When Sir Ralph returned from hunting and as usual felt Madame Delmare's
pulse, Raymon, who was watching him closely, detected an almost
imperceptible expression of surprise and pleasure on his placid
features. And then, in obedience to some mysterious secret impulse, the
two men looked at each other, and Sir Ralph's light eyes, fastened like
an owl's upon Raymon's black ones, forced them to look down. During the
rest of the day the baronet's manner toward Madame Delmare, beneath his
apparent imperturbability, was keenly observant, indicative of something
which might be called interest or solicitude if his face had been
capable of reflecting a decided sentiment. But Raymon exerted himself in
vain to discover if fear or hope were uppermost in his thoughts; Ralph
was impenetrable.
Suddenly, as he stood a few steps behind Madame Delmare's chair, he
heard her cousin say to her in an undertone:
"You would do well, cousin, to go out in the saddle to-morrow."
"Why, I have no horse just now, as you know," she said.
"We will find one for you. Will you hunt with us?"
Madame Delmare resorted to various pretexts to escape. Raymon understood
that she preferred to remain with him, but he thought at the same time
that her cousin seemed to display extraordinary persistence in
preventing her from doing so. So he left the persons with whom he was
talking, walked up to her and joined Sir Ralph in urging her to go. He
had a feeling of bitter resentment against this importunate chaperon,
and determined to tire out his watchfulness.
"If you will agree to follow the hunt," he said to Indiana, "you will
embolden me to follow your example, madame. I care little for hunting;
but to have the privilege of being your esquire----"
"In that case I will go," replied Indiana, heedlessly.
She exchanged a meaning glance with Raymon; but, swift as it was, Sir
Ralph caught it on the wing, and Raymon was unable, during the rest of
the evening, to glance at her or address her without encountering
Monsieur Brown's eyes or ears. A feeling of aversion, almost of
jealousy, arose in his heart. By what right did this cousin, this friend
of the family, assume to act as a school-master with the woman whom he
loved! He swore that Sir Ralph should repent, and he sought an
opportunity to insult him without compromising Madame Delmare; but that
was impossible. Sir Ralph did the honors of his establishment with a
cold and dignified courtesy which offered no handle for an epigram or a
contradiction.
The next morning, before the rising-bell had rung, Raymon was surprised
to see his host's solemn face enter his room. There was something even
stiffer than usual in his manner, and Raymon felt his heart beat fast
with longing and impatience at the prospect of a challenge. But he came
simply to talk about a horse which Raymon had brought to Bellerive and
had expressed a desire to sell. The bargain was concluded in five
minutes; Sir Ralph made no objection to the price but produced a
_rouleau_ of gold from his pocket and counted down the amount on the
mantel with a coolness of manner that was altogether extraordinary, not
deigning to pay any heed to Raymon's remonstrances concerning such
scrupulous promptness. As he was leaving the room, he turned back to
say:
"Monsieur, the horse belongs to me from this morning!"
At that Raymon fancied that he could detect a purpose to prevent him
from hunting, and he observed dryly that he did not propose to follow
the hunt on foot.
"Monsieur," replied Sir Ralph, with a slight trace of affectation, "I am
too well versed in the laws of hospitality."
And he withdrew.
On going down into the courtyard Raymon saw Madame Delmare in her
riding-habit, playing merrily with Ophelia, who was tearing her
handkerchief. Her cheeks had taken on a faint rosy tinge, her eyes shone
with a brilliancy that had long been absent from them. She had already
recovered her beauty; her curly black hair escaped from beneath her
little hat, in which she was charming; and the cloth habit buttoned to
the chin outlined her slender, graceful figure. The principal charm of
the creoles, to my mind, consists in the fact that the excessive
delicacy of their features and their proportions enables them to retain
for a long while the daintiness of childhood. Indiana, in her gay and
laughing mood, seemed to be no more than fourteen.
Raymon, impressed by her charms, felt a thrill of triumph and paid her
the least insipid compliment he could invent upon her beauty.
"You were anxious about my health," she said to him in an undertone; "do
you not see that I long to live?" He could not reply otherwise than by a
happy, grateful glance. Sir Ralph himself brought his cousin her horse;
Raymon recognized the one he had just sold.
"What!" said Madame Delmare in amazement, for she had seen him trying
the animal the day before in the courtyard, "is Monsieur de Ramière so
polite as to lend me his horse?"
"Did you not admire the creature's beauty and docility yesterday?" said
Sir Ralph; "he is yours from this moment. I am sorry, my dear, that I
couldn't have given him to you sooner."
"You are growing facetious, cousin," said Madame Delmare; "I do not
understand this joke at all. Whom am I to thank--Monsieur de Ramière,
who consents to lend me his horse, or you, who perhaps asked him for
it?"
"You must thank your cousin," said Monsieur Delmare, "who bought this
horse for you and makes you a present of him."
"Is it really true, my dear Ralph?" said Madame Delmare, patting the
pretty creature with the delight of a girl at receiving her first
jewels.
"Didn't we agree that I should give you a horse in exchange for the
piece of embroidery you are doing for me? Come, mount him, have no fear.
I have studied his disposition, and I tried him only this morning."
Indiana threw her arms around Sir Ralph's neck, then leaped upon
Raymon's horse and fearlessly made him prance.
This whole domestic scene took place in a corner of the courtyard before
Raymon's eyes. He was conscious of a paroxysm of violent anger when the
simple and trustful affection of those two displayed itself before him;
passionately in love as he was and with less than a whole day in which
to have Indiana to himself.
"How happy I am!" she said, calling him to her side on the avenue. "It
seems my dear Ralph divined what gift would be most precious to me. And
aren't you happy too, Raymon, to see the horse you have ridden pass into
my hands? Oh! how I will love him and care for him! What do you call
him? Tell me; for I prefer not to take away the name you gave him."
"If there is a happy man here," rejoined Raymon, "it should be your
cousin, who gives you presents and whom you kiss so heartily."
"Are you really jealous of our friendship and of those loud smacks?" she
said with a laugh.
"Jealous? perhaps so, Indiana; I am not sure. But when that red-cheeked
young cousin puts his lips to yours, when he takes you in his arms to
seat you on the horse that he _gives_ you and I _sell_ you, I confess
that I suffer. No, madame, I am not happy to see you the mistress of the
horse I loved. I can understand that one might be happy in giving him to
you; but to play the tradesman in order to provide another with the
means of making himself agreeable to you, is a very cleverly managed
humiliation on Sir Ralph's part. If I did not believe that all this
cunning was quite involuntary, I would like to be revenged on him."
"Oh! fie! this jealousy is not becoming to you! How can our commonplace
intimacