward child! It was sufficient to exasperate +a saint, and a saint Lady Marabout never pretended +to be.</p> + +<p>Flora Montolieu toyed recklessly with her fan.</p> + +<p>"You told Sir Philip this evening, I think, of——"</p> + +<p>"I hinted it to him, my dear—yes. Philip has known +all along how much I desired it, and as Goodwood is one +of his oldest and most favorite friends, I knew it would +give him sincere pleasure both for my sake and Goodwood's, +and yours too, for I think Philip likes you as +much as he ever does any young girl—better, indeed; +and I could not imagine—I could not dream for an +instant—that there was any doubt of your acceptation, as, +indeed, there <i>cannot</i> be. You have been jesting to worry +me, Flora!"<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_201" id="Page_201">[Pg 201]</a></span></p> + +<p>Little Montolieu rose, threw her fan aside, as if its +ivory stems had been hot iron, and leaned against the +mantelpiece.</p> + +<p>"You advise me to accept Lord Goodwood, then, Lady +Marabout?"</p> + +<p>"My love, if you need my advice, certainly!—such an +alliance will never be proffered to you again; the brilliant +position it will place you in I surely have no need to point +out!" returned Lady Marabout. "The little hypocrite!" +she mused, angrily, "as if her own mind were not fully +made up—as if any girl in Europe would hesitate over +accepting the Doncaster coronet—as if a nameless Montolieu +could doubt for a moment her own delight at being +created Marchioness of Goodwood! Such a triumph as +<i>that</i>—why I wouldn't credit <i>any</i> woman who pretended +she wasn't dazzled by it!"</p> + +<p>"I thought you did not approve of marriages of convenience?"</p> + +<p>Lady Marabout played a tattoo—slightly perplexed +tattoo—with her spoon in her Sèvres saucer.</p> + +<p>"No more I do, my dear—that is, under some circumstances; +it is impossible to lay down a fixed rule for +everything! Marriages of convenience—well, perhaps +not; but as <i>I</i> understand these words, they mean a mere +business affair, arranged as they are in France, without +the slightest regard to the inclinations of either; merely +regarding whether the incidents of fortune, birth, and +station are equal and suitable. Marriages <i>de convenance</i> +are when a parvenu barters his gold for good blood, or +where an <i>ancienne princesse</i> mends her fortune with a +<i>nouveau riche</i>, profound indifference, meanwhile, on each +side. I do not call this so; decidedly not! Goodwood +must be very deeply attached to you to have forgotten +his detestation of marriage, and laid such a title as his at +your feet. Have you any idea of the weight of the Dukes +of Doncaster in the country? Have you any notion of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_202" id="Page_202">[Pg 202]</a></span> +what their rent-roll is? Have you any conception of +their enormous influence, their very high place, the magnificence +of their seats? Helmsley almost equals Windsor! +All these are yours if you will; and you affect to hesitate——"</p> + +<p>"To let Lord Goodwood buy me!"</p> + +<p>"Buy you? Your phraseology is as strange as my +son's!"</p> + +<p>"To accept him only for the coronet and the rent-roll, +his position and his Helmsley, seems not a very grateful +and flattering return for his preference?"</p> + +<p>"I do not see that at all," said Lady Marabout, irritably. +Is there anything more annoying than to have unwelcome +truths thrust in our teeth? "It is not as though he were +odious to you—a hideous man, a coarse man, a cruel man, +whose very presence repelled you. Goodwood is a man +quite attractive enough to merit some regard, independent +of his position; you have an affectionate nature, you +would soon grow attached to him——"</p> + +<p>Flora Montolieu shook her head.</p> + +<p>"And, in fact," she went on, warming with her subject, +and speaking all the more determinedly because she was +speaking a little against her conscience, and wholly for +her inclinations, "my dear Flora, if you need persuasion—which +you must pardon me if I doubt your doing in +your heart, for I cannot credit any woman as being insensible +to the suit of a future Duke of Doncaster, or +invulnerable to the honor it does her—if you need persuasion, +I should think I need only refer to the happiness +it will afford your poor dear mother, amidst her many +trials, to hear of so brilliant a triumph for you. You are +proud—Goodwood will place you in a position where +pride may be indulged with impunity, nay, with advantage. +You are ambitious—what can flatter your ambition +more than such an offer. You are clever—as Goodwood's +wife you may lead society like Madame de Rambouillet<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_203" id="Page_203">[Pg 203]</a></span> +or immerse yourself in political intrigue like the Duchess +of Devonshire. It is an offer which places within your +reach everything most dazzling and attractive, and it is +one, my dear Flora, which you must forgive me if I say +a young girl of obscure rank, as rank goes, and no fortune +whatever, should pause before she lightly rejects. You +cannot afford to be fastidious as if you were an heiress or +a lady-in-your-own-right."</p> + +<p>That was as ill-natured a thing as the best-natured lady +in Christendom ever said on the spur of self-interest, and +it stung Flora Montolieu more than her hostess dreamed.</p> + +<p>The color flushed into her face and her eyes flashed.</p> + +<p>"You have said sufficient, Lady Marabout, I accept +the Marquis to-morrow!"</p> + +<p>And taking up her fan and her opera-cloak, leaving +the discarded roses unheeded on the floor, she bade her +chaperone good-night, and floated out of the dressing-room, +while Lady Marabout sat stirring the cream in a +second cup of coffee, a good deal puzzled, a little awed by +the odd turn affairs had taken, with a slight feeling of +guilt for her own share in the transaction, an uncomfortable +dread lest the day should ever come when Flora +should reproach her for having persuaded her into the +marriage, a comfortable conviction that nothing but good +<i>could</i> come of such a brilliant and enviable alliance, and, +above all other conflicting feelings, one delicious, dominant, +glorified security of triumph over the Hauttons, +<i>mère et filles</i>.</p> + +<p>But when morning dawned, Lady Marabout's horizon +seemed cleared of all clouds, and only radiant with unshadowed +sunshine. Goodwood was coming, and coming +to be accepted.</p> + +<p>She seemed already to read the newspaper paragraphs +announcing his capture and Flora's conquest, already to +hear the Hauttons' enforced congratulations, already to +see the nuptial party gathered round the altar rail of St.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_204" id="Page_204">[Pg 204]</a></span> +George's. Lady Marabout had never felt in a sunnier, +more light-hearted mood, never more completely at peace +with herself and all the world as she sat in her boudoir +at her writing-table, penning a letter which began:</p> + +<blockquote><p>"<span class="smcap">My dearest Lilla</span>,—What happiness it gives me +to congratulate you on the brilliant future opening to +your sweet Flora——"</p></blockquote> + +<p>And which would have continued, no doubt, with +similar eloquence if it had not been interrupted by +Soames opening the door and announcing "Sir Philip +Carruthers," who walked in, touched his mother's brow +with his moustaches, and went to stand on the hearth with +his arm on the mantelpiece.</p> + +<p>"My dear Philip, you never congratulated me last +night; pray do so now!" cried Lady Marabout, delightedly, +wiping her pen on the pennon, which a small ormolu +knight obligingly carried for that useful purpose. Ladies +always wipe their pens as religiously as they bolt their +bedroom doors, believe in cosmetics, and go to church on +a Sunday.</p> + +<p>"Was your news of last night true, then?" asked Carruthers, +bending forwards to roll Bijou on its back with +his foot.</p> + +<p>"That Goodwood had spoken definitively to her? Perfectly. +He proposed to her yesterday at the Frangipane +concert—not <i>at</i> the concert, of course, but afterwards, +when they were alone for a moment in the conservatories. +The Duchess interrupted them—did it on purpose—and +he had only time to whisper hurriedly he should come +this morning to hear his fate. I dare say he felt tolerably +secure of it. Last night I naturally spoke to Flora about +it. Oddly enough, she seemed positively to think at first +of rejecting him—<i>rejecting</i> him!—only fancy the madness! +Between ourselves, I don't think she cares anything +about him, but with such an alliance as that, of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_205" id="Page_205">[Pg 205]</a></span> +course I felt it my bounden duty to counsel her as +strongly as I could to accept the unequalled position it +proffered her. Indeed, it could have been only a girl's +waywardness, a child's caprice to pretend to hesitate, for +she <i>is</i> very ambitious and very clever, and I would never +believe that any woman—and she less than any—would +be proof against such dazzling prospects. It would be +absurd, you know, Philip. Whether it was hypocrisy or +a real reluctance, because she doesn't feel for him the +idealic love she dreams of, I don't know, but I put it +before her in a way that plainly showed her all the brilliance +of the proffered position, and before she bade me +good night, I had vanquished all her scruples, if she had +any, and I am able to say——"</p> + +<p>"Good God, what have you done?"</p> + +<p>"Done?" re-echoed Lady Marabout, vaguely terrified. +"Certainly I persuaded her to accept him. She <i>has</i> accepted +him probably; he is here now! I should have +been a strange person indeed to let any young girl in my +charge rashly refuse such an offer."</p> + +<p>"You induced her to accept him! God forgive you!"</p> + +<p>Lady Marabout turned pale as death, and gazed at him +with undefinable terror.</p> + +<p>"Philip! You do not mean——"</p> + +<p>"Great Heavens! have you never seen, mother——?"</p> + +<p>He leaned his arms on the marble, with his forehead +bowed upon them, and Lady Marabout gazed at him still, +as a bird at a basilisk.</p> + +<p>"Philip, Philip! what have I done? How could I +tell?" she murmured, distractedly, tears welling into her +eyes. "If I had only known! But how could I dream +that child had any fascination for you? How could I +fancy——"</p> + +<p>"Hush! No, you are in no way to blame. You could +not know it. <i>I</i> barely knew it till last night," he answered, +gently.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_206" id="Page_206">[Pg 206]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Philip loves her, and <i>I</i> have made her marry Goodwood!" +thought Lady Marabout, agonized, remorseful, +conscience-struck, heart-broken in a thousand ways at +once. The climax of her woes was reached, life had no +greater bitterness for her left; her son loved, and loved +the last woman in England she would have had him love; +that woman was given to another, and <i>she</i> had been the +instrument of wrecking the life to save or serve which she +would have laid down her own in glad and instant sacrifice! +Lady Marabout bowed her head under a grief, +before which the worries so great before, the schemes but +so lately so precious, the small triumphs just now so all-absorbing, +shrank away into their due insignificance. +Philip suffering, and suffering through her! Self glided +far away from Lady Marabout's memory then, and she +hated herself, more fiercely than the gentle-hearted soul +had ever hated any foe, for her own criminal share in +bringing down this unforeseen terrific blow on her beloved +one's head.</p> + +<p>"Philip, my dearest, what <i>can</i> I do?" she cried, distractedly; +"if I had thought—if I had guessed——"</p> + +<p>"Do nothing. A woman who could give herself to a +man whom she did not love should be no wife of mine, +let me suffer what I might."</p> + +<p>"But <i>I</i> persuaded her, Philip! Mine is the blame!"</p> + +<p>His lips quivered painfully:</p> + +<p>"Had she cared for me as—I may have fancied, she +had not been so easy to persuade! She has much force +of character, where she wills. He is here now, you say; +I cannot risk meeting him just yet. Leave me for a little +while; leave me—I am best alone."</p> + +<p>Gentle though he always was to her, his mother knew +him too well ever to dispute his will, and the most bitter +tears Lady Marabout had ever known, ready as she was +to weep for other people's woes, and rarely as she had +to weep for any of her own, choked her utterance and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_207" id="Page_207">[Pg 207]</a></span> +blinded her eyes as she obeyed and closed the door on +his solitude. Philip—her idolized Philip—that ever +her house should have sheltered this creature to bring a +curse upon him! that ever she should have brought this +tropical flower to poison the air for the only one dear to +her!</p> + +<p>"I am justly punished," thought Lady Marabout, +humbly and penitentially—"justly. I thought wickedly +of Anne Hautton. I did not do as I would be done by. +I longed to enjoy their mortification. I advised Flora +against my own conscience and against hers. I am justly +chastised! But that <i>he</i> should suffer through me, that +my fault has fallen on his head, that my Philip, my +noble Philip, should love and not be loved, and that <i>I</i> +have brought it on him——Good Heaven! what is that?"</p> + +<p>"That" was a man whom her eyes, being misty with +tears, Lady Marabout had brushed against, as she ascended +the staircase, ere she perceived him, and who, passing on +with a muttered apology, was down in the hall and out +of the door Mason held open before she had recovered +the shock of the rencontre, much before she had a possibility +of recognizing him through the mist aforesaid.</p> + +<p>A fear, a hope, a joy, a dread, one so woven with +another there was no disentangling them, sprang up like +a ray of light in Lady Marabout's heart—a possibility +dawned in her: to be rejected as an impossibility? Lady +Marabout crossed the ante-room, her heart throbbing +tumultuously, spurred on to noble atonement and reckless +self-sacrifice, if fate allowed them.</p> + +<p>She opened the drawing-room door; Flora Montolieu +was alone.</p> + +<p>"Flora, you have seen Goodwood?"</p> + +<p>She turned, her own face as pale and her own eyes as +dim as Lady Marabout's.</p> + +<p>"Yes."</p> + +<p>"You have refused him?"<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_208" id="Page_208">[Pg 208]</a></span></p> + +<p>Flora Montolieu misconstrued her chaperone's eagerness, +and answered haughtily enough:</p> + +<p>"I have told him that indifference would be too poor +a return for his affections to insult him with it, and that +I would not do him the injury of repaying his trust by +falsehood and deception. I meant what I said to you +last night; I said it on the spur of pain, indignation, no +matter what; but I could not keep my word when the +trial came."</p> + +<p>Lady Marabout bent down and kissed her, with a fervent +gratitude that not a little bewildered the recipient.</p> + +<p>"My dear child! thank God! little as I thought to say +so. Flora, tell me, you love some one else?"</p> + +<p>"Lady Marabout, you have no right——"</p> + +<p>"Yea, I have a right—the strongest right! Is not +that other my son?"</p> + +<p>Flora Montolieu looked up, then dropped her head and +burst into tears—tears that Lady Marabout soothed then, +tears that Carruthers soothed, yet more effectually still, +five minutes afterwards.</p> + +<hr style="width: 25%;" /> + +<p>"That <i>I</i> should have sued that little Montolieu, and +sued to her for Philip!" mused Lady Marabout. "It is +very odd. Perhaps I get used to being crossed and disappointed +and trampled on in every way and by everybody; +but certainly, though it is most contrary to my +wishes, though a child like that is the last person I should +ever have chosen or dreamt of as Philip's wife, though it +is a great pain to me, and Anne Hautton of course will +be delighted to rake up everything she can about the +Montolieus, and it <i>is</i> heart-breaking when one thinks how +a Carruthers <i>might</i> marry, how the Carruthers always +<i>have</i> married, rarely any but ladies in their own right for +countless generations, still it <i>is</i> very odd, but I certainly +feel happier than ever I did in my life, annoyed as I am +and grieved as I am. It <i>is</i> heart-breaking (that horrid<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_209" id="Page_209">[Pg 209]</a></span> +John Montolieu! I wonder what relation one stands in +legally to the father of one's son's wife; I will ask Sir +Fitzroy Kelley; not that the Montolieus are likely to +come to England)—it is very sad when one thinks whom +Philip might have married; and yet she certainly is infinitely +charming, and she really appreciates and understands +him. If it were not for what Anne Hautton will +always say, I could really be pleased! To think what +an anxious hope, what a dreaded ideal, Philip's wife has +always been to me; and now, just as I had got reconciled +to his determined bachelor preferences, and had grown to +argue with him that it was best he shouldn't marry, he +goes and falls in love with this child! Everything is at +cross-purposes in life, I think! There is only one thing +I am resolved upon—I will <span class="smcap">NEVER</span> chaperone anybody +again."</p> + +<p>And she kept her vow. None can christen her Lady +Tattersall any longer with point, for there are no yearling +sales in that house in Lowndes Square, whatever there be +in the other domiciles of that fashionable quarter. Lady +Marabout has shaken that burden off her shoulders, and +moves in blissful solitude and tripled serenity through +Belgravia, relieved of responsibility, and wearing her +years as lightly, losing the odd trick at her whist as +sunnily, and beaming on the world in general as radiantly +as any dowager in the English Peerage.</p> + +<p>That she was fully reconciled to Carruthers's change of +resolve was shown in the fact that when Anne Hautton +turned to her, on the evening of his marriage-day, after +the dinner to which Lady Marabout had bidden all her +friends, and a good many of her foes, with an amiable +murmur:</p> + +<p>"I am <i>so</i> grieved for you, dearest Helena—I know +what your disappointment must be!—what should <i>I</i> feel +if Hautton——Your <i>belle-fille</i> is charming, certainly, +very lovely; but then—such a connection! You have<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_210" id="Page_210">[Pg 210]</a></span> +my deepest sympathies! I always told you how wrong +you were when you fancied Goodwood admired little +Montolieu—I beg her pardon, I mean Lady Carruthers—but +you <i>will</i> give your imagination such reins!"</p> + +<p>Lady Marabout smiled, calmly and amusedly, felt no +pang, and—thought of Philip.</p> + +<p>I take it things must be very rose-colored with us when +we can smile sincerely on our enemies, and defeat their +stings simply because we feel them not.</p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/cc208.png" alt="* * * * *" /> +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_211" id="Page_211">[Pg 211]</a></span></p> +<hr style="width: 100%;" /> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/cc209a.png" alt="* * * * *" /> +</div> + + + +<h2><a name="A_STUDY_A_LA_LOUIS_QUINZE" id="A_STUDY_A_LA_LOUIS_QUINZE"></a>A STUDY A LA LOUIS QUINZE;</h2> + +<div class='center'>OR,</div> + +<h3>PENDANT TO A PASTEL BY LA TOUR.</h3> + + +<p>I have, among others hanging on my wall, a +pastel of La Tour's; of the artist-lover of Julie +Fel, of the monarch of pastellistes, the touch of +whose crayons was a "brevet of wit and of beauty," and +on whose easel bloomed afresh the laughing eyes, the +brilliant tints, the rose-hued lips of all the loveliest women +of the "Règne Galant," from the princesses of the Blood +of the House of Bourbon to the princesses of the green-room +of the Comédie-Française. Painted in the days of +Louis Quinze, the light of more than a century having +fallen on its soft colors to fade and blot them with the icy +brush of time, my pastel is still fresh, still eloquent. The +genius that created it is gone—gone the beauty that inspired +it—but the picture is deathless! It shows me the +face of a woman, of a beautiful woman, else, be sure she +would not have been honored by the crayons of La Tour; +her full Southern lips are parted with a smile of triumph; +a chef-d'[oe]uvre of coquetry, a head-dress of lace and +pearls and little bouquets of roses is on her unpowdered +hair, which is arranged much like Julie Fel's herself in +the portrait that hangs, if I remember right, at the Musée +de Saint Quentin; and her large eyes are glancing at +you with languor, malice, victory, all commingled. At +the back of the picture is written "Mlle. Thargélie Dumarsais;" +the letters are faded and yellow, but the pastel<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_212" id="Page_212">[Pg 212]</a></span> +is living and laughing yet, through the divine touch of +the genius of La Tour. With its perfume of dead glories, +with its odor of the Beau Siècle, the pastel hangs on my +wall, living relic of a buried age, and sometimes in my +mournful moments the full laughing lips of my pastel +will part, and breathe, and speak to me of the distant +past, when Thargélie Dumarsais saw all Paris at her feet, +and was not humbled then as now by being only valued +and remembered for the sake of the talent of La Tour. +My beautiful pastel gives me many confidences. I will +betray one to you—a single leaf from a life of the eighteenth +century.</p> + + +<h3>I.</h3> + +<h4><a name="FIRSTM" id="FIRSTM"></a>THE FIRST MORNING.</h4> + +<p>In the heart of Lorraine, nestled down among its woods, +stood an old château that might have been the château of +the Sleeping Beauty of fairy fame, so sequestered it stood +amidst its trees chained together by fragrant fetters of +honeysuckle and wild vine, so undisturbed slept the morning +shadows on the wild thyme that covered the turf, so +unbroken was the silence in which the leaves barely stirred, +and the birds folded their wings and hushed their song till +the heat of the noonday should be passed. Beyond the +purple hills stretching up in the soft haze of distance in +the same province of laughing, luxurious, sunlit Lorraine, +was Lunéville, the Lunéville of Stanislaus, Montesquieu, +of Voltaire, of Hénault, of Boufflers, a Versailles in +miniature, even possessing a perfect replica of Pompadour +in its own pretty pagan of a Marquise. Within a few +leagues was Lunéville, but the echo of its mots and madrigals +did not reach over the hills, did not profane the +sunny air, did not mingle with the vintage-song of the +vine-dressers, the silver babble of the woodland brook, +the hushed chant of the Ave Maria, the vesper bells<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_213" id="Page_213">[Pg 213]</a></span> +chimed from the churches and monasteries, which made +the sole music known or heard in this little valley of +Lorraine.</p> + +<p>The château of Grande Charmille stood nestled in its +woods, gray, lonely, still, silent as death, yet not gloomy, +for white pigeons circled above its pointed towers, brilliant +dragon-flies fluttered above the broken basin of the fountain +that sang as gayly as it rippled among the thyme as +though it fell into a marble cup, and bees hummed their +busy happy buzz among the jessamine that clung to its +ivy-covered walls—walls built long before Lorraine had +ceased to be a kingdom and a power, long before a craven +and effeminated Valois had dared to kick the dead body +of a slaughtered Guise. Not gloomy with the golden +light of a summer noon playing amidst the tangled boughs +and on the silvered lichens; not gloomy, for under the +elm-boughs on the broken stone steps that led to the +fountain, her feet half buried in violet-roots and wild +thyme, leaning her head on her hand, as she looked +into the water, where the birds flew down to drink, and +fluttered their wings fearless of her presence, was a +young girl of sixteen—and if women sometimes darken +lives, it must be allowed that they always illumine landscapes!</p> + +<p>Aline, when Boufflers saw her in the spring morning, +in all the grace of youth and beauty, unconscious of +themselves, made not a prettier picture than this young +dreamer under the elm-boughs of the Lorraine woods, as +she bent over the water, watching it bubble and splash +from the fountain-spout, and hide itself with a rippling +murmur under the broad green reeds and the leaves of +the water-lily. She was a charming picture: a brunette +with long ebon tresses, with her lashes drooping over her +black, languid, almond-shaped eyes, a smile on her half-pouted +lips, and all the innocence and dawning beauty +of her sixteen years about her, while she sat on the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_214" id="Page_214">[Pg 214]</a></span> +broken steps, now brushing the water-drops off the violets, +now weaving the reeds into a pretty, useless toy, now +beckoning the birds that came to peck on the rose-sprays +beside her.</p> + +<p>"Favette! where are your dreams?"</p> + +<p>Favette, the young naïad of the Lorraine elm-woods, +looked up, the plait of rushes dropping from her hands, +and a warm sudden blush tinging her cheeks and brow +with a tint like that on the damask rose-leaves that had +fallen into the water, and floated there like delicate shells.</p> + +<p>"Mon Dieu, Monsieur Léon! how you frightened me!"</p> + +<p>And like a startled fawn, or a young bird glancing +round at a rustle amidst the leaves, Favette sprang up, +half shy, half smiling, all her treasures gathered from +the woods—of flowers, of mosses, of berries, of feathery +grasses, of long ivy-sprays—falling from her lap on to +the turf in unheeded disorder.</p> + +<p>"<i>I</i> frightened you, Favette? Surely not. Are you +sorry to see me, then?"</p> + +<p>"Sorry? Oh no, Monsieur Léon!" and Favette glanced +through her thick curled lashes, slyly yet archly, and +began to braid again her plait of rushes.</p> + +<p>"Come, tell me, then, what and whom were you dreaming +of, ma mie, as you looked down into the water? Tell +me, Favette. You have no secrets from your playmate, +your friend, your brother?"</p> + +<p>Favette shook her head, smiling, and plaited her rushes +all wrong, the blush on her cheeks as bright as that on +the cups of the rose-leaves that the wind shook down in +a fresh shower into the brook.</p> + +<p>"Come, tell me, mignonne. Was it—of me?"</p> + +<p>"Of you? Well, perhaps—yes!"</p> + +<p>It was first love that whispered in Favette's pretty voice +those three little words; it was first love that answered in +his, as he threw himself down on the violet-tufted turf at +her feet, as Boufflers at Aline's.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_215" id="Page_215">[Pg 215]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Ah, Favette, so should it be! for every hope, every +dream, every thought of <i>mine</i>, is centred in and colored +by you."</p> + +<p>"Yet you can leave me to-day," pouted Favette, with +a sigh and a <i>moue mutine</i>, and gathering tears in her +large gazelle eyes.</p> + +<p>"Leave you? Would to Heaven I were not forced! +But against a king's will what power has a subject? None +are too great, none are too lowly, to be touched by that +iron hand if they provoke its grasp. Vincennes yawns +for those who dare to think, For-l'Evêque for those who +dare to jest. Monsieur de Voltaire was sent to the Bastille +for merely defending a truth and his own honor +against De Rohan-Chabot. Who am I, that I should +look for better grace?"</p> + +<p>Favette struck him, with her plaited rushes, a reproachful +little blow.</p> + +<p>"Monsieur Vincennes—Monsieur Voltaire—who are +they? I know nothing of those stupid people!"</p> + +<p>He smiled, and fondly stroked her hair:</p> + +<p>"Little darling! The one is a prison that manacles +the deadly crimes of Free Speech and Free Thought; +the other, a man who has suffered for both, but loves +both still, and will, sooner or later, help to give both to +the world——"</p> + +<p>"Ah, you think of your studies, of your ambitions, of +your great heroes! You think nothing of me, save to +call me a little darling. You are cruel, Monsieur Léon!"</p> + +<p>And Favette twisted her hand from his grasp with +petulant sorrow, and dashed away her tears—the tears +of sixteen—as bright and free from bitterness as the +water-drops on the violet-bells.</p> + +<p>"<i>I</i> cruel—and to you! My heart must indeed be +badly echoed by my lips, if you have cause to fancy so a +single moment. Cruel to you? Favette, Favette! is a +man ever cruel to the dearest thing in his life, the dearest<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_216" id="Page_216">[Pg 216]</a></span> +name in his thoughts? If I smiled I meant no sneer; I +love you as you are, mignonne; the picture is so fair, one +touch added, or one touch effaced, would mar the whole +in <i>my</i> eyes. I love you as you are! with no knowledge +but what the good sisters teach you in their convent solitude, +and what the songs of the birds, the voices of the +flowers, whisper to you of their woodland lore. I love +you as you are! Every morning when I am far away +from you, and from Lorraine, I shall think of you gathering +the summer roses, calling the birds about you, bending +over the fountain to see it mirror your own beauty; +every evening I shall think of you leaning from the +window, chanting softly to yourself the Ora pro nobis, +while the shadows deepen, and the stars we have so often +watched together come out above the pine-hills. Favette, +Favette! exile will have the bitterness of death to me; +to give me strength to bear it, tell me that you love me +more dearly than as the brother you have always called +me; that you will so love me when I shall be no longer +here beside you, but shall have to trust to memory and +fidelity to guard for me in absence the priceless treasure +of your heart?"</p> + +<p>Favette's head drooped, and her hands played nervously +with the now torn and twisted braid of rushes: he saw +her heart beat under its muslin corsage, like a bee caught +and caged in the white leaves of a lily; and she glanced +at him under her lashes with a touch of naïve coquetry.</p> + +<p>"If I tell you so, what gage have I, Monsieur Léon, +that, a few months gone by, you will even remember it? +In those magnificent cities you will soon forget Lorraine; +with the <i>grandes dames</i> of the courts you will soon cease +to care for Favette?"</p> + +<p>"Look in my eyes, Favette, they alone can answer you +as I would answer! Till we meet again none shall supplant +you for an hour, none rob you of one thought; you +have my first love, you will have my last. Favette, you +believe me?"<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_217" id="Page_217">[Pg 217]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Yes—I believe!" murmured Favette, resting her +large eyes fondly on him. "We will meet as we part, +though you are the swallow, free to take flight over the +seas to foreign lands, and I am the violet, that must stay +where it is rooted in the Lorraine woods!"</p> + +<p>"Accept the augury," he whispered, resting his lips +upon her low smooth brow. "Does not the swallow ever +return to the violet, holding it fairer than all the gaudy +tropical flowers that may have tempted him to rest on the +wing and delay his homeward flight? Does not the violet +ever welcome him the same, in its timid winning spring-tide +loveliness, when he returns to, as when he quitted, +the only home he loves? Believe the augury, Favette; +we shall meet as we part!"</p> + +<p>And they believed the augury, as they believed in life, +in love, in faith; they who were beginning all, and had +proved none of the treacherous triad!</p> + +<p>What had he dreamed of in his solitary ancestral woods +fairer than this Lorraine violet, that had grown up with +him, side by side, since he, a boy of twelve, gathered +heaths from the clefts of the rocks that the little child +of six years old cried for and could not reach? What +had she seen that she loved half so well as M. le Chevalier +from the Castle, whom her uncle, the Curé, held as +his dearest and most brilliant pupil, whose eyes always +looked so lovingly into hers, and whose voice was always +lavishing fond names on his petite Favette?</p> + +<p>They believed the augury, and were happy even in the +sweet sorrow of parting—sorrow that they had never +known before—as they sat together in the morning sunlight, +while the water bubbled among the violet tufts, +among the grasses and wild thyme, and the dragon-flies +fluttered their green and gold and purple wings amidst +the tendrils of the vines, and the rose-leaves, drifted +gently by the wind, floated down the brook, till they were +lost in deepening shadow under the drooping boughs.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_218" id="Page_218">[Pg 218]</a></span></p> + + +<h3>II.</h3> + +<h4><a name="SECONDM" id="SECONDM"></a>THE SECOND MORNING.</h4> + +<p>"Savez-vous que Favart va écrire une nouvelle comédie—La +Chercheuse d'Esprit?"</p> + +<p>"Vraiment? Il doit bien écrire cela, car il s'occupe +toujours à le <i>chercher</i>, et n'arrive jamais à le trouver!"</p> + +<p>The mot had true feminine malice, but the lips that spoke +it were so handsome, that had even poor Favart himself, +the poet-pastrycook who composed operas and comedies +while he made méringues and fanfreluches, and dreamed +of libretti while he whisked the cream for a supper, been +within hearing, they would have taken the smart from +the sting; and, as it was, the hit only caused echoes of +softly-tuned laughter, for the slightest word of those lips +it was the fashion through Paris just then to bow to, +applaud, and re-echo.</p> + +<p>Before her Psyche, shrouded in cobweb lace, powdered +by Martini, gleaming with pearls and emeralds, scented +with most delicate amber, making her morning toilette, +and receiving her morning levee according to the fashion +of the day, sat the brilliant satirist of poor Favart. The +<i>ruelle</i> was crowded; three marshals, De Richelieu, Lowendal, +and Maurice de Saxe; a prince, De Soubise; a +poet, Claude Dorat; an abbé, Voisenon; a centenarian, +Saint-Aulaire; peers uncounted, De Bièvre, De Caylus, +De Villars, D'Etissac, Duras, D'Argenson—a crowd of +others—surrounded and superintended her toilette, in a +glittering troop of courtiers and gentlemen. Dames +d'atours (for she had her maids of honor as well as Marie +Leczinska) handed her her flacons of perfume, or her +numberless notes, on gold salvers, chased by Réveil; the +ermine beneath her feet, humbly sent by the Russian +ambassador—far superior to what the Czarina sent to +Madame de Mailly—had cost two thousand louis; her<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_219" id="Page_219">[Pg 219]</a></span> +bedroom outshone in luxury any at Versailles, Choisy, or +La Muette, with its Venetian glass, its medallions of +Fragonard, its plaques of Sèvres, its landscapes of Watteau, +framed in the carved and gilded wainscoting, its +Chinese lamps, swinging by garlands of roses, its laughing +Cupids, buried under flowers, painted in fresco above +the alcove, its hangings of velvet, of silk, of lace; and +its cabinets, its screens, its bonbonnières, its jewel-boxes, +were costly as those of the Marquises de Pompadour or +De Prie.</p> + +<p>Who was she?—a Princess of the Blood, a Duchess +of France, a mistress of the King?</p> + +<p>Lords of the chamber obeyed her wishes, ministers +signed lettres de cachet at her instance; "<i>ces messieurs</i>," +la Queue de la Régence, had their rendezvous at her suppers; +she had a country villa that eclipsed Trianon; she +had fêtes that outshone the fêtes at Versailles; she had a +"<i>droit de chasse</i>" in one of the royal districts; she had +the first place on the easels of Coypel, Lancret, Pater, +Vanloo, La Tour; the first place in the butterfly odes of +Crébillon le Gai, Claude Dorat; Voisenon.</p> + +<p>Who was she?—the Queen of France? No; much +more—the Queen of Paris!</p> + +<p>She was Thargélie Dumarsais; matchless as Claire +Clairon, beautiful as Madeleine Gaussin, resistless as +Sophie Arnould, great as Adrienne Lecouvreur. She +was a Power in France—for was she not the Empress +of the Comédie? If Madame Lenormand d'Etioles ruled +the government at Versailles, Mademoiselle Thargélie +Dumarsais ruled the world at Paris; and if the King's +favorite could sign her enemies, by a smile, to the Bastille, +the Court's favorite could sign hers, by a frown, to +For-l'Evêque.</p> + +<p>The foyer was nightly filled while she played in <i>Zaïre</i>, +or <i>Polyeucte</i>, or <i>Les Folies Amoureuses</i>, with a court of +princes and poets, marshals and marquises, beaux esprits<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_220" id="Page_220">[Pg 220]</a></span> +and abbés galants; and mighty nobles strewed with bouquets +the path from her carriage to the coulisses; bouquets +she trod on with nonchalant dignity, as though flowers +only bloomed to have the honor of dying under her foot. +Louis Quinze smilingly humored her caprices, content +to wait until it was her pleasure to play at his private +theatre; dukes, marquises, viscounts, chevaliers, vied who +should ruin himself most magnificently and most utterly +for her; and lovers the most brilliant and the most flattering, +from Richelieu, Roi de Ruelles, to Dorat, poet of +boudoir-graces and court-Sapphos, left the titled beauties +of Versailles for the self-crowned Empress of the Français. +She had all Paris for her chentela, from Versailles +to the Caveau; for even the women she deposed, the +actors she braved, the journalists she consigned to For-l'Evêque, +dared not raise their voice against the idol of +the hour. A Queen of France? Bah! Pray what could +Marie Leczinska, the pale, dull pietist, singing canticles +in her private chapel, compare for power, for sway, for +courtiers, for brilliant sovereignty, for unrivalled triumph, +with Thargélie Dumarsais, the Queen of the Theatre?</p> + +<p>Ravishingly beautiful looked the matchless actress as +she sat before her Psyche, flashing <i>[oe]illades</i> on the brilliant +group who made every added aigrette, every additional +bouquet of the coiffure, every little <i>mouche</i>, every +touch to the already perfect toilette, occasion for flattering +simile and soft-breathed compliment; ravishingly beautiful, +as she laughed at Maurice de Saxe, or made a disdainful +<i>moue</i> at an impromptu couplet of Dorat's, or gave +a blow of her fan to Richelieu, or asked Saint-Aulaire +what he thought of Vanloo's portrait of her as <i>Rodugune</i>; +ravishingly beautiful, with her charms that disdained +alike rouge and maréchale powder, and were matchless +by force of their own coloring, form, and voluptuous languor, +when, her toilette finished, followed by her glittering +crowd, she let Richelieu lead her to his carriage.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_221" id="Page_221">[Pg 221]</a></span></p> + +<p>There was a review of Guards on the plain at Sablons +that morning, a fête afterwards, at which she would be +surrounded by the most brilliant staff of an army of Noblesse, +and Richelieu was at that moment the most favored +of her troop of lovers. M. le Duc, as every one knows, +never sued at court or coulisse in vain, and the love of +Thargélie Dumarsais, though perhaps with a stronger +touch of romance in it than was often found in the atmosphere +of the foyer, was, like the love of her time and her +class, as inconstant and vivacious, now settling here, now +lighting there, as any butterfly that fluttered among the +limes at Trianon. Did not the jest-loving <i>parterre</i> ever +salute with gay laughter two lines in a bagatelle-comedy +of the hour—</p> + +<p> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Oui l'Amour papillonne, sans entraves, à son gré;</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Chargé longtemps de fers, de soie même, il mourrait!—</span><br /> +</p> + +<p>when spoken by Thargélie Dumarsais—laughter that +hailed her as head-priestess of her pleasant creed, in a +city and a century where the creed was universal?</p> + +<p>"Ah, bonjour! You have not seen her before, have +you, semi-Englishman? You have found nothing like +her in the foggy isles, I wager you fifty louis!" cried one +of Thargélie Dumarsais's court, the Marquis de la Thorillière, +meeting a friend of his who had arrived in Paris +only the day before, M. le Chevalier de Tallemont des +Réaux, as Richelieu's cortége rolled away, and the Marquis +crossed to his own carriage.</p> + +<p>"Her? Whom? I have not been in Paris for six +years, you know. What can I tell of its idols, as I +remember of old that they change every hour?"</p> + +<p>"True! but, bon Dieu! not to know la Dumarsais! +What it must be to have been buried in those benighted +Britannic Isles! Did you not see her in Richelieu's +carriage?"<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_222" id="Page_222">[Pg 222]</a></span></p> + +<p>"No. I saw a carriage driving off with such an escort +and such fracas, that I thought it could belong to nobody +less than to Madame Lenormand d'Etioles; but I did not +observe it any further. Who is this beauty I ought to +have seen?"</p> + +<p>"Thargélie Dumarsais, for whom we are all ruining +ourselves with the prettiest grace in the world, and for +whom you will do the same when you have been once to +the Français; that is, if you have the good fortune to +attract her eyes and please her fancy, which you may do, +for the fogs have agreed with you, Léon!—I should not +wonder if you become the fashion, and set the women +raving of you as 'leur zer zevalier!'"</p> + +<p>"Thanks for the prophecy, but I shall not stay long +enough to fulfil it, and steal your myrtle crowns. I leave +again to-morrow."</p> + +<p>"<i>Leave?</i> Sapristi! See what it is to have become +half English, and imbibed a taste for spleen and solitude! +Have you written another satire, or have you learned such +barbarism as to dislike Paris?"</p> + +<p>"Neither; but I leave for Lorraine to-morrow. It is +five years since I saw my old pine-woods."</p> + +<p>"Dame! it is ten years since <i>I</i> saw the wilds of Bretagne, +and I will take good care it shall be a hundred +before I see them again. <i>Hors de Paris, c'est hors du +monde.</i> Come with me to La Dumarsais's <i>petit souper</i> to-night, +and you will soon change your mind."</p> + +<p>"My good Armand, you have not been an exile, as I +have; you little know how I long for the very scent of +the leaves, the very smell of the earth at Grande Charmille! +But bah! I talk in Hebrew to you. You have +been lounging away your days in titled beauties, <i>petits +salons</i>, making butterfly verses, learning their broidery, +their lisp, and their perfumes, talking to their parrots, +and using their cosmétiques, till you care for no air but<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_223" id="Page_223">[Pg 223]</a></span> +what is musk-scented! But what of this Dumarsais of +yours—does she equal Lecouvreur?"</p> + +<p>"Eclipses her!—with Paris as with Maurice de Saxe. +Thargélie Dumarsais is superb, mon cher—unequalled, +unrivalled! We have had nothing like her for beauty, +for grace, for talent, nor, pardieu! for extravagance! +She ruined <i>me</i> last year in a couple of months. Richelieu +is in favor just now—with what woman is he not? +Thargélie is very fond of the Marshals of France! Saxe +is fettered to her hand and foot, and the Duchesse de +Bouillon hates her as rancorously as she does Adrienne. +Come and see her play <i>Phèdre</i> to-night, and you will renounce +Lorraine. I will take you to supper with her +afterwards; she will permit any friend of mine entry, and +then, generous man that I am, I shall have put you <i>en +chemin</i> to sun yourself in her smiles and ingratiate yourself +in her favor. Don't give me too much credit for the +virtue though, for I confess I should like to see Richelieu +supplanted."</p> + +<p>"Does his reign threaten to last long, then?"</p> + +<p>The Marquis shrugged his shoulders, and gave his +badine an expressive whisk.</p> + +<p>"Dieu sait! we are not prophets in Paris. It would be +as easy to say where that weathercock may have veered +to-morrow, as to predict where la Dumarsais's love may +have lighted ere a month! Where are you going, may +I ask?"</p> + +<p>"To see Lucille de Verdreuil. I knew her at Lunéville; +she and Madame de Boufflers were warm friends +till Stanislaus, I believe, found Lucille's eyes lovelier +than Madame la Marquise deemed fit, and then they +quarrelled, as women ever do, with virulence in exact +proportion to the ardor of their friendship."</p> + +<p>"As the women quarrel at Choisy for <i>notre maître</i>! +They will be friends again when both have lost the game, +like Louise de Mailly and the Duchesse de Châteauroux.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_224" id="Page_224">[Pg 224]</a></span> +The poor Duchess! Fitz-James and Maurepas, Châtillon +and Bouillon, Rochefoucauld and le Père Pérussot, all +together, were too strong for her. All the gossip of that +Metz affair reached you across the water, I suppose? +Those pests of Jesuits! if they want him to be their Very +Christian King, and to cure him of his worship of Cupidon, +they will have to pull down all the stones of La +Muette and the Parc aux Cerfs! What good is it to kill +<i>one</i> poor woman when women are as plentiful as roses at +Versailles? And now let me drive you to Madame de +Vaudreuil; if <i>she</i> do not convert you from your fancy +for Lorraine this morning, Thargélie Dumarsais will +to-night."</p> + +<p>"<i>Mon zer zevalier, Paris at ado'able! Vous n'êtes pas +sé'ieux en voulant le quitter, z'en suis sûre!</i>" cried the +Comtesse de Vaudreuil, in the pretty lisp of the day, a +charming little blonde, patched and powdered, nestled in +a chair before a fire of perfumed wood, teasing her monkey +Zulmé with a fan of Pater's, and giving a pretty +little sign of contempt and disbelief with some sprays of +jessamine employed in the chastisement of offenders more +responsible and quite as audacious as Zulmé.</p> + +<p>Her companion, her "zer zevalier," was a young man +of seven-and-twenty, with a countenance frank, engaging, +nobly cast, far more serious, far more thoughtful in its +expression, than was often seen in that laughing and +mocking age. Exiled when a mere boy for a satirical +pamphlet which had provoked the wrath of the Censeur +Royal, and might have cost him the Bastille but for intercession +from Lunéville, he had passed his youth less in +pleasure than in those philosophical and political problems +then beginning to agitate a few minds; which were +developed later on in the "Encyclopédie," later still in +the Assemblée Nationale. Voltaire and <ins title="Transcriber's Note: original reads 'Helvetius', changed for consistency with page 228">Helvétius</ins> had +spoken well of him at Madame de Geoffrin's; Claudine +de Tencin had introduced him the night before in her<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_225" id="Page_225">[Pg 225]</a></span> +brilliant salons; the veteran Fontenelle had said to him, +"<i>Monsieur, comme censeur royal je refusai mon approbation +à votre brochure; comme homme libre je vous en félicite</i>"—all +that circle was prepared to receive him well, +the young Chevalier de Tallemont might make a felicitous +season in Paris if he chose, with the romance of his exile +about him, and Madame de Vaudreuil smiling kindly on +him.</p> + +<p>"The country!" she cried; "the country is all very +charming in eclogues and pastorals, but out of them it is +a desert of ennui! What <i>can</i> you mean, Léon, by leaving +Paris to-morrow? Ah, méchant, there must be something +we do not see, some love besides that of the Lorraine +woods!"</p> + +<p>"Madame, is there not my father?"</p> + +<p>"<i>Bien zoli!</i> But at your age men are not so filial. +There is some other reason—but what? Any love you +had there five years ago has hardly any attractions now. +Five years! Ma foi, five months is an eternity that kills +the warmest passion!"</p> + +<p>"May there not be some love, madame, that time only +strengthens?"</p> + +<p>"I never heard of it if there be. It would be a very +dreary affair, I should fancy, smouldering, smouldering +on and on like an ill-lit fire. Nobody would thank you +for it, mon cher, <i>here</i>! Come, what is your secret? Tell +it me."</p> + +<p>Léon de Tallemont smiled; the smile of a man who +has happy thoughts, and is indifferent to ridicule.</p> + +<p>"Madame, one can refuse you nothing! My secret? +It is a very simple one. The greatest pang of my enforced +exile was the parting from one I loved; the greatest +joy of my return is that I return to her."</p> + +<p>"<i>Bon Dieu! comme c'est drôle!</i> Here is a man talking +to me of love, and of a love not felt for <i>me</i>!" thought +Madame la Comtesse, giving him a soft glance of her<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_226" id="Page_226">[Pg 226]</a></span> +beautiful blue eyes. "You are a very strange man. You +have lived out of France till you have grown wretchedly +serious and eccentric. Loved this woman for five years? +Léon! Léon! you are telling me a fairy tale. Who is +she, this enchantress? She must have some mysterious +magic. Tell me—quick!"</p> + +<p>"She is no enchantress, madame, and she has no magic +save the simple one of having ever been very dear to me. +We grew up together at Grande Charmille; she was the +orphan niece of the Priest, a fond, innocent, laughing +child, fresh and fair, and as untouched by a breath of +impure air as any of the violets in the valley. She was +scarcely out of the years of childhood when I left her, +with beauty whose sweetest grace of all was its own unconsciousness. +Through my five long years of exile I +have remembered Favette as I saw her last under the +elm-boughs in the summer light, her eyes dim with the +tears of our parting, her young heart heaving with its +first grief. I have loved her too well for others to have +power to efface or to supplant her; of her only have I +thought, of her only have I dreamed, holding her but the +dearer as the years grew further from the hour of our +separation, nearer to the hour of our reunion. I have +heard no word of her since we parted; but of what value +is love without trust and fidelity in trial? The beauty +of her childhood may have merged into the beauty of +womanhood, but I fear no other change in Favette. As +we parted so we vowed to meet, and I believe in her love +as in my own. I know that I shall find my Lorraine +violet without stain or soil. Madame, Favette is still +dearer to me now, Heaven help me, than five years ago. +Five years—five years—true! it <i>is</i> an eternity! Yet +the bitterness of the past has faded for ever from me <i>now</i>, +and I only see—the future!"</p> + +<p>Madame de Vaudreuil listened in silence; his words +stirred in her chords long untouched, never heard amidst<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_227" id="Page_227">[Pg 227]</a></span> +the mots, the madrigals, the laughter of her world of +Paris, Versailles, and Choisy. She struck him a little +blow with her jessamine-sprays, with a mist gathering +over her lovely blue eyes.</p> + +<p>"Hush, hush, Léon! you speak in a tongue unknown +here. A word of the heart amongst us sounds a word of +a <i>Gaulois</i> out of fashion—forbidden!"</p> + + +<h3>III.</h3> + +<h4><a name="MIDNIGHT" id="MIDNIGHT"></a>MIDNIGHT.</h4> + +<p>The Français was crowded. Thargélie Dumarsais, +great in <i>Electre</i>, <i>Chimène</i>, <i>Inès</i>, as in "<i>Ninette à la Cour</i>," +"<i>Les Moissonneurs</i>," or "<i>Annette et Lubin</i>," was playing +in "<i>Phèdre</i>." Louis Quinze was present, with all the +powdered marquises, the titled wits, the glittering gentlemen +of the Court of Versailles; but no presence stayed +the shout of adoration with which the parterre welcomed +the idol of the hour, and Louis le Bien-aimé (des femmes!) +himself added his royal quota to the ovation, and threw +at her feet a diamond, superb as any in his regalia. It +was whispered that the Most Christian King was growing +envious of his favorite's favor with la Dumarsais, and +would, ere long, supersede him.</p> + +<p>The foyer was filled with princes of the blood, marshals +of France, dukes, marquises, the élite of her troop +of lovers; lords and gentlemen crowded the passages, +flinging their bouquets for her carpet as she passed; and +poor scholars, young poets, youths without a sou—amongst +them Diderot, Gilbert, Jean-Jacques Rousseau—pressed +forward to catch a glimpse, by the light of the links, of +this beauty, on which only the eyes of grands seigneurs +who could dress Cupidon in a court habit <i>parfilé d'or</i> +were allowed to gaze closely, as she left the Français, +after her unmatched and uninterrupted triumphs, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_228" id="Page_228">[Pg 228]</a></span> +went to her carriage with Richelieu. The suppers of +Thargélie Dumarsais were renowned through Paris; they +equalled in magnificence the suppers of the Regency, +rivalled them for license, and surpassed them for wit. +All the world might flock to her fêtes where she undisguisedly +sought to surpass the lavishness of Versailles, +even by having showers of silver flung from her windows +to the people in the streets below; but to her <i>soupers à +huis clos</i> only a chosen few were admitted, and men would +speak of having supped with la Dumarsais as boastfully +as women of having supped with the King at Choisy.</p> + +<p>"What you have lost in not seeing her play <i>Phèdre</i>! +Helvétius would have excused you; all the talk of his +salons is not worth one glance at la Dumarsais. Mon +ami! you will be converted to Paris when once you have +seen her," said the Marquis de la Thorillière, as his carriage +stopped in the Chaussée d'Antin.</p> + +<p>Léon de Tallemont laughed, and thought of the eyes +that would brighten at his glance, and the heart that +would beat against his once more under the vine +shadows of Lorraine. No new magic, however seductive, +should have strength to shake his allegiance to that Memory, +and, true to his violet in Lorraine, he defied the +Queen of the Foyer.</p> + +<p>"We are late, but that is always a more pardonable +fault than to be too early," said the Marquis, as they were +ushered across the vestibule, through several salons, into +the supper-room, hung with rich tapestries of "Les +Nymphes au Bain," "Diane Chasseresse," and "Apollon +et Daphné;" with gilded consoles, and rosewood buffets, +enamelled with medallion groups, and crowded with +Sèvres and porcelaine de Saxe, while Venetian mirrors at +each end of the salle reflected the table, with its wines, +and fruits, and flowers, its gold dishes and Bohemian +glass. The air was heavily perfumed, and vibrating with +laughter. The guests were Richelieu, Bièvre, Saxe,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_229" id="Page_229">[Pg 229]</a></span> +D'Etissac, Montcrif, and lovely Marie Camargo, the +queen of the coulisses who introduced the "short skirts" +of the ballet, and upheld her innovation so stanchly +amidst the outcries of scandalized Jansenists and journalists. +But even Marie Camargo herself paled—and would +have paled even had she been, what she was not, in the +first flush of her youth—before the superb beauty, the +languid voluptuousness, the sensuous grace, the southern +eyes, the full lips, like the open leaves of a damask rose, +melting yet mocking, of the most beautiful and most +notorious woman of a day in which beauty and notoriety +were rife, the woman with the diamond of Louis Quinze +sparkling in the light upon her bosom, whom Versailles +and Paris hailed as Thargélie Dumarsais.</p> + +<p>The air, scented with amber, rang with the gay echoes +of a stanza of Dorat's, chanted by Marie Camargo; the +"Cupids and Bacchantes," painted in the panels of Sèvres, +seemed to laugh in sympathy with the revel over which +they presided; the light flashed on the King's diamond, +to which Richelieu pointed, with a wicked whisper; for +the Marshal was getting tired of his own reign, and his +master might pay his court when he would. Thargélie +Dumarsais, more beautiful still at her <i>petit souper</i> than +at her <i>petit lever</i>, with her hair crowned with roses, true +flowers of Venus that might have crowned Aspasia, +looked up laughingly as her lacqueys ushered in le Marquis +de la Thorillière and le Chevalier de Tallemont.</p> + +<p>"M. le Marquis," cried the actress, "you are late! It +is an impertinence forbidden at my court. I shall sup in +future with barred doors, like M. d'Orléans; then all you +late-comers——"</p> + +<p>Through the scented air, through the echoing laughter, +stopping her own words, broke a startled bitter cry:</p> + +<p>"<i>Mon Dieu, c'est Favette!</i>"</p> + +<p>Thargélie Dumarsais shrank back in her rose velvet +fauteuil as though the blow of a dagger had struck her;<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_230" id="Page_230">[Pg 230]</a></span> +the color fled from her lips, and underneath the delicate +rouge on her cheeks; her hand trembled as it grasped the +King's aigrette.</p> + +<p>"Favette—Favette! Who calls me that?"</p> + +<p>It was a forgotten name, the name of a bygone life +that fell on her ear with a strange familiar chime, breaking +in on the wit, the license, the laughter of her midnight +supper, as the subdued and mournful sound of vesper +bells might fall upon the wild refrains and noisy +drinking-songs of bacchanalian melody.</p> + +<p>A surprised silence fell upon the group, the laughter +hushed, the voices stopped; it was a strange interruption +for a midnight supper. Thargélie Dumarsais involuntarily +rose, her lips white, her eyes fixed, her hand clasped +convulsively on the King's diamond. A vague, speechless +terror held mastery over her, an awe she could not +shake off had fastened upon her, as though the dead had +risen from their graves, and come thither to rebuke her +for the past forgotten, the innocence lost. The roses in +her hair, the flowers of revel, touched a cheek blanched +as though she beheld some unearthly thing, and the hand +that lay on the royal jewel shook and trembled.</p> + +<p>"Favette? Favette?" she echoed again. "It is so +many years since I heard that name!"</p> + +<p>Her guests sat silent still, comprehending nothing of +this single name which had such power to move and +startle her. Richelieu alone, leaning back in his chair, +leisurely picked out one of his brandy-cherries, and waited +as a man waits for the next scene at a theatre:</p> + +<p>"Is it an unexpected tragedy, or an arranged comedy, +ma chère? Ought one to cry or to laugh? Give me the +<i>mot d'ordre</i>!"</p> + +<p>His words broke the spell, and called Thargélie Dumarsais +back to the world about her. Actress by profession +and by nature, she rallied with a laugh, putting out her +jewelled hand with a languid glance from her long +almond-shaped eyes.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_231" id="Page_231">[Pg 231]</a></span></p> + +<p>"A friend of early years, my dear Duc, that is all. +Ah, Monsieur de Tallemont what a strange rencontre! +When did you come to Paris? I scarcely knew you at +the first moment; you have so long been an exile, one +may pardonably be startled by your apparition, and take +you for a ghost! I suppose you never dreamed of meeting +Favette Fontanie under my <i>nom de théâtre</i>? Ah! +how we change, do we not, Léon? Time is so short, we +have no time to stand still! Marie, ma chère, give Monsieur +le Chevalier a seat beside you—he cannot be happier +placed!"</p> + +<p>Léon de Tallemont heard not a word that she spoke; +he stood like a man stunned and paralyzed by a sudden +and violent blow, his head bowed, a mortal pallor changing +his face to the hues of death, the features that were a +moment before bright, laughing, and careless, now set in +mute and rigid anguish.</p> + +<p>"Favette! Favette!" he murmured, hoarsely, in the +vague dreamy agony with which a man calls wildly and +futilely on the beloved dead to come back to him from +the silence and horror of the grave.</p> + +<p>"Peste!" laughed Richelieu. "This cast-off lover +seems a strange fellow! Does he not know that absent +people have never the presumption to dream of keeping +their places, but learn to give them graciously up!—shall +I teach him the lesson? If he have his sixteen +quarterings, a prick of my sword will soon punish his +impudence!"</p> + +<p>The jeer fell unheeded on Léon de Tallemont's ear; +had he heard it, the flippant sneer would have had no +power to sting him then. Regardless of the men around +the supper-table, he grasped Thargélie Dumarsais's hands +in his:</p> + +<p>"This is how we meet!"</p> + +<p>She shrank away from his glance, terrified, she scarce +knew why, at the mute anguish upon his face.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_232" id="Page_232">[Pg 232]</a></span></p> + +<p>Perhaps for a moment she realized how utterly she had +abused the love and wrecked the life of this man; perhaps +with his voice came back to her thronging thoughts +of guileless days, memories ringing through the haze of +years, as distant chimes ring over the water from lands +we have quitted, reaching us when we have floated far +away out to sea—memories of an innocent and untroubled +life, when she had watched the woodland flowers open to +the morning sun, and listened to the song of the brooks +murmuring over the violet roots, and heard the sweet +evening song of the birds rise to heaven under the deep +vine shadows of Lorraine.</p> + +<p>One moment she was silent, her eyes falling, troubled +and guilty, beneath his gaze; then she looked up, laughing +gayly, and flashing on him her languid lustrous glance.</p> + +<p>"You look like a somnambulist, <i>mon ami</i>! Did nobody +ever tell you, then, how Mme. de la Vrillière carried +me off from Lorraine, and brought me in her train to +Paris, till, when Favette Fontanie was tired of being petted +like the spaniel, the monkey, and the parrot, she broke +away from Madame la Marquise, and made, after a little +probation at the Foire St. Laurent, her appearance at the +Français as Thargélie Dumarsais? <i>Allons donc!</i> have I +lost my beauty, that you look at me thus? You should +be reminding me of the proverb, '<i>On revient toujours à +ses premiers amours!</i>' Surely, Thargélie Dumarsais will +be as attractive to teach such a lesson as that little peasant +girl, Favette, used to be? Bah, Léon! Can I not love +you as well again in Paris as I once loved you at Grande +Charmille? And—who knows?—perhaps I will!"</p> + +<p>She leaned towards him; her breath fanning his cheek, +her scented hair brushing his lips, her lustrous eyes meeting +his with eloquent meaning, her lips parted with the +resistless witchery of that melting and seductive <i>sourire +d'amour</i> to which they were so admirably trained. He +gazed down on her, breathless, silence-stricken—gazed<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_233" id="Page_233">[Pg 233]</a></span> +down on the sorceress beauty to which the innocent loveliness +of his Lorraine flower had changed. Was this +woman, with the rouge upon her cheeks, the crimson roses +in her hair, the mocking light in her eyes, the wicked +laugh on her lips, the diamond glittering like a serpent's +eye in her bosom—was she the guileless child he had left +weeping, on the broken steps of the fountain, tears as +pure as the dew in the violet-bells, with the summer sunlight +streaming round her, and no shade on her young +brow darker than the fleeting shadow flung from above +by the vine-leaves? A cry broke once more from his lips:</p> + +<p>"Would to God I had died before to-night!"</p> + +<p>Then he lifted his head, with a smile upon his face—a +smile that touched and vaguely terrified all those who +saw it—the smile of a breaking heart.</p> + +<p>"I thank you for your proffered embraces, but <i>I</i> am +faithful. I love but one, and I have lost her; Favette is +dead! I know nothing of Thargélie Dumarsais, the +Courtesan."</p> + +<p>He bowed low to her and left her—never to see her +face again.</p> + +<p>A silence fell on those he had quitted, even upon +Richelieu; perhaps even he realized that all beauty, faith, +and joy were stricken from this man's life; and—reality +of feeling was an exile so universally banished from the +gay salons of the Dix-huitième Siècle, that its intrusion +awed them as by the unwonted presence of some ghostly +visitant.</p> + +<p>Thargélie Dumarsais sat silent—her thoughts had +flown away once more from her brilliant supper-chamber +to the fountain at Grande Charmille: she was seeing the +dragon-flies flutter among the elm-boughs, and the water +ripple over the wild thyme; she was feeling the old +priest's good-night kiss upon her brow, and her own hymn +rise and mingle with the chant of the vesper choir; she +was hearing the song of the forest-birds echo in the Lorraine<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_234" id="Page_234">[Pg 234]</a></span> +woods, and a fond voice whisper to her, "Fear not, +Favette!—we shall meet as we part!"</p> + +<p>Richelieu took up his Dresden saucer of cherries once +more with a burst of laughter.</p> + +<p>"<i>Voilà un drôle!</i>—this fellow takes things seriously. +What fools there are in this world! It will be a charming +little story for Versailles. Dieu! how Louis will +laugh when I tell it him! I fear though, ma chérie, +that the 'friend of your childhood' will make you lose +your reputation by his impolite epithets!"</p> + +<p>"When one has nothing, one can lose nothing—eh, +ma chère?" laughed Marie Camargo. "Monsieur le Duc, +she does not hear us——"</p> + +<p>"No, <i>l'infidèle</i>!" cried Richelieu. "Mademoiselle! I +see plainly you love this rude lover of bygone days better +than you do us!—is it not the truth?"</p> + +<p>"Chut! nobody asks for truths in a polite age!" +laughed Thargélie Dumarsais, shaking off unwelcome +memories once for all, and looking down at the King's +diamond gleaming in the light—the diamond that prophesied +to her the triumph of the King's love.</p> + +<p>"Naturally," added La Camargo. "My friend, I shall +die with envy of your glorious jewel. <i>Dieu! comme il +brille!</i>"</p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/cc232.png" alt="* * * * *" /> +</div> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_235" id="Page_235">[Pg 235]</a></span></p> + +<hr style="width: 100%;" /> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/cc233a.png" alt="* * * * *" /> +</div> + + + + +<h2><a name="DEADLY_DASH" id="DEADLY_DASH"></a>"DEADLY DASH."</h2> + +<h3>A STORY TOLD ON THE OFF DAY.</h3> + + +<p>On the off-day after the Derby everybody, except +the great winners, is, it will be generally admitted, +the resigned prey to a certain gentle +sadness, not to say melancholy, that will only dissipate +itself under a prolonged regimen of S. and B., seidlitz +well dashed with Amontillado, or certain heavenly West +Indian decoctions;—this indisposition, I would suggest, +we should call, delicately and dubiously, Epsomitis. It +will serve to describe innumerable forms and degrees of +the reactionary malady.</p> + +<p>There is the severest shape of all, "dead money," that +covers four figures, dropped irretrievably, and lost to the +"milkers;" lost always <i>you</i> say because of a cough, or +because of a close finish, or because of something dark, or +because of a strain in the practising gallops, or because +of a couple of brutes that cannoned just at the start; and +never, of course, because the horse you had fancied was +sheerly and simply only fit for a plater. There is the +second severe form, when you awake with a cheerful expectation +of a summons for driving "at twelve miles an +hour" (as if that wasn't moderate and discreet!), and for +thereby smashing a greengrocer's cart into the middle of +next week, and running a waggonette into an omnibus, +as you came back from the Downs, of which you have +no more remembrance than that there was a crash, and a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_236" id="Page_236">[Pg 236]</a></span> +smash, and a woman's screams, and a man's "d—n the +swells!" and a <i>tintamarre</i> of roaring conductor and bellowing +greengrocer, and infuriated females, through which +you dashed somehow with a cheer—more shame for you—and +a most inappropriate <i>l'Africaine</i> chorus from the +men on your drag. There is the milder form, which is +only the rueful recollection of seeing, in a wild ecstasy, +the chestnut with the white blaze sweep with his superb +stride to the front, and of having, in your moment of +rapturous gratitude to the red and blue, rushed, unintentionally, +during the discussion of Fortnum and Mason's +hamper, into a promise to take Euphrosyne Brown to +Baden in August, where you know very well she will cost +you more than all your sums netted through Gladiateur. +There are the slenderer touches of the malady, which give +you, over your breakfast coffee, a certain dolorous meditation +as to how you could have been such a fool as to have +placed all your trust in Danebury, or to have put in a +hole through Spring Cottage just what your yacht costs +for three months; which makes you wonder why on earth +you took that lot of actresses on to the hill, and threw +money enough away on them in those wages of idiotcy +(or wages of sin, as your uncle the dean would translate +it), of cashmeres, eau de Cologne, gloves, and bracelets, +to have purchased those two weight-carriers offered you +at £600 the pair, and dirt-cheap at that; or which makes +you only dully and headachily conscious that you drank +champagne up on the box-seat as if you were a young +fellow from Eton, and now pay for the juvenile folly, as +you know you deserve to do, when that beautiful white +Burgundy at your club, or your own cool perfect claret +at home, seems to stare you in the face and ask, "Why +did you crack all those bottles of Dry on the Downs?"</p> + +<p>There are symptoms and varieties innumerable of the +malady that I propose shall be known henceforward as +Epsomitis; therefore, the off-day finds everybody more or<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_237" id="Page_237">[Pg 237]</a></span> +less slightly done-up and mournful. Twenty-four hours +and the Oaks, if properly prepared for by a strictly +medicinal course of <i>brûles-gueules</i>, as the Chasseurs say, +smoked perseveringly, will bring all patients round on +the Friday; but during the twenty-four hours a sense +that all on and off the course is vanity and vexation of +spirit will generally and somnolently predominate in the +universal and fashionable disease of Epsomitis.</p> + +<p>One off-day, after the magnificent victory of Monarque's +unrivalled son, an acquaintance of mine, suffering considerably +from these symptoms, sought my philosophy and +my prescriptions. A very sharp irritant for Epsomitis +may be administered in the form of "I told you so? It's +all your own fault!" But this species of blister and +douche bath combined is rarely given unless the patient +be mad enough to let his wife, if he unluckily have one, +learn what ails him. As far as I was concerned, I was +much too sympathetic with the sufferer to be down upon +him with the triumphant reminder that I had cautioned +him all along not to place his trust in Russley. I, instead, +prescribed him cool wines, and led him on to talk of other +people's misfortunes, the very best way to get reconciled +with your own. We talked of old times, of old memories, +of old acquaintance, in the twilight, between Derby and +Oaks. We got a little melancholy; too much champagne +is always productive on the morrow of a gently sentimental +tinge, and a man is always inclined to look on the +world as a desert when he has the conviction that he himself +has been made a fool in it. Among other names, +that of Deadly Dash came up between us. What had +become of him? I did not know; he did. He told me; +and I will tell it here, for the story is of the past now.</p> + +<p>"Deadly Dash! What a shot he was! Never missed," +said my friend, whose own gun is known well enough at +Hornsey-wood House; therewith falling into a reverie, +tinged with the Jacques-like gloom of Epsomitis in its<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_238" id="Page_238">[Pg 238]</a></span> +severest form, from which he awoke to tell me slowly, between +long draughts of iced drinks, what I write now. I +alter his tale in nothing, save in filling in with words the +gaps and blanks that he made, all-eloquent in his halting +oratory, by meditative, plaintive, moralizing puffs from +his tonic, the <i>brûle gueule</i>, and an occasional appeal to +my imagination in the customary formula of "Oh, +bother!—<i>you</i> understand—all the rest of it you know," +which, though it tells everything over claret, is not so +clear a mode of relation in type. For all else here the +story is as he gave it to me.</p> + +<hr style="width: 25%;" /> + +<p>"Deadly Dash!" It was a fatal sounding sobriquet, +and had a fatal fascination for many, for me as well as +the rest, when I was in my salad days and joined the old ——th, +amongst whose Light Dragoons, it was so signally +and ominously famous. The nickname had a wide significance; +"<i>he always kills</i>," was said with twofold truth, +in twofold meaning of Dash; in a <i>barrière</i> duel he would +wheel lightly, aim carelessly, and send the ball straight +as any arrow through heart or lung, just as he fancied, in +the neatest style anybody could dream of; and in an intrigue +he took just the same measures, and hit as invariably +with the self-same skill and the self-same indifference. +"He always kills" applied equally to either kind of affair, +and got him his sobriquet, which he received with as +laughing an equanimity as a riding man gets the Gilt +Vase, or a "lover of the leash" the Ravensworth Stakes, +or the Puppy Cup and Goblet. He was proud of it, and +had only one regret, that he lived in the dead days of the +duel, and could only go out when he was on French soil. +In dare-devilry of every sort he out-Heroded Herod, and +distanced any who were mad enough to try the pace with +him in that steeple-chase commonly called "going to the +bad." It was a miracle how often he used to reach the +stage of "<i>complete</i> ruin" that the Prince de Soubise once<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_239" id="Page_239">[Pg 239]</a></span> +sighed for as an unattainable paradise; and picked himself +up again, without a hair turned, as one may say, and +started off with as fresh a pace as though nothing had +knocked him over. Other men got his speed sometimes; +but nobody could ever equal his stay. For an "out and +out goer" there was nobody like Deadly Dash; and +though only a Captain of Horse, with few "expectations," +he did what Dukes daren't have done, and lived at a +faster rate than all the elder sons in the kingdom put +together. Dash had the best bow and the brightest wits, +the lightest morals and the heaviest debts of any <i>sabreur</i> +in the Service; very unscrupulous fellows were staggered +at <i>his</i> devil-me-care vices; and as for reputation,—"a +deuced pleasant fellow, Dash," they used to say at the +Curragh, in the Guards' Club, at Thatched House anniversary +dinners, in North Indian cantonments, in Brighton +barrack-rooms, or in any of the many places where Deadly +Dash was a household word; "a very pleasant fellow; no +end 'fit' always, best fun in life over the olives when you +get him in humor; shoot you dead though next morning, +if he want, and you be handy for him in a neat snug little +Bad; make some devil of a <i>mot</i> on you too afterwards, +just as pleasantly as if he were offering you a Lopez to +smoke!"</p> + +<p>Now, that was just the sort of celebrity that made me +mad to see the owner of it; there wasn't a living being, +except that year's favorite out of the Whitewall establishment, +that I was half so eager to look at, or so reverent +when I thought of, as "the Killer." I was very young +then. I had gone through a classic course of yellow covers +from Jeffs' and Rolandi's, and I had a vague impression +that a man who had had a dozen <i>barrière</i> affairs +abroad, and been "<i>enfant</i>" to every lovely <i>lionne</i> of his +day, must of necessity be like the heroes of Delphine +Demireps' novels, who had each of them always a "je ne +sais quoi de farouche et de fier dans ses grands yeux noirs,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_240" id="Page_240">[Pg 240]</a></span> +et toute la révélation d'une ame usée, mais dominée par +des passions encore inépuisables, écrite sur son sombre +et pale visage," &c., &c., in the Demireps' most telling +style.</p> + +<p>I don't know quite what I expected to see in the Killer, +but I think it was a sort of compound of Monte Christo, +Mephistopheles, and Murat mixed in one; what I did see +was a slight delicate man with a face as fair and soft as a +girl's, the gentlest possible manners, and a laugh like +music. Deadly Dash had led a life as bad as he could +lead, had lit his cigar without a tremor in the wrist, on +many gray mornings, while his adversary lay dying hard +among the red rank grasses, had gamed so deep twenty-four +hours at a stretch that the most reckless <i>galérie</i> in +Europe held their breath to watch his play; had had a +tongue of silver for his intrigues and a nerve of steel for +his <i>vendetta</i>; had lived in reckless rioting and drunk +deep; but the Demirep would not have had him at any +price in her romance; he looked so simply and quietly +thorough-bred, he was so utterly guiltless of all her orthodox +traits. The gentlest of mortals was Deadly Dash; +when you first heard his sweet silvery voice, and his +laughter as light and airy as a woman's, you would never +believe how often abroad there a dead man had been left +to get stiff and cold among the clotted herbage, while the +Killer went out of the town by the early express, smoking +and reading the "Charivari," and sipping some cold +Curaçoa punch out of his flask.</p> + +<p>"Of course!" growled a man to me once in the Guards' +smoking-room, an order of the Scots Fusilleers to Montreal +having turned him misanthrope. "Did Mephistopheles +ever come out in full harness, with horns and tail +complete, eh? Not such a fool. He looked like a gentleman, +and talked like a wit. Would the most dunder-headed +Cain in Christendom, I should be glad to know, +be such an ass as to go about town with the brand on his<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_241" id="Page_241">[Pg 241]</a></span> +forehead, when he could turn down Bond Street any day +and get a dash of the ladies' pearl powder? Who ever +<i>shows</i> anything now, my good fellow? Not that Dash +'paints,' to give the deuce his due—except himself a +little blacker even than he is; he don't cant; he couldn't +cant; not to save his life, I believe. But as to his bewitching +you, almost as bad as he does the women, I know +all about that. I used to swear by him till——"</p> + +<p>"Till what?"</p> + +<p>"Till he cut a brother of mine out with Rachel, and +shot him in the woods of Chantilly for flaring-up rough +at the rivalry. Charlie was rather a good fellow, and +Dash and I didn't speak after that, you see. Great bore; +bosh too, perhaps. Dash brews the best Curaçoa punch +in Europe, and if he name you the winning mount for the +Granby, you may let the talent damn you as they like. +Still you know as he killed Charlie,—" and the Guardsman +stuck a great cheroot in his mouth, in doubt as to +whether, after all, it wasn't humbug, and an uncalled-for +sacrifice, rather scenic and sentimental, to drop an expert +at Curaçoa brew, and a sure prophet for Croxton +Park, just because in a legitimate fashion he had potted +your brother and relieved your entail;—on the whole, a +friendly act rather than otherwise? "Keep clear of the +Killer, though, young one," he added, as he sauntered +out. "He's like that cheetah cub of Berkeley's; soft as +silk, you know, <i>patte de velours</i>, and what d'ye call 'em, +and all the rest of it, but deucedly deadly to deal with."</p> + +<p>I did know: it was the eternal refrain that was heard +on all sides; from the wily Jews through whose meshes +he slipped; the unhappy duns who were done by him; +the beauties who were bewitched by him; the hosts and +husbands who, having him down for the pheasants, found +him poach other preserves than those of the cover-sides; +the women who had their characters shattered by a silvery +sneer from a voice that was as soft, in its murderous<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_242" id="Page_242">[Pg 242]</a></span> +slander, as in its equally murderous wooing; and all the +rest, who, in some shape or another, owed ruin to that +Apollo Apollyon—Deadly Dash. Ruin which at last +became so wide and so deep, that even vice began to look +virtuous when his name was mentioned (vice always does +when she thinks you are really cleared out), and men of +his own corps and his own club began to get shy of having +the Killer's arm linked in theirs too often down Pall +Mall, for its wrist was terribly steady in either Hazard, +whether of the yard of green table or the twenty yards +of green turf.</p> + +<p>At last the crisis came: the Killer killed one too many; +a Russian Prince in the Bois de Vincennes, in a quarrel +about a pretty wretched little chorus-singer of the Café +Alcazar, who took their fancies both at once. The <i>mondes</i> +thought it terribly wicked, not the deed you know, but +the audacity of a cavalry man's having potted a Very +Serene High Mightiness. In a Duke, all these crimes +and crimcons, though as scarlet, would have been held +but the crimson gold-dotted fruit adorning the strawberry-leaves; +Deadly Dash, a Light Dragoon whose name was +signed to plenty of "floating little bills," could not bid +high enough to purchase his pardon from society, which +says to its sinners with austere front of virtue, "Oblivion +cannot be hired,—unless," adds Society, dropping to +mellowest murmur her whisper, "unless you can give us +a premium!" So Dash, with a certain irresistible though +private pressure upon him from the Horse Guards—sent +in his papers to sell. What had been done so often could +not now be done again; the first steeple-chaser in the +Service could not at last even save his stake, but was +finally, irretrievably, struck out.</p> + +<p>Certainly the fellow was a bad fellow, and deserved his +crash so far; he had no scruples, and no conscience; he +spared neither woman nor man; of remorse he had never +felt a twinge, and if you were in his path he would pick<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_243" id="Page_243">[Pg 243]</a></span> +you off some way or other as indifferently as if you were +one of the pigeons at Hornsey. And yet, he had been +kind to me, though I was a young one; with his own +variable Free Lance sort of liberality, the man would +give his last sou to get you out of any difficulty, and +would carry off your mistress, or beggar you at chicken-hazard, +with the self-same pleasant air the next day: and +I could not help being sorry that things had come to this +pass with him. He shot so superbly! Put him where +you would, in a warm corner while the bouquets of +pheasants were told off; in a punt, while a square half-mile +of wild-ducks whirred up from the marshes; in a +dark forest alley in Transylvania, while the great boar +rushed down through the twilight, foaming blood and +roaring fury; in a still Indian night with the only target +here and there a dusky head diving amidst the jhow +jungle three hundred yards away: put him where you +would, he was such a magnificent shot! The sins of a +Frankenstein should not have lost such a marksman as +Deadly Dash to the Service.</p> + +<p>But the authorities thought otherwise; they were not +open to the fact, that the man who had been out in more +<i>barrière</i> affairs, and had won more Grand Military stakes +than any other, should, by all laws of war-policy, have +had his blackest transgressions forgiven him, till he could +have been turned to account against Ghoorkas, Maories, +or Caffres. The authorities instead, made him send in +his papers, not knowing the grand knack of turning a +scamp into a hero—a process that requires some genius +and some clairvoyance in the manipulator,—and Deadly +Dash, with his lightest and airiest laugh, steamed down +channel one late autumn night, marked, disgraced, and +outlawed, for creditors by the score were after him, knowing +very well that he and his old gay lawless life, and his +own wild pleasant world, and his old lands yonder in the +green heart of the grass countries that had gone rood by<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_244" id="Page_244">[Pg 244]</a></span> +rood to the Hebrews, were all divorced for ever with a +great gulf between them that could never close.</p> + +<p>So he dropped out of the Service, out of the country, +out of remembrance, out of regret; nobody said a De +Profundis over him, and some men breathed the freer. +We can rarely be sure of any who will be sorry to miss +us; but we can always be certain of some to be glad we +are gone. And in the Killer's case these last were legion. +Here and there were one or two who owed him a wayward, +inconstant bizarre fit of generosity; but there were on +the other hand hundreds who owed him nothing less than +entire ruin.</p> + +<p>So Deadly Dash went with nobody to regret him and +nobody to think of him for a second, after the nine hours' +wonder in the clubs and the mess-rooms that his levanting +"under a cloud" occasioned; and so the old sobriquet, +that had used to have so signal a notoriety, dropped out +of men's mouths and was forgotten. Where he was gone +no one knew; and to be sure no one asked. Metaphorically, +he was gone to the devil; and when a man takes +that little tour, if he furnish talk for a day he has had +very distinguished and lengthened obsequies as friendship +goes in this world. Now and then in the course of half-a-dozen +years I remembered him, when I looked up at +the head of a Royal over my mantelpiece, with thirteen +points, that he had stalked once in Ayrshire and given +to me; but nobody else gave a thought to the Killer. +Time passed, and whether he had been killed fighting in +Chili or Bolivia, shot himself at Homburg, become +Mussulman and entered the Sultan's army, gone to fight +with the Kabyles and Bedouins, turned brigand for the +Neapolitan Bourbons, or sunk downward by the old well-worn +stage, so sadly and so often travelled, into an adventurer +living by the skill of his écarté and the dread +surety of his shot, we did not know; we did not care.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_245" id="Page_245">[Pg 245]</a></span> +When society has given a man the sack, it matters uncommonly +little whether he has given himself a shroud.</p> + +<hr style="width: 25%;" /> + +<p>Seven or eight years after the name of Deadly Dash +had ceased to be heard among cavalry men, and quoted +on all things "horsey," whether of the flat or of the ridge +and furrow, I was in the Confederate States, on leave for +a six months' tour there. It was after Lee's raid across +the border and the days of Gettysburgh. I had run the +blockade in a fast-built clipper, and pushed on at once +into the heart of Virginia, to be in the full heat of whatever +should come on the cards; cutting the cities rather, +and keeping as much as I could to the camps and the +woods, for I wanted to see the real thing in the rough. +In my relish for adventure, however, I was a trifle, as it +proved, too foolhardy.</p> + +<p>Starting alone one day to cross the thirty miles or so +that parted me from the encampment of some Virginian +Horse, with no other companions than a very weedy-looking +steel gray, and a brace of revolvers, I fairly "lost +tracks," and had not a notion of my way out of a wilderness +of morass and forest, all glowing with the scarlet +and the green of the Indian summer. Here and there +were beautiful wild pools and lakes shut in by dense vegetation, +so dense, that at noon it was dark as twilight, and +great tablelands of rock jutted out black and rugged in +places; but chiefly as far as was to be seen stretched the +deep entangled woodland, with nothing else to break it, +brooding quietly over square leagues of swamp. The +orioles were singing their sweetest, wildest music overhead; +sign of war there was none, save to be sure, now +and then when I came on a black, arid circle, where a +few charred timbers showed where a hut had been burnt +down and deserted, or my horse shied and snorted uneasily, +and half stumbled over some shapeless log on the ground—a +log that when you looked closer was the swollen<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_246" id="Page_246">[Pg 246]</a></span> +shattered body of a man who had died hard, with the +grasses wrenched up in his fingers that the ants had eaten +bare, and the hollows of his eyes staring open where the +carrion birds had plucked the eyeballs out. And near +him there were sure to be, half sunk in swamp, or cleaned +to skeletons by the eagles and hawks, five, or ten, or +twenty more, lying nameless and unburied there, where +they had fallen in some scuffle with pickets, or some stray +cavalry skirmish, to be told off as "missing," and to be +thought of no more. These groups I came upon more +than once rotting among the rich Virginian soil, while +the scarlet and purple weight of blossoming boughs +swayed above, and the bright insect life fluttered humming +around them; they were the only highway marks +through the wooded wilderness.</p> + +<p>So lonely was it mile after mile, and so little notion +had I of either the way in or the way out, that the <i>hallali!</i> +of a boar-hunt, or the sweet mellow tongues of the hounds +when they have found in the coverts at home, were never +brighter music to me than the sharp crack of rifles and +the long sullen roll of musketry as they suddenly broke +the silence, while I rode along, firing from the west that +lay on my left. The gray, used to powder, pointed his +ears and quickened his pace. Though a weedy, fiddle-headed +beast, his speed was not bad, and I rattled him +over the ground, crashing through undergrowth and +wading through pools, with all my blood up at the tune +of those ringing cheery shots; the roar growing louder +and louder with every moment, and the sulphur scent of +the smoke borne stronger and stronger down on the wind, +till the horse broke <i>pêle-mêle</i> through a network of parasites; +dashed downward along a slope of dank herbage, +slipping at every step, and with his hind legs tucked +under him; and shot, like a run-in for a race, on to a +green plateau, where the skirmish was going on in hot +earnest.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_247" id="Page_247">[Pg 247]</a></span></p> + +<p>A glance told me how the land lay. A handful of +Southern troopers held their own with tremendous difficulty +against three divisions of Federal infantry, whom +they had unexpectedly encountered, as the latter were +marching across the plateau with some batteries of foot +artillery,—the odds were probably scarcely less than five +to one. The Southerners were fighting magnificently, as +firm in their close square of four hundred as the Consular +Guard at Marengo, but so surrounded by the Northern +host, that they looked like a little island circled round +by raging breakers. Glancing down on the plain as my +horse scoured and slid along the incline, the nucleus of +Southerners looked hopelessly lost amidst the belching +fire and pressing columns of the enemy. The whole was +surrounded and hidden by the whirling clouds of dust +and smoke that swirled above in a white heavy mist; but +through this the sabres flashed, the horses' heads reared, +maddened and foam-covered, like so many bas-reliefs of +Bucephalus, the lean rifle-barrels glittered, and for a +moment I saw the Southern leader, steady as a rock in +the centre, hewing like a trooper right and left, and with +a gray heron's feather floating from his sombrero, a signal +that seemed as well known and as closely followed as the +snowy plume of Murat.</p> + +<p>To have looked on at this and not have taken a share +in it, one would have been a stone, not a man, and much +less a cavalry-man; I need not tell you that I smashed +the gray across the plateau, hurled him into the thick of +the mêlée, dashed <i>somehow</i> through the Federal ranks, +and was near the gray plume and fighting for the Old +Dominion before you could have shouted a stave of +"Dixie." I was a "non-combatant," I was a "neutral"—delicate +Anglo-euphemism for coward, friend to neither +and traitor to both!—I was on a tour of observation, and +had no business to fire a shot for one or the other perhaps, +but I forgot all that, and with the bridle in my teeth and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_248" id="Page_248">[Pg 248]</a></span> +a pistol in each hand, I rode down to give one blow the +more for the weak side.</p> + +<p>How superbly that Gray Feather fought!—keeping his +men well up round him, though saddle after saddle was +emptied, and horse after horse tore riderless out of the +ranks, or reeled over on their heads, spurting blood, he +sat like a statue, he fought like a Titan, his sabre seemed +flashing unceasingly in the air, so often was it raised to +come down again like lightning through a sword-arm, or +lay open a skull to the brains; the shots ploughed up the +earth round him, and rattled like hail through the air, a +score of balls were aimed at him alone, a score of sabres +crossed his own; but he was cool as St. Lawrence ice, and +laid the men dead in struggling heaps under his charger's +hoofs; only to fight near the man was a glorious intoxication; +you seemed to "breathe blood" till you got drunk +with it.</p> + +<p>The four hundred had been mowed down to two; I did +as good work as I could, having wrenched a sword out of +some dead trooper's hand; but I was only one, and the +Northerners counted by thousands. Come out of it alive +I never expected to do; but I vow it was the happiest +day of my life—the pace was so splendidly fast! The +Gray Feather at last glanced anxiously around; his men +stuck like death to him, ready to be hewed down one by +one, and die game; his teeth were set tight, and his eyes +had a flash in them like steel. "Charge! and cut +through!" he shouted, his voice rolling out like a clarion, +giving an order that it seemed could be followed by +nothing short of supernatural aid. The Southrons thought +otherwise; they only heard to obey; they closed up as +steadily as though they were a squadron on parade, +despite the great gaps between them of dying chargers, +and of heaped-up killed and wounded, that broke their +ranks like so much piled stones and timber; they halted +a moment, the murderous fire raking them right and left,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_249" id="Page_249">[Pg 249]</a></span> +front and rear; then, with that dense mass of troops +round them, they charged; shivered the first line that +wedged them in; pierced by sheer force of impetus the +columns that opened fire in their path; wrenched themselves +through as through the steel jaws of a trap, and +swept out on to the green level of the open plateau, with +a wild rallying Virginian shout that rings in my ears +now!</p> + +<p>I have been in a good many hot things in my time; +but I never knew anything that for pace and long odds +could be anything near to that.</p> + +<p>I had kept with them through the charge with no +other scratch than a shoulder cut; and I had been close +to their chief through it all. When we were clean out on +the plains beyond pursuit—for the Union-men had not a +squadron of cavalry, though their guns at long range +belched a storm in our wake—he turned in his saddle +without checking his mare's thundering gallop, and +levelled his rifle that was slung at his aide. "I'll have +the General, anyhow," he said, quietly taking aim—still +without checking his speed—at the knot of staff-officers +that now were scarce more than specks in a blurred mass +of mist. He fired; and the centre figure in that indistinct +and fast-vanishing group fell from the saddle, while the +yell of fury that the wind faintly floated nearer told us +that the shot had been deadly. The Gray Feather +laughed, a careless airy laugh of triumph, while he +swept on at topmost pace; a little more, and we should +dive down into the dark aisles of grand forest-trees and +cavernous ravines of timber roads, safe from all pursuit; +a second, and we should reach the green core of the safe +and silent woods, the cool shelter of mountain-backed +lakes, the sure refuge of tangled coverts. It was a guinea +to a shilling that we gained it; it was all but won; a +moment's straight run-in, and we should have it! But +that moment was not to be ours.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_250" id="Page_250">[Pg 250]</a></span></p> + +<p>Out of the narrow cleft of a valley on the left, all +screened with hanging tumbled foliage, and dark as death, +there poured suddenly across our front a dense body of +Federal troopers and Horse Artillery, two thousand +strong at the least, full gallop, to join the main army. +We were surrounded in a second, in a second overpowered +by sheer strength of numbers; only two hundred of us, +many sorely wounded, and on mounts that were jaded +and ridden out of all pace, let us fight as we would, what +could we do against fresh and picked soldiers, swarming +down on us like a swarm of hornets, while in our rear +was the main body through which we had just cut our +way? That the little desperate band "died hard," I need +not say; but the vast weight of the fresh squadrons pressed +our little knot in as if between the jaws of a trap, crushing +it like grain between two iron weights. The Gray +Feather fought like all the Knights of the Round Table +merged in one, till he streamed with blood from head to +foot, and his sabre was hacked and bent like an ash-stick, +as did a man near him, a tall superb Virginian, handsome +as any Vandyke or Velasquez picture. At last both +the Gray Feather and he went down, not by death—it +would not come to them—but literally hurled out of their +stirrup-leathers by crowding scores who poured on them, +hamstrung or shot their horses, and made them themselves +prisoners—not, however, till the assailants lay +heaped ten deep about their slaughtered chargers. For +myself, a blow from a sabre, a second afterwards, felled +me like so much wood. I saw a whirling blaze of sun, a +confused circling eddy of dizzy color, forked flames, and +flashes of light, and I knew no more, till I opened my +eyes in a dark, square, unhealthy wooden chamber, with +a dreamy but settled conviction that I was dead, and in +the family vault, far away under the green old elms of +Warwickshire, with the rooks cawing above my head.</p> + +<p>As the delusion dissipated and the mists cleared, I saw<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_251" id="Page_251">[Pg 251]</a></span> +through the uncertain light a face that was strangely +but vaguely familiar to me, connected somehow with incoherent +memories of life at home, and yet unknown to me. +It was bronzed deeply, bearded, with flakes of gray +among the fairness of the hair, much aged, much worn, +scarred and stained just now with the blood of undressed +wounds and the dust of the combat, for there was no one +merciful enough there to bring a stoup of water; it was +rougher, darker, sterner, and yet, with it all, nobler, too, +than the face that I had known. I lay and stared +blankly at it: it was the face of the Southern Leader of +the morning, who sat now, on a pile of straw, looking +wearily out to the dying sun, one amongst a group of +twenty, prisoners all, like myself. I moved, and he +turned his eyes on me; they had laid me down there as a +"gone 'coon," and were amazed to see me come to life +again. As our eyes met I knew him—he was Deadly +Dash.</p> + +<p>The old name left my lips with a shout as strong as a +half-killed man can give. It seemed so strange to meet +him there, captives together in the Unionists' hands! It +struck him with a sharp shock. England and he had +been divorced so long. I saw the blood leap to his forehead, +and the light into his glance; then, with a single +stride, he reached the straw I lay on, holding my hands +in his, looking on me with the kindly eyes that had used +to make me like the Killer, and greeting me with a +warmth that was only damped and darkened by regret +that my battle done for fair Virginia had laid me low, a +prisoner with himself, and that we should meet thus, in +so sharp an hour of adversity, with nothing before us but +the Capitol, the Carroll prison, or worse. Yet thus we +did meet once more and I knew at last what had been +the fate of Deadly Dash, whom England had outlawed +as a scoundrel, and the New World had found a hero.</p> + +<p>Though suffering almost equally himself, he tended me<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_252" id="Page_252">[Pg 252]</a></span> +with the kindliest sympathy; he came out of his own care +to ponder how possible it might be to get me eventual +freedom as a tourist and a mere accidental sharer in the +fray; he was interested to hear all that I would tell him +of my own affairs and of his old friends in England, but +of himself he would not speak; he simply said he had +been fighting for the Confederacy ever since the war had +begun; and I saw that he strove in vain to shake off a +deep heart-broken gloom that seemed to have settled on +him, doubtless, as I thought, from the cruel defeat of the +noon, and the hopeless captivity into which he, the most +restless and the most daring soldier that oversaw service, +was now flung.</p> + +<p>I noticed, too, that every now and then while he sat +beside me, talking low—for there were sentinels both in +and out the rude outhouse of the farm that had been +turned into our temporary prison—his eyes wandered to +the gallant Virginian who had been felled down with +himself, and who, covered like himself with blood and +dust, and with his broken left arm hanging shattered, lay +on the bare earth in a far-off corner motionless and silent, +with his lips pressed tight under their long black moustaches, +and such a mute unutterable agony in his eyes as +I never saw in any human face, though I have seen deaths +enough in the field and the sick-ward. The rest of the +Confederate captives were more ordinary men (although +from none was a single word of lament ever wrenched); +but this superb Virginian excited my interest, and I +asked his name, in that sort of languid curiosity at passing +things which comes with weakness, of the Killer, +whose glance so incessantly wandered towards him.</p> + +<p>"Stuart Lane," he answered, curtly, and added no +more; but if I ever saw in this world hatred, passionate, +ungovernable, and intense, I saw it in the Killer's look +as his glance flashed once more on to the motionless form +of the handsomest, bravest, and most dauntless officer of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_253" id="Page_253">[Pg 253]</a></span> +his gallant regiment that he had seen cut to pieces there +on that accursed plateau.</p> + +<p>"A major of yours?" I asked him. "Ah, I thought +so; he fought magnificently. How wretched he looks, +though he is too proud to show it!"</p> + +<p>"He is thinking of—of his bride. He married three +weeks ago."</p> + +<p>The words were simple enough, and spoken very quietly; +but there was an unsteadiness, as of great effort, over +them; and the heel of his heavy spurred jack-boot +crashed into the dry mud with a grinding crush, as though +it trod terrible memories down. Was it a woman who +was between these two comrades in arms and companions +in adversity? I wondered if it were so, even in that moment +of keen and heavy anxiety for us all, as I looked at +the face that bent very kindly over the straw to which a +shot in the knee and a deep though not dangerous shoulder-wound +bound me. It was very different to the face +of eight or nine years before—browner, harder, graver +far; and yet there was a look as if "sorrow had passed +by there," and swept the old heartlessness and gay callousness +away, burning them out in its fires.</p> + +<p>Silence fell over us in that wretched outshed where we +were huddled together. I was hot with incipient fever, +and growing light-headed enough, though I knew what +passed before me, to speak to Dash once or twice in a +dreamy idea that we were in the Shires watching the +run-in for the "Soldiers' Blue Riband." The minutes +dragged very drearily as the day wore itself away. There +were the sullen monotonous tramp of the sentinels to and +fro, and, from without, the neighing of horses, the bugle +calls, the roll of the drums, the challenge of outposts—all +the varied, endless sounds of a camp; for the farmhouse +in whose shed we were thrown was the head-quarters +<i>pro tem</i>. of the Federal General who commanded the +Divisions that had cost the Killer's handful of Horse so<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_254" id="Page_254">[Pg 254]</a></span> +fearfully dear. We were prisoners, and escape was impossible. +All arms of course had been removed from us; +most, like myself, were too disabled by wounds to have +been able to avail ourselves of escape had it been possible; +and the guard was doubled both in and out the shed; +there was nothing before any of us but the certainty of +imprisonment in all its horrors in some far-off fortress or +obscure jail. There was the possible chance that, since +certain officers on whom the Northerners set great store +had lately fallen into Southern hands, an exchange might +be effected; yet, on the other side, graver apprehensions +still existed, since we knew that the General into whose +camp we had been brought had proclaimed his deliberate +purpose of shooting the three next Secessionist officers +who fell into his power, in requital for three of his own +officers who had been shot, or were said to have been shot, +by a Southern raider. We knew very well that, the +threat made, it would be executed; and each of us, as +the sun sank gradually down through the hot skies that +were purple and stormy after the burning day, knew, too, +that it might never rise again to greet our sight. None +of us would have heeded whether a ball would hit or +miss us in the open, in a fair fight, in a man-to-man struggle; +but the boldest and most careless amidst us felt it +very bitter to die like dogs, to die as prisoners.</p> + +<p>Even Deadly Dash, coolest, most hardened, most devil-may-care +of soldiers and of sinners, sat with his gaze +fastened on the slowly sinking light in the west with the +shadow of a great pain upon his face, while every now +and then his glance wandered to Stuart Lane, and a +quick, irrepressible shudder shook him whenever it did +so. The Virginian never moved; no sign of any sort +escaped him; but the passionate misery that looked out +of his eyes I never saw equalled, except, perhaps, in the +eyes of a stag that I once shot in Wallachia, and that +looked up with just such a look before it died. He was<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_255" id="Page_255">[Pg 255]</a></span> +thinking, no doubt, of the woman he loved—wooed +amidst danger, won amidst calamity, scarcely possessed +ere lost for ever;—thinking of her proud beauty, of her +bridal caress, that would never again touch his lips, of +her fair life that would perish with the destruction of his.</p> + +<p>Exhaustion from the loss of blood made everything +pass dreamily, and yet with extraordinary clearness, +before me, I felt in a wakening dream, and had no sense +whatever of actual existence, and yet the whole scene was +so intensely vital and vivid to me, that it seemed burned +into my very brain itself. It was like the phantasmagoria +of delirium, utterly impalpable, but yet intensely real. +I had no power to act or resist, but I seemed to have ten +times redoubled power to see and hear and feel; I was +aware of all that passed, with a hundredfold more susceptibility +to it than I ever felt in health. I remember a +total impossibility that came on me to decide whether I +was dreaming or was actually awake. Twilight fell, +night came; there was a change of sentries, and a light, +set up in a bottle, shed a flickering, feeble, yellow gleam +over the interior of the shed, on the dark Rembrandt +faces of the Southerners and on the steel of the guards' +bayonets. And I recollect that the Killer, who sat by the +tossed straw on which they had flung me, laughed the old, +low, sweet, half-insolent laugh that I had known so well +in early days. "<i>Il faut souffrir pour être beau!</i> We are +picturesque, at any rate, quite Salvatoresque! Little +Dickey would make a good thing of us if he could paint +us now. He is alive, I suppose?"</p> + +<p>I answered him I believe in the affirmative; but the +name of that little Bohemian of the Brush, who had used +to be our butt and <i>protégé</i> in England, added a haze the +more to my senses. By this time I had difficulty to hold +together the thread of how, and when, and why I had +thus met again the face that looked out on me so strangely +familiarly in the dull, sickly trembling of the feeble light<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_256" id="Page_256">[Pg 256]</a></span> +of this black, noisome shed in the heart of Federal Divisions.</p> + +<p>Through that haze I heard the challenge of the sentries; +I saw a soldier prod with his bayonet a young lad +who had fainted from hæmorrhage, and whom he swore +at for shamming. I was conscious of the entrance of a +group of officers, whom I knew afterwards to be the +Northern General and his staff, who came to look at +their captives. I knew, but only dreamily still, that +these men were the holders of our fate, and would decide +on it then and there. I felt a listless indifference, utter +and opium-like, as to what became of me, and I remember +that Stuart Lane, and Dash himself, rose together, and +stood looking with a serene and haughty disdain down on +the conquerors who held their lives in the balance—without +a trace of pain upon their faces now. I remember +how like they looked to stags that turn at bay; like +the stags, outnumbered, hunted down, with the blood of +open wounds and the dust of the long chase on them; +but, like the deer, too, uncowed, and game to the finish.</p> + +<p>Very soon their doom was given. Seven were to be +sent back with a flag of truce to be exchanged for the +seven Federal officers they wanted out of the Southerners' +hands, ten were to be transmitted to the prisons of +the North,—three were to be shot at day-dawn in the +reprisal before named. The chances of life and of death +were to be drawn for by lottery, and at once.</p> + +<p>Not a sound escaped the Virginians, and not a muscle +of their English Leader's face moved: the prisoners, to a +man, heard impassively, with a grave and silent dignity, +that they were to throw the die in hazard, with death for +the croupier and life for the stake.</p> + +<p>The General and his staff waited to amuse themselves +with personally watching the turns of this new <i>Rouge et +Noir</i>; gambling in lives was a little refreshing change<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_257" id="Page_257">[Pg 257]</a></span> +that sultry, dreary, dun-colored night, camped amongst +burnt-out farms and wasted corn-lands.</p> + +<p>Slips of paper, with "exchange," "death," and "imprisonment" +written on them in the numbers needed, +were made ready, rolled up, and tossed into an empty +canteen; each man was required to come forward and +draw, I alone excepted because I was an officer of the +British Army. I remember passionately arguing that +they had no right to exempt me, since I had been in the +fray, and had killed three men on my own hook, and +would have killed thirty more had I had the chance; but +I was perhaps incoherent in the fever that was fast seizing +all my limbs from the rack of undressed wounds; at any +rate, the Northerners took no heed, save to force me into +silence, and the drawing began. As long as I live I shall +see that night in remembrance with hideous distinctness: +the low blackened shed with its f[oe]tid odors from the +cattle lately foddered there; the yellow light flaring dully +here and there; the glisten of the cruel rifles; the heaps +of straw and hay soaked with clotted blood; the group +of Union Officers standing near the doorway; and the +war-worn indomitable faces of the Southerners, with the +fairer head and slighter form of their English chief +standing out slightly in front of all.</p> + +<p>The Conscription of Death commenced; a Federal +private took the paper from each man as he drew it, and +read the word of destiny aloud. Not one amongst them +faltered or paused one moment; each went,—even those +most exhausted, most in agony,—with a calm and steady +step, as they would have marched up to take the Flag of +the Stars and Bars from Lee or Longstreet. Not one +waited a second's breath before he plunged his hand into +the fatal lottery.</p> + +<p>Deadly Dash was the first called: there was not one +shadow of anxiety upon his face; it was calm without +effort, careless without bravado, simply, entirely indifferent.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_258" id="Page_258">[Pg 258]</a></span> +They took his paper and read the words of safety +and of life—"Exchange." Then, for one instant, a glory +of hope flashed like the sun into his eyes—to die the +next; die utterly.</p> + +<p>Three followed him, and they all drew the fiat for +detention; the fifth called was Stuart Lane.</p> + +<p>Let him have suffered as he would, he gave no sign of +it now; he approached with his firm, bold cavalry step, +and his head haughtily lifted; the proud, fiery, dauntless +Cavalier of ideal and of romance. Without a tremor in +his wrist he drew his paper out and gave it.</p> + +<p>One word alone fell distinct on the silence like the hiss +of a shot through the night—"<i>Death!</i>"</p> + +<p>He bowed his head slightly as if in assent, and stepped +backward—still without a sign.</p> + +<p>His English chief gave him one look,—it was that of +merciless exultation, of brutal joy, of dark, Cain-like, +murderous hate; but it passed, passed quickly: Dash's +head sank on his chest, and on his face there was the +shadow, I think, of a terrible struggle—the shadow, I +know, of a great remorse. He strove with his longing +greed for this man's destruction; he knew that he thirsted +<i>to see him die</i>.</p> + +<p>The Virginian stood erect and silent: a single night +and the strong and gallant life, the ardent passions, the +chivalrous courage to do and dare, and the love that was +in its first fond hours would all be quenched in him as +though they had never been; but he was a soldier, and +he gave no sign that his death-warrant was not as dear to +him as his bridal-night had been. Even his conquerors +cast one glance of admiration on him; it was only his +leader who felt for him no pang of reverence and pity.</p> + +<p>The lottery continued; the hazard was played out; life +and death were scattered at reckless chance amidst the +twenty who were the playthings of that awful gaming; +all had been done in perfect silence on the part of the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_259" id="Page_259">[Pg 259]</a></span> +condemned; not one seemed to think or to feel for himself, +and in those who were sent out to their grave not a +grudge lingered against their comrades of happier fortune. +Deadly Dash, whose fate was release, alone stood with his +head sunk, thoughtful and weary.</p> + +<p>The three condemned to execution were remanded to +separate and solitary confinement, treated already as +felons for that one short night which alone remained to +them. As his guards removed him, Stuart Lane paused +slightly, and signed to his chief to approach him; he held +out his hand to Dash, and his voice was very low, though +it came to my ear where they stood beside me: "We were +rivals once, but we may be friends <i>now</i>. As you have +loved her, be pitiful to her when you tell her of my +death,—God knows it may be hers! As you have loved +her, feel what it is to die without one last look on her +face!"</p> + +<p>Then, and then only, his bronze cheek grew white as a +woman's, and his whole frame shook with one great silent +sob; his guard forced him on, and his listener had made +him no promise, no farewell; neither had he taken his +hand. He had heard in silence, with a dark and evil +gloom alone upon him.</p> + +<p>The Federal General sharply summoned him from his +musing, as the chief of those to be exchanged on the +morrow under a white flag of parley; there were matters +to be stated to and to be arranged with him.</p> + +<p>"I will only see you alone, General," he answered +curtly.</p> + +<p>The Northerner stared startled, and casting a glance +over the redoubtable leader of horse, whose gray feather +had become known and dreaded, thought of possible +assassination. Deadly Dash laughed his old light, ironic, +contemptuous laugh.</p> + +<p>"A wounded unarmed man can scarcely kill you!<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_260" id="Page_260">[Pg 260]</a></span> +Have as many of your staff about you as you please, but +let none of my Virginians be present at our interview."</p> + +<p>The Northerners thought he intended to desert to them, +or betray some movement of importance, and assented; +and he went out with them from the cattle-shed into the +hot, stormy night, and the Southerners who were condemned +to death and detention looked after him with a +long, wistful, dog-like look. They had been with him in +so many spirit-stirring days and nights of peril, and they +knew that never would they meet again. He had not +given one of them a word of adieu; he had killed too +many to be touched by his soldiers' loss. Who could +expect pity from Deadly Dash?</p> + +<p>An hour passed; I was removed under a guard to a +somewhat better lodging in the granary, where a surgeon +hastily dressed my wounds, and left me on a rough pallet +with a jug of water at my side, and the sentinel for my +only watcher, bidding me "sleep." Sleep! I could not +have slept for my ransom. Though life had hardened +me, and made me sometimes, as I fear, callous enough, I +could not forget those who were to die when the sun rose; +specially, I could not forget that gallant Virginian to +whom life was so precious, yet who gave himself with so +calm a fortitude to his fate. The rivalry, I thought, must +be deep and cruel, to make the man from whom he had +won what they both loved turn from him in hatred, even +in such extremity as his. On the brink of a comrade's +grave, feud might surely have been forgotten?</p> + +<p>All that had just passed was reeling deliriously through +my brain, and I was panting in the sheer irritation and +exhaustion of gunshot wounds, when through the gloom +Dash entered the granary, closely guarded, but allowed +to be with me on account of our common country. Never +was I more thankful to see a familiar face from home +than to see his through the long watches of that burning, +heavy, interminable night. He refused to rest; he sat<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_261" id="Page_261">[Pg 261]</a></span> +by me, tending me as gently as a woman, though he was +suffering acutely himself from the injuries received in the +course of the day; he watched me unweariedly, though +often and often his gaze and his thoughts wandered far +from me, as he looked out through the open granary door, +past the form of the sentinel, out to the starry solemn +skies, the deep woods, and the dark silent land over which +the stars were brooding, large and clear.</p> + +<p>Was he thinking of the Virginian whose life would die +out for ever, with the fading of those stars, or of the woman +whom he had lost, whose love was the doomed soldier's, +and would never be his own, though the grave +closed over his rival with the morrow's sun? Dreamily, +half unconsciously, in the excitement of fever, I asked +him of her of whom I knew nothing:</p> + +<p>"Did you love that woman so well?"</p> + +<p>His eyes were still fixed on the distant darkening skies, +and he answered quietly, as though rather to his own +thoughts than my words,—"Yes: I love her—as I never +loved in that old life in England; as we never love but +once, I think."</p> + +<p>"And she?"</p> + +<p>"And she—has but one thought in the world—<i>him</i>."</p> + +<p>His voice, as he answered, now grated with dull, dragging +misery over the words.</p> + +<p>"Had she so much beauty that she touched you like +this?"</p> + +<p>He smiled slightly, a faint, mournful smile, unutterably +sad.</p> + +<p>"Yes; she is very lovely, but her beauty is the least +rare charm. She is a woman for whom a man would live +his greatest, and if he cannot live for her—may—die."</p> + +<p>The utterance was very slow, and seemed to lie on me +like a hand on my lips compelling me to silence; he had +forgotten all, except his memory of her, and where he sat +with his eyes fixed outward on the drifting clouds that<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_262" id="Page_262">[Pg 262]</a></span> +floated across the stars, I saw his lips quiver once, and I +heard him murmur half aloud: "My darling! My darling! +You will know how I loved you <i>then</i>——"</p> + +<p>And the silence was never broken between us, but he +sat motionless thus all the hours through, looking out at +the deep still woods, and the serene and lustrous skies, +till the first beams of the sun shone over the hills in the +east, and I shuddered, where I lay, at its light;—for I +knew it was the signal of death.</p> + +<p>Then he arose, and bent towards me, and the kindly +eyes of old looked down on mine.</p> + +<p>"Dear old fellow, the General expects me at dawn. I +must leave you just now; say good-bye."</p> + +<p>His hand closed on mine, he looked on me one moment +longer, a little lingeringly, a little wistfully, then he +turned and went out with his guard; went out into the +young day that was just breaking on the world.</p> + +<p>I watched his shadow as it faded, and I saw that the +sun had risen wholly; and I thought of those who were +to die with the morning light.</p> + +<p>All was very calm for a while; then the beat of a drum +rolled through the quiet of the dawn, and the measured +tramp of armed men sounded audibly; my heart stood +still, my lips felt parched,—I knew the errand of that +column marching so slowly across the parched turf. A +little while longer yet, and I heard the sharp ring of the +ramrods being withdrawn, and the dull echo of the charge +being rammed down: with a single leap, as though the +bullets were through me, I sprang, weak as I was, from +my wretched pallet, and staggered to the open doorway, +leaning there against the entrance powerless and spell-bound. +I saw the file of soldiers loading; I saw the +empty coffin-shells; I saw three men standing bound, +their forms distinct against the clear, bright haze of +morning, and the fresh foliage of the woods. Two of +them were Virginians, but the third was not Stuart Lane<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_263" id="Page_263">[Pg 263]</a></span> +With a great cry I sprang forward, but the guards +seized my arms and held me, helpless as a woman, in +their gripe. He whom we had called Deadly Dash heard, +and looked up and smiled. His face was tranquil and +full of light, as though the pure peace of the day shone +there.</p> + +<p>The gripe of the sentinels held me as if in fetters of +iron; the world seemed to rock and reel under me, a sea +of blood seemed eddying before my eyes; the young day +was dawning, and murder was done in its early hours, +and I was held there to look on,—its witness, yet powerless +to arrest it! I heard the formula—so hideous then!—"Make +ready!"—"Present!"—"Fire!" I saw the +long line of steel tubes belch out their smoke and flame. +I heard the sullen echo of the report roll down from the +mountains above. When the mist cleared away, the +three figures stood no longer clear against the sunlight; +they had fallen.</p> + +<p>With the mad violence of desperation I wrenched myself +from my guards, and staggered to him where he lay; +he was not quite dead yet; the balls had passed through +his lungs, but he breathed still; his eyes were unclosed, +and the gleam of a last farewell came in them. He +smiled slightly, faintly once more.</p> + +<p>"She will know how I loved her now. Tell her I died +for her," he said softly, while his gaze looked upwards to +the golden sun-rays rising in the east.</p> + +<p>And with these words life passed away, the smile still +lingering gently on his lips;—and I knew no more, for I +fell like a man stunned down by him where he was +stretched beside the grave that they had hewn for him +ere he was yet dead.</p> + +<hr style="width: 25%;" /> + +<p>I knew when I saw him there, as well as I knew by +detail long after, that he had offered his life for Stuart +Lane's, and that it had been accepted; the Virginian,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_264" id="Page_264">[Pg 264]</a></span> +ignorant of the sacrifice made for him, had been sent to +the Southern lines during the night, told by the Northerners +that he was pardoned on his parole to return in his +stead a distinguished Federal officer lately captured by +him. He knew nothing, dreamt nothing, of the exchange +by which his life was given back to the woman who loved +him, when his English Leader died in his place as the sun +rose over the fresh summer world, never again to rise for +those whose death-shot rang sullen and shrill through its +silence.</p> + +<p>So Deadly Dash died, and his grave is nameless and +unknown there under the shadow of the great Virginian +forests. He was outlawed, condemned, exiled, and the +world would see no good in him; sins were on him +heavily, and vices lay darkly at his door; but when I +think of that grave in the South where the grass grows so +rankly now, and only the wild deer pauses, I doubt if +there was not that in him which may well shame the +best amongst us. We never knew him justly till he +perished there.</p> + +<hr style="width: 25%;" /> + +<p>And my friend who told me this said no more, but took +up his <i>brûle-gueule</i> regretfully. The story is given as he +gave it, and the States could whisper from the depths of +their silent woods many tales of sacrifice as generous, of +fortitude as great. That when he had related it he was +something ashamed of having felt it so much, is true; and +you must refer the unusual weakness, as he did, to the +fact that he told it on the off-day of the Derby, after +having put a cracker on Wild Charley. A sufficient +apology for any number of frailties!</p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/cc262.png" alt="* * * * *" /> +</div> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_265" id="Page_265">[Pg 265]</a></span></p> + +<hr style="width: 100%;" /> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/cc263a.png" alt="* * * * *" /> +</div> + + + +<h2><a name="THE_GENERALS_MATCH-MAKING" id="THE_GENERALS_MATCH-MAKING"></a>THE GENERAL'S MATCH-MAKING</h2> + +<div class='center'>OR,</div> + +<h3>COACHES AND COUSINSHIP.</h3> + + +<p>Where the devil shall I go this Long? Paris +is too hot; the inside of my adorable Château +des Fleurs would give one a lively idea of the +feelings of eels in a frying-pan. Rome's only fit to melt +down puffy cardinals, as jocks set themselves before the +kitchen fire preparatory to the Spring Meetings. In +Switzerland there's nothing fit to eat. Spain might be +the ticket—the Andalusians are a good-looking lot, but +they haven't a notion of beer. Scotland I daren't enter, +because I know I should get married under their rascally +laws. I'd go to the Bads, but the V. P.'s fillies say they +mean to do 'em this summer, and I won't risk meeting +them if I know it; the baits they set to catch the unsuspecting +are quite frightful. Where the devil <i>shall</i> I go?</p> + +<p>So spoke Sydenham Morton, whilom Captain of Eton, +now, in due course, having passed up to Kings, discussing +ham-pie and audit, devils and coffee, while the June sun +streamed through the large oriel windows.</p> + +<p>"<i>To</i> the devil, I fear, if you only find your proper +fraternity," said a man, coming in. Oak was never +sported by Sydie, except when he was rattling certain +little squares of ivory in boxes lined with green felt.</p> + +<p>"Ah, Mr. Keane, is that you? Come in."</p> + +<p>The permission was needless, insomuch as Keane was +already in and down on a rocking-chair.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_266" id="Page_266">[Pg 266]</a></span></p> + +<p>"One o'clock, and only just begun your breakfast! I +have finished more than half my day's work."</p> + +<p>"I dare say," answered Sydie; "but one shining light +like you, monseigneur, is enough for a college. Why +should I exert myself? I swore I hadn't four marks a +year, and I've my fellowship for telling the furbelow. +We all go in for the dolce here except you, and you're +such a patent machine for turning out Q. E. D.s by the +dozen, that you can no more help working than the bed-maker +can help taking my tea and saying the cat did it, +and 'May she never be forgiven if she ever so much as +looked at that there blessed lock.' I say, find a Q. E. D. +for me, to the most vexatious problem, where I'm to go +this Long?"</p> + +<p>"Go a quiet reading tour; mark out a regular plan, +and travel somewhere rugged and lonely, with not a +crinoline, or a trout-stream, or a pack of hounds within a +hundred miles; the middle of Stonehenge, for example, +or with the lighthouse men out at the Smalls or Eddystone. +You'd do wonders when you came back, Sydie."</p> + +<p>Sydie shook his head and puffed gravely at his pipe.</p> + +<p>"Thank you, sir. Cramming's not my line. As for +history, I don't see anything particularly interesting in +the blackguardisms of men all dust and ashes and gelatine +now; if I were the Prince of Wales, I might think it +my duty to inquire into the characters of my grandfathers; +but not being that individual, I find the Derby +list much more suited to my genius. As for the classics, +they won't help me to ask for my dinner at Tortoni's, nor +to ingratiate myself with the women at the Maison Dorée; +and I prefer following Ovid's counsels, and enjoying the +Falernian of life represented in these days by milk-punch, +to plodding through the De Officiis. As for mathematics, +it <i>may</i> be something very grand to draw triangles and +circles till A meets B because C is as long as D; but I +know, when I did the same operation in chalk when I<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_267" id="Page_267">[Pg 267]</a></span> +was a small actor on the nursery floor, my nurse (who +might have gone along with the barbarian who stuck +Archimedes) called me an idle brat. Well, I say, about +the Long? Where are <i>you</i> going, most grave and reverent +seignior?"</p> + +<p>"Where there are no impertinent boys, if there be such +a paradise on earth," rejoined Keane, lighting his pipe. +"I go to my moor, of course, for the 12th, but until then +I haven't made up my mind. I think I shall scamper +over South America; I want freshening up, and I've a +great fancy to see those buried cities, not to mention a +chance of buffalo hunting."</p> + +<p>"Travelling's such a bore," interrupted Sydie, stretching +himself out like an india-rubber tube. "Talk of the +cherub that's always sitting up aloft to watch over poor +Jack, there are always ten thousand demons watching +over the life of any luckless Æothen; there are the +custom-house men, whose natural prey he becomes, and +the hotel-keepers, who fasten on him to suck his life-blood, +and there are the mosquitoes, and other things less +minute but not less agonizing; and there are guides and +muleteers, and waiters and ciceroni—oh, hang it! travelling's +a dreadful bore, if it were only for the inevitable +widow with four daughters whom you've danced with +once at a charity ball, who rushes up to you on the +Boulevards or a Rhine steamer, and tacks herself on to +you, and whom it's well for you if you can shake off +when you scatter the dust of the city from the sole of +your foot."</p> + +<p>"You can't chatter, can you?"</p> + +<p>"Yes; my frænum was happily cut when I was a baby. +Fancy what a loss the world would have endured if it +hadn't been!" said Sydie, lazily shutting his half-closed +blue eyes. "I say, the governor has been bothering my +life out to go down to St. Crucis; he's an old brick, you +know, and has the primest dry in the kingdom. I wish<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_268" id="Page_268">[Pg 268]</a></span> +you'd come, will you? There's capital fishing and +cricketing, and you'd keep me company. Do. You shall +have the best mount in the kingdom, and the General +will do you no end of good on Hippocrate's rule—contrarieties +cure contrarieties."</p> + +<p>"I'll think about it; but you know I prefer solitude +generally; misanthropical, I admit, but decidedly lucky +for me, as my companions through life will always be my +ink-stand, my terrier, and my papers. I have never +wished for any other yet, and I hope I never shall. Are +you going to smoke and drink audit on that sofa all day?"</p> + +<p>"No," answered Sydie, "I'm going to take a turn at +beer and Brown's for a change. Well, I shall take you +down with me on Tuesday, sir, so that's settled."</p> + +<p>Keane laughed, and after some few words on the business +that had brought him thither, went across the quad +to his own rooms to plunge into the intricacies of Fourrier +and Laplace, or give the vigor of his brain to stuffing +some young goose's empty head, or cramming some idle +young dog with ballast enough to carry him through the +shoals and quicksands of his Greats.</p> + +<p>Gerald Keane was a mathematical Coach, and had +taken high honors—a rare thing for a Kingsman to do, +for are they not, by their own confession, the laziest disciples +of the dolce in the whole of Granta, invariably +bumped and caught out, and from sheer idleness letting +other men beat Lord's and shame the Oxford Eleven, and +graduate with Double Firsts, while they lie perdus in the +shades of Holy Henry? Keane, however, was the one exception +to the rule. He was dreadfully wild, as ladies +say, for his first term or two, though equally eloquent at +the Union; then his family exulting in the accuracies of +their prophecies regarding his worthlessness, and somebody +else daring him to go in for honors, his pluck was +put up, and he set himself to work to show them all what +he could do if he chose. Once roused to put out his powers,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_269" id="Page_269">[Pg 269]</a></span> +he liked using them; the bother of the training over, +it is no trouble to keep place as stroke-oar; and now men +pointed him out in the Senate House, and at the Senior +Fellows' table, and he bid fair to rank with the writer on +Jasher and the author of the Inductive Sciences.</p> + +<p>People called him very cold. It was popularly averred +that he had no more feeling than Roubilliac's or Thorwaldsen's +statues; but as he was a great favorite with the +under-grads, and always good-natured to them, there were +a few men who doubted the theory, though <i>he</i> never tried +to refute or dispute it.</p> + +<p>Of all the young fellows, the one Keane liked the best, +and to whom he was kindest, was Sydenham Morton—Sydie +to everybody in Granta, from the little fleuriste opposite +in King's Parade, to the V. P.'s wife, who petted +him because his uncle was a millionnaire—the dearest +fellow in the world, according to all the Cambridge young +ladies—the darling of all the milliner and confectioner +girls in Trumpington Street and Petty Cury—the best +chap going among the kindred spirits, who got gated, and +lectured, and rusticated for skying over to Newmarket, or +pommelling bargees, or taking a lark over at Cherryhinton—the +best-dressed, fastest, and most charming of Cantabs, +as he himself would gravely assure you.</p> + +<p>They were totally dissimilar, and far asunder in position; +but an affair on the slope of the Matterhorn, when +the boy had saved the elder man's life, had riveted attachment +between them, and bridged over the difference of +their academical rank.</p> + +<p>The Commencement came and went, with its speeches, +and its H.R.H. Chancellor, and its pretty women gliding +among the elms of Neville's Court (poor Leslie Ellis's +daily haunt), filling the grim benches of the Senate +House, and flitting past the carved benches of King's +Chapel. Granta was henceforth a desert to all Cambridge +belles; they could walk down Trumpington Street without<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_270" id="Page_270">[Pg 270]</a></span> +meeting a score of little straw hats, and Trumpington +Street became as odious as Sahara; the "darling Backs" +were free to them, and, of course, they who, by all relations, +from those of Genesis to those of Vanity Fair, have +never cared, save for <i>fruit défendu</i>, saw nothing to admire +in the trees, and grass, and river, minus outriggers and +collegians. There was a general exodus: Masters' red +hoods, Fellows Commoners' gold-lace, Fellows' gown and +mortar boards, morning chapel surplices, and under-grads' +straw-hats and cutaway coats, all vanished from court and +library, street and cloister. Cambridge was empty; the +married Dons and their families went off to country-houses +or Rhine steamers; Fellows went touring with +views to mediæval architecture, Roman remains, Greek +inscriptions, Paris laisser aller, or Norwegian fishing, according +to their tastes and habits; under-grads scattered +themselves over the face of the globe, and were to be +found in knots of two or three calling for stout in Véfour's, +kicking up a row with Austrian gendarmerie, +chalking up effigies of Bomba on Italian walls, striding +up every mountain from Skiddaw to the Pic du Midi, +burrowing like rabbits in a warren for reading purposes +on Dartmoor, kissing sunny-haired Gretchens in German +hostelries, swinging through the Vaterland with knapsacks +and sticks, doing a walking tour—in fact, swarming +everywhere with their impossible French and hearty +voices, and lithe English muscle, Granta marked on them +as distinctly as an M.B. waistcoat marks an Anglican, or +utter ignorance of modern politics a "great classic."</p> + +<p>Cambridge had emptied itself of the scores of naughty +boys that lie in the arms of Mater, and on Tuesday Keane +and Sydie were shaking and rattling over those dreadful +nervous Eastern Counties tenders, through that picturesque +and beautiful country that does permutations with such +laudable perseverance on pollards, fens, and flats—flats,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_271" id="Page_271">[Pg 271]</a></span> +fens, and pollards—at the snail's pace that, according to +the E.G.R., we must believe to be "express."</p> + +<p>"I wrote and told the governor you were coming down +with me, sir," said Sydie, hanging up his hat. "I didn't +tell him what a trouble I had to make you throw over +South America for a fortnight, and come and taste his +curry at the Beeches. You'll like the old boy; he's as +hot and choleric, and as genial and good-hearted, as any +old brick that ever walked. He was born as sweet-tempered +and soft-mouthed as mamma when an eldest son +waltzes twice with Adeliza, and the pepper's been put into +him by the curry-powder, the gentlemanlike transportation, +and the unlimited command over black devils, enjoyed by +gentlemen of the H.E.I.C.S."</p> + +<p>"A nabob uncle," thought Keane. "Oh, I see, yellow, +dyspeptic, always boring one with 'How to govern India,' +and recollections of 'When I served with Napier.' What +a fool I was to let Sydie persuade me to go. A month in +Lima and the Pampas would be much pleasanter."</p> + +<p>"He came over last year," continued Sydie, in blissful +ignorance, "and bought the Beeches, a very jolly place, +only he's crammed it with everything anybody suggested, +and tried anything that any farmer recommended, so +that the house and the estate present a peculiar compendium +of all theories of architecture, and a general exhibition +of all sorts of tastes. He's his hobbies; pouncing +on and apprehending small boys is one of 'em, for which +practice he is endeared to the youth of St. Crucis as the +'old cove,' the 'Injian devil,' and like affectionate cognomens. +But the General's weak point is me—me and +little Fay."</p> + +<p>"His mare, I suppose?"</p> + +<p>"His mare!—bless my heart, no!—his mare!" And +Sydie lay back, and laughed silently. "His mare! By +George! what would she say? She's a good deal too +lively a young lady to run in harness for anybody, though<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_272" id="Page_272">[Pg 272]</a></span> +she's soft-mouthed enough when she's led. Mare! No, +Fay's his niece—my cousin. Her father and my father +went to glory when we were both smalls, and left us in +legacy to the General, and a pretty pot of money the +legacy has cost him."</p> + +<p>"Your cousin, indeed! The name's more like a mare's +than a girl's," answered Keane, thinking to himself. "A +cousin! I just wish I'd known that. One of those Indian +girls, I bet, tanned brown as a berry, flirts à outrance, has +run the gauntlet of all the Calcutta balls, been engaged +to men in all the Arms, talks horridly broad Anglo-Indian-English. +I know the style."</p> + +<p>The engine screamed, and pulled up at the St. Crucis +station, some seventy miles farther on, lying in the midst +of Creswickian landscapes, with woodlands, and cottages, +and sweet fresh stretches of meadow-land, such as do one's +heart good after hard days and late nights in dust and +gaslight.</p> + +<p>"Deuced fine points," said Sydie, taking the ribbons of +a high-stepping bay that had brought one of the neatest +possible traps to take him and Keane to the Beeches, and +springing, in all his glory, to the box, than which no imperial +throne could have offered to him one-half so delightful +a seat. "Governor never keeps screws. What +a crying shame we're not allowed to keep the sorriest +hack at King's. That comes of gentlemen slipping into +shoes that were meant for beggars. Hallo, there are the +old beech-trees; I vow I can almost taste the curry and +dry from looking at them."</p> + +<p>In dashed the bay through the park-gates, sending the +shingle flying up in small simoons, and the rooks cawing +in supreme surprise from their nests in the branches of +the beech-trees.</p> + +<p>"Hallo, my ancient, how are you?" began Sydie to the +butler, while that stately person expanded into a smile of +welcome. "Down, dog, down! 'Pon my life, the old<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_273" id="Page_273">[Pg 273]</a></span> +place looks very jolly. What have you hung all that +armor up for;—to make believe our ancestors dwelt in +these marble halls? How devilish dusty I am. Where's +the General? Didn't know we were coming till next +train. Fay! Fay! where are you? Ashton, where's +Miss Morton?"</p> + +<p>"Here, Sydie dear," cried the young lady in question, +rushing across the hall with the most ecstatic delight, +and throwing herself into the Cantab's arms, who received +her with no less cordiality, and kissed her straightway, +regardless of the presence of Keane, the butler, and +Harris.</p> + +<p>"Oh, Sydie," began the young lady, breathlessly, "I'm +so delighted you're come. There's the archery fête, and +a picnic at Shallowton, and an election ball over at +Coverdale, and I want you to dance with me, and to try +the new billiard-table, and to come and see my aviary, +and to teach me pistol-shooting (because Julia Dupuis +can shoot splendidly, and talks of joining the Rifles), and +to show me how to do Euclid, and to amuse me, and to +play with me, and to tell me which is the prettiest of +Snowdrop's pups to be saved, and to——" She stopped +suddenly, and dropped from enthusiastic tirade to subdued +surprise, as she caught sight of Keane for the first +time. "Oh, Sydie, why did you not introduce me to your +friend? How rude I have been!"</p> + +<p>"Mr. Keane, my cousin, the torment of my existence, +Miss Morton in public, Little Fay in private life. There, +you know one another now. I can't say any more. Do +tell me where the governor is."</p> + +<p>"Mr. Keane, what can you think of me?" cried Fay. +"Any friend of Sydenham's is most welcome to the +Beeches, and my uncle will scold me frightfully for giving +you such a reception. Please do forgive me, I was so +delighted to see my cousin."</p> + +<p>"Which I can fully enter into, having a weakness for<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_274" id="Page_274">[Pg 274]</a></span> +Sydie myself," smiled Keane. "I am sure he is very +fortunate in being the cause of such an excuse."</p> + +<p>Keane said it <i>par complaisance</i>, but rather carelessly; +young ladies, as a class, being one of his aversions. He +looked at Fay Morton, however, and saw she was not an +Indianized girl after all. She was not yellow, but, au +contraire, had waving fair hair, long dark eyes, and a +mischievous, sunny face—</p> + +<p> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">A rosebud set with little wilful thorns,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And sweet as English air could make her.</span><br /> +</p> + +<p>"Where's the governor, Fay?" reiterated Sydie.</p> + +<p>"Here, my dear boy. Thought of your old uncle the +first thing, Sydie? God bless my soul, how well you look! +Confound you, why didn't you tell me what train you +were coming by? Devil take you, Ashton, why's there +no fire in the hall? Thought it was warm, did you? +Hum! more fool you then."</p> + +<p>"Uncle dear," said Miss Fay, "here is Sydie's friend, +Mr. Keane; you are being as rude as I have been."</p> + +<p>The General, at this conjuration, swung sharp round, +a stout, hale, handsome old fellow, with gray moustaches +and a high color, holding a spade in his hand and clad in +a linen coat.</p> + +<p>"Bless my soul, sir," cried the General, shaking Keane's +hand with the greatest possible energy, "charmed to see +you—delighted, 'pon my honor; only hope you're come +to stay till Christmas; there are plenty of bachelors' dens. +Devil take me! of what was I thinking? I was pleased +to see that boy, I suppose. More fool I, you'll say, a +lazy, good-for-nothing young dog like him. Don't let me +keep you standing in the hall. Cursed cold, isn't it? and +there's Little Fay in muslin! Ashton, send some hot +water into the west room for Mr.—Mr.——Confound +you, Sydie, why didn't you tell—I mean introduce me?—Mr. +Keane. Luncheon will be on the table in ten<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_275" id="Page_275">[Pg 275]</a></span> +minutes. Like curry, Mr. Keane? There, get along, +Sydie, you foolish boy; you can talk to Fay after +luncheon."</p> + +<p>"Sydie," whispered Fay, an hour before dinner, when +she had teased the Cantab's life out of him till he had +consented to pronounce judgment on the puppies, "what +a splendid head that man has you brought with you; +he'd do for Plato, with that grand calm brow and lofty +unapproachable look. Who is he?"</p> + +<p>"The greatest philosopher of modern times," responded +her cousin, solemnly. "A condensation of Solon, Thales, +Plutarch, Seneca, Cicero, Lucullus, Bion, Theophrastes, +and Co.; such a giant of mathematical knowledge, and +all other knowledge, too, that every day, when he passes +under Bacon's Gate, we are afraid the old legend will +come to pass, and it will tumble down as flat as a pancake; +a homage to him, but a loss to Cambridge."</p> + +<p>"Nonsense," said Miss Fay, impatiently. "(I like that +sweet little thing with the black nose best, dear.) <i>Who</i> +is he? What is he? How old is he? What's his name? +Where does he live?"</p> + +<p>"Gently, young woman," cried Sydie. "He is Tutor +and Fellow of King's, and a great gun besides; he's +some twenty-five years older than you. His name on the +rolls is Gerald, I believe, and he dwells in the shadow of +Mater, beyond the reach of my cornet; for which fact, +not being musically inclined, he is barbarian enough to +return thanks daily in chapel."</p> + +<p>"I am sorry he is come. It was stupid of you to bring +him."</p> + +<p>"Wherefore, <i>ma cousine</i>? Are you afraid of him? +You needn't be. Young ladies are too insignificant +atoms of creation for him to criticise. He'll no more +expect sense from you than from Snowdrop and her +pups."</p> + +<p>"Afraid!" repeated Fay, with extreme indignation.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_276" id="Page_276">[Pg 276]</a></span> +"I should like to see any man of whom I should feel +afraid! If he doesn't like fun and nonsense, I pity +him; but if he despise me ever so much for it, I shall +enjoy myself before him, and in spite of him. I was +sorry you brought him, because he will take you away +when I want you all to myself; and he looks so haughty, +that——"</p> + +<p>"You <i>are</i> afraid of him, Fay, and won't own it."</p> + +<p>"I am <i>not</i>," reiterated Fay, impetuously; "and I will +smoke a cigar with him after dinner, to show you I am +not one bit."</p> + +<p>"I bet you six pair of gloves you do no such thing, +young lady."</p> + +<p>"Done. Do keep the one with a black nose, Sydie; +and yet that little liver-colored darling is too pretty to be +killed. Suppose we save them all? Snowdrop will be +so pleased."</p> + +<p>Whereon Fay kissed all the little snub noses with the +deepest affection, and was caught in the act by Keane and +the General.</p> + +<p>"There's that child with her arms full of dogs," said +the General, beaming with satisfaction at sight of his +niece. "She's a little, spoilt, wilful thing. She's an old +bachelor's pet, and you must make allowances. I call +her the fairy of the Beeches, God bless her! She nursed +me last winter, when I was at death's door from these +cursed cold winds, sir, better than Miss Nightingale +could have done. What a devilish climate it <i>is</i>; never +two days alike. I don't wonder Englishwomen are such +icicles, poor things; they're frostbitten from their cradle +upwards."</p> + +<p>"India warms them up, General, doesn't it?"</p> + +<p>The General shook with laughter.</p> + +<p>"To be sure, to be sure; if prudery's the fashion, +they'll wear it, sir, as they would patches or hair-powder; +but they're always uncommonly glad to leave it off and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_277" id="Page_277">[Pg 277]</a></span> +lock it out of sight when they can. What do you think +of the kennels? I say, Sydie, confound you, why did you +bring down any traps with you? Haven't room for 'em, +not for one. Couldn't cram a tilbury into the coach-house."</p> + +<p>"A trap, governor?" said Sydie, straightening his back +after examination of the pups; "can't keep even a wall-eyed +cab-horse; wish I could."</p> + +<p>"Where's your drag, then?" demanded the General.</p> + +<p>"My drag? Don't I just wish I had one, to offer my +bosom friend the V. P. a seat on the box. Calvert, of +Trinity, tooled us over in his to the Spring Meetings, and +his grays are the sweetest pair of goers—the leaders especially—that +ever you saw in harness. We came back +'cross country, to get in time for hall, and a pretty mess +we made of it, for we broke the axle, and lamed the off-wheeler, +and——"</p> + +<p>"But, God bless my soul," stormed the General, excited +beyond measure, "you wrote me word you were going to +bring a drag down with you, and of course I supposed +you meant what you said, and I had Harris in about it, +and he swore the coach-house was as full of traps as ever +it could hold, so I had my tax-cart and Fay's phaeton +turned into one of the stalls, and then, after all, it comes +out you've never brought it! Devil take you, Sydie, why +can't you be more thoughtful——"</p> + +<p>"But, my dear governor——"</p> + +<p>"Nonsense; don't talk to me!" cried the General, trying +to work himself into a passion, and diving into the +recesses of six separate pockets one after another. "Look +here, sir, I suppose you'll believe your own words? Here +it is in black and white.—'P. S. I shall bring <i>my Coach</i> +down with me.' There, what do you say now? Confound +you, what are you laughing at? <i>I</i> don't see anything +to laugh at. In my day, young fellows didn't +make fools of old men in this way. Bless my soul, why<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_278" id="Page_278">[Pg 278]</a></span> +the devil don't you leave off laughing, and talk a little +common sense? The thing's plain enough.—'P.S. <i>I +shall bring my Coach down with me</i>.'"</p> + +<p>"So I have," said Sydie, screaming with laughter. +"Look at him—he's a first-rate Coach, too! Wheels +always oiled, and ready for any road; always going up +hill, and never caught coming down; started at a devil +of a pace, and now keeps ahead of all other vehicles on +all highways. A first-class Coach, that will tool me +through the tortuous lanes and treacherous pitfalls of the +Greats with flying colors. My Coach! Bravo, General! +that's the best bit of fun I've had since I dressed up like +Sophonisba Briggs, and led the V. P. a dance all round +the quad, every hair on his head standing erect in his +virtuous indignation at the awful morals of his college."</p> + +<p>"Eh, what?" grunted the General, light beginning to +dawn upon him. "Do you mean Mr. Keane? Hum! +how's one to be up to all your confounded slang? How +could I know? Devil take you, Sydie, why can't you +write common English? You young fellows talk as bad +jargon as Sepoys. You're sure I'm delighted to see you, +Mr. Keane, though I did make the mistake."</p> + +<p>"Thank you, General," said Keane; "but it's rather +cool of you, Master Sydie, to have forced me on to your +uncle's hands without his wish or his leave."</p> + +<p>"Not at all, not at all," swore the General, with vehement +cordiality. "I gave him carte blanche to ask whom +he would, and unexpected guests are always most welcome; +<i>not</i> that you were unexpected though, for I'd told +that boy to be sure and bring somebody down here——"</p> + +<p>"And have had the tax-cart and my phaeton turned +out to make comfortable quarters for him," said Miss +Fay, with a glance at The Coach to see how he took +chaff, "and I only hope Mr. Keane may like his accommodation."</p> + +<p>"Perhaps, Miss Morton," said Keane, smiling, "I shall<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_279" id="Page_279">[Pg 279]</a></span> +like it so well that you will have to say to me as poor +Voltaire to his troublesome abbé, 'Don Quichotte prenait +les auberges pour les châteaux, mais vous avez pris les +châteaux pour les auberges.'"</p> + +<p>"Tiresome man," thought Fay. "I wish Sydie hadn't +brought him here; but I shall do as I always do, however +grand and supercilious he may look. He has lived +among all those men and books till he has grown as cold +as granite. What a pity it is people don't enjoy existence +as I do!"</p> + +<p>"You are thinking, Miss Morton," said Keane, as he +walked on beside her, with an amused glance at her face, +which was expressive enough of her thoughts, "that if +your uncle is glad to see me, you are not, and that Sydie +was very stupid not to bring down one of his kindred +spirits instead of——Don't disclaim it now; you should +veil your face if you wish your thoughts not to be read."</p> + +<p>"I was not going to disclaim it," said Fay, quickly +looking up at him with a rapid glance, half penitence, +half irritation. "I always tell the truth; but I was <i>not</i> +thinking exactly that; I don't want any of Sydie's +friends—I detest boys—but I certainly <i>was</i> thinking +that as you look down on everything that we all delight +in, I fancied you and the Beeches will hardly agree. If +I am rude, you must not be angry; you wanted me to tell +you the truth."</p> + +<p>Keane smiled again.</p> + +<p>"Do I look down on the things you delight in? I +hardly know enough of you, as we have only addressed +about six syllables to each other, to be able to judge what +you like and what you don't like; but certainly I must +admit, that caressing the little round heads of those puppies +yonder, which seemed to afford you such extreme +rapture, would not be any source of remarkable gratification +to me."</p> + +<p>Fay looked up at him and laughed.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_280" id="Page_280">[Pg 280]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Well, I am fond of animals as you are fond of books. +Is it not an open question whether the live dog or sheepskin +is not as good as the dead Morocco or Russian +leather?"</p> + +<p>"Is it an open question, whether Macaulay's or Arago's +brain weighs no more than a cat's or a puppy's?"</p> + +<p>"Brain!" said impudent little Fay; "are your great +men always as honest and as faithful as my poor little +Snowdrop? I have an idea that Sheridan's brains were +often obscured by brandy; that Richelieu had the weakness +to be prouder of his bad poems than his magnificent +policies; and that Pope and Byron had the folly to be +more tenacious of a glance at their physical defect than +an onslaught on their noblest works. I could mention a +good many other instances where brain was not always a +voucher for corresponding strength of character."</p> + +<p>Keane was surprised to hear a sensible speech from this +volatile little puss, and honored her by answering her +seriously.</p> + +<p>"Say, rather, Miss Morton, that those to whom many +temptations fall should have many excuses made. Where +the brain preponderates, excelling in creative faculty and +rapid thought, there will the sensibilities be proportionately +acute. The vivacity and vigorous life which produced +the rapid flow of Sheridan's eloquence led him into +the dissipation which made him end his days in a spunging-house. +Men of cooler minds and natures must not +presume to judge him. They had not his temptation; +they cannot judge of his fault. Richelieu, in all probability, +amused himself with his verses as he amused +himself with his white kitten and its cork, as a <i>délassement</i>; +had he piqued himself upon his poetry, as they say, +he would have turned poetaster instead of politician. As +for the other two, you must remember that Pope's deformity +made him a subject of ridicule to the woman he was +fool enough to worship, and Byron, poor fellow, was over-susceptible<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_281" id="Page_281">[Pg 281]</a></span> +on all points, or he would scarcely have +allowed the venomed arrows from the Scotch Reviewers +to wound him, nor would he have cared for the desertion +of a wife who was to him like ice to fire. When you are +older, you will learn that it is very dangerous and unjust +to say this thing is right, that wrong, that feeling wise, or +this foolish; for all temperaments are different, and the +same circumstances may produce very different effects. +Your puppies will grow up with dissimilar characters; +how much more so, then, must men?"</p> + +<p>Miss Fay was quiet for a minute, then she flashed her +mischievous eyes on him.</p> + +<p>"Certainly; but then, by your own admission, you +have no right to decide that your love for mathematics is +wise, and my love for Snowdrop foolish; it may be quite +<i>au contraire</i>. Perhaps, after all, I may have 'chosen the +better part.'"</p> + +<p>"Fay, go in and dress for dinner," interrupted the +General, trotting up; "your tongue would run on forever +if nobody stopped it; you're no exception to your sex on +that point. Is she?"</p> + +<p>Keane laughed.</p> + +<p>"Perhaps Miss Morton's frænum, like Sydie's, was cut +too far in her infancy, and therefore she has been 'unbridled' +ever since."</p> + +<p>"In all things!" cried little Fay. "Nobody has put +the curb on me yet, and nobody ever shall."</p> + +<p>"Don't be too sure, Fay," cried Sydie. "Rarey does +wonders with the wildest fillies. Somebody may bring +you down on your knees yet."</p> + +<p>"You'll have to see to that, Sydie," laughed the +General. "Come, get along, child, to your toilette. I +never have my soup cold and my curry overdone. To +wait for his dinner is a stretch of good nature, and +patience that ought not to be expected of any man."</p> + +<p>The soup was not cold nor the curry overdone, and the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_282" id="Page_282">[Pg 282]</a></span> +dinner was pleasant enough, in the long dining-room, with +the June sun streaming in through its bay-windows from +out the brilliant-colored garden, and the walls echoing +with the laughter of Sydie and his cousin, the young lady +keeping true to her avowal of "not caring for Plato's +presence." "Plato," however, listened quietly, peeling +his peaches with tranquil amusement; for if the girl +talked nonsense, it was clever nonsense, as rare, by the +way, and quite as refreshing as true wit.</p> + +<p>"My gloves are safe; you're too afraid of him, Fay," +whispered Sydie, bending forwards to give her some hautboys.</p> + +<p>"Am I?" cried Miss Fay, with a <i>moue</i> of supreme contempt. +Neither the whisper nor the <i>moue</i> escaped Keane, +as he talked with the governor on model drainage.</p> + +<p>"Where's my hookah, Fay?" asked the General, after +dessert. "Get it, will you, my pet?"</p> + +<p>"Voilà!" cried Miss Fay, lifting the narghilé from the +sideboard. Then taking some cigars off the mantelpiece, +she put one in her own mouth, struck a fusee, and, handing +the case to Keane, said, with a saucy smile in her +soft bright eyes, though, to tell the truth, she was a little +bit afraid of taking liberties with him:</p> + +<p>"If you are not above such a sublunary indulgence, +will you have a cigar with me?"</p> + +<p>"With the greatest pleasure," said Keane, with a grave +bow; "and if you would like to further rival George +Sand, I shall be very happy to give you the address of +my tailor."</p> + +<p>"Thank you exceedingly; but as long as crinoline is +the type of the sex that are a little lower than the angels, +and ribbon-ties the seal of those but a trifle better than +Mephistopheles, I don't think I will change it," responded +Little Fay, contemptuously, as she threw herself down on +a couch with an indignant defiant glance, and puffed at +her Manilla.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_283" id="Page_283">[Pg 283]</a></span></p> + +<p>"I <i>hate</i> him, Sydie," said the little lady, vehemently, +that night.</p> + +<p>"Do you, dear?" answered the Cantab; "you see, +you've never had anybody to be afraid of, or had any +man neglect you before."</p> + +<p>"He may neglect me if he please, I am sure I do not +care," rejoined Fay, disdainfully; "only I do wish, Sydie, +that you had never brought him here to make us all +uncomfortable."</p> + +<p>"He don't make me uncomfortable, quite otherwise; +nor yet the governor; you're the only victim, Fay."</p> + +<p>Fay saw little enough of Keane for the next week or +two. He was out all day with Sydie trout-fishing, or +walking over his farms with the General, or sitting in the +study reading, and writing his articles for the <i>Cambridge +Journal</i>, <i>Leonville's Mathematical Journal</i>, or the <i>Westminster +Review</i>. But when she was with him, there was no +mischief within her reach that Miss Fay did not perpetrate. +Keane, to tease her, would condemn—so seriously +that she believed him—all that she loved the best; he +would tell her that he admired quiet, domestic women; +that he thought girls should be very subdued and retiring; +that they should work well, and not care much for +society; at all of which, being her extreme antipodes, +Little Fay would be vehemently wrathful. She would +get on her pony without any saddle in her evening dress, +and ride him at the five-bar gate in the stable-yard; she +would put on Sydie's smoking-cap, and look very pretty +in it, and take a Queen's on the divan of the smoking-room, +reading <i>Bell's Life</i>, and asking Keane how much +he would bet on the October; she would spend all the +morning making wreaths of roses, dressing herself and +the puppies up in them, inquiring if it was not a laudable +and industrious occupation. There was no nonsense or +mischief Fay would not imagine and forthwith commit, +and anything they wanted her not to do she would do<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_284" id="Page_284">[Pg 284]</a></span> +straightway, even to the imperilling of her own life and +limb. She tried hard to irritate or rouse "Plato," as she +called him, but Plato was not to be moved, and treated +her as a spoilt child, whom he alone had sense enough to +resist.</p> + +<p>"It will be great folly for you to attempt it, Miss +Morton. Those horses are not fit to be driven by any +one, much less by a woman," said Keane, quietly, one +morning.</p> + +<p>They were in the stable-yard, and chanced to be alone +when a new purchase of the governor's—two scarcely +broken-in thorough-bred colts—were brought with a new +mail-phaeton into the yard, and Miss Fay forthwith +announced her resolution of driving them round the +avenue. The groom that came with them told her they +were almost more than he could manage, their own coachman +begged and implored, Keane reasoned quietly, all to +no purpose. The rosebud had put out its little wilful +thorns; Keane's words added fuel to the fire. Up she +sprang, looking the daintiest morsel imaginable perched +up on that very exalted box-seat, told the horrified groom +to mount behind, and started them off, lifting her hat +with a graceful bow to "Plato," who stood watching the +phaeton with his arms folded and his cigar in his mouth.</p> + +<p>Soon after, he started in the contrary direction, for the +avenue circled the Beeches in an oval of four miles, and +he knew he should meet her coming back. He strolled +along under the pleasant shadow of the great trees, +enjoying the sunset and the fresh air, and capable of +enjoying them still more but for an inward misgiving. +His presentiment was not without its grounds. He had +walked about a mile and a half round the avenue, when +a cloud of dust told him what was up, and in the distance +came the thorough-breds, broken away as he had prophesied, +tearing along with the bits between their teeth, +Little Fay keeping gallantly hold of the ribbons, but as<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_285" id="Page_285">[Pg 285]</a></span> +powerless over the colts now they had got their heads as +the groom leaning from the back seat.</p> + +<p>On came the phaeton, bumping, rattling, oscillating, +threatening every second to be turned over. Keane +caught one glance of Fay's face, resolute and pale, and +of her little hands grasping the ribbons, till they were +cut and bleeding with the strain. There was nothing for +it but to stand straight in the animals' path, catch their +heads, and throw them back on their haunches. Luckily, +his muscles were like iron—luckily, too, the colts had +come a long way, and were not fresh. He stood like a +rock, and checked them; running a very close risk of +dislocating his arms with the shock, but saving little Fay +from destruction. The colts stood trembling, the groom +jumped out and caught the reins, Keane amused himself +silently with the mingled penitence, vexation, shame, and +rebellion visible in the little lady's face.</p> + +<p>"Well," said he, quietly, "as you were so desirous of +breaking your neck, will you ever forgive me for defeating +your purpose?"</p> + +<p>"Pray don't!" cried Fay, passionately. "I do thank +you so much for saving my life; I think it so generous +and brave of you to have rescued me at such risk to +yourself. I feel that I can never be grateful enough to +you, but don't talk in that way. I know it was silly and +self-willed of me."</p> + +<p>"It was; that fact is obvious."</p> + +<p>"Then I shall make it more so," cried Miss Fay, with +her old wilfulness. "I do feel very grateful, and I would +tell you so, if you would let me; but if you think it has +made me afraid, you are quite wrong, and so you shall +see."</p> + +<p>And before he could interfere, or do more than mechanically +spring up after her, she had caught the reins from +the groom, and started the trembling colts off again. But +Keane put his hand on the ribbons.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_286" id="Page_286">[Pg 286]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Foolish child; are you mad?" he said, so gravely +yet so gently that Fay let them go, and let him drive her +back to the stable-yard, where she sprang out, and rushed +away to her own room, terrified the governor with a few +vehement sentences, which gave him a vague idea that +Keane was murdered and both Fay's legs broken, and +then had a private cry all to herself, with her arms round +Snowdrop's neck, curled up in one of the drawing-room +windows, where she had not been long when the General +and Keane passed through, not noticing her, hidden as +she was, in curtains, cushions, and flowers.</p> + +<p>"She's a little wilful thing, Keane," the General was +saying, "but you mustn't think the worse of her for +that."</p> + +<p>"I don't. I am sick of those conventional young +ladies who agree with everything one says to them—who +keep all the frowns for mothers and servants, and are as +serene as a cloudless sky abroad, smile blandly on all +alike, and haven't an opinion of their own."</p> + +<p>"Fay's plenty of opinions of her own," chuckled the +General; "and she tells 'em pretty freely, too. Bless +the child, she's not ashamed of any of her thoughts and +never will be."</p> + +<p>"I hope not. Your little niece can do things that no +other young lady could and they are so pretty in her +that it would be a thousand pities for her to grow one +atom less natural and wilful. Grapes growing wild are +charming—grapes trained to a stake are ruined. I assure +you, if I were you, I would not scold her for driving +those colts to-day. High spirits and love of fun led her +on, and the courage and presence of mind she displayed +are too rare among her sex for us to do right in checking +them."</p> + +<p>"To be sure, to be sure," assented the governor, gleefully. +"God bless the child, she's one among a thousand, +sir. Cognac, not milk and water. There's the +dinner-bell; confound it."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_287" id="Page_287">[Pg 287]</a></span></p> + +<p>Whereat the General made his exit, and Keane also; +and Fay kissed the spaniel with even more passionate +attachment than ordinary.</p> + +<p>"Ah, Snowdrop, I don't hate him any more; he is a +darling!"</p> + +<p>One glowing August morning Keane was in the study +pondering whether he would go to his moor or not. The +General had besought him to stay. His gamekeeper +wrote him that it was a horribly bad rainy season in Invernessshire; +the trout and the rabbits were very good +sport in a mild way here. Altogether, Keane felt half +disposed to keep where he was, when a shadow fell across +his paper; and, as he looked up, he saw in the open window +the English rosebud.</p> + +<p>"Is it not one of the open questions, Mr. Keane," +asked Fay, "whether it is very wise to spend all this +glorious morning shut out of the sight of the sun-rays +and the scent of the flowers?"</p> + +<p>"How have <i>you</i> been spending it, then?"</p> + +<p>"Putting bouquets in all the rooms, cleaning my +aviary, talking to the puppies, and reading Jocelyn under +the limes in the shrubberies—all very puerile, but all +very pleasant. Perhaps if you descended to a lazy day +like that now and then, you might be none the worse!"</p> + +<p>"Is that a challenge? Will you take me under the +limes?"</p> + +<p>"No, indeed! I do not admit men who despise them +to my gardens of Armida, any more than you would +admit me into your Schools. I have as great a scorn for +a skeptic as you have for a tyro."</p> + +<p>"Pardon me. I have no scorn for a tyro. But you +would not come to the Accademe; you dislike 'Plato' +too much."</p> + +<p>Fay looked up at him half shyly, half mischievously.</p> + +<p>"Yes, I do dislike you, when you look down on me as +Richelieu might have looked down on his kitten."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_288" id="Page_288">[Pg 288]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Liking to see its play?" said Keane, half sadly. +"Contrasting its gay insouciance with his own toil and +turmoil, regretting, perhaps, the time when trifles made +his joy as they did his kitten's? If I were to look on +you so, there would not be much to offend you."</p> + +<p>"You do not think so of me, or you would speak to +me as if I were an intelligent being, not a silly little +thing."</p> + +<p>"How do you know I think you silly?"</p> + +<p>"Because you think all women so."</p> + +<p>"Perhaps; but then you should rather try to redeem +me from my error in doctrine. Come, let us sign a treaty +of peace. Take me under the limes. I want some fresh +air after writing all day; and in payment I will teach +you Euclid, as you vainly beseeched your cousin to do +yesterday."</p> + +<p>"Will you?" cried Fay, eagerly. Then she threw back +her head. "I never am won by bribes."</p> + +<p>"Nor yet by threats? What a difficult young lady +you are. Come, show me your shrubbery sanctum now +you have invaded mine."</p> + +<p>The English rosebud laid aside its wilful thorns, and +Fay, a little less afraid of her Plato, and therefore a +little less defiant to him, led him over the grounds, filled +his hands with flowers, showed him her aviary, read some +of Jocelyn to him, to show him, she said, that Lamartine +was better than the [OE]dipus in Coloneus, and thought, as +she dressed for dinner, "I wonder if he does despise me—he +has such a beautiful face, if he were not so haughty +and cold!"</p> + +<p>The next day Keane gave her an hour of Euclid in the +study. Certainly The Coach had never had such a pretty +pupil; and he wished every dull head he had to cram was +as intelligent as this fair-haired one. Fay was quick and +clever; she was stimulated, moreover, by his decree concerning +the stupidity of all women; she really worked as<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_289" id="Page_289">[Pg 289]</a></span> +hard as any young man studying for degrees when they +supposed her fast asleep in bed, and she got over the Pons +Asinorum in a style that fairly astonished her tutor.</p> + +<p>The Coach did not dislike his occupation either; it did +him good, after his life of solitude and study, something +as the kitten and cork did Richelieu good after his cabinets +and councils; and Little Fay, with her flowers and +fun, mischief and impudence, and that winning wilfulness +which it amused him gradually to tame down, unbent +the chillness which had grown upon him. He was the +better for it, as a man after hard study or practice is the +better for some fresh sea-breezes, and some days of careless +dolce.</p> + +<p>"Well, Fay, have you had another poor devil flinging +himself at your feet by means of a postage-stamp?" said +Sydie one morning at breakfast. "You can't disguise +anything from me, your most interested, anxious, and +near and dear relative. Whenever the governor looks +particularly stormy I see the signs of the times, that if I +do not forthwith remove your dangerously attractive +person, all the bricks, spooneys, swells, and +do-nothings +in the county will speedily fill the Hanwell wards to +overflowing."</p> + +<p>"Don't talk such nonsense, Sydie," said Fay, impatiently, +with a glance at Keane, as she handed him his +chocolate.</p> + +<p>"Ah! deuce take the fellows," chuckled the General. +"Love, devotion, admiration! What a lot of stuff they +do write. I wonder if Fay were a little beggar, how +much of it all would stand the test? But we know a +trick worth two of that. Try those sardines, Keane. +House is let, Fay—eh? House is let; nobody need +apply. Ha, ha!"</p> + +<p>And the General took some more curry, laughing till +he was purple, while Fay blushed scarlet, a trick of which<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_290" id="Page_290">[Pg 290]</a></span> +she was rarely guilty; Sydie smiled, and Keane picked +out his sardines with calm deliberation.</p> + +<p>"Hallo! God bless my soul!" burst forth the General +again. "Devil take me! I'll be hanged if I stand it! +Confound 'em all! I do call it hard for a man not to be +able to sit at his breakfast in peace. Good Heavens! +what will come to the country, if all those little devils +grow up to be food for Calcraft? He's actually pulling +the bark off the trees, as I live! Excuse me, I <i>can't</i> sit +still and see it."</p> + +<p>Wherewith the General bolted from his chair, darted +through the window, upsetting three dogs, two kittens, and +a stand of flowers in his exit, and bolted breathlessly +across the park with the poker in his hand.</p> + +<p>"Bless his old heart! Ain't he a brick?" shouted Sydie. +"Do excuse me, Fay, I must go and hear him blow up +that boy sky-high, and give him a shilling for tuck afterwards; +it will be so rich."</p> + +<p>The Cantab made his exit, and Fay busied herself calming +the kittens' minds, and restoring the dethroned geraniums. +Keane read his <i>Times</i> for ten minutes, then +looked up.</p> + +<p>"Miss Morton, where is your tongue? I have not heard +it for a quarter of an hour, a miracle that has never happened +in the two months I have been at the Beeches."</p> + +<p>"You do not want to hear it."</p> + +<p>"What! am I in <i>mauvais odeur</i> again?" smiled Keane. +"I thought we were good friends. Have you found the +Q. E. D. to the problem I gave you?"</p> + +<p>"To be sure!" cried Fay, exultantly. And kneeling +down by him, she went through the whole thing in exceeding +triumph.</p> + +<p>"You are a good child," said her tutor, smiling, in himself +amazed at this volatile little thing's capacity for +mathematics. "I think you will be able to take your degree, +if you like. Come, do you hate me now, Fay?"<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_291" id="Page_291">[Pg 291]</a></span></p> + +<p>"No," said Fay, a little shyly. "I never hated you, I +always admired you; but I was afraid of you, though I +would never confess it to Sydie."</p> + +<p>"Never be afraid of me," said Keane, putting his hand +on hers as it lay on the arm of his chair. "You have no +cause. You can do things few girls can; but they are +pretty in you, where they might be—not so pretty in +others. <i>I</i> like them at the least. You are very fond of +your cousin, are you not?"</p> + +<p>"Of Sydie? Oh, I love him dearly!"</p> + +<p>Keane took his hand away, and rose, as the General +trotted in:</p> + +<p>"God bless my soul, Keane, how warm it is! Confoundedly +hot without one's hat, I can tell you. Had my +walk all for nothing, too. That cursed little idiot wasn't +trespassing after all. Stephen had set him to spud out +the daisies, and I'd thrashed the boy before I'd listen to +him. Devil take him!"</p> + +<p>August went out and September came in, and Keane +stayed on at the Beeches. They were pleasant days to +them all, knocking over the partridges right and left, enjoying +a cold luncheon under the luxuriant hedges, and +going home for a dinner, full of laughter, and talk, and +good cookery; and Fay's songs afterwards, as wild and +sweet in their way as a goldfinch's on a hawthorn spray.</p> + +<p>"You like Little Fay, don't you, Keane?" said the +General, as they went home one evening.</p> + +<p>Keane looked startled for a second.</p> + +<p>"Of course," he said, rather haughtily. "That Miss +Morton is very charming every one must admit."</p> + +<p>"Bless her little heart! She's a wild little filly, Keane, +but she'll go better and truer than your quiet broken-in +ones, who wear the harness so respectably, and are so +wicked and vicious in their own minds. And what do +you think of my boy?" asked the General, pointing to +Sydie, who was in front. "How does he stand at Cambridge?"<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_292" id="Page_292">[Pg 292]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Sydie? Oh, he's a nice young fellow. He is a great +favorite there, and he is—the best things he can be—generous, +sweet-tempered, and honorable——"</p> + +<p>"To be sure," echoed the General, rubbing his hands. +"He's a dear boy—a very dear boy. They're both exactly +all I wished them to be, dear children; and I must +say I am delighted to see 'em carrying out the plan I had +always made for 'em from their childhood."</p> + +<p>"Being what, General, may I ask?"</p> + +<p>"Why, any one can see, as plain as a pikestaff, that +they're in love with each other," said the General, glowing +with satisfaction; "and I mean them to be married +and happy. They dote on each other, Keane, and I sha'n't +put any obstacles in their way. Youth's short enough, +Heaven knows; let 'em enjoy it, say I, it don't come back +again. Don't say anything to him about it; I want to +have some fun with him. They've settled it all, of course, +long ago; but he hasn't confided in me, the sly dog. +Trust an old campaigner, though, for twigging an <i>affaire +de c[oe]ur</i>. Bless them both, they make me feel a boy +again. We'll have a gay wedding, Keane; mind you +come down for it. I dare say it'll be at Christmas."</p> + +<p>Keane walked along, drawing his cap over his eyes. +The sun was setting full in his face.</p> + +<p>"Well, what sport?" cried Fay, running up to them.</p> + +<p>"Pretty fair," said Keane, coldly, as he passed her.</p> + +<p>It was an hour before the dinner-bell rang. Then he +came down cold and calm, particularly brilliant in conversation, +more courteous, perhaps, to her than ever, but +the frost had gathered round him that the sunny atmosphere +of the Beeches had melted; and Fay, though she +tried to tease, and to coax, and to win him, could not +dissipate it. She felt him an immeasurable distance from +her again. He was a learned, haughty, grave philosopher, +and she a little naughty child.</p> + +<p>As Keane went up-stairs that night, he heard Sydie +talking in the hall.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_293" id="Page_293">[Pg 293]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Yes, my worshipped Fay, I shall be intensely and +utterly miserable away from the light of your eyes; but, +nevertheless, I must go and see Kingslake from John's +next Tuesday, because I've promised; and let one idolize +your divine self ever so much, one can't give up one's +larks, you know."</p> + +<p>Keane ground his teeth with a bitter sigh and a fierce +oath.</p> + +<p>"Little Fay, I would have loved you more tenderly +than that!"</p> + +<p>He went in and threw himself on his bed, not to sleep. +For the first time for many years he could not summon +sleep at his will. He had gone on petting her and +amusing himself, thinking of her only as a winning, wayward +child. Now he woke with a shock to discover, too +late, that she had stolen from him unawares the heart he +had so long refused to any woman. With his high intellect +and calm philosophy, after his years spent in severe +science and cold solitude, the hot well-springs of passion +had broken loose again. He longed to take her bright +life into his own grave and cheerless one; he longed to +feel her warm young heart beat with his own, icebound +for so many years; but Little Fay was never to be his.</p> + +<p>In the bedroom next to him the General sat, with his +feet in his slippers and his dressing-gown round him, +smoking his last cheroot before a roaring fire, chuckling +complacently over his own thoughts.</p> + +<p>"To be sure, we'll have a very gay wedding, such as +the county hasn't seen in all its blessed days," he muttered, +with supreme satisfaction. "Sydie shall have this +place. What do I want with a great town of a house +like this, big enough for a barrack? I'll take that shooting-box +that's to let four miles off; that'll be plenty +large enough for me and my old chums to smoke in and +chat over bygone times, and it will do our hearts good—freshen +us up a bit to see those young things enjoying<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_294" id="Page_294">[Pg 294]</a></span> +themselves. My Little Fay will be the prettiest bride +that ever was seen. Silly young things to suppose I don't +see through them. Trust an old soldier! However, love +is blind, they say. How could they have helped falling +in love with one another? and who'd have the heart to +part 'em, I should like to know!"</p> + +<p>Keane stayed that day; the next, receiving a letter +which afforded a true though a slight excuse to return to +Cambridge, he went, the General, Fay, and Sydie believing +him gone only for a few days, he knowing that +he would never set foot in the Beeches again. He went +back to his rooms, whose dark monastic gloom in the +dull October day seemed to close round him like an iron +shroud. Here, with his books, his papers, his treasures +of intellect, science and art, his "mind a kingdom" to +him, he had spent many a happy day, with his brain +growing only clearer and clearer as he followed out a +close reasoning or clenched a subtle analysis. Now, for +the sake of a mischievous child but half his age, he +shuddered as he entered.</p> + +<p>"Well, my dear boy," began the General one day after +dinner, "I've seen your game, though you thought I didn't. +How do you know, you young dog, that I shall give my +consent?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, bother, governor, I know you will," cried Sydie, +aghast; "because, you see, if you let me have a few cool +hundreds I can give the men such slap-up wines—and it's +my last year, General."</p> + +<p>"You sly dog!" chuckled the governor, "I'm not +talking of your wine-merchant, and you know I'm not, +Master Sydie. It's no good playing hide-and-seek with +me; I can always see through a milestone when Cupid is +behind it; and there's no need to beat round the bush +with me, my boy. I never gave my assent to anything +with greater delight in my life; I've always meant you +to marry Fay, and——"<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_295" id="Page_295">[Pg 295]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Marry Fay!" shouted Sydie. "Good Heavens! governor, +what next?" And the Cantab threw himself +back and laughed till he cried, and Snowdrop and her +pups barked furiously in a concert of excited sympathy.</p> + +<p>"Why, sir, why?—why, because—devil take you, +Sydie—I don't know what you are laughing at, do you?" +cried the General, starting out of his chair.</p> + +<p>"Yes, I do, governor; you're laboring under a most +delicious delusion."</p> + +<p>"Delusion!—eh?—what? Why, bless my soul, I +don't think you know what you are saying, Sydie," +stormed the General.</p> + +<p>"Yes I do; you've an idea—how you got it into your +head Heaven knows, but there it is—you've an idea that +Fay and I are in love with one another; and I assure you +you were never more mistaken in your life."</p> + +<p>Seeing the General standing bolt upright staring at +him, and looking decidedly apocleptic, Sydie made the +matter a little clearer.</p> + +<p>"Fay and I would do a good deal to oblige you, my +beloved governor, if we could get up the steam a little, +but I'm afraid we really <i>cannot</i>. Love ain't in one's own +hands, you see, but a skittish mare, that gets her head, +and takes the bit between her teeth, and bolts off with +you wherever she likes. Is it possible that two people +who broke each other's toys, and teased each other's lives +out, and caught the measles of each other, from their +cradle upwards, should fall in love with each other when +they grow up? Besides, I don't intend to marry for the +next twenty years, if I can help it. I couldn't afford a +milliner's bill to my tailor's, and I should be ruined for +life if I merged my bright particular star of a self into a +respectable, lark-shunning, bill-paying, shabby-hatted, +family man. Good Heavens, what a train of horrors +comes with the bare idea!"<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_296" id="Page_296">[Pg 296]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Do you mean to say, sir, you won't marry your +cousin?" shouted the General.</p> + +<p>"Bless your dear old heart, <i>no</i>, governor—ten times +over, <i>no</i>! I wouldn't marry anybody, not for half the +universe."</p> + +<p>"Then I've done with you, sir—I wash my hands of +you!" shouted the General, tearing up and down the +room in a quick march, more beneficial to his feelings +than his carpet. "You are an ungrateful, unprincipled, +shameless young man, and are no more worthy of the +affection and the interest I've been fool enough to waste +on you than a tom-cat. You're an abominably selfish, +ungrateful, unnatural boy; and though you <i>are</i> poor +Phil's son, I will tell you my mind, sir; and I must say +I think your conduct with your cousin, making love to +her—desperate love to her—winning her affections, poor +unhappy child, and then making a jest of her and treating +it with a laugh, is disgraceful, sir—<i>disgraceful</i>, do you +hear?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, I hear, General," cried Sydie, convulsed with +laughter; "but Fay cares no more for me than for those +geraniums. We are fond of one another, in a cool, +cousinly sort of way, but——"</p> + +<p>"Hold your tongue!" stormed the General. "Don't +dare to say another word to me about it. You know well +enough that it has been the one delight of my life, and +if you'd had any respect or right feeling in you, you'd +marry her to-morrow."</p> + +<p>"She wouldn't be a party to that. Few women <i>are</i> +blind to my manifold attractions; but Fay's one of 'em. +Look here, governor," said Sydie, laying his hand affectionately +on the General's shoulder, "did it never occur +to you that though the pretty castle's knocked down, +there may be much nicer bricks left to build a new one? +Can't you see that Fay doesn't care two buttons about<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_297" id="Page_297">[Pg 297]</a></span> +me, but cares a good many diamond studs about somebody +else?"</p> + +<p>"Nothing has occurred to me but that you and she are +two heartless, selfish, ungrateful chits. Hold your tongue, +sir!"</p> + +<p>"But, General——"</p> + +<p>"Hold your tongue, sir; don't talk to me, I tell you. +In love with somebody else? I should like to see him +show his face here. Somebody she's talked to for five +minutes at a race-ball, and proposed to her in a corner, +thinking to get some of my money. Some swindler, or +Italian refugee, or blackleg, I'll be bound—taken her in, +made her think him an angel, and will persuade her to +run away with him. I'll set the police round the house—I'll +send her to school in Paris. What fools men are +to have anything to do with women at all! You seem in +their confidence; who's the fellow?"</p> + +<p>"A man very like a swindler or a blackleg—Keane!"</p> + +<p>"Keane!" shouted the General, pausing in the middle +of his frantic march.</p> + +<p>"Keane," responded Sydie.</p> + +<p>"Keane!" shouted the General again. "God bless my +soul, she might as well have fallen in love with the man +in the moon. Why couldn't she like the person I'd +chosen for her?"</p> + +<p>"If one can't guide the mare one's self, 'tisn't likely the +governors can for one," muttered Sydie.</p> + +<p>"Poor dear child! fallen in love with a man who don't +care a button for her, eh? Humph!—that's always the +way with women—lose the good chances, and fling themselves +at a man's feet who cares no more for their tom-foolery +of worship than he cares for the blacking on his +boots. Devil take young people, what a torment they +are! The ungrateful little jade, how dare she go and +smash all my plans like that? and if I ever set my heart +on anything, I set it on that match. Keane! he'll no<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_298" id="Page_298">[Pg 298]</a></span> +more love anybody than the stone cherubs on the terrace. +He's a splendid head, but his heart's every atom as cold +as granite. Love her? Not a bit of it. When I told +him you were going to marry her (I thought you would, +and so you will, too, if you've the slightest particle of +gratitude or common sense in either of you), he listened +as quietly and as calmly as if he had been one of the men +in armor in the hall. Love, indeed! To the devil with +love, say I! It's the head and root of everything that's +mischievous and bad."</p> + +<p>"Wait a bit, uncle," cried Sydie; "you told him all +about your previous match-making, eh? And didn't he +go off like a shot two days after, when we meant him to +stay on a month longer? Can't you put two and two +together, my once wide-awake governor? 'Tisn't such a +difficult operation."</p> + +<p>"No, I can't," shouted the General: "I don't know +anything, I don't see anything, I don't believe in anything, +I hate everybody and everything, I tell you; and +I'm a great fool for having ever set my heart on any plan +that wanted a woman's concurrence—</p> + +<p> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">For if she will she will, you may depend on't,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And if she won't she won't, and there's an end on't."</span><br /> +</p> + +<p>Wherewith the General stuck his wide-awake on +fiercely, and darted out of the bay-window to cool himself. +Half way across the lawn, he turned sharp round, +and came back again.</p> + +<p>"Sydie, do you fancy Keane cares a straw for that +child?"</p> + +<p>"I can't say. It's possible."</p> + +<p>"Humph! Well, can't you go and see? That's come +of those mathematical lessons. What a fool I was to +allow her to be so much with him!" growled the General, +with many grunts and half-audible oaths, swinging round<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_299" id="Page_299">[Pg 299]</a></span> +again, and trotting through the window as hot and peppery +as his own idolized curry.</p> + +<p>Keane was sitting writing in his rooms at King's some +few days after. The backs looked dismal with their +leafless, sepia-colored trees; the streets were full of sloppy +mud and dripping under-grads' umbrellas; his own room +looked sombre and dark, without any sunshine on its +heavy oak bookcases, and massive library-table, and dark +bronzes. His pen moved quickly, his head was bent over +the paper, his mouth sternly set, and his forehead paler +and more severe than ever. The gloom in his chambers +had gathered round him himself, when his door was burst +open, and Sydie dashed in and threw himself down in a +green leather arm-chair.</p> + +<p>"Well, sir, here am I back again. Just met the V. P. +in the quad, and he was so enchanted at seeing me, that +he kissed me on both cheeks, flung off his gown, tossed +up his cap, and performed a <i>pas d'extase</i> on the spot. +Isn't it delightful to be so beloved? Granta looks very +delicious to-day, I must say—about as refreshing and +lively as an acidulated spinster going district-visiting in +a snow-storm. And how are you, most noble lord?"</p> + +<p>"Pretty well."</p> + +<p>"Only that? Thought you were all muscle and iron. +I say. What <i>do</i> you think the governor has been saying +to me?"</p> + +<p>"How can I tell?"</p> + +<p>"Tell! No, I should not have guessed it if I'd tried +for a hundred years! By George! nothing less than that +I should marry Fay. What do you think of that, sir?"</p> + +<p>Keane traced Greek unconsciously on the margin of +his <i>Times</i>. For the life of him, with all his self-command, +he could not have answered.</p> + +<p>"Marry Fay! <i>I!</i>" shouted Sydie. "Ye gods, what +an idea! I never was so astonished in all my days. +Marry Little Fay!—the governor must be mad, you +know."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_300" id="Page_300">[Pg 300]</a></span></p> + +<p>"You will not marry your cousin?" asked Keane, tranquilly, +though the rapid glance and involuntary start did +not escape Sydie's quick eyes.</p> + +<p>"Marry! I! By George, no! She wouldn't have me, +and I'm sure I wouldn't have her. She is a dear little +monkey, and I'm very fond of her, but I wouldn't put +the halter round my neck for any woman going. I don't +like vexing the General, but it would be really too great +a sacrifice merely to oblige him."</p> + +<p>"She cares nothing for you, then?"</p> + +<p>"Nothing? Well, I don't know. Yes, in a measure, +she does. If I should be taken home on a hurdle one +fine morning, she'd shed some cousinly tears over my +inanimate body; but as for <i>the other thing</i>, not one bit of +it. 'Tisn't likely. We're a great deal too like one +another, too full of devilry and carelessness, to assimilate. +Isn't it the delicious contrast and fiz of the sparkling +acid of divine lemons with the contrariety of the fiery +spirit of beloved rum that makes the delectable union +known and worshipped in our symposia under the blissful +name of <span class="smcap">PUNCH</span>? Marry Little Fay! By Jove, if all +the governor's match-making was founded on no better +reasons for success, it is a small marvel that he's a +bachelor now! By George, it's time for hall!"</p> + +<p>And the Cantab took himself off, congratulating himself +on the adroit manner in which he had cut the Gordian +knot that the General had muddled up so inexplicably +in his unpropitious match-making.</p> + +<p>Keane lay back in his chair some minutes, very still; +then he rose to dine in hall, pushing away his books and +papers, as if throwing aside with them a dull and heavy +weight. The robins sang in the leafless backs, the sun +shone out on the sloppy streets; the youth he thought +gone for ever was come back to him. Oh, strange stale +story of Hercules and Omphale, old as the hills, and as +eternal! Hercules goes on in his strength slaying his<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_301" id="Page_301">[Pg 301]</a></span> +hydra and his Laomedon for many years, but he comes +at last, whether he like it or not, to his Omphale, at +whose feet he is content to sit and spin long golden +threads of pleasure and of passion, while his lion's skin +is motheaten and his club rots away.</p> + +<p>Little Fay sat curled up on the study hearth-rug, reading +a book her late guest had left behind him—a very +light and entertaining volume, being Delolme "On the +Constitution," but which she preferred, I suppose, to +"What Will He Do With It?" or the "Feuilles d'Automne," +for the sake of that clear autograph, "Gerald +Keane, King's Coll.," on its fly-leaf. A pretty picture +she made, with her handsome spaniels; and she was so +intent on what she was reading—the fly-leaf, by the +way—that she never heard the opening of the door, till +a hand drew away her book. Then Fay started up, +oversetting the puppies one over another, radiant and +breathless.</p> + +<p>Keane took her hands and drew her near him.</p> + +<p>"You do not hate me now, then?"</p> + +<p>Fay put her head on one side with her old wilfulness.</p> + +<p>"Yes, I do—when you go away without any notice, +and hardly bid me good-bye. You would not have left +one of your men pupils so unceremoniously."</p> + +<p>Keane smiled involuntarily, and drew her closer.</p> + +<p>"If you do not hate me, will you go a step farther—and +love me? Little Fay, my own darling, will you +come and brighten my life? It has been a saddened and +a stern one, but it shall never throw a shade on yours."</p> + +<p>The wild little filly was conquered—at last, she came +to hand docile and subdued, and acknowledged her +master. She loved him, and told him so with that frankness +and fondness which would have covered faults far +more glaring and weighty than Little Fay's.</p> + +<p>"But you must never be afraid of me," whispered +Keane, some time after.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_302" id="Page_302">[Pg 302]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Oh, no!"</p> + +<p>"And you do not wish Sydie had never brought me +here to make you all uncomfortable?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, please don't!" cried Fay, plaintively. "I was a +child then, and I did not know what I said."</p> + +<p>"'Then,' being three months ago, may I ask what you +are now?"</p> + +<p>"A child still in knowledge, but <i>your</i> child," whispered +Fay, lifting her face to his, "to be petted and spoiled, +and never found fault with, remember!"</p> + +<p>"My little darling, who would have the heart to find +fault with you, whatever your sins?"</p> + +<p>"God bless my soul, what's this?" cried a voice in the +doorway.</p> + +<p>There stood the General in wide-awake and shooting-coat, +with a spade in one hand and a watering-pot in the +other, too astonished to keep his amazement to himself. +Fay would fain have turned and fled, but Keane smiled, +kept one arm round her, and stretched out his hand to +the governor.</p> + +<p>"General, I came once uninvited, and I am come again. +Will you forgive me? I have a great deal to say to you, +but I must ask you one question first of all. Will you +give me your treasure?"</p> + +<p>"Eh! humph! What? Well—I suppose—yes," +ejaculated the General, breathless from the combined +effects of amazement and excessive and vehement gardening. +"But, bless my soul, Keane, I should as soon have +thought of one of the stone cherubs, or that bronze +Milton. Never mind, one lives and learns. Mind? +Devil take me, what am I talking about? I don't mind +at all; I'm very happy, only I'd set my heart on—you +know what. More fool I. Fay, you little imp, come here. +Are you fairly broken in by Keane, then?"</p> + +<p>"Yes," said Miss Fay, with her old mischief, but a new +blush, "as he has promised never to use the curb."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_303" id="Page_303">[Pg 303]</a></span></p> + +<p>"God bless you, then, my little pet," cried the General, +kissing her some fifty times. Then he laughed till he +cried, and dried his eyes and laughed again, and grunted, +and growled, and shook both Keane's hands vehemently. +"I was a great fool, sir, and I dare say you've managed +much better. I <i>did</i> set my heart on the boy, you know, +but it can't be helped now, and I don't wish it should. +Be kind to her, that's all; for though she mayn't bear +the curb, the whip from anybody she cares about would +break her heart. She's a dear child, Keane—a very +dear child. Be kind to her, that's all."</p> + +<hr style="width: 25%;" /> + +<p>On the evening of January 13th, beginning the Lent +Term, Mr. Sydenham Morton sat in his own rooms with +half a dozen spirits like himself, a delicious aroma surrounding +them of Maryland and rum-punch, and a rapid +flow of talk making its way through the dense atmosphere.</p> + +<p>"To think of Granite Keane being caught!" shouted +one young fellow. "I should as soon have thought of +the Pyramids walking over to the Sphinx, and marrying +her."</p> + +<p>"Poor devil! I pity him," sneered Henley of Trinity, +aged nineteen.</p> + +<p>"He don't require much pity, my dear fellow; I think +he's pretty comfortable," rejoined Sydie. "He did, to be +sure, when he was trying to beat sense into your brain-box, +but that's over for the present."</p> + +<p>"Come, tell us about the wedding," said Somerset of +King's. "I was sorry I couldn't go down."</p> + +<p>"Well," began Sydie, stretching his legs and putting +down his pipe, "she—<i>the</i> she was dressed in white tulle +and——"</p> + +<p>"Bother the dress. Go ahead!"</p> + +<p>"The dress was no bother, it was the one subject in +life to the women. You must listen to the dress, because<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_304" id="Page_304">[Pg 304]</a></span> +I asked the prettiest girl there for the description of it to +enlighten your minds, and it was harder to learn than six +books of Horace. The bridesmaids wore tarlatane à la +Princesse Stéphanie, trois jupes bouillonnées, jupe desous +de soie glacée, guirlandes couleur dea yeux impériaux +d'Eugénie, corsets décolletés garnis de ruches de ruban +du——"</p> + +<p>"For Heaven's sake, hold your tongue!" cried Somerset. +"That jargon's worse than the Yahoos'. The dead +languages are bad enough to learn, but women's living +language of fashion is ten hundred times worse. The +twelve girls were dressed in blue and white, and thought +themselves angels—we understand. Cut along."</p> + +<p>"Gunter was prime," continued Sydie, "and the governor +was prime, too—splendid old buck; only when he +gave her away he was very near saying, 'Devil take it!' +which might have had a novel, but hardly a solemn, +effect. Little Fay was delightful—for all the world like +a bit of incarnated sunshine. Keane was granite all +over, except his eyes, and they were lava; if we hadn't, +for our own preservation, let him put her in a carriage +and started 'em off, he might have become dangerous, +after the manner of Etna, ice outside and red-hot coals +within. The bridesmaids tears must have washed the +church for a week, and made it rather a damp affair. +One would scarcely think women were so anxious to +marry, to judge from the amount of grief they get up at +a friend's sacrifice. It looks uncommonly like envy; +but it <i>isn't</i>, we're sure! The ball was like most other +balls: alternate waltzing and flirtation, a vast lot of nonsense +talked, and a vast lot of champagne drunk—Cupid +running about in every direction, and a tremendous run +on all the amatory poets—Browning and Tennyson +being worked as hard as cab-horses, and used up pretty +much as those quadrupeds—dandies suffering self-inflicted +torture from tight boots, and saying, like Cranmer,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_305" id="Page_305">[Pg 305]</a></span> +when he held his hand in the fire, that it was rather +agreeable than otherwise, considering it drew admiration—spurs +getting entangled in ladies' dresses, and ladies +making use thereof for a display of amiability, which the +dragoons are very much mistaken if they fancied continued +into private life—girls believing all the pretty +things said to them—men going home and laughing at +them all—wallflowers very black, women engaged ten +deep very sunshiny—the governor very glorious, and +my noble self very fascinating. And now," said Sydie, +taking up his pipe, "pass the punch, old boy, and never +say I can't talk!"</p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/cc303.png" alt="* * * * *" /> +</div> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_306" id="Page_306">[Pg 306]</a></span></p> +<hr style="width: 100%;" /> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/cc304a.png" alt="* * * * *" /> +</div> + + + +<h2><a name="THE_STORY_OF_A_CRAYON-HEAD" id="THE_STORY_OF_A_CRAYON-HEAD"></a>THE STORY OF A CRAYON-HEAD;</h2> + +<div class='center'>OR,</div> + +<h3>A DOUBLED-DOWN LEAF IN A MAN'S LIFE.</h3> + + +<p>I was dining with a friend, in his house on the +Lung' Arno (he fills, never mind what, post +in the British Legation), where I was passing +an autumn month. The night was oppressively hot; a +still, sultry sky brooded over the city, and the stars shining +out from a purple mist on to the Campanile near, and +the slopes of Bellosguardo in the distance. It was intensely +hot; not all the iced wines on his table could +remove the oppressive warmth of the evening air, which +made both him and me think of evenings we had spent +together in the voluptuous lassitude of the East, in days +gone by, when we had travelled there, fresh to life, to +new impressions, to all that gives "greenness to the grass, +and glory to the flower."</p> + +<p>The Arno ran on under its bridge, and we leaned out +of the balcony where we were sitting and smoking, while +I tossed over, without thinking much of what I was doing, +a portfolio of his sketches. Position has lost for art many +good artists since Sir George Beaumont: my friend is +one of them; his sketches are masterly; and had he been +a vagrant Bohemian instead of an English peer, there +might have been pictures on the walls of the R. A. to +console one for the meretricious daubs and pet vulgarities +of nursery episodes, hideous babies, and third-class carriage +interiors, which make one's accustomed annual<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_307" id="Page_307">[Pg 307]</a></span> +visit to the rooms that once saw the beauties of Reynolds, +and Wilson, and Lawrence, a positive martyrdom to anybody +of decent refinement and educated taste. The portfolio +stood near me, and I took out a sketch or two now +and then between the pauses of our conversation, looking +lazily up the river, while the moonlight shone on Dante's +city, that so long forgot, and has, so late, remembered +him.</p> + +<p>"Ah! what a pretty face this is! Who's the original?" +I asked him, drawing out a female head, done +with great finish in pastel, under which was written, in +his own hand, "Florelle." It was a face of great beauty, +with a low Greek brow and bronze-dark hair, and those +large, soft, liquid eyes that you only see in a Southern, +and that looked at you from the sketch with an earnest, +wistful regard, half childlike, half impassioned. He +looked up, glanced at the sketch, and stretched out his +hand hastily, but I held it away from him. "I want to +look at it; it is a beautiful head; I wish we had the +original here now. Who is she?"</p> + +<p>As I spoke—holding the sketch up where the light +from the room within fell on what I had no doubt was a +likeness of some fair face that had beguiled his time in +days gone by, a souvenir of one of his loves more lasting +than souvenirs of such episodes in one's life often are, if +merely trusted to that inconstant capricieuse, Memory,—I +might have hit him with a bullet rather than asked +him about a mere etude à deux crayons, for he shuddered, +and drank off some white Hermitage quickly.</p> + +<p>"I had forgotten that was in the portfolio," he said, +hurriedly, as he took it from me and put it behind him, +with its face against the wall, as though it had been the +sketch of a Medusa.</p> + +<p>"What do you take it away for? I had not half done +looking at it. Who is the original?"</p> + +<p>"One I don't care to mention."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_308" id="Page_308">[Pg 308]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Because?"</p> + +<p>"Because the sight of that picture gives me a twinge +of what I ought to be hardened against—regret."</p> + +<p>"Regret! Is any woman worth that?"</p> + +<p>"She was."</p> + +<p>"I don't believe it; and I fancied you and I thought +alike on such points. Of all the women for whom we +feel twinges of conscience or self-reproach in melancholy +moments, how many <i>loved us</i>? Moralists and poets sentimentalize +over it, and make it a stalking-horse whereby +to magnify our sins and consign us more utterly to perdition, +while they do for themselves a little bit of poetic +morality cheaply; but in reality there are uncommonly +few women who can love, to begin with, and in the +second, vanity, avarice, jealousy, desires for pretty toilettes, +one or other, or all combined, have quite as much +to do with their 'sacrifice' for us as anything."</p> + +<p>"Quite true; but—there are women and women, perhaps, +and it was not of that sort of regret that I spoke."</p> + +<p>"Of what sort, then?"</p> + +<p>He made me no reply: he broke the ash off his Manilla, +and smoked silently some moments, leaning over the +balcony and watching the monotonous flow of the Arno, +with deeper gloom on his face than I remembered to have +seen there any time before. I was sorry I had chanced to +light upon a sketch that had brought him back such +painful recollections of whatever kind they might be, +and I smoked too, sending the perfumed tobacco out into +the still sultry night that was brooding over Florence.</p> + +<p>"Of what sort?" said he, abruptly, after some minutes' +pause. "Shall I tell you? Then you can tell <i>me</i> whether +I was a fool who made one grand mistake, or a sensible +man of the world who kept himself from a grand folly. +I have been often in doubt myself."</p> + +<p>He leaned back, his face in shadow, so that I could not +see it, while the Arno's ebb and flow was making mournful<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_309" id="Page_309">[Pg 309]</a></span> +river-music under our windows,—while the purple +glories of the summer night deepened round Giotto's +Tower, where, in centuries past, the Immortal of Florence +had sat dreaming of the Paradiso, the mortals passing by +whispering him as "the man who had seen hell," and the +light within the room shone on the olives and grapes, the +cut-glass and silver claret-jugs, the crimson Montepulciano +and the white Hermitage, on the table, as he told +me the story of the head in crayons.</p> + +<p>"Two years ago I went into the south of France. I +was chargé d'Affaires at —— then, you remember, and +the climate had told upon me. I was not over-well, and +somebody recommended me the waters of Eaux Bonnes. +The waters I put little faith in, but in the air of the +Pyrenees, in the change from diplomacy to a life <i>en rase +campagne</i>, I put much, and I went to Eaux Bonnes +accordingly, for July and August, with a vow to forswear +any society I might find at the baths—I had had only +too much of society as it was—and to spend my days in +the mountains with my sketching-block and my gun. +But I did not like Eaux Bonnes; it was intensely warm. +There were several people who knew me really; no end +of others who got hold of my name, and wanted me to +join their riding-parties, and balls, and picnics. That +was not what I wanted, so I left the place and went on to +Luz, hoping to find solitude there. That valley of Luz—you +know it?—is it not as lovely as any artist's dream of +Arcadia, in the evening, when the sunset light has passed +off the meadows and corn-lands of the lower valley, and +just lingers golden and rosy on the crests of the mountains, +while the glow-worms are coming out among the +grasses, and the lights are being lit in the little homesteads +nestling among their orchards one above another +on the hill-sides, and its hundred streams are rushing +down the mountains and under the trees, foaming, and +tumbling, and rejoicing on their way! When I have<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_310" id="Page_310">[Pg 310]</a></span> +had my fill of ambition and of pleasure, I shall go and +live at Luz, I think.</p> + +<p>"<i>When!</i> Well! you are quite right to repeat it ironically; +that time will never come, I dare say, and why +should it? I am not the stuff to cogitate away my years +in country solitudes. If prizes are worth winning, they +are worth working for till one's death; a man should +never give up the field while he has life left in him. +Well! I went to Luz, and spent a pleasant week or so +there, knocking over a few chamois or izards, or sketching +on the sides of the Pic du Midi, or Tourmalet, but +chiefly lying about under the great beech-trees in the +shade, listening to the tinkle of the sheep-bells, like an +idle fellow, as I meant to be for the time I had allotted +myself. One day——"</p> + +<p>He stopped and blew some whiffs from his Manilla into +the air. He seemed to linger over the prelude to his +story, and shrink from going on with the story itself, I +thought; and he smothered a sigh as he raised himself.</p> + +<p>"How warm the night is; we shall have a tempest. +Reach me that wine, there's a good fellow. No, not the +Amontillado, the Château Margaux, please; one can't +drink hot dry wines such a night as this. But to satisfy +your curiosity about this crayon study.—One day I +thought I would go to Gavarnie. I had heard a good +deal, of course, about the great marble wall, and the +mighty waterfalls, the rocks of Marboré, and the Brêche +de Roland, but, as it chanced, I had never been up to the +Cercle, nor, indeed, in that part of the Midi at all, so I +went. The gods favored me, I remember; there were no +mists, the sun was brilliant, and the great amphitheatre +was for once unobscured; the white marble flashing brown +and purple, rose and golden, in the light; the cascades +tumbling and leaping down into the gigantic basin; the +vast plains of snow glittering in the sunshine; the twin +rocks standing in the clear air, straight and fluted as any<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_311" id="Page_311">[Pg 311]</a></span> +two Corinthian columns hewn and chiselled by man. +Good Heaven! before a scene like Gavarnie, what true +artist must not fling away his colors and his brushes in +despair and disgust with his own puerility and impotence? +What can be transferred to canvas of such a +scene as that? What does the best beauty of Claude, the +grandest sublimity of Salvator, the greatest power of +Poussin, look beside Nature when she reigns as she reigns +at Gavarnie? I am an art worshipper, as you know: but +there are times in my life, places on earth, that make me +ready to renounce art for ever!</p> + +<p>"The day was beautiful, and thinking I knew the +country pretty well, I took no guides. I hate them when +I can possibly dispense with them. But the mist soon +swooped down over the Cercle, and I began to wish I had +had one when I turned my horse's head back again. You +know the route, of course? Through the Chaos—Heaven +knows it is deserving of its name;—down the break-neck +little bridle-path, along the Gave, and over the Scia +bridge to St. Sauveur. You know it? Then you know +that it is much easier to break your neck down it than to +find your way by it, though by some hazard I did not +break my neck, nor the animal's knees either, but managed +to get over the bridge without falling into the torrent, +and to pick my way safely down into more level +ground; once there, I thought I should easily enough find +my way to St. Sauveur, but I was mistaken: the mists +had spread over the valley, a heavy storm had come up, +and, somehow or other, I lost the way, and could not tell +where I was, whether St. Sauveur was to the left or the +right, behind me or in front of me. The horse, a miserable +little Pyrenean beast, was too frightened by the lightning +to take the matter into his hands as he had done on +the road through the Chaos, and I saw nothing for it but +to surrender and come to grief in any way the elements +best pleased; swearing at myself for not having stayed<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_312" id="Page_312">[Pg 312]</a></span> +at the inn at Gavarnie or Gedre; wishing myself at the +vilest mountain auberge that ever sheltered men and +mules pêle-mêle; and calling myself hard names for not +having listened to my landlady's dissuasions of that morning +as I left her door, from my project of going to +Gavarnie without a guide, which seemed to her the acme +of all she had ever known or heard of English strangers' +fooleries. The storm only increased, the great black +rocks echoing the roll of the thunder, and the Gave lashing +itself into fury in its narrow bed; happily I was on +decently level ground, and the horse being, I suppose, +tolerably used to storms like it, I pushed him on at last, +by dint of blows and conjurations combined, to where, in +the flashes of the lightning, I saw what looked to me like +the outline of a homestead: it stood in a cleft between +two shelving sides of rock, and a narrow bridle-path led +up to it, through high yews and a tangled wilderness of +rhododendrons, boxwood, and birch—one of those green +slopes so common in the Pyrenees, that look in full sunlight +doubly bright and Arcadian-like, from the contrast +of the dark, bare, perpendicular rocks that shut them in. +I could see but little of its beauty then in the fog that +shrouded both it and me, but I saw the shape and semblance +of a house, and urging the horse up the ascent, +thundered on its gate-panels with my whip-handle till the +rocks round echoed.</p> + +<p>"There was no answer, and I knocked a little louder, +if possible, than before. I was wet to the skin with that +wretched storm, and swore not mildly at the inhospitable +roof that would not admit me under it. I knocked again, +inclined to pick up a piece of granite and beat the panel +in; and at last a face—an old woman's weather-beaten +face, but with black southern eyes that had lost little of +their fire with age—looked through a grating at me and +asked me what I wanted.</p> + +<p>"'I want shelter if you can give it me,' I answered her.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_313" id="Page_313">[Pg 313]</a></span> +'I have lost my way coming from Gavarnie, and am +drenched through. I will pay you liberally if you will +give me an asylum till the weather clears.'</p> + +<p>"Her eyes blazed like coals through the little grille.</p> + +<p>"'M'sieu, we take no money here—have you mistaken +it for an inn? Come in if you want shelter, in Heaven's +name! The Holy Virgin forbid we should refuse refuge +to any!'</p> + +<p>"And she crossed herself and uttered some conjurations +to Mary to protect them from all wolves in sheep's clothing, +and guard their dwelling from all harm, by which I suppose +she thought I spoke fairly and looked harmless, but +might possibly be a thief or an assassin, or both in one. +She unlocked the gate, and calling to a boy to take my +horse into a shed, admitted me under a covered passageway +into the house, which looked like part, and a very +ruined part, too, of what had probably been, in the times +of Henri-Quatre and his grandfather, a feudal chateâu +fenced in by natural ramparts from the rocks that surrounded +it, shutting in the green slope on which it stood, +with only one egress, the path through which I had +ascended, into the level plain below. She marshalled me +through this covered way into an interior passage, dark +and vaulted, cheerless enough, and opened a low oak door, +ushering me into a chamber, bare, gloomy, yet with something +of lost grandeur and past state lingering about its +great hearth, its massive walls, its stained windows, and +its ragged tapestry hangings. The woman went up to one +of the windows and spoke with a gentleness to which I +should have never thought her voice could have been +attuned with its harsh patois.</p> + +<p>"'Mon enfant, v'là un m'sieu étranger qui vient chercher +un abri pour un petit peu. Veux-tu lui parler?'</p> + +<p>"The young girl she spoke to turned, rose, and, coming +forward, bade me welcome with the grace, simplicity, and +the naïve freedom from embarrassment of a child, looking<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_314" id="Page_314">[Pg 314]</a></span> +up in my face with her soft clear eyes. She was like——No +matter! you have seen that crayon-head, it is but a +portrayal of a face whose expression Raphael and Sassoferrato +themselves would have failed to render in its +earnest, innocent, elevated regard. She was very young—</p> + +<p> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Standing with reluctant feet</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Where the brook and river meet—</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Womanhood and childhood fleet.</span><br /> +</p> + +<p>Good Heavens, I am quoting poetry! what will you think +of me, to have gone back to the Wertherian and Tennysonian +days so far as to repeat a triplet of Longfellow's? +No man quotes <i>those</i> poets after his salad days, except in +a moment of weakness. Caramba! why <i>has</i> one any +weaknesses at all? we ought not to have any; we live in +an atmosphere that would kill them all if they were not +as obstinate and indestructible as all other weeds whose +seeds will linger and peer up and spoil the ground, let one +root them out ever so! I owed you an apology for that +lapse into Longfellow, and I have made it. Am I to go +on with this story?"</p> + +<p>He laughed as he spoke, and his laugh was by no +means heartfelt. I told him to go on, and he lighted +another Manilla and obeyed me, while the Arno murmured +on its way, and the dusky, sultry clouds brooded +nearer the earth, and the lights were lit in the distant +windows of the palace of the Marchese Acqua d'Oro, that +fairest of Florentines, who rouges so indiscriminately and +flirts her fan so inimitably, to one of whose balls we were +going that night.</p> + +<p>He settled himself back in his chair, with his face +darkened again by the shadow cast on it from the pillar +of the balcony; and took his cigar out of his mouth.</p> + +<p>"She looked incongruous in that bare and gloomy +room, out of place with it, and out of keeping with the +old woman—a French peasant-woman, weather-beaten<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_315" id="Page_315">[Pg 315]</a></span> +and bronzed, such as you see any day by the score riding +to market or sitting knitting at their cottage-doors. It +was impossible that the girl could be either daughter or +grand-daughter, or any relation at all to her. In that +room she looked more as one of these myrtles might do, +set down in the stifling gloomy horrors of a London street +than anything else, save that in certain traces about the +chamber, as I told you, there were relics of a faded +grandeur which harmonized better with her. I can see +her now, as she stood there with a strange foreign grace, +an indescribable patrician delicacy mingled with extreme +youthfulness and naïveté, like an old picture in costume, +like one of Raphael's child-angels in face—poor little +Florelle!</p> + +<p>"'You would stay till the storm is over, monsieur? +you are welcome to shelter if you will,' she said, coming +forward to me timidly yet frankly. 'Cazot tells me you +are a stranger, and our mountain storms are dangerous +if you have no guide.'</p> + +<p>"I did not know who Cazot was, but I presumed her +to be the old woman, who seemed to be portress, mistress, +domestic, cameriste, and all else in her single person, but +I thanked her for her permitted shelter, and accepted her +invitation to remain till the weather had cleared, as you +can imagine. When you have lost your way, any asylum +is grateful, however desolate and tumble-down. They +made me welcome, she and the old peasant-woman, with +that simple, unstrained, and unostentatious hospitality +which is, after all, the true essence of good breeding, and +of which your parvenu knows nothing, when he keeps +you waiting, and shows you that you are come at an +inapropos moment, in his fussy fear lest everything +should not be <i>comme il faut</i> to do due credit to <i>him</i>. Old +Cazot set before me some simple refreshment, a <i>grillade +de châtaignes</i>, some maize and milk, and a dish of trout +just caught in the Gave below, while I looked at my<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_316" id="Page_316">[Pg 316]</a></span> +châtelaine, marvelling how that young and delicate creature +could come to be shut up with an old peasant on a +remote hill-side. I did my best to draw her out and learn +her history; she was shy at first of a complete stranger, +as was but natural, but I spoke of Garvarnie, of the +beauty of the Pyrenees, or Tourmalet, and the Lac Bleu, +and, warming with enthusiasm for her birthplace, the girl +forgot that I was a foreign tourist, unknown to her, and +indebted to her for an hour's shelter, and before my impromptu +supper was over I had drawn from her, by a few +questions which she was too much of a child and had too +little to conceal not to answer with a child's ingenuousness, +the whole of her short history, and the explanation of her +anomalous position. Her name was Florelle de l'Heris, +a name once powerful enough among the nobles of the +Midi, and the old woman, Madame Cazot, was her father's +foster-sister. Of her family, beggared in common with +the best aristocracy of France, none were now left; they +had dwindled and fallen away, till of the once great +house of L'Heris this child remained alone its representative: +her mother had died in her infancy, and her father, +either too idle or too broken-hearted to care to retrieve +his fortunes, lived the life of a hermit among these ruins +where I now found his daughter, educating her himself +till his death, which occurred when she was only twelve +years old, leaving her to poverty and obscurity, and such +protection and companionship as her old nurse Cazot +could afford her. Such was the story Florelle de l'Heris +told me as I sat there that evening waiting till the clouds +should clear and the mists roll off enough to let me go to +St. Sauveur—a story told simply and pathetically, and +which Cazot, sitting knitting in a corner, added to by a +hundred gesticulations, expletives, appeals to the Virgin, +and prolix addenda, glad, I dare say, of any new confident, +and disposed to regard me with gratitude for my +sincere praises of her fried trout. It was a story which<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_317" id="Page_317">[Pg 317]</a></span> +seemed to me to suit the delicate beauty of the flower I +had found in the wilderness, and read more like a chapter +of some versified novelette, like 'Lucille,' than a <i>bonâ +fide</i> page out of the book of one's actual life, especially +in a life like mine, of essentially material pleasures and +emphatically substantial and palpable ambitions. But +there <i>are</i> odd stories in real life!—strange pathetic ones, +too—stranger, often, than those that found the plot and +underplot of a novel or the basis of a poem; but when +such men as I come across them they startle us, they look +bizarre and unlike all the other leaves of the book that +glitter with worldly aphorisms, philosophical maxims, and +pungent egotisms, and we would fain cut them out; they +have the ring of that Arcadia whose golden gates shut +on us when we outgrew boyhood, and in which, <i>en +revanche</i>, we have sworn ever since to disbelieve—keeping +our word sometimes, perhaps to our own hindrance—Heaven +knows!</p> + +<p>"I stayed as long as I could that evening, till the weather +had cleared up so long, and the sun was shining again so +indisputably, that I had no longer any excuse to linger +in the dark-tapestried room, with the chestnuts sputtering +among the wood-ashes, and Madame Cazot's needles clicking +one continual refrain, and the soft gazelle eyes of my +young châtelaine glancing from my sketches to me with +that mixture of shyness and fearlessness, innocence and +candor, which gave so great a charm to her manner. She +was a new study to me, both for my palette and my mind—a +pretty fresh toy to amuse me while I should stay in +the Midi. I was not going to leave without making sure +of a permission to return. I wanted to have that face +among my pastels, and when I had thanked her for her +shelter and her welcome, I told her my name, and asked +her leave to come again where I had been so kindly received.</p> + +<p>"'Come again, monsieur? Certainly, if you care to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_318" id="Page_318">[Pg 318]</a></span> +come. But you will find it a long way from Luz, I fear,' +she said, naïvely, looking up at me with her large clear +fawn-like eyes—eyes so cloudless and untroubled <i>then</i>—as +she let me take her hand, and bade me adieu et bonsoir.</p> + +<p>"I reassured her on that score, you can fancy, and left +her standing in the deep-embrasured window, a great stag-hound +at her feet, and the setting sun, all the brighter for +its past eclipse, bathing her in light. I can always see +her in memory as I saw her then, poor child!——Faugh! +How hot the night is! Can't we get more air anyhow?</p> + +<p>"'If you come again up here, m'sieu, you will be the +first visitor the Nid de l'Aigle has seen for four years,' +said old Cazot, as she showed me out through the dusky-vaulted +passage. She was a cheerful, garrulous old +woman, strong in her devotion to the De l'Heris of the +bygone past; stronger even yet in her love for their single +orphan representative of the beggared present. 'Visitors! +Is it likely we should have any, m'sieu? Those that would +suit me would be bad company for Ma'amselle Florelle, +and those that should seek her never do. I recollect the +time, m'sieu, when the highest in all the departments were +glad to come to the bidding of a De l'Heris; but generations +have gone since then, and lands and gold gone too, +and, if you cannot feast them, what care people for you? +That is true in the Pyrenees, m'sieu, as well as in the rest +of the world. I have not lived eighty years without finding +out that. If my child yonder were the heiress of the +De l'Heris, there would be plenty to court and seek her; +but she lives in these poor broken-down ruins with me, an +old peasant woman, to care for her as best I can, and not +a soul takes heed of her save the holy women at the convent, +where, maybe, she will seek refuge at last!'</p> + +<p>"She let me out at the gate where I had thundered for +admittance two hours before, and, giving her my thanks +for her hospitality—money she would not take—I wished +her good day, and rode down the bridle-path to St. Sauveur,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_319" id="Page_319">[Pg 319]</a></span> +and onwards to Luz, thinking at intervals of that fair +young life that had just sprung up, and was already destined +to wither away its bloom in a convent. Any destiny +would be better to proffer to her than that. She interested +me already by her childlike loveliness and her strange +solitude of position, and I thought she would while away +some of the long summer hours during my stay in the +Midi when I was tired of chamois and palette, and my +lazy dolce under the beech-wood shades. At any rate, +she was newer and more charming than the belles of Eaux +Bonnes.</p> + +<p>"The next morning I remembered her permission and +my promise, and I rode out through the town again, up +the mountain-road, to the Nid de l'Aigle; glad of anything +that gave me an amusement and a pursuit. I never +wholly appreciate the far niente, I think; perhaps I have +lived too entirely in the world—and a world ultra-cold +and courtly, too—to retain much patience for the meditative +life, the life of trees and woods, sermons in stones, +and monologues in mountains. I am a restless, ambitious +man; I must have a <i>pursuit</i>, be it of a great +aim or a small, or I grow weary, and my time hangs +heavily on hand. Already having found Florelle de +l'Heris among these hills reconciled me more to my <i>pro +tempo</i> banishment from society, excitement, and pleasure, +and I thanked my good fortune for having lighted upon +her. She was very lovely, and I always care more for +the physical than the intellectual charms of any woman. +I do not share some men's visionary requirements on their +mental score; I ask but material beauty, and am content +with it.</p> + +<p>"I rode up to the Nid de l'Aigle: by a clearer light it +stood on a spot of great picturesqueness, and before the +fury of the revolutionary peasantry had destroyed what +was the then habitable and stately château, must have +been a place of considerable extent and beauty, and in<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_320" id="Page_320">[Pg 320]</a></span> +the feudal times, fenced in by the natural ramparts of its +shelving rocks, no doubt all but impregnable. There +were but a few ruins now that held together and had a +roof over them—the part where Madame Cazot and the +last of the De l'Heris lived; it was perfectly solitary; +there was nothing to be heard round it but the foaming +of the river, the music of the sheep-bells from the flocks +that fed in the clefts and on the slopes of grass-land, and +the shout of some shepherd-boy from the path below; but +it was as beautiful a spot as any in the Pyrenees, with its +overhanging beech-woods, its wilderness of wild-flowers, +its rocks covered with that soft gray moss whose tint defies +one to repeat it in oil or water colors, and its larches and +beeches drooping over into the waters of the Gave. In +such a home, with no companions save her father, old +Cazot, and her great stag-hound, and, occasionally, the +quiet recluses of St. Marie Purificatrice, with everything +to feed her native poetry and susceptibility, and nothing +to teach her anything of the actual and ordinary world, +it were inevitable that the character of Florelle should +take its coloring from the scenes around her, and that she +should grow up singularly childlike, imaginative, and +innocent of all that in any other life she would unavoidably +have known. Well educated she was, through her +father and the nuns, but it was a semi-religious and peculiar +education, of which the chief literature had been the +legendary and sacred poetry of France and Spain, the +chief amusement copying the illuminated missals lent her +by the nuns, or joining in the choral services of the convent; +an education that taught her nothing of the world +from which she was shut out, and encouraged all that was +self-devoted, visionary, and fervid in her nature, leaving +her at seventeen as unconscious of evil as the youngest +child. I despair of making you imagine what Florelle +then was. Had I never met her, I should have believed +in her as little as yourself, and would have discredited<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_321" id="Page_321">[Pg 321]</a></span> +the existence of so poetic a creation out of the world of +fiction; her ethereal delicacy, her sunny gayety when anything +amused her, her intense sensitiveness, pained in a +moment by a harsh word, pleased as soon by a kind one, +her innocence of all the blots and cruelties, artifices and +evils, of that world beyond her Nid de l'Aigle, made a +character strangely new to me, and strangely winning, +but which to you I despair of portraying: I could not +have <i>imagined</i> it. Had I never seen her, and had I met +with it in the pages of a novel, I should have put it aside +as a graceful but impossible conception of romance.</p> + +<p>"I went up that day to the Nid de l'Aigle, and Florelle +received me with pleasure; perhaps Madame Cazot had +instilled into her some scepticism that 'a grand seigneur,' +as the woman was pleased to term me, would trouble himself +to ride up the mountains from Luz merely to repeat +his thanks for an hour's shelter and a supper of roasted +chestnuts. She was a simple-minded, good-hearted old +woman, who had lived all her life among the rocks and +rivers of the Hautes-Pyrenées, her longest excursion a +market-day to Luz or Bagnères. She looked on her +young mistress and charge as a child—in truth, Florelle +was but little more—and thought my visit paid simply +from gratitude and courtesy, never dreaming of attributing +it to 'cette beauté héréditaire des L'Heris,' which +she was proud of boasting was an inalienable heirloom to +the family.</p> + +<p>"I often repeated my visits; so often, that in a week +or so the old ruined château grew a natural resort in the +long summer days, and Florelle watched for my coming +from the deep-arched window where I had seen her first, +or from under the boughs of the great copper beech that +grew before the gate, and looked for me as regularly as +though I were to spend my lifetime in the valley of Luz. +Poor child! I never told her my title, but I taught her +to call me by my christian name. It used to sound very<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_322" id="Page_322">[Pg 322]</a></span> +pretty when she said it, with her long Southern pronunciation—prettier +than it ever sounds now from the lips +of Beatrice Acqua d'Oro yonder, in her softest moments, +when she plays at sentiment. She had great natural +talent for art, hitherto uncultivated, of course, save by +such instructions as one of the women at the convent, +skilful at illuminating, had occasionally given her. I +amused myself with teaching her to transfer to paper and +canvas the scenery she loved so passionately. I spent +many hours training this talent of hers that was of very +unusual calibre, and, with due culture, might have ranked +her with Elisabetta Sirani or Rosa Bonheur. Sitting +with her in the old room, or under the beech-trees, or by +the side of the torrents that tore down the rocks into the +Gave, it pleased me to draw out her unsullied thoughts, +to spread her mind out before me like a book—a pure +book enough, God knows, with not even a stain of the +world upon it—to make her eyes glisten and glow and +dilate, to fill them with tears or laughter at my will, to +wake up her young life from its unconscious, untroubled, +childish repose to a new happiness, a new pain, which she +felt but could not translate, which dawned in her face for +me, but never spoke in its true language to her, ignorant +then of its very name—it amused me. Bah! our amusements +are cruel sometimes, and costly too!</p> + +<p>"It was at that time I took the head in pastels which +you have seen, and she asked me, in innocent admiration +of its loveliness, if she was <i>indeed</i> like that?—This night +is awfully oppressive. Is there water in that carafe? Is +it iced? Push it to me. Thank you.</p> + +<p>"I was always welcome at the Nid de l'Aigle. Old Cazot, +with the instinct of servants who have lived with +people of birth till they are as proud of their master's +heraldry as though it were their own, discerned that I +was of the same rank as her adored House of De l'Heris—if +indeed she admitted any equal to them—and with<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_323" id="Page_323">[Pg 323]</a></span> +all the cheery familiarity of a Frenchwoman treated me +with punctilious deference, being as thoroughly imbued +with respect and adoration for the aristocracy as any of +those who died for the white lilies in the Place de la +Révolution. And Florelle—Florelle watched for me, +and counted her hours by those I spent with her. You +are sure I had not read and played with women's hearts +so long—women, too, with a thousand veils and evasions +and artifices, of which she was in pure ignorance even of +the existence—without having this heart, young, unworn, +and unoccupied, under my power at once, plastic to mould +as wax, ready to receive any impressions at my hands, +and moulded easily to my will. Florelle had read no +love stories to help her to translate this new life to which +I awoke her, or to put her on her guard against it. I +went there often, every day at last, teaching my pupil the +art which she was only too glad and too eager to learn, +stirring her vivid imagination with descriptions of that +brilliant outside world, of whose pleasures, gayeties and +pursuits she was as ignorant as any little gentian flower +on the rocks; keeping her spell-bound with glimpses of +its life, which looked to her like fairyland, bizarre bal +masqué though it be to us; and pleasing myself with +awakening new thoughts, new impressions, new emotions, +which swept over her tell-tale face like the lights and +shades over meadow-land as the sun fades on and off it. +She was a new study, a new amusement to me, after the +women of our world, and I beguiled my time with her, +not thoughtlessly, as I might have done, not too hastily, +as I <i>should</i> have done ten years before, but pleased with +my new amusement, and more charmed with Florelle than +I at first knew, though I confess I soon wished to make +her love me, and soon tried my best to make her do so—an +easy task when one has had some practice in the rose-hued +atmosphere of the boudoir, among the most difficile +and the most brilliant coquettes of Europe! Florelle,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_324" id="Page_324">[Pg 324]</a></span> +with a nature singularly loving, and a mind singularly +imaginative, with no rival for me even in her fancy, soon +lavished on me all the love of which her impassioned and +poetic character was capable. She did not know it, but +I did. She loved me, poor child!—love more pure, unselfish, +and fond than I ever won before, than I shall ever +win again.</p> + +<p>"Basta! why need you have lighted on that crayon-head, +and make me rake up this story? I loathe looking +at the past. What good ever comes of it? A wise man +lives only in his present. 'La vita è appunto una memoria, +una speranza, un punto,' writes the fool of a poet, +as though the bygone memories and the unrealized hopes +were worth a straw! It is that very present 'instant' +that he despises which is available, and in which, when +we are in our senses, we absorb ourselves, knowing that +that alone will yield a fruit worth having. What are +the fruits of the others? only Dead Sea apples that +crumble into ash.</p> + +<p>"I knew that Florelle loved me; that I, and I alone, +filled both her imagination and her heart. I would not +precipitately startle her into any avowal of it. I liked +to see it dawn in her face and gleam in her eyes, guilelessly +and unconsciously. It was a new pleasure to me, a +new charm in that book of Woman of which I had +thought I knew every phase, and had exhausted every +reading. I taught Florelle to love me, but I would not +give her a name to my teaching till she found it herself. +I returned it? O yes, I loved her, selfishly, as most +people, men or women, do love, let them say what they +will; <i>very</i> selfishly, perhaps—a love that was beneath +her—a love for which, had she seen into my heart, she +might have disdained and hated me, if her soft nature +could have been moved to so fierce a thing as hate—a +love that sought its own gratification, and thought nothing +of her welfare—a love <i>not</i> worthy of her, as I sometimes +felt then, as I believe now.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_325" id="Page_325">[Pg 325]</a></span></p> + +<p>"I had been about six weeks in the Pyrenees since the +day I lost myself en route from Gavarnie; most of the +days I had spent three or four hours, often more, at the +Nid de l'Aigle, giving my painting lessons to Florelle, or +being guided by her among the beech-wooded and mountain +passes near her home. The dreariest fens and flats +might have gathered interest from such a guide, and the +glorious beauties of the Midi, well suited to her, gained +additional poetry from her impassioned love for them, +and her fond knowledge of all their legends, superstitions, +histories, and associated memories, gathered from the oral +lore of the peasantry, the cradle songs of Madame Cazot, +and the stories of the old chronicles of the South. Heavens! +what a wealth of imagination, talent, genius, lay in +her if <i>I</i> had not destroyed it!</p> + +<p>"At length the time drew near when my so-called +sojourn at the Baths must end. One day Florelle and +I were out sketching, as usual; she sat under one of the +great beeches, within a few feet of one of the cascades +that fell into the Gave du Pau, and I lay on the grass by +her, looking into those clear gazelle eyes that met mine +so brightly and trustfully, watching the progress of her +brush, and throwing twigs and stones into the spray of +the torrent. I can remember the place as though it were +yesterday, the splash of the foam over the rocks, the +tinkle of the sheep-bells from the hills, the scent of the +wild flowers growing round, the glowing golden light that +spread over the woodlands, touching even the distant +crest of Mount Aigu and the Pic du Midi. Strange how +some scenes will stamp themselves on the camera of the +brain never to be effaced, let one try all that one may.</p> + +<p>"There, that morning, I, for the first time since we had +met, spoke of leaving Luz, and of going back to that life +which I had so often amused her by describing. Happy +in her present, ignorant of how soon the scenes so familiar +and dear to her would tire and pall on me, and infinitely<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_326" id="Page_326">[Pg 326]</a></span> +too much of a child to have looked beyond, or speculated +upon anything which I had not spoken of to her, it had +not presented itself to her that this sort of life could not +go on for ever; that even she would not reconcile me long +to the banishment from my own world, and that in the +nature of things we must either become more to each other +than we were now, or part as strangers, whom chance had +thrown together for a little time. She loved me, but, as I +say, so innocently and uncalculatingly, that she never knew +it till I spoke of leaving her; then she grew very pale, +her eyes filled with tears, and shunned mine for the first +time, and, as an anatomist watches the quiver of pain in +his victim, so I watched the suffering of mine. It was +her first taste of the bitterness of life, and while I inflicted +the pain I smiled at it, pleased in my egotism to see +the power I had over her. It was cruel, I grant it, but +in confessing it I only confess to what nine out of ten men +have felt, though they may conceal or deny it.</p> + +<p>"'You will miss me, Florelle?' I asked her. She looked +at me reproachfully, wistfully, piteously, the sort of look +I have seen in the eyes of a dying deer; too bewildered by +this sudden mention of my departure to answer in words. +No answer was needed with eyes so eloquent as hers, but +I repeated it again. I knew I gave pain, but I knew, too, +I should soon console her. Her lips quivered, and the +tears gathered in her eyes; she had not known enough of +sorrow to have learnt to dissemble it. I asked her if she +loved me so much that she was unwilling to bid me farewell. +For the first time her eyes sank beneath mine, and +a hot painful color flushed over her face. Poor child! if +ever I have been loved by any woman, I was loved by her. +Then I woke her heart from its innocent peaceful rest, +with words that spoke a language utterly new to her. I +sketched to her a life with me that made her cheeks +glow, and her lips quiver, and her eyes grow dark. She +was lovelier in those moments than any art could ever<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_327" id="Page_327">[Pg 327]</a></span> +attempt to picture! She loved me, and I made her tell +me so over and over again. She put her fate unhesitatingly +into my hands, and rejoiced in the passion I vowed +her, little understanding how selfishly I sought her, little +thinking, in her ignorance of the evil of the world, that +while she rejoiced in the fondness I lavished on her, and +worshipped me as though I were some superior unerring +godlike being, she was to me only a new toy, only a pursuit +of the hour, a plaything, too, of which I foresaw I +should tire! Isn't it Benjamin Constant who says,'Malheureux +l'homme qui, dans le commencement d'un amour, +prévoit avec une précision cruelle l'heure où il en sera +lassé'?</p> + +<p>"As it happened, I had made that morning an appointment +in Luz with some men I knew, who happened to be +passing through it, and had stopped there that day to go +up the Pic du Midi the next, so that I could spend only +an hour or two with Florelle. I took her to her home, +parted with her for a few hours, and went down the path. +I remember how she stood looking after me under the +heavy gray stone-work of the gateway, the tendrils of the +ivy hanging down and touching her hair that glistened in +the sunshine as she smiled me her adieux. My words had +translated, for the first time, all the newly-dawned emotions +that had lately stirred in her heart, while she knew +not their name.</p> + +<p>"I soon lost sight of her through a sharp turn of the +bridle-path round the rocks, and went on my way thinking +of my new love, of how completely I held the threads +of her fate in my hands, and how entirely it lay in my +power to touch the chords of her young heart into acute +pain or into as acute pleasure with one word of mine—of +how utterly I could mould her character, her life, her +fate, whether for happiness or misery, at my will. I loved +her well enough, if only for her unusual beauty, to feel +triumph at my entire power, and to feel a tinge of her<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_328" id="Page_328">[Pg 328]</a></span> +own poetry and tenderness of feeling stirring in me as I +went on under the green, drooping, fanlike boughs of the +pines, thinking of Florelle de l'Heris.</p> + +<p>"'M'sieu! permettez-moi vous parle un p'tit mot?'</p> + +<p>"Madame Cazot's patois made me look up, almost +startled for the moment, though there was nothing astonishing +in her appearance there, in her accustomed spot +under the shade of a mountain-ash and a great boulder +of rock, occupied at her usual task, washing linen in the +Gave, as it foamed and rushed over its stones. She raised +herself from her work and looked up at me, shading her +eyes from the light—a sunburnt, wrinkled, hardy old +woman, with her scarlet capulet, her blue cloth jacket, +and her brown woollen petticoat, so strange a contrast to +the figure I had lately left under the gateway of the Nid +de l'Aigle, that it was difficult to believe them even of the +same sex or country.</p> + +<p>"She spoke with extreme deference, as she always did, +but so earnestly, that I looked at her in surprise, and +stopped to hear what it might be she had to say. She +was but a peasant woman, but she had a certain dignity +of manner for all that, caught, no doubt, from her long +service with, and her pride in, the De l'Heris.</p> + +<p>"'M'sieu, I have no right, perhaps, to address you; you +are a grand seigneur, and I but a poor peasant woman. +Nevertheless, I must speak. I have a charge to which I +shall have to answer in the other world to God and to my +master. M'sieu, pardon me what I say, but you love +Ma'amselle Florelle?'</p> + +<p>"I stared at the woman, astonished at her interference +and annoyed at her presumption, and motioned her aside +with my stick. But she placed herself in the path—a +narrow path—on which two people could not have stood +without one or other going into the Gave, and stopped me +resolutely and respectfully, shading her eyes from the +sun, and looking steadily at my face.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_329" id="Page_329">[Pg 329]</a></span></p> + +<p>"'M'sieu, a little while ago, in the gateway yonder, +when you parted with Ma'amselle Florelle, I was coming +out behind you to bring my linen to the river, and I saw +you take her in your arms and kiss her many times, and +whisper to her that you would come again "ce soir!" +Then, m'sieu, I knew that you must love my little lady, +or, at least, must have made her love you. I have +thought her—living always with her—but a beautiful +child still; but you have found her a beautiful woman, +and loved her, or taught her love, m'sieu. Pardon me if +I wrong your honor, but my master left her in my charge, +and I am an ignorant old peasant, ill fitted for such a +trust; but is this love of yours such as the Sieur de +l'Heris, were he now on earth, would put his hand in +your own and thank you for, or is it such that he would +wash out its insult in your blood or his?'</p> + +<p>"Her words amazed me for a moment, first at the presumption +of an interference of which I had never dreamt, +next at the iron firmness with which this old woman, +nothing daunted, spoke as though the blood of a race of +kings ran in her veins. I laughed a little at the absurdity +of this cross-questioning from her to me, and not +choosing to bandy words with her, bade her move aside; +but her eyes blazed like fire; she stood firm as the earth +itself.</p> + +<p>"'M'sieu, answer me! You love Ma'amselle Florelle—you +have asked her in marriage?'</p> + +<p>"I smiled involuntarily:</p> + +<p>"'My good woman, men of my class don't marry every +pretty face they meet; we are not so fond of the institution. +You mean well, I know; at the same time, you +are deucedly impertinent, and I am not accustomed to +interference. Have the goodness to let me pass, if you +please.'</p> + +<p>"But she would not move. She folded her arms across +her chest, quivering from head to foot with passion, her<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_330" id="Page_330">[Pg 330]</a></span> +deep-set eyes flashing like coals under her bushy eyebrows.</p> + +<p>"'M'sieu, I understand you well enough. The house +of the L'Heris is fallen, ruined, and beggared, and you +deem dishonor may approach it unrebuked and unrevenged. +Listen to me, m'sieu; I am but a woman, it is +true, and old, but I swore by Heaven and Our Lady to +the Sieur de l'Heris, when he lay dying yonder, years +ago, that I would serve the child he left, as my forefathers +had served his in peace and war for centuries, and keep +and guard her as best I might dearer than my own heart's +blood. Listen to me. Before this love of yours shall +breathe another word into her ear to scorch and sully it; +before your lips shall ever meet hers again; before you +say again to a De l'Heris poor and powerless, what you +would never have dared to say to a De l'Heris rich and +powerful, I will defend her as the eagles by the Nid de +l'Aigle defend their young. You shall only reach her +across my dead body!'</p> + +<p>"She spoke with the vehemence and passionate gesticulation +of a Southern; in her patois, it is true, and with +rude eloquence, but there was an odd <i>timbre</i> of pathos in +her voice, harsh though it was, and a certain wild dignity +about her through the very earnestness and passion that +inspired her. I told her she was mad, and would have +put her out of my path, but, planting herself before me, +she laid hold of my arm so firmly that I could not have +pushed forwards without violence, which I would not +have used to a woman, and a woman, moreover, as old as +she was.</p> + +<p>"'Listen to one word more, m'sieu. I know not what +title you may bear in your own country, but I saw a +coronet upon your handkerchief the other day, and I can +tell you are a grand seigneur—you have the air of it, the +manner. M'sieu, you can have many women to love you; +cannot you spare this one? you must have many pleasures,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_331" id="Page_331">[Pg 331]</a></span> +pursuits, enjoyments in your world, can you not +leave me this single treasure? Think, m'sieu! If +Ma'amselle Florelle loves you now, she will love you only +the dearer as years go on; and <i>you</i>, you will tire of her, +weary of her, want change, fresh beauty, new excitement—you +must know that you will, or why should you +shrink from the bondage of marriage?—you will weary +of her; you will neglect her first and desert her afterwards; +what will be the child's life <i>then</i>? Think! You +have done her cruel harm enough now with your wooing +words, why will you do her more? What is your love +beside hers? If you have heart or conscience, you cannot +dare to contrast them together; <i>she</i> would give up everything +for you, and <i>you</i> would give up nothing! M'sieu, +Florelle is not like the women of your world; she is innocent +of evil as the holy saints; those who meet her should +guard her from the knowledge, and not lead her to it. +Were the Sieur De l'Heris living now, were her House +powerful as I have known them, would you have dared or +dreamt of seeking her as you do now? M'sieu, he who +wrongs trust, betrays hospitality, and takes advantage of +that very purity, guilelessness, and want of due protection +which should be the best and strongest appeal to +every man of chivalry and honor—he, whoever he be, +the De l'Heris would have held, as what he is, a coward! +Will you not now have pity upon the child, and let her go?'</p> + +<p>"I have seldom been moved in, never been swayed +from, any pursuit or any purpose, whether of love, or +pleasure, or ambition; but something in old Cazot's words +stirred me strangely, more strangely still from the daring +and singularity of the speaker. Her intense love for +her young charge gave her pathos, eloquence, and even a +certain rude majesty, as she spoke; her bronzed wrinkled +features worked with emotions she could not repress, and +hot tears fell over her hard cheeks. I felt that what she +said was true; that as surely as the night follows the day<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_332" id="Page_332">[Pg 332]</a></span> +would weariness of it succeed to my love for Florelle, +that to the hospitality I had so readily received I had, in +truth, given but an ill return, and that I had deliberately +taken advantage of the very ignorance of the world and +faith in me which should have most appealed to my +honor. I knew that what she said was true, and this +epithet of 'coward' hit me harder from the lips of a +woman, on whom her sex would not let me avenge it, +with whom my conscience would not let me dispute it, +than it would have done from any man. <i>I</i> called a coward +by an old peasant woman! absurd idea enough, wasn't +it? It is a more absurd one still that I could not listen +to her unmoved, that her words touched me—how or why +I could not have told—stirred up in me something of +weakness, unselfishness, or chivalrousness—I know not +what exactly—that prompted me for once to give up my +own egotistical evanescent passions and act to Florelle as +though all the males of her house were on earth to make +me render account of my acts. At old Cazot's words I +shrank for once from my own motives and my own desires, +shrank from classing Florelle with the <i>cocottes</i> of my +world, from bringing her down to their level and +their life.</p> + +<p>"'You will have pity on her, m'sieu, and go?' asked +old Cazot, more softly, as she looked in my face.</p> + +<p>"I did not answer her, but put her aside out of my way, +went down the mountain-path to where my horse was left +cropping the grass on the level ground beneath a plane-tree, +and rode at a gallop into Luz without looking back +at the gray-turreted ruins of the Nid de l'Aigle.</p> + +<p>"And I left Luz that night without seeing Florelle de +l'Heris again—a tardy kindness—one, perhaps, as cruel +as the cruelty from which old Cazot had protected her. +Don't you think I was a fool, indeed, for once in my life, +to listen to an old woman's prating? Call me so if you +like, I shall not dispute it; we hardly know when we are<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_333" id="Page_333">[Pg 333]</a></span> +fools, and when wise men! Well! I have not been much +given to such weaknesses.</p> + +<p>"I left Luz, sending a letter to Florelle, in which I +bade her farewell, and entreated her to forget me—an +entreaty which, while I made it, I felt would not be +obeyed—one which, in the selfishness of my heart, I dare +say, I hoped might not be. I went back to my old diplomatic +and social life, to my customary pursuits, amusements, +and ambitions, turning over the leaf of my life +that contained my sojourn in the Pyrenees, as you turn +over the page of a romance to which you will never recur. +I led the same life, occupied myself with my old ambitions, +and enjoyed my old pleasures; but I could not +forget Florelle as wholly as I wished and tried to do. I +had not usually been troubled with such memories; if +unwelcome, I could generally thrust them aside; but +Florelle I did not forget; the more I saw of other women +the sweeter and brighter seemed by contrast her sensitive, +delicate nature, unsullied by the world, and unstained by +artifice and falsehood. The longer time went on, the +more I regretted having given her up—perhaps on no +better principle than that on which a child cares most for +the toy he cannot have; perhaps because, away from her, +I realized I had lost the purest and the strongest love I +had ever won. In the whirl of my customary life I sometimes +wondered how she had received my letter, and how +far the iron had burnt into her young heart—wondered +if she had joined the Sisters of Sainte Marie Purificatrice, +or still led her solitary life among the rocks and beech-woods +of Nid de l'Aigle. I often thought of her, little +as the life I led was conducive to regretful or romantic +thoughts. At length my desire to see her again grew +ungovernable. I had never been in the habit of refusing +myself what I wished; a man is a fool who does, if his +wishes are in any degree attainable. And at the end of +the season I went over to Paris, and down again once<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_334" id="Page_334">[Pg 334]</a></span> +more into the Midi. I reached Luz, lying in the warm +golden Pyrenean light as I had left it, and took once +more the old familiar road up the hills to the Nid de +l'Aigle. There had been no outward change from the +year that had flown by; there drooped the fan-like +branches of the pines; there rushed the Gave over its +rocky bed; there came the silvery sheep-bell chimes +down the mountain-sides; there, over hill and wood, +streamed the mellow glories of the Southern sunlight. +There is something unutterably painful in the sight of +any place after one's lengthened absence, wearing the +same smile, lying in the same sunlight. I rode on, +picturing the flush of gladness that would dawn in Florelle's +face at the sight of me, thinking that Mme. Cazot +should not part me from her again, even, I thought, as I +saw the old gray turrets above the beech-woods, if I paid +old Cazot's exacted penalty of marriage! I loved Florelle +more deeply than I had done twelve months before. +'L'absence allument les grandes passions et éteignent les +petites,' they say. It had been the reverse with me.</p> + +<p>"I rode up the bridle-path and passed through the old +gateway. There was an unusual stillness about the place; +nothing but the roar of the torrent near, and the songs of +the birds in the branches speaking in the summer air. +My impatience to see Florelle, or to hear her, grew ungovernable. +The door stood open. I groped my way +through the passage and pushed open the door of the old +room. Under the oriel window, where I had seen her +first, she lay on a little couch. I saw her again—but +<i>how</i>! My God! to the day of my death I shall never +forget her face as I saw it then; it was turned from +me, and her hair streamed over her pillows, but as +the sunlight fell upon it, I knew well enough what was +written there. Old Cazot, sitting by the bed with her +head on her arms, looked up, and came towards me, +forcing me back.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_335" id="Page_335">[Pg 335]</a></span></p> + +<p>"'You are come at last, to see her die. Look on your +work—look well at it—and then go; with my curse upon +you!'</p> + +<p>"I shook off her grasp, and forcing my way towards +the window, threw myself down by Florelle's bed; till +then I never knew how well I loved her. My voice awoke +her from her sleep, and, with a wild cry of joy, she started +up, weak as she was, and threw her arms round my neck, +clinging to me with her little hands, and crying to me +deliriously not to leave her while she lived—to stay with +her till death should take her; where had I been so long? +why had I come so late? <i>So late!</i>—those piteous words! +As I held her in my arms, unconscious from the shock, +and saw the pitiless marks that disease, the most hopeless +and the most cruel, had made on the face that I had left +fair, bright, and full of life as any child's, I felt the full +bitterness of that piteous reproach, 'Why had I come so +late?'</p> + +<p>"What need to tell you more. Florelle de l'Heris was +dying, and I had killed her. The child that I had loved +so selfishly had loved me with all the concentrated tenderness +of her isolated and impassioned nature; the letter +I wrote bidding her farewell had given her her death-blow. +They told me that from the day she received that +letter everything lost its interest for her. She would sit +for hours looking down the road to Luz, as though watching +wearily for one who never came, or kneeling before +the pictures I had left as before some altar, praying to +Heaven to take care of me, and bless me, and let her see +me once again before she died. Consumption had killed +her mother in her youth; during the chill winter at the +Nid de l'Aigle the hereditary disease settled upon her. +When I found her she was dying fast. All the medical +aid, all the alleviations, luxuries, resources, that money +could procure, to ward off the death I would have given +twenty years of my life to avert, I lavished on her, but<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_336" id="Page_336">[Pg 336]</a></span> +they were useless; for my consolation they told me that, +used a few months earlier, they would have saved her! +She lingered three weeks, fading away like a flower +gathered before its fullest bloom. Each day was torture +to me. I knew enough of the disease to know from the +first there was no hope for her or me. Those long terrible +night-hours, when she lay with her head upon my shoulder, +and her little hot thin hands in mine, while I listened, +uncertain whether every breath was not the last, or +whether life was not already fled! By God! I cannot +think of them!</p> + +<p>One of those long summer nights Florelle died; happy +with me, loving and forgiving me to the last; speaking +to the last of that reunion in which <i>she</i>, in her innocent +faith, believed and hoped, according to the promise of her +creed!—died with her hands clasped round my neck, and +her eyes looking up to mine, till the last ray of light was +quenched in them—died while the morning dawn rose in +the east and cast a golden radiance on her face, the herald +of a day to which she never awoke!"</p> + +<hr style="width: 25%;" /> + +<p>There was a dead silence between us; the Arno splashed +against the wall below, murmuring its eternal song beneath +its bridge, while the dark heavy clouds drifted over +the sky with a sullen roll of thunder. He lay back in +his chair, the deep shadow of the balcony pillar hiding +his face from me, and his voice quivered painfully as he +spoke the last words of his story. He was silent for many +minutes, and so was I, regretting that my careless question +had unfolded a page out of his life's history written +in characters so painful to him. Such skeletons dwell in +the hearts of most; hands need be tender that disentomb +them and drag out to daylight ashes so mournful and so +grievous, guarded so tenaciously, hidden so jealously. +Each of us is tender over his own, but who does not think<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_337" id="Page_337">[Pg 337]</a></span> +his brother's fit subject for jest, for gibe, for mocking +dance of death?</p> + +<p>He raised himself with a laugh, but his lips looked +white as death as he drank down a draught of the Hermitage.</p> + +<p>"Well! what say you: is the maxim right, <i>y-a-t-il +femmes et femmes</i>? Caramba! why need you have pitched +upon that portfolio?—There are the lights in the Acqua +d'Oro's palace; we must go, or we shall get into disgrace."</p> + +<p>We went, and Beatrice Acqua d'Oro talked very ardent +Italian to him, and the Comtesse Bois de Sandal remarked +to me what a brilliant and successful man Lord —— was, +but how unimpressionable!—as cold and as +glittering as ice. Nothing had ever made him <i>feel</i>, she +was quite certain, pretty complimentary nonsense though +he often talked. What would the Marchesa and the +Comtesse have said, I wonder, had I told them of that +little grave under the Pyrenean beech-woods? So much +does the world know of any of us! In the lives of all +men are doubled-down pages written on in secret, folded +out of sight, forgotten as they make other entries in the +diary, and never read by their fellows, only glanced at +by themselves in some midnight hour of solitude.</p> + +<p>Basta! they are painful reading, my friends. Don't +you find them so? Let us leave the skeletons in the +closet, the pictures in the portfolio, the doubled-down +pages in the locked diary, and go to Beatrice Acqua +d'Oro's, where the lights are burning gayly. What is +Madame Bois de Sandal, <i>née</i> Dashwood, singing in the +music room?</p> + +<p> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">The tender grace of a day that is dead</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Will never come back to me!</span><br /> +</p> + +<p>That is the burden of many songs sung in this world, +for some dead flowers strew most paths, and grass grows<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_338" id="Page_338">[Pg 338]</a></span> +over myriad graves, and many leaves are folded down in +many lives, I fear. And—retrospection is very idle, my +good fellow, and regret is as bad as the tic, and flirting is +deucedly pleasant; the white Hermitage we drank to-night +is gone, we know, but are there no other bottles left +of wine every whit as good? Shall we waste our time +sighing after spilt lees? Surely not. And yet—ah me!—the +dead fragrance of those vines that yielded us the +golden nectar of our youth!</p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/cc336.png" alt="* * * * *" /> +</div> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_339" id="Page_339">[Pg 339]</a></span></p> +<hr style="width: 100%;" /> +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/cc337a.png" alt="* * * * *" /> +</div> + + + +<h2><a name="THE_BEAUTY_OF_VICQ_DAZYR" id="THE_BEAUTY_OF_VICQ_DAZYR"></a>THE BEAUTY OF VICQ D'AZYR;</h2> + +<div class='center'>OR,</div> + +<h3>"NOT AT ALL A PROPER PERSON."</h3> + + +<p>Bon ami, do you consider the possession of sisters +an agreeable addition to anybody's existence? +<i>I</i> hold it very intensely the reverse. +Who pats a man down so spitefully as his sisters? Who +refuses so obstinately to see any good in the Nazarene +they have known from their nurseries? Who snubs him +so contumaciously, when he's a little chap in jackets and +they young ladies already out? Who worries him so +pertinaciously to marry their pet friend, "who has ten +thousand a year, dear! Red hair? I'm sure she has +not! It's the most lovely auburn! But you never see +any beauty in <i>refined</i> women!" Who, if you incline +towards a pretty little ineligible, rakes up so laboriously +every scrap of gossip detrimental to her, and pours into +your ear the delightful intelligence that she has been +engaged to Powell of the Grays, is a shocking flirt, wears +false teeth, is full five years older than she says she is, +and has most objectionable connections? Who, I should +like to know, does any and all of these things, my good +fellow, so amiably and unremittingly as your sisters? +till—some day of grace, perhaps—you make a telling +speech at St. Stephen's, and fling a second-hand aroma of +distinction upon them; or marry a co-heiress and lady-in-her-own-right, +and they <i>raffolent</i> of that charming +creature, speculating on the desirability of being invited<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_340" id="Page_340">[Pg 340]</a></span> +to your house when the men are down for September. +Then, what a dear fellow you become! they always <i>were</i> +so fond of you! a little wild! oh, yes! but they are <i>so</i> +glad you are changed, and think more seriously now! it +was only from a <i>real</i> interest in your welfare that they +used to grieve, &c., &c.</p> + +<p>My sisters were my natural enemies, I remember, when +I was in the daisy age and exposed to their thraldom; +they were so blandly superior, so ineffably condescending, +and wielded, with such smiling dexterity, that feminine +power of torture known familiarly as "nagging!" Now, +of course, they leave me in peace; but from my earliest +to my emancipated years they were my natural enemies. +I might occasionally excite the enmity, it is possible. I +remember, when I was aged eight, covering Constance, a +stately brunette, with a mortifying amount of confusion, +by asking her, as she welcomed a visitor with effusion, +why she said she was delighted to see her when she had +cried "There's that odious woman again!" as we saw the +carriage drive up. I have a criminal recollection of +taking Gwendolina's fan, fresh from Howell and James's, +and stripping it of its gold-powdered down before her +face ere she could rush to its rescue, as an invaluable +medium in the manufacture of mayflies. I also have a +dim and guilty recollection of saying to the Hon. George +Cursitt, standing then in the interesting position of my +prospective brother-in-law, "Mr. Cursitt, Agneta doesn't +care one straw for you. I heard her saying so last night +to Con; and that if you weren't so near the title, she +would never have accepted you;" which revelation inopportunely +brought that desirable alliance to an end, and +Olympian thunders on my culprit's head.</p> + +<p>I had my sins, doubtless, but they were more than +avenged on me; my sisters were my natural enemies, and +I never knew of any man's who weren't so, more or less. +Ah! my good sirs, those domesticities are all of them<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_341" id="Page_341">[Pg 341]</a></span> +horrid bores, and how any man, happily and thrice +blessedly free from them, can take the very worst of them +voluntarily on his head by the Gate of Marriage (which +differs thus remarkably from a certain Gate at Jerusalem, +that at the one the camels kneel down to be lightened of +all <i>their</i> burdens ere they can pass through it; at the +other, the poor human animal kneels down to be loaded +with all <i>his</i> ere he is permitted to enter), does pass my +comprehension, I confess. I might amply avenge the +injuries of my boyhood received from <i>mesdemoiselles mes +s[oe]urs</i>. Could I not tell Gwendolina of the pot of money +dropped by her caro sposo over the Cesarewitch Stakes? +Could I not intimate to Agneta where her Right Honorable +lord and master spent the small hours last night, +when popularly supposed to be nodding on the Treasury +benches in the service of the state? Could I not rend +the pride of Constance, by casually asking monsieur her +husband, as I sip her coffee in her drawing-room this +evening, who was that very pretty blonde with him at the +Crystal Palace yesterday? the blonde being as well known +about town as any other star of the demi-monde. Of +course I could: but I am magnanimous; I can too +thoroughly sympathize with those poor fellows. My +vengeance would recoil on innocent heads, so I am magnanimous +and silent.</p> + +<p>My sisters have long ceased to be mesdemoiselles, they +have become mesdames, in that transforming crucible of +marriage in which, assuredly, all that glitters is not gold, +but in which much is swamped, and crushed, and fused +with uncongenial metal, and from which the elixir of +happiness but rarely exhales, whatever feminine alchemists, +who patronize the hymeneal furnace, may +choose to assure us to the contrary. My sisters are indisputably +very fine women, and develop in full bloom +all those essential qualities which their moral and mental +trainers sedulously instilled into them when they were<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_342" id="Page_342">[Pg 342]</a></span> +limited to the school-room and thorough-bass, Garcia and +an "expurgated" Shakespeare, the society of Mademoiselle +Colletmonté and Fräulein von Engel, and the occasional +refection of a mild, religious, respectably-twaddling fiction +of the milk-and-water, pious-tendency, nursery-chronicling, +and grammar-disregarding class, nowadays indited for +the mental improvement of a commonplace generation +in general, and growing young ladies in particular. My +sisters are women of the world to perfection; indeed, for +talent in refrigerating with a glance; in expressing disdain +of a toilette or a ton by an upraised eyebrow; in +assuming a various impenetrable plaît-il? expression at a +moment's notice; in sweeping past intimate friends with +a charming unconsciousness of their existence, when such +unconsciousness is expedient or desirable; in reducing an +unwished-for intruder into an instantaneous and agonizing +sense of his own de trop-ism and insignificance—in all +such accomplishments and acquirements necessary to +existence in all proper worlds, I think they may be +matched with the best-bred lady to be found any day, +from April to August, between Berkeley Square and +Wilton Crescent. Constance, now Lady Maréchale, is of +a saintly turn, and touched with fashionable fanaticism, +pets evangelical bishops and ragged school-boys, drives to +special services, and is called our noble and Christian +patroness by physicians and hon. secs., holds doctrinal +points and strong tracts, mixed together in equal proportion, +an infallible chloride of lime for the disinfectance +of our polluted globe, and appears to receive celestial +telegrams of indisputable veracity and charming acrimony +concerning the destiny of the vengeful contents of +the Seven Vials. Agneta, now Mrs. Albany Protocol, is +a Cabinet Ministress, and a second Duchesse de Longueville +(in her own estimation at the least); is "strengthening +her party" when she issues her dinner invitations, +whispers awfully of a "crisis" when even penny-paper<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_343" id="Page_343">[Pg 343]</a></span> +leaders can't get up a breeze, and spends her existence in +"pushing" poor Protocol, who, thorough Englishman that +he is, considers it a point of honor to stand still in all +paths with praiseworthy Britannic obstinacy and opticism. +Gwendolina, now Lady Frederic Farniente, is a butterfly +of fashion, has delicate health, affects dilettanteism, is +interested by nothing, has many other charming minauderies, +and lives in an exclusive circle—so tremendously +exclusive, indeed, that it is possible she may at last draw +the <i>cordon sanitaire</i> so <i>very</i> tight, that she will be left alone +with the pretty woman her mirrors reflect.</p> + +<p>They have each of them attained to what the world +calls a "good position"—an eminence the world dearly +reveres; if you can climb to it, <i>do</i>; never mind what dirt +may cling to your feet, or what you may chance to pull +down in your ascent, so questions will be asked you at +the top, when you wave your flag victoriously from a +plateau at a good elevation. They haven't all their ambitions—who +has? If a fresh Alexander conquered the +world he would fret out his life for a standing-place to be +able to try Archimedes' little experiment on his newly-won +globe. Lady Maréchale dies for entrance to certain +salons which are closed to her; she is but a Baronet's +wife, and, though so heavenly-minded, has <i>some</i> weaknesses +of earth. Mrs. Protocol grieves because she thinks +a grateful country ought to wreathe her lord's brow with +laurels—<i>Anglicè</i>, strawberry-leaves—and the country +remains ungrateful, and the brows bare. Lady Frederic +frets because her foe and rival, Lady Maria Fitz-Sachet, +has footmen an inch taller than her own. They haven't +all their ambitions satisfied. We are too occupied with +kicking our dear friends and neighbors down off the rounds +of the social ladder to advance ourselves always perhaps +as entirely as we otherwise might do. But still they +occupy "unexceptionable positions," and from those fortified +and impregnable citadels are very severe upon those<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_344" id="Page_344">[Pg 344]</a></span> +who are not, and very jealous of those who are, similarly +favored by fortune. When St. Peter lets ladies through +the celestial portals, he'll never please them unless he +locks out all their acquaintance, and indulges them with +a gratifying peep at the rejected candidates.</p> + +<p>The triad regard each other after the manner of ladies; +that is to say, Lady Maréchale holds Mrs. Protocol and +Lady Frederic "frivolous and worldly;" Lady Frederic +gives them both one little supercilious expressive epithet, +"<i>précieuses</i>;" Mrs. Protocol considers Lady Maréchale a +"pharisee," and Lady Frederic a "butterfly;"—in a word, +there is that charming family love to one another which +ladies so delight to evince, that I suppose we must excuse +them for it on the plea that</p> + +<p> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">'Tis their nature to!</span><br /> +</p> + +<p>which Dr. Watts puts forward so amiably and grammatically +in excuse for the bellicose propensities of the canine +race, but which is never remembered by priest or layman +in extenuation of the human.</p> + +<p>They dislike one another—relatives always do—still, +the three Arms will combine their Horse, Line, and Field +Batteries in a common cause and against a common enemy; +the Saint, the Politician, and the Butterfly have several +rallying-points in common, and when it comes to the question +of extinguishing an ineligible, of combining a sneer +with a smile, of blending the unexceptionably-courteous +with the indescribably-contemptuous, of calmly shutting +their doors to those who won't aggrandize them, and +blandly throwing them open to those who will, it would be +an invidious task to give the golden apple, and decide +which of the three ladies most distinguishes herself in +such social prowess.</p> + +<p>Need I say that I <i>don't</i> see very much of them?—severe +strictures on society in general, with moral platitudes, +over the luncheon wines at Lady Maréchale's; discourse<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_345" id="Page_345">[Pg 345]</a></span> +redolent of blue-books, with vindictive hits at Protocol +and myself for our disinclination to accept a "mission," +and our levity of life and opinions at "a period so full of +social revolutions and wide-spread agitation as the present," +through the soup and fish at Agneta's; softly hissed +acerbities and languidly yawned satires on the prettiest +women of my acquaintance, over the coffee at Lady Frederic's; +are none of them particularly inviting or alluring. +And as they or similar conversational confections are invariably +included in each of the three ladies' entertainments +<i>en petit comité</i>, it isn't wonderful if I forswear their +drawing-rooms. Chères dames, you complain, and your +chosen defenders for you, that men don't affect your society +nowadays save and except when making love to you. +It isn't <i>our</i> fault, indeed: you bore us, and—what can +we do?—we shrink as naturally and pardonably from +voluntary boredom as from any other voluntary suffering, +and shirk an air redolent of ennui from the same principle +as we do an air redolent of diphtheria. Self-preservation +is a law of nature, and female society consists too exclusively +of milk-and-water, dashed here and there with citric +acid of malice, to be either a recherché or refreshing beverage +to palates that have tasted warmer spices or more +wholesome tonics.</p> + +<p>So I don't see much of my triad of sisters unless accidentally, +but last August I encountered them by chance +at Vicq d'Azyr. Do you know Vicq d'Azyr? No? All +right? when it is known universally it will be spoilt; it +will soon be fashionable, dyspeptic, artificial, like the +crowds that will flock to it; its warm, bubbling springs +will be gathered into long upright glasses, and quaffed by +yellow-visaged groups; brass bands will bray where now +the thrushes, orioles, and nightingales have the woodlands +to themselves; cavalcades of hired hacks will cut up its +thyme-covered turf, and young ladies will sketch in tortured +outline and miserable washes the glorious sweep of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_346" id="Page_346">[Pg 346]</a></span> +its mountains, the crimson tints of its forests, the rush of +its tumbling torrents, the golden gleam of its southern +sun. Vicq d'Azyr will be a Spa, and will be spoilt; dyspepsia +and bronchia, vanities and flirtations, cares and +conquests, physicians and intrigantes, real marchionesses +puffing under asthma, fictitious marquises strewing chaff +for pigeons, monde and demi-monde, grandes dames and +dames d'industrie will float into it, a mighty army of +butterflies with a locust power of destruction: Vicq d'Azyr +will be no more, and in its stead we shall have—a Fashionable +Bath. Vicq d'Azyr, however, is free <i>yet</i> from the +hand of the spoiler, and is charming—its vine-clad hills +stretching up in sunny slopes; its little homesteads nestling +on the mountains' sides among the pines that load +the air with their rich heavy perfume; its torrents foaming +down the ravines, flinging their snowy spray far over +the bows of arbutus and mountain-ash that bend across +the brinks of their rushing courses; its dark-eyed peasant +girls that dance at sunset under the linden-trees like living +incarnations of Florian's pastorals; its sultry brilliant +summer nights, when all is still, when the birds are sleeping +among the ilex-leaves, and the wind barely stirs the +tangled boughs of the woodland; when night is down on +the mountains, wrapping hill and valley, crag and forest +in one soft purple mist, and the silence around is only +broken by the mystic music of the rushing waters, the +soft whirr of the night-birds' wings, or the distant chime +of a village clock faintly tolling through the air:——Caramba, +messieurs! I beg your pardon! I don't know +why I poetize on Vicq d'Azyr. <i>I</i> went there to slay, +not to sketch, with a rifle, not with a stylus, to kill +izzards and chamois, not to indite a poem à la mode, +with double-barrelled adjectives, no metre, and a "purpose;" +nor to add my quota to the luckless loaded walls +of the Academy by a pre-Raphaelite landscape of arsenical +green, with the effete trammels of perspective<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_347" id="Page_347">[Pg 347]</a></span> +gallantry disregarded, and trees like Dr. Syntax's wife, +"roundabout and rather squat," with just two-dozen-and-seven +leaves apiece for liberal allowance. I went to Vicq +d'Azyr, amongst other places, last August, for chamois-hunting +with Dunbar, of the Queen's Bays, taking up our +abode at the Toison d'Or, whither all artists, tourists, men +who come for the sport, women who come for its scenery, +or invalids who come for its waters (whose properties, +<i>miserabile dictu!</i> are just being discovered as a panacea +for every human ill—from a migraine to an "incurable +pulmonary affliction"), seek accommodation if they can +have it, since it is the only hotel in the place, though a +very good one; is adorned with a balcony running round +the house, twined and buried in honeysuckle and wild +clematis, which enchants young ladies into instant promotion +of it into their sketch-books; and gives you, what +is of rather more importance, and what makes you ready +to admire the clematis when, under gastronomic exasperation, +you might swear at it as a harbor for tarantule—an +omelette, I assure you, wellnigh as well cooked as you +have it at Mivart's or Meurice's.</p> + +<p>At the Toison d'Or we took up our abode, and at the +Toison d'Or we encountered my two elder sisters, Constance +and Agneta, travelling for once on the same road, +as they had left Paris together, and were together going +on to the fashionable capital of a fashionable little toy +duchy on the other side of the Rhine, when they should +have finished with the wilder beauties and more unknown +charms of Vicq d'Azyr and its environs. Each lady had +her little train of husband, courier, valet, lady's-maid, +small dog, and giant jewel-box. I have put the list in +the inverse ratio of their importance, I believe. Your +husband <i>versus</i> your jewel-box? Of course, my dear +madam; absurd! What's the value of a little simple +gold ring against a dozen glittering circlets of diamonds, +emeralds, rubies, and garnets?<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_348" id="Page_348">[Pg 348]</a></span></p> + +<p>Each lady was bent on recruiting herself at Vicq d'Azyr +after the toils of the season, and of shining <i>après</i> with all +the brilliance that a fair share of beauty, good positions, +and money, fairly entitled them to expect, at the little +Court of—we will call it Lemongenseidlitz—denominated +by its charming Duchess, Princess Hélène of Lemongenseidlitz-Phizzstrelitz, +the loveliest and most volage +of all minor royalties. Each lady was strongly opposed +to whatever the other wished; each thought the weather +"sultry" when the other thought it "chilly," and <i>vice +versâ</i>. Each considered her own ailments "unheard-of +suffering, dear!—I could never make any one feel!" &c. +&c.—and assured you, with mild disdain, that the other's +malady was "purely nervous, entirely exaggerated, but +she <i>will</i> dwell on it so much, poor darling!" Each related +to you how admirably they would have travelled if +<i>her</i> counsel had been followed, and described how the +other <i>would</i> take the direction of everything, <i>would</i> confuse +poor Chanderlos, the courier, till he hardly knew +where he was, and <i>would</i> take the night express out of +pure unkindness, just because she knew how ill it always +made her (the speaker) feel to be torn across any country +the whole night at that dreadful pace; each was dissatisfied +with everything, pleased with nothing, and bored, as +became ladies of good degree; each found the sun too +hot or the wind too cold, the mists too damp or the air +too dry, and both combined their forces to worry their +ladies'-maids, find fault with the viands, drive their lords +to the registering of an oath never to travel with women +again, welcome us benignly, since they thought we might +amuse them, and smile their sunniest on Dunbar—he's +heir-prospective to the Gwynne Marquisate, and Lady +Marqueterie, the Saint, is not above keeping one eye open +for worldly distinctions, while Mrs. Albany Protocol, +though a Radical, is, like certain others of the ultra-Liberal +party, not above a personal kow-towing before<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_349" id="Page_349">[Pg 349]</a></span> +those "ridiculous and ought-to-be exploded conservative +institutions"—Rank and Title.</p> + +<p>At the Toison d'Or, I say, when, after knocking over +izzards <i>ad libitum</i> in another part of the district, we descended +one evening into the valley where Vicq d'Azyr +lies nestled in the sunset light, with the pretty vendangeuses +trooping down from the sloping vineyards, and +the cattle winding homewards down the hill-side paths, +and the vesper-bells softly chiming from the convent-tower +rising yonder above its woods of linden and acacia—at +the Toison d'Or, just alighting with the respective +suites aforesaid, and all those portable embarrassments +of books, tiger-skin rugs, flacons of bouquet, travelling-bags +warranted to carry any and everything that the most +fastidious can require en route from Piccadilly to Peru, +with which ladies do love to encumber and embitter their +own persons and their companions' lives, we met, as I +have told you, mesdames mes s[oe]urs.</p> + +<p>"What! Dear me, how very singular! Never should +have dreamt of meeting <i>you</i>; so much too quiet a place, +I should have thought. No Kursaal <i>here</i>? Come for +sport—oh! Take Spes, will you! Poor little dear, he's +been barking the whole way because he couldn't see out +of the window. Ah, Major Dunbar, charmed to see you! +What an amusing rencontre, is it not?" And Lady Maréchale, +slightly out of temper for so eminent a Christian +at the commencement of her greeting, smoothed down +her ruffled feathers and turned smilingly on Dunbar. I +have said he will be one day Marquis of Gwynne.</p> + +<p>"By George, old fellow! <i>you</i> in this out-of-the-way +place! That's all right. Sport good, here? Glad to +hear it. The deuce take me, if ever I am lured into +travelling in a <i>partie carrée</i> again."</p> + +<p>And Maréchale raised his eyebrows, and whispered +confidentially to me stronger language than I may commit<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_350" id="Page_350">[Pg 350]</a></span> +to print, though, considering his provocation, it was +surely as pardonable as Uncle Toby's.</p> + +<p>"The thing I dislike in this sort of hotels and places is +the admixture of people with whom one is obliged to +come in contact," said Constance, putting up her glass as +she entered the long low room where the humble table +d'hôte of the Toison d'Or was spread. Lady Maréchale +talks sweetly of the equality of persons in the sight of +Heaven, but I never heard her recognize the same upon +the soil of earth.</p> + +<p>"Exactly! One may encounter such very objectionable +characters! <i>I</i> wished to dine in our own apartments, +but Albany said no; and he is so positive, you +know! This place seems miserably primitive," responded +Agneta. Mrs. Protocol pets Rouges and Republicans of +every country, talks liberalism like a feminine Sièyes or +John Bright, projects a Reform Bill that shall bear the +strongest possible family resemblance to the Décrets du 4 +Août, and considers "social distinctions <i>odious</i> between +man and man;" but her practice is scarcely consistent +with her theory, seeing that she is about as tenacious and +resentful of objectionable contact as a sea-anemone.</p> + +<p>"Who is that, I wonder?" whispered Lady Maréchale, +acidulating herself in readiness, after the custom of English +ladies when catching sight of a stranger whom they +"don't know."</p> + +<p>"I wonder! All alone—how very queer!" echoed +Mrs. Protocol, drawing her black lace shawl around her, +with that peculiar movement which announces a woman's +prescience of something antagonistic to her, that is to be +repelled <i>d'avance</i>, as surely as a hedgehog's transfer of +itself into a prickly ball denotes a sense of a coming +enemy, and a need of caution and self-protection.</p> + +<p>"Who is that deucedly handsome woman?" whispered +Maréchale to me.</p> + +<p>"What a charming creature!" echoed Dunbar.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_351" id="Page_351">[Pg 351]</a></span></p> + +<p>The person referred to was the only woman at the table +d'hôte besides my sisters—a sister-tourist, probably; a +handsome—nay more, a beautiful woman, about eight-and-twenty, +distinguished-looking, brilliant, with a figure +voluptuously perfect as was ever the Princess Borghese's. +To say a woman looks a lady, means nothing in our day. +"That young lady will wait on you, sir," says the shopman, +referring to the shopwoman who will show you your +gloves. "Hand the 'errings to that lady, Joe," you hear +a fishmonger cry, as you pass his shop-door, referring by +his epithet to some Mrs. Gamp or Betsy Priggs in search +of that piscatory cheer at his stall. Heaven forbid we +should give the abused and degenerate title to any woman +deserving of the name! Generalize a thing, and it is +vulgar. "A gentleman of my acquaintance," says +Spriggs, an auctioneer and house-agent, to Smith, a collector +of the water-rate. "A man I know," says Pursang, +one of the Cabinet, to Greville Tempest, who is heir +to a Dukedom, and has intermarried with a royal house. +The reason is plain enough. Spriggs thinks it necessary +to inform Smith, who otherwise might remain ignorant +of so signal a fact, that he actually does know a gentleman, +or rather what he terms such. Pursang knows that +Tempest would never suspect him of being <i>lié</i> with men +who were anything else; the one is proud of the fine English, +the other is content with the simple phrase! Heaven +forbid, I say, we should, nowadays, call any woman a +lady who is veritably such; let us fall back on the dignified, +definitive, courtly last-century-name of gentlewoman. +I should be glad to see that name revived; it draws a line +that snobbissimi cannot pass, and has a grand simplicity +about it that will not attract Spriggs, Smith, and Spark, +and Mesdames S., leurs femmes!</p> + +<p>Our sister-tourist, then, at the Toison d'Or, looked, to +my eyes at the least, much more than a "lady," she +looked an <i>aristocrate jusqu'au bout des ongles</i>, a beautiful,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_352" id="Page_352">[Pg 352]</a></span> +brilliant, dazzling brunette, with lovely hazel eyes, flashing +like a tartaret falcon's under their arched pencilled +eyebrows, quite an unhoped godsend in Vicq d'Azyr, +where only stragglers resort as yet, though—alas for my +Arcadia—my sister's pet physician, who sent them +thither, is about, I believe, to publish a work, entitled +"The Water-Spring in the Wilderness; or, A Scamper +through Spots Unknown," which will do a little advertising +of himself opportunely, and send hundreds next +season to invade the wild woodlands and sunny valleys +he inhumanly drags forth into the gas-glare of the world.</p> + +<p>The brilliant hazel eyes were opposite to me at dinner, +and were, I confess, more attractive to me than the stewed +pigeons, the crisp frog-legs, and the other viands prepared +by the (considering we were in the heart of one of the +most remote provinces) really not bad cook of the Toison +d'Or. Lady Maréchale and Mrs. Protocol honored her +with that stare by which one woman knows so well how +to destroy the reputation of another without speech; they +had taken her measurement by some method of feminine +geometry unknown to us, and the result was apparently +not favorable to her, for over the countenances of the two +ladies gathered that expression of stiff dignity and virtuous +disdain, in the assuming of which, as I have observed +before, they are inimitable proficients. "Evidently not +a proper person!" was written on every one of their lineaments. +Constance and Agneta had made up their +minds with celerity and decision as to her social status, +with, it is to be presumed, that unerring instinct which +leads their sex to a conclusion so instantaneously, that, +according to a philosopher, a woman will be at the top of +the staircase of Reasoning by a single spring, while a +man is toiling slowly up the first few steps.</p> + +<p>"You are intending to remain here some days, madame?" +asked the fair stranger, with a charming smile, +of Lady Maréchale—a pleasant little overture to chance<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_353" id="Page_353">[Pg 353]</a></span> +ephemeral acquaintance, such as a table d'hôte surely +well warrants.</p> + +<p>But the pleasant little overture was one to which Lady +Maréchale was far too English to respond. With that +inimitable breeding for which our countrymen and women +are continentally renowned, she bent her head with +stately stiffness, indulged herself with a haughty stare at +the offender, and turned to Agneta, to murmur in English +her disgust with the <i>cuisine</i> of the really unoffending +Toison d'Or.</p> + +<p>"Poor Spes would eat nothing. Fenton must make +him some panada. But perhaps there was nothing better +than goat's milk in the house! What could Dr. Berkeley +be thinking of? He described the place quite as though +it were a second Meurice's or Badischer Hof!"</p> + +<p>A look of amusement glanced into the sparkling, yet +languid eyes of my opposite neighbor.</p> + +<p>"English!" she murmured to herself, with an almost +imperceptible but sufficiently scornful elevation of her +arched eyebrows, and a slight smile, just showing her +white teeth, as I addressed her in French; and she answered +me with the ease, the aplomb, the ever suave +courtesy of a woman of the world, with that polish which +gives the most common subjects a brilliance never their +own, and that vivacity which confers on the merest trifles +a spell to amuse and to charm. She was certainly a very +lovely creature, and a very charming one, too; frank, +animated, witty, with the tone of a woman who has seen +the world and knows it. Dunbar adored her, at first +sight; he is an inflammable fellow, and has been ignited +a thousand times at far less provocation. Maréchale prepared +for himself fifty conjugal orations by the recklessness +with which, under the very eyes of madame, he devoted +himself to another woman. Even Albany Protocol, +dull, somnolent, and superior to such weaknesses, as becomes +a president of many boards and a chairman of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_354" id="Page_354">[Pg 354]</a></span> +many committees, opened his eyes and glanced at her; +and some young Cantabs and artists at the other end of +the table stopped their own conversation, envying Dunbar +and myself, I believe, for our juxtaposition with the <i>belle +inconnue</i>; while my sisters sat trifling with the wing of a +pigeon, in voluntary starvation (they would have had +nothing to complain of, you see, if they had suffered +themselves to dine well!), with strong disapprobation +marked upon their lineaments, of this lovely vivacious +unknown, whoever she might be, talking exclusively to +each other, with a certain expression of sarcastic disdain +and offended virtue, hinting far more forcibly than words +that they thought already the "very worst" of her.</p> + +<p>So severe, indeed, did they look, that Dunbar, who is a +good-natured fellow, and thinks—and thinks justly—that +Constance and Agneta are very fine women, left me +to discuss, Hoffmann, Heine, and the rest of Germany's +satirical poets, with my opposite neighbor, and endeavored +to thaw my sisters; a very difficult matter when once +those ladies are iced. He tried Paris, but only elicited a +monosyllabic remark concerning its weather; he tried +Vicq d'Azyr, and was rewarded for his trouble by a withering +sarcasm on the unlucky Toison d'Or; he tried chit-chat +on mutual acquaintances, and the unhappy people +he chanced to name were severally dismissed with a cutting +satire appended to each. Lady Maréchale and Mrs. +Protocol were in one of those freezing and unassailable +moods in which they sealed a truce with one another, +and, combining their forces against a common foe, dealt +out sharp, spherical, hard-hitting little bullets of speech +from behind the abatis in which they intrenched themselves.</p> + +<p>At last he, in despair, tried Lemongenseidlitz, and the +ladies thawed slightly—their anticipations from that +fashionable little quarter were couleur de rose. They +would meet their people of the best <i>monde</i>, all their<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_355" id="Page_355">[Pg 355]</a></span> +dearest—that is of course their most fashionable—friends; +the dear Duchess of Frangipane, the Millamonts +those charming people, M. le Marquis de Croix-et-Cordon, +Sir Henry Pullinger, Mrs. Merivale-Delafield, were all +there; that delightful person, too, the Graf von Rosenläu, +who amused them so much at Baden last year, was, as of +course Dunbar knew, Master of the Horse to the Prince +of Lemongenseidlitz-Phizzstrelitz; they would be well received +at the Court. Which last thing, however, they +did not <i>say</i>, though they might imply, and assuredly fully +thought it; since Lady Maréchale already pictured herself +gently awakening his Serene Highness to the spiritual +darkness of his soul in legitimatizing gaming-tables +in his duchy, and Mrs. Protocol already beheld herself +closeted with his First Minister, giving that venerable +Metternich lessons in political economy, and developing +to him a system for filling his beggared treasury to overflowing, +without taxing the people a kreutzer—a problem +which, though it might have perplexed Kaunitz, Colbert, +Pitt, Malesherbes, Talleyrand, and Palmerston put together, +offered not the slightest difficulty to <i>her</i> enterprising +intellect. Have I not said that Sherlock states +women are at the top of the staircase while we are toiling +up the first few steps?</p> + +<p>"The Duchess—Princess Hélène is a lovely woman, I +think. Winton saw her at the Tuileries last winter, and +raved about her beauty," said Dunbar, finding he had hit +at last on an acceptable subject, and pursuing it with +more zeal than discretion; for if there be one thing, I +take it, more indiscreet than another, it is to praise +woman to woman.</p> + +<p>Constance coughed and Agneta smiled, and both assented. +"Oh yes—very lovely, they believed!"</p> + +<p>"And very lively—up to everything, I think I have +heard," went on Dunbar, blandly, unconscious of the +meaning of cough, smile, and assent.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_356" id="Page_356">[Pg 356]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Very lively!" sighed the Saint.</p> + +<p>"<i>Very</i> lively!" smiled the Politician.</p> + +<p>"As gay a woman as Marie Antoinette," continued +Dunbar, too intent on the truffles to pay en même temps +much heed to the subject he was discussing. "She's +copied the Trianon, hasn't she?—has fêtes and pastorals +there, acts in comedies herself, shakes off etiquette and +ceremonial as much as she can, and all that sort of thing, +I believe?"</p> + +<p>Lady Maréchale leaned back in her chair, the severe +virtue and dignified censure of a British matron and a +modern Lucretia expressed in both attitude and countenance.</p> + +<p>"A second Marie Antoinette?—too truly and unfortunately +so, I have heard! Levity in <i>any</i> station sufficiently +reprehensible, but when exhibited in the persons +of those whom a higher power has placed in exalted +positions, it is most deeply to be deplored. The evil and +contagion of its example become incalculable; and even +when, which I believe her excusers are wont to assert of +Princess Hélène, it is merely traceable to an over-gayety +of spirit and an over-carelessness of comment and censure, +it should be remembered that we are enjoined to +abstain from every <i>appearance</i> of evil!"</p> + +<p>With which Constance shook out her phylacteries, +represented by the thirty-guinea bracade-silk folds of her +skirt (a dress I heard her describe as "very plain!—serviceable +for travelling"), and glanced at my opposite +neighbor with a look which said, "You are evidently not +a proper person, but you hear for once what a proper +person thinks!"</p> + +<p>Our charming companion did hear it, for she apparently +understood English very well. She laughed a little—a +sweet, low, ringing laugh—(I was rather in love with +her, I must say—I am still)—and spoke with a slight +pretty accent.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_357" id="Page_357">[Pg 357]</a></span></p> + +<p>"True, madame! but ah! what a pity your St. Paul +did not advise, too, that people should not go by appearances, +and think evil where evil is not!"</p> + +<p>Lady Maréchale gave stare number two with a curl of +her lip, and bent her head stiffly.</p> + +<p>"What a very strange person!" she observed to Agneta, +in a murmur, meant, like a stage aside, to be duly +heard and appreciated by the audience. And yet my +sisters are thought very admirably bred women, too! +But then, a woman alone—a foreigner, a stranger—surely +no one would exact courtesy to such, from "ladies +of position?"</p> + +<p>"Have you ever seen Princess Hélène, the Duchess of +Lemongenseidlitz, may I ask?" Maréchale inquired, hastily, +to cover his wife's sneer. He's a very good fellow, +and finds the constant and inevitable society of a saint +slightly trying, and a very heavy chastisement for a few +words sillily said one morning in St. George's.</p> + +<p>"I have seen her, monsieur—yes!"</p> + +<p>"And is she a second Marie Antoinette?"</p> + +<p>She laughed gayly, showing her beautiful white teeth.</p> + +<p>"Ah, bah, monsieur! many would say that is a great +deal too good a comparison for her! A second Louise de +Savoie—a second Duchesse de Chevreuse—nay, a second +Lucrezia Borgia, some would tell you. She likes pleasure—who +does not, though, except those with whom 'les +raisins sont trop verts et bons pour des goujats?'"</p> + +<p>"What an insufferably bold person!" murmured Constance.</p> + +<p>"Very disagreeable to meet this style of people!" returned +Agneta.</p> + +<p>And both stiffened themselves with a little more starch; +and we know that British wheats produce the stiffest +starch in the world!</p> + +<p>"Who, indeed!" cried Maréchale, regardless of madame's +frown. "You know this for truth, then, of Princess +Hélène?"<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_358" id="Page_358">[Pg 358]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Ah, bah, monsieur! who knows anything for truth?" +laughed the lovely brunette. "The world dislikes truth +so much, it is obliged to hide itself in out-of-the-way +corners, and very rarely comes to light. Nobody knows +the truth about her. Some think her, as you say, a second +Marie Antoinette, who is surrendered to dissipation and +levity, cares for nothing, and would dance and laugh +over the dead bodies of the people. Others judge her as +others judged Marie Antoinette; discredit the gossip, and +think she is but a lively woman, who laughs at forms, +likes to amuse herself, and does not see why a court +should be a prison! The world likes the darker picture +best; let it have it! I do not suppose it will break her +heart!"</p> + +<p>And the fair stranger laughed so sweetly, that every +man at the dinner-table fell in love with her on the spot; +and Lady Maréchale and Mrs. Protocol sat throughout +the remainder of the meal in frozen dignity and unbreakable +silence, while the lovely brunette talked with and +smiled on us all with enchanting gayety, wit, and abandon, +chatting on all sorts of topics of the day.</p> + +<p>Dinner over, she was the first to rise from the table, +and bowed to us with exquisite grace and that charming +smile of hers, of which the sweetest rays fell upon <i>me</i>, I +swear, whether you consider the oath an emanation of +personal vanity or not, my good sir. My sisters returned +her bow and her good evening to them with that pointed +stare which says so plainly, "You are not my equal, how +dare you insult me by a courtesy?"</p> + +<p>And scarcely had we begun to sip our coffee up-stairs +in the apartments Chanderlos had secured for the miladies +Anglaises, than the duo upon her began as the two ladies +sat with Spes between them on a sofa beside one of the +windows opening on the balcony that ran round the +house. A chance inadvertent assent of Dunbar's, à propos +of—oh, sin unpardonable!—the beauty of the incognita's<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_359" id="Page_359">[Pg 359]</a></span> +eyes, touched the valve and unloosened the hot springs +that were seething below in silence. "A handsome +woman!—oh yes, a gentleman's beauty, I dare say!—but +a very odd person!" commenced Mrs. Protocol. +"A very strange person!" assented Mrs. Maréchale. +"Very free manners!" added Agneta. "Quite French!" +chorused Constance. "She has diamond rings—paste, +no doubt!" said the Politician. "And rouges—the +color's much too lovely to be natural!" sneered the +Saint. "Paints her eyebrows, too!" "Not a doubt—and +tints her lashes!" "An adventuress, I should say!" +"Or worse!" "Evidently not a proper person!" "Certainly +not!"</p> + +<p>Through the soft mellow air, hushed into evening +silence, the words reached me, as I walked through the +window on to the balcony, and stood sipping my coffee +and looking lazily over the landscape wrapped in sunset +haze, over the valley where the twilight shadows were +deepening, and the mountains that were steeped yet in a +rose-hued golden radiance from the rays that had sunk +behind them.</p> + +<p>"My dear ladies," I cried, involuntarily, "can't you +find anything a little more kindly to say of a stranger +who has never done you any harm, and who, fifty to one, +will never cross your path again?"</p> + +<p>"Bravo!" echoed Maréchale, who has never gone as +quietly in the matrimonial break as Protocol, and indeed +will never be thoroughly broken in—"bravo! women are +always studying to make themselves attractive; it's a +pity they don't put down among the items a trifle of +generosity and charity, it would embellish them wonderfully."</p> + +<p>Lady Maréchale beat an injured tattoo with the spoon +on her saucer, and leaned back with the air of a martyr, +and drawing in her lips with a smile, whose inimitable +sneer any lady might have envied—it was quite priceless!<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_360" id="Page_360">[Pg 360]</a></span></p> + +<p>"It is the first time, Sir George, I should presume, that +a husband and a brother were ever heard to unite in upbraiding +a wife and a sister with her disinclination to +associate with, or her averseness to countenance, an improper +person!"</p> + +<p>"An improper person!" I cried. "But, my dear Constance, +who ever told you that this lady you are so desperately +bitter upon has any fault at all, save the worst +fault in her own sex's eyes—that of beauty? I see +nothing in her; her manners are perfect; her tone——"</p> + +<p>"You must pardon me if I decline taking your verdict +on so delicate a question," interrupted Lady Maréchale, +with withering satire. "Very possibly you see nothing +objectionable in her—nothing, at least, that <i>you</i> would +call so! Your views and mine are sufficiently different +on every subject, and the women with whom I believe +you have chiefly associated are not those who are calculated +to give you very much appreciation for the more +refined classes of our sex! Very possibly the person in +question is what <i>you</i>, and Sir George too, perhaps, find +charming; but you must excuse me if I really cannot, to +oblige you, stoop to countenance any one whom my intuition +and my knowledge of the world both declare so very +evidently what she should not be. She will endeavor, +most probably, if she remain here, to push herself into +our acquaintance, but if you and my husband should +choose to insult us by favoring her efforts, Agneta and I, +happily, can guard ourselves from the objectionable companionship +into which those who <i>should</i> be our protectors +would wish to force us!"</p> + +<p>With which Lady Maréchale, with a little more martyrdom +and an air of extreme dignity, had recourse to +her <i>flacon</i> of Viola Montana, and sank among the sofa +cushions, a model of outraged and Spartan virtue. I set +down my coffee-cup, and lounged out again to the peace +of the balcony; Maréchale shrugged his shoulders, rose,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_361" id="Page_361">[Pg 361]</a></span> +and followed me. Lo! on the part of the balcony that +ran under <i>her</i> windows, leaning on its balustrade, her +white hand, white as the flowers, playing with the clematis +tendrils, the "paste" diamond flashing in the last +rays of the setting sun, stood our "dame d'industrie—or +worse!" She was but a few feet farther on; she must +have heard Lady Maréchale's and Mrs. Protocol's duo on +her demerits; she <i>had</i> heard it, without doubt, for she +was laughing gayly and joyously, laughter that sparkled +all over her <i>riante</i> face and flashed in her bright falcon +eyes. Laughing still, she signed me to her. I need not +say that the sign was obeyed.</p> + +<p>"Chivalrous knight, I thank you! You are a Bayard +of chivalry; you defend the absent! What a miracle, mon +Dieu! Tell your friends from me not to speak so loudly +when their windows are open; and, for yourself, rest assured +your words of this evening will not be forgotten."</p> + +<p>"I am happy, indeed, if I have been fortunate enough +to obtain a chance remembrance, but do not give me too +much praise for so simple a service; the clumsiest Cimon +would be stirred into chivalry under such inspiration as I +had——"</p> + +<p>The beautiful hazel eyes flashed smilingly on me under +their lashes. (<i>Those</i> lashes tinted! Heaven forgive the +malice of women!) She broke off a sprig of the clematis, +with its long slender leaves and fragrant starry flowers, +and gave it to me.</p> + +<p>"<i>Tenez, mon ami</i>, if ever you see me again, show me that +faded flower, and I shall remember this evening at Vicq +d'Azyr. Nay, do not flatter yourself—do not thrust it in +your breast; it is no gage d'amour! it is only a reward for +loyal service, and a souvenir to refresh my own memory, +which is treacherous sometimes, though not in gratitude +to those who serve me. Adieu, mon Bayard—et bonsoir!"</p> + +<p>But I retained the hand that had given me my clematis-spray.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_362" id="Page_362">[Pg 362]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Meet you again! But will not that be to-morrow? If I +am not to see you, as your words threaten, till the clematis +be faded and myself forgotten, let me at least, I beseech +you, know where, who, by what name——"</p> + +<p>She drew her hand away with something of a proud, +surprised gesture; then she laughed again that sweet, ringing, +mocking laugh:</p> + +<p>"No, no, Bayard, it is too much to ask! Leave the future +to hazard; it is always the best philosophy. Au revoir! +Adieu—perhaps for a day, perhaps for a century!"</p> + +<p>And the bewitching mystery floated away from me and +through the open window of her room. You will imagine +that my "intuition" did not lead me to the conclusion to +which Lady Maréchale's led her, or assuredly should I +have followed the donor of the clematis, despite her prohibition. +Even with my "intuition" pointing where it +did, I am not sure what I might have done if, in her salon, +I had not caught sight of a valet and a lady's maid in +waiting with her coffee, and they are not such spectators +as one generally selects.</p> + +<p>The servants closed her windows and drew down their +Venetian blinds, and I returned to my coffee. Whether the +two ladies within had overheard her conversation as she +had heard theirs, I cannot say, but they looked trebly +refrigerated, had congealed themselves into the chilliest +human ice that is imaginable, and comported themselves +towards me fully as distantly as though I had brought +a dozen ballet-girls in to dinner with them, or introduced +them to my choicest acquaintance from the Château des +Fleurs.</p> + +<p>"A man's taste is so pitiably low!" remarked Lady +Maréchale, in her favorite stage aside to Mrs. Protocol; +to which that other lady responded, "Disgracefully so!"</p> + +<p>Who <i>was</i> my lovely unknown with the bright falcon +eyes and the charming laugh, with her strange freedom that +yet was <i>not</i>, somehow, free, and her strange fascination? I<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_363" id="Page_363">[Pg 363]</a></span> +bade my man ask Chanderlos her name—couriers know +everything generally—but neither Mills nor Chanderlos +gave me any information. The people of the house did +not know, or said they did not; they only knew she had +servants in attendance who came with her, who revealed +nothing, and paid any price for the best of everything. +Are impertinent questions ever asked where money is +plentiful?</p> + +<p>I was dressing the next morning something later than +usual, when I heard the roll of a carriage in the courtyard +below. I looked through the half-open persiennes +with a semi-presentiment that it was my sweet foreigner +who was leaving ere I could presume on my clematis or +improve our acquaintance. True enough, she it was, leaving +Vicq d'Azyr in a travelling-carriage, with handsome +roans and servants in imperial-blue liveries. Who the +deuce could she be?</p> + +<p>"Well, Constance," said I, as I bade Lady Maréchale +good morning, "your <i>bête noire</i> won't 'press herself into +your acquaintance,' as you were dreading last night, and +won't excite Maréchale and me to any more high treason. +Won't you chant a Te Deum? She left this morning."</p> + +<p>"So I perceived," answered Lady Maréchale, frigidly; +by which I suppose <i>she</i> had not been above the weakness +of looking through <i>her</i> persiennes.</p> + +<p>"What a pity you and Agneta agitated yourselves with +such unnecessary alarm! It must have cost you a great +deal of eau-de-Cologne and sal-volatile, I am afraid, last +night. Do you think she contaminated the air of the +salle-à-manger, because I will order Mills to throw some +disinfectant about before you go down?"</p> + +<p>"I have no inclination to jest upon a person of that +stamp," rejoined Lady Maréchale, with immense dignity, +settling her turquoise wristband-studs.</p> + +<p>"'That stamp of persons!' What! Do you think she +is an adventuress, an intrigante, 'or worse' still, then? I<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_364" id="Page_364">[Pg 364]</a></span> +hoped her dashing equipage might have done something +towards cleansing her character. Wealth <i>is</i> a universal +purifier generally."</p> + +<p>"Flippant impertinence!" murmured Lady Maréchale, +disgustedly, to Mrs. Protocol, as she swept onwards down +the staircase, not deigning me a glance, much less a response, +stiffening herself with a little extra starch of +Lucretian virtue and British-matronly dignity, which +did not grow limp again throughout breakfast, while she +found fault with the chocolate, considered the <i>petits pains</i> +execrable, condemned the sardines as uneatable, petted +Spes, kept Maréchale and me at Coventry, and sighed +over their enforced incarceration, by Dr. Berkeley's +orders, in Vicq d'Azyr, that kept them in this stupid +place away from Lemongenseidlitz.</p> + +<p>Their anticipations from Lemongenseidlitz were charmingly +golden and rose-tinted. They looked forward to +consolidating their friendship with the dear Duchess in +its balmy air, to improving a passing acquaintance into +an intimate one with that charming person the Baroness +Liebenfrauenmilch, Mistress of the Robes to Princess +Hélène, and to being very intimate at the Court, while +the Pullingers (their bosom-friends and very dear rivals) +would be simply presented, and remain in chagrin, uninvited +to the state balls and palace festivities. And what +more delightful than that last clause? for what sauce +invented, from Carême to Soyer, flavors our own <i>plats</i> so +deliciously, I should like to know, as thinking that our +beloved next-door neighbor is doomed to a very dry cutlet?</p> + +<p>As Pérette, in a humbler fashion, built visions from the +pot of milk, so mesdames mes s[oe]urs, from the glittering +court and capital of Lemongenseidlitz, erected brilliant +châteaux en Espagne of all their sayings and doings in +that fashionable little city whither they were bound, and +into which they had so many invaluable passports. They +were impatient to be journeying from our humble, solitary<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_365" id="Page_365">[Pg 365]</a></span> +valley, and after a month of Vicq d'Azyr, they departed +for their golden land, and I went with them, as I had +slain izzards almost <i>ad nauseam</i>, and Dunbar's expiration +of leave had taken him back to Dublin.</p> + +<p>It was five o'clock when we reached its Reidenscher Hof, +nine when we had finished dinner. It was stupid work +yawning over coffee and <i>Galignani</i>. What was to be done? +Maréchale proposed the Opera, and for the first time in his +life was unopposed by his wife. Constance was in a suave, +benignant mood; she was thinking of her Graf von Rosenläu, +of the Pullingers, and of the sweet, adroit manner +in which she would—when she had captivated him and +could proffer such hints—awaken his Serene Highness +to a sense of his moral guilt in not bringing to instant +capital punishment every agent in those Satanus-farmed +banks that throve throughout his duchy. Lady Maréchale +and Mrs. Protocol assented, and to the little miniature +gayly-decorated Opera House we drove. They were in the +middle of the second act of "Ernani." "Ernani" was +stale to us all, and we naturally lorgné'd the boxes in lieu +of the stage. I had turned my glass on the left-hand +stage-box, and was going steadily round, when a faint cry +of dismay, alarm, amazement, horror, broke, muffled and +low, from mesdames mes s[oe]urs. Their lorgnons were riveted +on one spot; their cheeks were blanched; their hands +were tremulous; if they had beheld a spiritual visitant, +no consternation more profound, more intense, could have +seized both with its iron hand. <i>My</i> sisters too! the chilliest, +the calmest, the most impenetrable, the most unassailable +of mortals!</p> + +<p>"And we called her, in her hearing, not a proper person?" +gasped Lady Maréchale.</p> + +<p>"We thought her a lorette! an intrigante! a dame +d'industrie!" echoed Mrs. Protocol.</p> + +<p>"Who wore paste jewels!"</p> + +<p>"Who came from the Rue Bréda!"<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_366" id="Page_366">[Pg 366]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Who wanted to know us!"</p> + +<p>"Whom we wouldn't know!"</p> + +<p>I turned my Voightlander where their Voightlanders +turned; there, in the royal box, leaning back in the fauteuil +that marked her rank, there, with her lovely hazel +eyes, her witching smile, her radiant beauty, matchless +as the pearls gleaming above her brow, there sat the +"adventuress—or worse!" of Vicq d'Azyr; the "evidently +a not proper person" of my discerning sisters—H.S.H. +Princess Hélène, Grand-Duchess of Lemongenseidlitz-Phizzstrelitz! +Great Heavens! how had we never +guessed her before? How had we never divined her +identity? How had we never remembered all we had +heard of her love of laisser-aller, her taste for adventure, +her delight in travelling, when she could, unattended and +incognita? How had we never put this and that together, +and penetrated the metamorphosis?</p> + +<p>"<i>And I called her not a proper person!</i>" gasped Lady +Maréchale, again shrinking back behind the azure curtains; +the projectiles she had shot with such vindictive +severity, such delighted acrimony, from the murderous +mortar of malice, recoiling back upon her head for once, +and crushing her to powder. What reception would they +have <i>now</i> at the Court? Von Rosenläu would be powerless; +the Pullingers themselves would be better off! +Pérette's pot of milk was smashed and spilt! "Adieu, +veau, vache, cochon, couvée!"</p> + +<hr style="width: 25%;" /> + +<p>When the pitcher lies shivered into fragments, and the +milk is spilt, you know, poor Pérette's dreams are shivered +and spilt with them. "I have not seen you at the palace +yet?" asked her Grace of Frangipane. "We do not see +you at the Court, mesdames?" asked M. de la Croix-et-Cordons. +"How did it happen you were not at the Duchess's +ball last night?" asked "those odious Pullingers." And +what had my sister to say in reply? My clematis secured<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_367" id="Page_367">[Pg 367]</a></span> +<i>me</i> a charming reception—how charming I don't feel +called upon to reveal—but Princess Hélène, with that +calm dignity which easily replaced, when she chose, her +witching <i>abandon</i>, turned the tables upon her detractors, +and taught them how dangerous it may be to speak ill—of +the wrong people.</p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/cc365.png" alt="* * * * *" /> +</div> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_368" id="Page_368">[Pg 368]</a></span></p> + +<hr style="width: 100%;" /> +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/cc366a.png" alt="* * * * *" /> +</div> + + + + +<h2><a name="A_STUDY_A_LA_LOUIS_QUATORZE" id="A_STUDY_A_LA_LOUIS_QUATORZE"></a>A STUDY À LA LOUIS QUATORZE:</h2> + +<h3>PENDANT TO A PORTRAIT BY MIGNARD.</h3> + + +<p>She was surpassingly fair, Madame la Marquise. +Mignard's portraits of her may fully rival his +far-famed Portrait aux Amours. One of them +has her painted as Venus Victrix, in the fashion of the +day; one of them, as herself, as Léontine Opportune de +Vivonne de Rennecourt, Marquise de la Rivière, with her +crève-c[oe]urs, and her diamonds, and her gay smile, showing +her teeth, white and gleaming as the pearls mingled with +her curls à la mode Montespan. Not Louise de la Beaume-le-Blanc, +when the elm-boughs of St. Germain first flung +their shadow on her golden head, before it bent for the +Carmelite veil before the altar in the Rue St. Jacques; +not Henriette d'Angleterre, when she listened to the trouvères' +romances sung under her balcony at St. Cloud, +before her young life was quenched by the hand of Morel +and the order of Monsieur; not Athénaïs de Mortemart, +when the liveries of lapis lazuli blue dashed through the +streets of Paris, and the outriders cleared her path with +their whips, before the game was lost, and the iron spikes +were fastened inside the Montespan bracelets;—none of +them, her contemporaries and acquaintances, eclipsed in +loveliness Madame la Marquise. Had she but been fair +instead of dark, the brown Bourbon eyes would have +fallen on her of a surety; she would have outshone the +lapis lazuli liveries with a royal guard of scarlet and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_369" id="Page_369">[Pg 369]</a></span> +gold, and her friend Athénaïs would have hated her as +that fair lady hated "la sotte Fontanges" and "Saint +Maintenon;" for their sex, in all ages, have remembered +the sage's precept, "Love as though you will one day +hate," and invariably carry about with them, ready for +need, a little essence of the acid of Malice, to sour in an +instant the sugared cream of their loves and their friendships +if occasion rise up and the storm-cloud of rivalry +loom in the horizon.</p> + +<p>She was a beauty, Madame la Marquise, and she knew +it, as she leaned out over the balcony of her château of +Petite Forêt, that lay close to Clagny, under the shadow +of the wood of Ville d'Avrée, outside the gates of Versailles, +looking down on her bosquets, gardens, and terraces +designed by Le Nôtre; for though she was alone, +and there was nothing but her little dog Osmin to admire +her white skin, and her dark eyes, and her beautiful +hands and arms, and her diamond pendants that glittered +in the moonlight, she smiled, her flashing triumphant +smile, as she whispered to herself, "He is mine—mine! +Bah! how can he help himself?" and pressed the ruby +agraffe on her bosom with the look of a woman who +knew no resistance, and brooked no reluctance to worship +at her shrine.</p> + +<p>Nothing ever opposed Madame la Marquise, and life +went smoothly on with her. If Bossuet ever reproved her, +it was in those <i>anathèmes cachés sous des fleurs d'oranger</i> +in which that politic priest knew how to deal when expedient, +however haughty and relentless to the world in +general. M. le Marquis was not a savage eccentricity like +M. de Pardaillon de Gondran, would never have dreamt +of imitating the eccentricity of going into mourning, but +if the Bourbon eye <i>had</i> fallen on his wife, would have +said, like a loyal peer of France, that all his household +treasures were the King's. Disagreeables fled before the +scintillations of her smiles, as the crowd fled before her<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_370" id="Page_370">[Pg 370]</a></span> +gilded carriage and her Flanders horses; and if ever a +little fit of piety once in a while came over her, and Conscience +whispered a mal à propos word in her delicate ear, +she would give an enamelled lamp to Sainte Marie Réparatrice, +by the advice of the Comtesse de Soubise and +the Princesse de Monaco (who did such expiatory things +themselves, and knew the comfort they afforded), and +emerge from her repentance one of the most radiant of all +the brilliant butterflies that fluttered their gorgeous wings +in the Jardin de Flore under the sunny skies of Versailles.</p> + +<p>The moonlight glittered on the fountains, falling with +measured splash into their marble basins; the lime-leaves, +faintly stirred by the sultry breezes, perfumed the night +with their voluptuous fragrance, and the roses, twining +round the carved and gilded balustrade, shook off their +bowed head drops of dew, that gleamed brightly as the +diamonds among the curls of the woman who leaned +above, resting her delicate rouged cheek on her jewelled +hand, alone—a very rare circumstance with the Marquise +de la Rivière. Osmin did not admire the rare solitude, +for he rattled his silver bells and barked—an Italian +greyhound's shrill, fretful bark—as his quick ears caught +the distant sound of steps coming swiftly over the turf +below, and his mistress smiled as she patted his head:</p> + +<p>"Ah, Osmin!—here he is?"</p> + +<p>A man came out from under the heavy shadow of lime +sand chestnuts, whose darkness the moon's rays had no +power to pierce, crossed the lawn just under the balcony, +and, coming up the terrace-steps, stood near her—a man, +young, fair, handsome, whose age and form the uniform +of a Captain of the Guards would have suited far better +than the dark robes of a priest, which he wore; his lips +were pressed closely together, and his face was pale with +a pallor that consorted painfully with the warm passionate +gleam of his eyes.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_371" id="Page_371">[Pg 371]</a></span></p> + +<p>"So! You are late in obeying my commands, monsieur!"</p> + +<p>Surely no other man in France would have stood silent +beside her, under the spell of her dazzling glances, with +such a picture before him as Madame la Marquise, in her +azure silk and her point d'Angleterre, with her diamond +pendants shaking among her hair, and her arched eyebrows +lifted imperiously! But he did; his lips pressed +closer, his eyes gleaming brighter. She changed her tone; +it was soft, seductive, reproachful, and the smile on her +lips was tender—as tender as it ever could be with the +mockery that always lay under it; and it broke at last +the spell that bound him, as she whispered, "Ah! Gaston, +you love me no longer!"</p> + +<p>"Not love you? O God!"</p> + +<p>They were but five words, but they told Madame la +Marquise of a passion such as she had never roused, +despite all her fascinations and intrigues, in the lovers +that crowded round her in the salons within, or at Versailles, +over the trees yonder, where love was gallantry, +and all was light comedy, with nothing so foolish as +tragedy known.</p> + +<p>He clasped her hands so closely that the sharp points +of the diamond rings cut his own, though he felt them +not.</p> + +<p>"Not love you? Great Heaven! Not love you? Near +you, I forget my oath, my vows, my God!—I forget all, +save you, whom I adore, as, till I met you, I adored my +Church. Torture endured with you were dearer than +Paradise won alone! Once with you, I have no strength, +you bow me to your will as the wind bows the lime-leaf. +Oh! woman, woman! could you have no mercy, that with +crowds round you daily worshipping your slightest smile, +you must needs bow <i>me</i> down before your glance, as you +bow those who have no oaths to bind them, no need to +scourge themselves in midnight solitude for the mere crime<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_372" id="Page_372">[Pg 372]</a></span> +of Thought? Had you no mercy, that with all hearts +yours, you must have mine to sear it and destroy it? +Have you not lives enough vowed to you, that you seek +to blast mine for ever? I was content, untroubled, till +I met you; no woman's glance stirred my heart, no +woman's eyes haunted my vigils, no woman's voice came +in memory between my soul and prayer! What devil +tempted you to throw your spells over me—could you +not leave <i>one</i> man in peace?"</p> + +<p>"Ah bah! the tempted love the game of temptation +generally full as well as the tempters!" thought Madame +la Marquise, with an inward laugh.</p> + +<p>Why did she allow such language to go unrebuked? +Why did she, to whom none dared to breathe any but +words the most polished, and love vows the most honeyed, +permit herself to be addressed in such a strain? Possibly +it was very new to her, such energy as this, and such an +outbreak of passion amused her. At any rate she only +drew her hands away, and her brilliant brown eyes filled +with tears;—tears <i>were</i> to be had at Versailles when +needed, even her friend Montespan knew how to use them +as the worst weapons against the artillery of the Evêque +de Comdom—and her heart heaved under the filmy lace.</p> + +<p>"Ah, Gaston! what words! 'What devil tempted me?' +I know scarcely whether love be angel or devil; he seems +either or both! But you love me little, unless in that +name you recognize a plea for every madness and every +thought!"</p> + +<p>The scarlet blood flushed over his face, and his eyes +shone and gleamed like fire, while he clenched his hands +in a mortal anguish.</p> + +<p>"Angel or devil? Ay! which, indeed! The one when +it comes to us, the other when it leaves us! You have +roused love in me I shall bear to my grave; but what +gage have I that you give it me back? How do I know +but that even now you are trifling with me, mocking at<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_373" id="Page_373">[Pg 373]</a></span> +me, smiling at the beardless priest who is unlearned in all +the gay gallantries of libertine churchmen and soldierly +courtiers? My Heaven! how know, as I stand beside +you, whether you pity or disdain me, love or scorn me?"</p> + +<p>The passionate words broke in a torrent from his lips, +stirred the stillness of the summer eve with a fiery anguish +little akin to it.</p> + +<p>"Do I not love you?"</p> + +<p>Her answer was simple; but as Léontine de Rennecourt +spoke it, leaning her cheek against his breast, with her +eyes dazzling as the diamonds in her hair, looking up into +his by the light of the stars, they had an eloquence far +more dangerous than speech, and delirious to the senses +as magician's perfumes. His lips lingered on hers, and +felt the loud fast throbs of the heart she had won as he +bent over her, pressing her closer and closer to him—vanquished +and conquered, as men in all ages and of all +creeds have been vanquished and conquered by women, +all other thoughts fleeing away into oblivion, all fears +dying out, all vows forgotten in the warm, living life of +passion and of joy, that, for the first time in a brief life, +flooded his heart with its golden voluptuous light.</p> + +<p>"You love me? So be it," he murmured; "but beware +what you do, my life lies in your hands, and you must +be mine till death part us!"</p> + +<p>"Till my fancy change rather!" thought Madame la +Marquise, as she put her jewelled hand on his lips, her +hair softly brushing his cheek, with a touch as soft, and +an odor as sweet, as the leaves of one of the roses +twining below.</p> + +<p>Two men strolling below under the limes of Petite +Forêt—discussing the last scandals of Versailles, talking +of the ascendency of La Fontanges, of the Spanish dress +his Majesty had reassumed to please her, of the Brinvilliers' +Poudre de Succession, of the new château given to +Père de la Chaise, of D'Aubigny's last extravagance and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_374" id="Page_374">[Pg 374]</a></span> +Lauzun's last mot, and the last gossip about Bossuet and +Mademoiselle de Mauléon, and all the chit-chat of that +varied day, glittering with wit and prolific of poison—glanced +up to the balcony by the light of the stars.</p> + +<p>"That cursed priest!" muttered the younger, le Vicomte +de Saint-Elix, as he struck the head off a lily with his +delicate cane.</p> + +<p>"In a fool's paradise! Ah-ha! Madame la Marquise!" +laughed the other—the old Duc de Clos-Vougeot—taking +a chocolate sweetmeat out of his emerald-studded bonbonnière +as they walked on, while the lime-blossoms shook +off in the summer night wind and dropped dead on the +grass beneath, laughing at the story of the box D'Artagnan +had found in Lauzun's rooms when he seized his +papers, containing the portraits of sixty women of high +degree who had worshipped the resistless Captain of the +Guard, with critical and historical notices penned under +each; notices D'Artagnan and his aide could not help +indiscreetly retailing, in despite of the Bourbon command +of secrecy—secrecy so necessary where sixty beauties and +saints were involved!</p> + +<p>"A fool's paradise!" said the Duc de Clos-Vougeot, +tapping his bonbonnière, enamelled by Petitot: the Duc +was old, and knew women well, and knew the value and +length of a paradise dependent on that most fickle of +butterflies—female fidelity; he had heard Ninon de +Lenclos try to persuade Scarron's wife to become a coquette, +and Scarron's wife in turn beseech Ninon to discontinue +her coquetteries; had seen that, however different +their theories and practice, the result was the same; and +already guessed right, that if Paris had been universally +won by the one, its monarch would eventually be won by +the other.</p> + +<p>"A fool's paradise!"</p> + +<p>The courtier was right, but the priest, had he heard +him, would never have believed; <i>his</i> heaven shone in<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_375" id="Page_375">[Pg 375]</a></span> +those dazzling eyes: till the eyes closed in death, his +heaven was safe! He had never loved, he had seen +nothing of women; he had come straight from the monastic +gloom of a Dominican abbey, in the very heart of the +South, down in Languedoc, where costly missals were his +only idol, and rigid pietists, profoundly ignorant of the +ways and thoughts of their brethren of Paris, had reared +him up in anchorite rigidity, and scourged his mind with +iron philosophies and stoic-like doctrines of self-mortification +that would have repudiated the sophistries and +ingenuities of Sanchez, Escobar, and Mascarenhas, as +suggestions of the very Master of Evil himself. From +the ascetic gloom of that Languedoc convent he had been +brought straight, by superior will, into the glare of the +life at Versailles, that brilliant, gorgeous, sparkling, +bizarre life, scintillating with wit, brimful of intrigue, +crowded with the men and women who formed the Court +of that age and the History of the next; where he found +every churchman an <i>abbé galant</i>, and heard those who +performed the mass jest at it with those who attended it; +where he found no lines marked of right and wrong, but +saw them all fused in a gay, tangled web of two court +colors—Expediency and Pleasure. A life that dazzled +and tired his eyes, as the glitter of lights in a room dazzles +and tires the eyes of a man who comes suddenly in from +the dark night air, till he grew giddy and sick, and in +the midst of the gilded salons, or soft confessions of titled +sinners, would ask himself if indeed he could be the same +man who had sat calm and grave with the mellow sun +streaming in on his missal-page in the monastic gloom of +the Languedoc abbey but so few brief months before, +when all this world of Versailles was unknown? The +same man? Truly not—never again the same, since +Madame la Marquise had bent her brown eyes upon him, +been amused with his singular difference from all those +around her, had loved him as women loved at Versailles,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_376" id="Page_376">[Pg 376]</a></span> +and bowed him down to her feet, before he guessed the +name of the forbidden language that stirred in his heart +and rushed to his lips, untaught and unbidden.</p> + +<p>"A fool's paradise!" said the Duc, sagaciously tapping +his gold bonbonnière. But many a paradise like it has +dawned and faded, before and since the Versailles of Louis +Quatorze.</p> + +<p>He loved, and Madame la Marquise loved him. Through +one brief tumult of struggle he passed: struggle between +the creed of the Dominican abbey, where no sin would +have been held so thrice accursed, so unpardonable, so +deserving of the scourge and the stake as this—and the +creed of the Bourbon Court, where churchmen's gallantries +were every-day gossip; where the Abbé de Rancé, ere he +founded the saintly gloom of La Trappe, scandalized +town and court as much as Lauzun; where the Père de +la Chaise smiled complacently on La Fontanges' ascendancy; +where three nobles rushed to pick up the handkerchief +of that royal confessor, who washed out with holy +water the royal indiscretions, as you wash off grains of +dust with perfumed water; where the great and saintly +Bishop of Condom could be checked in a rebuking harangue, +and have the tables turned on him by a mischievous +reference to Mademoiselle de Mauléon; where life +was intrigue for churchmen and laymen alike, and where +the abbé's rochet and the cardinal's scarlet covered the +same vices as were openly blazoned on the gold aiglettes +of the Garde du Corps and the costly lace of the Chambellan +du Roi. A storm, brief and violent as the summer +storms that raged over Versailles, was roused between the +conflicting thoughts at war within him, between the principles +deeply rooted from long habit and stern belief, and +the passions sprung up unbidden with the sudden growth +and gorgeous glow of a tropical flower—a storm, brief +and violent, a struggle, ended that night, when he stood +on the balcony with the woman he loved, felt her lips<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_377" id="Page_377">[Pg 377]</a></span> +upon his, and bowed down to her feet delirious and +strengthless.</p> + +<p>"I have won my wager with Adeline; I have vanquished +<i>mon beau</i> De Launay," thought Madame la Marquise, +smiling, two days after, as she sat, en negligé, in +her broidered chair, pulling Osmin's ears, and stirring +the frothy chocolate handed to her by her negro, Azor, +brought over in the suite of the African embassy from +Ardra, full of monkeyish espièglerie, and covered with +gems—a priceless dwarf, black as ink, and but two feet +high, who could match any day with the Queen's little +Moor. "He amuses me with his vows of eternal love. +Eternal love?—how <i>de trop</i> we should find it, here in +Versailles! But it is amusing enough to play at for a +season. No, that is not half enough—he adores! This +poor Gaston!"</p> + +<p>So in the salons of Versailles, and in the world, where +Ninon reigned, by the Court ladies, while they loitered +in the new-made gardens of Marly, among other similar +things jested of was this new amour of Madame de la +Rivière for the young Père de Launay. "She was always +eccentric, and he <i>was</i> very handsome, and would have +charming manners if he were not so grave and so silent," +the women averred; while the young nobles swore that +these meddling churchmen had always the best luck, +whether in amatory conquest, or on fat lands and rich +revenues. What the Priest of Languedoc thought a love +that would outlast life, and repay him for peace of conscience +and heaven both lost, was only one of the passing +bubbles of gossip and scandal floating for an hour, amidst +myriads like it, on the glittering, fast-rushing, diamond-bright +waters of life at Versailles!</p> + +<p>A new existence had dawned for him; far away in the +dim dusky vista of forgotten things, though in reality +barely distant a few short months, lay the old life in +Languedoc, vague and unremembered as a passed dream;<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_378" id="Page_378">[Pg 378]</a></span> +with its calm routine, its monastic silence, its unvarying +alternations of study and prayer, its iron-bound thoughts, +its rigid creed. It had sunk away as the peaceful gray +twilight of a summer's night sinks away before the fiery +burst of an artificial illumination, and a new life had +dawned for him, radiant, tumultuous, conflicting, delicious—that +dazzled his eyes with the magnificence of boundless +riches and unrestricted extravagance; that charmed +his intellect with the witty coruscations, the polished +esprit, of an age unsurpassed for genius, grace, and wit; +and that swayed alike his heart, his imagination, and his +passions with the subtle intoxication of this syren of Love, +whose forbidden song had never before, in faintest echo, +fallen on his ear.</p> + +<p>Far away in the dim, lifeless, pulseless past, sank the +memory of the old Dominican abbey, of all it had taught +him, of all it had exacted, in its iron, stoical, merciless +creed. A new life had arisen for him, and Gaston de +Launay, waking from the semi-slumber of the living +death he had endured in Languedoc, and liked because +he knew no other, was happy—happy as a prisoner is in +the wild delight with which he welcomes the sunlight +after lengthened imprisonment, happy as an opium-eater +is in the delicious delirium that succeeds the lulling softness +of the opiate.</p> + +<p>"He loves me, poor Gaston! Bah! But how strangely +he talks! If love were this fiery, changeless, earnest +thing with us that it is with him, what in the world should +we do with it? We should have to get a lettre de cachet +for it, and forbid it the Court; send it in exile to Pignerol, +as they have just done Lauzun. Love in earnest? We +should lose the best spice for our wine, the best toy for +our games, and, mon Dieu! what embroilments there +would be! Love in earnest? Bagatell! Louise de la +Vallière shows us the folly of that; but for its Quixotisms +she would now be at Vaujours, instead of buried<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_379" id="Page_379">[Pg 379]</a></span> +alive in that Rue St. Jacques, with nothing to do but to +weep for 'Louison,' count her beads, and listen to M. de +Condom's merciless eloquence! Like the king,</p> + +<p> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">J'aime qu'on m'aime, mais avec de l'esprit.</span><br /> +</p> + +<p>People have no right to reproach each other with inconstancy; +one's caprices are not in one's own keeping; and +one can no more help where one's fancy blows, than that +lime-leaf can help where the breeze chooses to waft it. +But poor Gaston! how make <i>him</i> comprehend that?" +thought Madame la Marquise, as she turned, and smiled, +and held out her warm, jewelled hands, and listened once +again to the words of the man who was in her power as +utterly as the bird in the power of the snake when it has +once looked up into the fatal eyes that lure it on to its +doom.</p> + +<p>"You will love me ever?" he would ask, resting his +lips on her white low brow.</p> + +<p>"Ever!" would softly answer Madame la Marquise.</p> + +<p>And her lover believed her: should his deity lie? He +believed her! What did he, fresh from the solitude of +his monastery, gloomy and severe as that of the Trappist +abbey, with its perpetual silence, its lowered glances, its +shrouded faces, its ever-present "memento mori," know +of women's faith, of women's love, of the sense in which +<i>they</i> meant that vow "for ever"? He believed her, and +never asked what would be at the end of a path strewn +with such odorous flowers. Alone, it is true, in moments +when he paused to think, he stood aghast at the abyss +into which he had fallen, at the sin into which, a few +months before, haughty and stern in virtue against the +temptation that had never entered his path, he would +have defied devils in legion to have lured him, yet into +which he had now plunged at the mere smile of a woman! +Out of her presence, out of her spells, standing by himself +under the same skies that had blooded over his days<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_380" id="Page_380">[Pg 380]</a></span> +of peace in Languedoc, back on his heart, with a sickening +anguish, would come the weight of his sin; the burden +of his broken oaths, the scorch of that curse eternal +which, by his creed, he held drawn down on him here +and hereafter; and Gaston de Launay would struggle +again against this idolatrous passion, which had come +with its fell delusion betwixt him and his God; struggle—vainly, +idly—struggle, only to hug closer the sin he +loved while he loathed; only to drink deeper of the +draught whose voluptuous perfume was poison; only to +forget all, forsake all, dare all, at one whisper of her +voice, one glance of her eyes, one touch of the lips whose +caress he held would be bought by a curse through +eternity.</p> + +<p>Few women love aught "for ever," save, perchance, +diamonds, lace, and their own beauty, and Madame la +Marquise was not one of those few; certainly not—she +had no desire to make herself singular in her generation, +and could set fashions much more likely to find disciples, +without reverting to anything so eccentric, plebeian, and +out of date. Love <i>one</i> for ever! She would have thought +it as terrible waste of her fascinations, as for a jewel to +shine in the solitude of its case, looked on by only one +pair of eyes, or for a priceless enamel, by Petitot, to be +only worn next the heart, shrouded away from the light +of day, hidden under the folds of linen and lace.</p> + +<p>"Love one for ever?"—Madame la Marquise laughed +at the thought, as she stood dressed for a ball, after assisting +at the representation of a certain tragedy, called +"Bérénice" (in which Mesdames Deshoulières and De +Sévigné, despite their esprit, alone of all Paris and the +Court could see no beauty), and glanced in the mirror at +her radiant face, her delicate skin, her raven curls, with +their pendants shaking, her snow-white arms, and her +costly dress of the newest mode, its stomacher gleaming<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_381" id="Page_381">[Pg 381]</a></span> +one mass of gems. "Love one for ever? The droll idea! +Is it not enough that I have loved him once?"</p> + +<p>It was more than enough for his rivals, who bitterly +envied him; courtly abbés, with polished smiles, and +young chanoines, with scented curls and velvet toques, +courtiers, who piqued themselves on reputations only +second to Lauzun's, and men of the world, who laughed +at this new caprice of Madame la Marquise, alike bore +no good will to this Languedoc priest, and gave him a +significant sneer, or a compliment that roused his blood +to fire, and stung him far worse than more open insult, +when they met in the salons, or crossed in the corridors, +at Versailles or Petite Forêt.</p> + +<p>"Those men! those men! Should he ever lose her to +any one of them?" he would think over and over again, +clenching his hand, in impotent agony of passion that he +had not the sword and the license of a soldier to strike +them on the lips with his glove for the smile with which +they dared to speak her name; to make them wash out +in blood under the trees, before the sun was up, the laugh, +the mot, the delicate satire, which were worse to bear +than a blow to the man who could not avenge them.</p> + +<p>"Pardieu! Madame must be very unusually faithful +to her handsome Priest; she has smiled on no other for +two months! What unparalleled fidelity!" said the +Vicomte de Saint-Elix, with petulant irritation.</p> + +<p>"Jealous, Léonce?" laughed the old Duc, whom he +spoke to, tapping the medallion portrait on his bonbonnière. +"Take comfort: when the weather has been so +long fixed, it is always near a change. Ah! M. de Launay +overhears! He looks as if he would slay us. Very +unchristian in a priest!"</p> + +<p>Gaston de Launay overheard, as he stood by a <i>croisée</i> +at Petite Forêt, playing with Osmin—he liked even the +dog, since the hand he loved so often lay on its slender +neck, and toyed with its silver chain. And, sworn as he<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_382" id="Page_382">[Pg 382]</a></span> +was to the service of his Church, sole mistress as his +Church had been, till Léontine de Rennecourt's eyes had +lured him to his desertion of her, apostate in his own eyes +as such a thought confessed him to have grown, he now +loathed the garb of a priest, that bound his hands from +vengeance, and made him powerless before insult as a +woman. Fierce, ruthless longing for revenge upon these +men seized on him; devilish desires, the germ of which +till that hour he never dreamt slumbered within him, +woke up into dangerous, vigorous life. Had he lived in +the world, its politic reserve, its courtly sneer, its light +gallantries, that passed the time and flattered amour-propre, +its dissimulated hate that smiled while plotting, and +killed with poisoned bonbons, would never have been +learnt by him; and having long lived out of it, having +been suddenly plunged into its whirl, not guessing its +springs, ignorant of its diplomacies, its suave lies, termed +good breeding, its légères philosophies, he knew nothing +of the wisdom with which its wise men forsook their loves +and concealed their hatreds. Both passions now sprung +up in him at one birth, both the stronger for the long +years in which a chill, artificial, but unbroken calm, had +chained his very nature down, and fettered into an iron +monotony, an unnatural and colorless tranquillity, a character +originally impetuous and vivid, as the frosts of a +winter chill into one cold, even, glassy surface, the rapids +of a tumultuous river. With the same force and strength +with which, in the old days in Languedoc, he had idolized +and served his Church, sparing himself no mortification, +believing every iota of her creed, carrying out her +slightest rule with merciless self-examination, so—the +tide once turned the other way—so the priest now loved, +so he now hated.</p> + +<p>"He is growing exigeant, jealous, presuming; he +amuses me no longer—he wearies. I must give him his +congé," thought Madame la Marquise. "This play at<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_383" id="Page_383">[Pg 383]</a></span> +eternal passion is very amusing for a while, but, like all +things, gets tiresome when it has lasted some time. What +does not? Poor Gaston, it is his provincial ideas, but he +will soon rub such off, and find, like us all, that sincerity +is troublesome, ever de trop, and never profitable. He +loves me—but bah! so does Saint-Elix, so do they all, +and a jealous husband like M. de Nesmond, <i>le drôle!</i> +could scarcely be worse than my young De Launay is +growing!"</p> + +<p>And Madame la Marquise glanced at her face in the +mirror, and wished she knew Madame de Maintenon's +secret for the Breuvage Indien; wished she had one of +the <i>clefs de faveur</i> to admit her to the Grande Salle du +Parlement; wished she had the <i>couronne d'Agrippine</i> +her friend Athénaïs had just shown her; wished Le Brun +were not now occupied on the ceiling of the King's Grande +Galerie, and were free to paint the frescoes of her own +new-built chapel; wished a thousand unattainable things, +as spoilt children of fortune will do, and swept down her +château staircase a little out of temper—she could not +have told why—to receive her guests at a fête given in +honor of the marriage of Mademoiselle de Blois and the +Prince de Conti.</p> + +<p>There was the young Comte de Vermandois, who would +recognize in the Dauphin no superiority save that of his +"<i>frère aine</i>;" there was "<i>le petit bossu</i>," Prince Eugene, +then soliciting the rochet of a Bishop, and equally ridiculed +when he sought a post in the army; there was M. +de Louvois, who had just signed the order for the Dragonades; +there was the Palatine de Bavière, with her German +brusquerie, who had just clumsily tried to insult +Madame de Montespan by coming into the salon with a +great turnspit, led by a similar ribbon and called by the +same name, in ridicule of the pet Montespan poodle; +there was La Montespan herself, with her lovely gold +hair, her dove's eyes, and her serpent's tongue; there was<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_384" id="Page_384">[Pg 384]</a></span> +Madame de Sévigné and Madame de Grignan the Duchesse +de Richelieu and the Duchesse de Lesdiguières; +there was Bussy Rabutin and Hamilton. Who was there +not that was brilliant, that was distinguished, that was +high in rank and famed in wit at the fête of Madame la +Marquise?—Madame la Marquise, who floated through +the crowd that glittered in her salon and gardens, who +laughed and smiled, showing her dazzling white teeth, +who had a little Cupid gleaming with jewels (emblematic +enough of Cupid as he was known at Versailles) to present +the Princesse de Conti with a bridal bouquet whose +flowers were of pearls and whose leaves were of emeralds; +who piqued herself that the magnificence of her fête was +scarcely eclipsed by His Majesty himself; who yielded +the palm neither to La Vallière's lovely daughter, nor to +her friend Athénaïs, nor to any one of the beauties who +shone with them, and whose likeness by Mignard laughed +down from the wall where it hung, matchless double of +her own matchless self.</p> + +<p>The Priest of Languedoc watched her, the relentless +fangs of passion gnawing his heart, as the wolf the Spartan. +For the first time he was forgotten! His idol +passed him carelessly, gave him no glance, no smile, but +lavished a thousand coquetries on Saint-Elix, on De +Rohan-Soubise, on the boy Vermandois,—on any who +sought them. Once he addressed her. Madame la Marquise +shrugged her snow-white shoulders, and arched her +eyebrows with petulant irritation, and turned to laugh +gayly at Saint-Elix, who was amusing her, and La Montespan, +and Madame de Thianges, with some gay mischievous +scandal concerning Madame de Lesdiguières and the +Archbishop of Paris; for scandals, if not wholly new +are ever diverting when concerning an enemy, especially +when dressed and served up with the piquant sauce +of wit.</p> + +<p>"I no longer then, madame, lead a dog's life in jealousy<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_385" id="Page_385">[Pg 385]</a></span> +of this priest?" whispered Saint-Elix, after other whispers, +in the ear of Madame la Marquise. The Vicomte +adored her, not truly in Languedoc fashion, but very +warmly—à la mode de Versailles.</p> + +<p>The Marquise laughed.</p> + +<p>"Perhaps not! You know I bet Mme. de Montevreau +that I would conquer him. I have won now. Hush! +He is close. There will be a tragedy, <i>mon ami</i>!"</p> + +<p>"M. le Vicomte, if you have the honor of a noble, the +heart of a man, you fight me to-night. I seek no shelter +under my cloth!"</p> + +<p>Saint-Elix turned as he heard the words, laughed +scornfully, and signed the speaker away with an insolent +sneer:</p> + +<p>"Bah! <i>Révérend Père!</i> we do not fight with women +and churchmen!"</p> + +<p>The fête was ended at last, the lights that had gleamed +among the limes and chestnuts had died out, the gardens +and salons were emptied and silent, the little Cupid had +laid aside his weighty jewelled wings, the carriages with +their gorgeous liveries, their outriders, and their guards +of honor, had rolled from the gates of Petite Forêt to +the Palace of Versailles. Madame la Marquise stood +alone once more in the balcony of her salons, leaning her +white arms on its gilded balustrade, looking down on to +the gardens beneath, silvered with the breaking light of +the dawn, smiling, her white teeth gleaming between her +parted rose-hued lips, and thinking—of what? Who +shall say?</p> + +<p>Still, still as death lay the gardens below, that an hour +ago had been peopled with a glittering crowd, re-echoing +with music, laughter, witty response, words of intrigue. +Where the lights had shone on diamonds and pearl-broidered +trains, on softly rouged cheeks, and gold-laced +coats, on jewelled swords and broideries of gold, the gray +hue of the breaking day now only fell on the silvered<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_386" id="Page_386">[Pg 386]</a></span> +leaves of the limes, the turf wet with dew, he drooped +heads of the Provence roses; and Madame la Marquise, +standing alone, started as a step through the salon within +broke the silence.</p> + +<p>"Madame, will you permit me a word <i>now</i>?"</p> + +<p>Gaston de Launay took her hands off the balustrade, +and held them tight in his, while his voice sounded, even +in his own ears, strangely calm, yet strangely harsh:</p> + +<p>"Madame, you love me no longer?"</p> + +<p>"Monsieur, I do not answer questions put to me in such +a manner."</p> + +<p>She would have drawn her hands away, but he held +them in a fierce grasp till her rings cut his skin, as they +had done once before.</p> + +<p>"No trifling! Answer—yes or no!"</p> + +<p>"Well! 'no,' then, monsieur. Since you <i>will</i> have the +truth, do not blame me if you find it uncomplimentary +and unacceptable."</p> + +<p>He let go her hands and reeled back, staggered, as if +struck by a shot.</p> + +<p>"Mon Dieu! it is true—you love me no longer! And +you tell it me <i>thus</i>!"</p> + +<p>Madame la Marquise, for an instant, was silenced and +touched; for the words were uttered with the faint cry of +a man in agony, and she saw, even by the dim twilight +of dawn, how livid his lips turned, how ashy gray grew +the hue of his face. But she smiled, playing with +Osmin's new collar of pearls and coral.</p> + +<p>"Tell it you 'thus'? I would not have told it you +'thus,' monsieur, if you had been content with a hint, and +had not evinced so strong a desire for candor undisguised; +but if people will not comprehend a delicate suggestion, +they must be wounded by plainer truths—it is their own +fault. Did you think I was like a little shepherdess in a +pastoral, to play the childish game of constancy without<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_387" id="Page_387">[Pg 387]</a></span> +variations? Had you presumption enough to fancy you +could amuse me for ever——"</p> + +<p>He stopped her, his voice broken and hoarse, as he +gasped for breath.</p> + +<p>"Silence! Woman, have you no mercy? For you—for +such as you—I have flung away heaven, steeped +myself in sin, lost my church, my peace, my all—forfeited +all right to the reverence of my fellows, all hope +for the smile of my God! For you—for such as you—I +have become a traitor, a hypocrite, an apostate, whose +prayers are insults, whose professions are lies, whose oaths +are perjury! At your smile, I have flung away eternity; +for your kiss, I have risked my life here, my life hereafter; +for your love, I held no price too vast to pay; +weighed with it, honor, faith, heaven, all seemed valueless—all +were forgotten! You lured me from tranquil +calm, you broke in on the days of peace which but for +you were unbroken still, you haunted my prayers, you +placed yourself between Heaven and me, you planned to +conquer my anchorite's pride, you wagered you would +lure me from my priestly vows, and yet you have so little +mercy, that when your bet is won, when your amusement +grows stale, when the victory grows valueless, you can +turn on me with words like these without one self-reproach?"</p> + +<p>"Ma foi, monsieur! it is you who may reproach yourself, +not I," cried his hearer, insolently. "Are you so +very provincial still, that you are ignorant that when a +lover has ceased to please he has to blame his own lack +of power to retain any love he may have won, and is far +too well-bred to utter a complaint? Your language is +very new to me. Most men, monsieur, would be grateful +for my slightest preference; I permit none to rebuke me +for either giving or withdrawing it."</p> + +<p>The eyes of Madame la Marquise sparkled angrily, and +the smile on her lips was a deadly one, full of irony, full<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_388" id="Page_388">[Pg 388]</a></span> +of malice. As he beheld it, the scales fell at last from +the eyes of Gaston de Launay, and he saw what this +woman was whom he had worshipped with such mad, +blind, idolatrous passion.</p> + +<p>He bowed his head with a low, broken moan, as a man +stunned by a mortal blow; while Madame la Marquise +stood playing with the pearl-and-coral chain, and smiling +the malicious and mischievous smile that showed her +white teeth, as they are shown in the portrait by +Mignard.</p> + +<p>"<i>Comme les hommes sont fous!</i>" laughed Madame la +Marquise.</p> + +<p>He lifted his eyes, and looked at her as she stood in +the faint light of the dawn, with her rich dress, her gleaming +diamonds, her wicked smile, her matchless beauty; +and the passion in him broke out in a bitter cry:</p> + +<p>"God help me! My sin has brought home its curse!"</p> + +<p>He bent over her, his burning lips scorching her own +like fire, holding her in one last embrace, that clasped +her in a vice of iron she had no power to break.</p> + +<p>"Angel! devil! temptress! <i>This</i> for what I have +deemed thee—<i>that</i> for what thou art!"</p> + +<p>He flung her from him with unconscious violence, and +left her—lying where she fell.</p> + +<hr style="width: 25%;" /> + +<p>The gray silvery dawn rose, and broke into the warmth +and sunlight of a summer day; the deer nestled in their +couches under the chequered shadows of the woodlands +round, and the morning chimes were rung in musical +carillons from the campanile of the château; the Provence +roses tossed their delicate heads, joyously shaking +the dew off their scented petals; the blossoms of the limes +fell in a fragrant shower on the turf below, and the boughs, +swayed softly by the wind, brushed their leaves against +the sparkling waters of the fountains; the woods and +gardens of Petite Forêt lay, bright and laughing, in the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_389" id="Page_389">[Pg 389]</a></span> +mellow sunlight of the new day to which the world was +waking. And with his face turned up to the sky, clasped +in his hand a medallion enamel on which was painted the +head of a woman, the grass and ferns where he had fallen +stained crimson with his life-blood, lay a dead man, while +in his bosom nestled a little dog, moaning piteous, plaintive +cries, and vainly seeking its best to wake him to the +day that for him would never dawn.</p> + +<p>When her household, trembling, spread the news that +the dead priest had been found lying under the limes, +slain by his own hand, and it reached Madame la Marquise +in her private chambers, she was startled, shocked, +wept, hiding her radiant eyes in her broidered handkerchief, +and called Azor, and bade him bring her her flask +of scented waters, and bathed her eyes, and turned them +dazzling bright on Saint-Elix, and stirred her chocolate +and asked the news. "<i>On peut être êmue aux larmes et +aimer le chocolat</i>," thought Madame la Marquise, with her +friend Montespan;—while, without, under the waving +shadow of the linden-boughs, with the sunlight streaming +round him, the little dog nestling in his breast, refusing +to be comforted, lay the man whom she had murdered.</p> + +<p>The portrait of Mignard still hangs on the walls of the +château, and in its radiant colors Madame la Marquise +still lives, fair type of her age, smiling her victorious +smile, with the diamonds shining among her hair, and +her brilliant eyes flashing defiance, irony, and coquetry +as of yore, when she reigned amidst the beauties of Versailles;—and +in the gardens beyond in the summer +nights, the lime-boughs softly shake their fragrant flowers +on the turf, and the moonlight falls in hushed and mournful +calm, streaming through the network of the boughs +on to the tangled mass of violets and ferns that has grown +up in rank luxuriance over the spot where Gaston de +Launay died.</p> + +<hr style="width: 100%;" /> + +<div class='tnote'><h3>Transcriber's Notes:</h3> +<p>Obvious punctuation errors have been repaired.</p> + +<p>The changes made in the text are indicated by dotted lines +under the corrections. Scroll the mouse over the word and the +original text will appear. Other than those, printer's inconsistencies +in spelling, hyphenation, and ligature usage have been retained.</p> + +<p>The printed book contains many images that are purely decorative flourishes. +Where these have been reproduced in this electronic version, the alternative +text for these images is set to * * * * *. Readers who see this +alternative text please be assured that the images are not +illustrating the story.</p> +</div> + + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Cecil Castlemaine's Gage, Lady +Marabout's Troubles, and Other Stories, by Ouida + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CECIL CASTLEMAINE'S GAGE *** + +***** This file should be named 37178-h.htm or 37178-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/3/7/1/7/37178/ + +Produced by David Edwards, Katherine Becker and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This +book was produced from scanned images of public domain +material from the Google Print project.) + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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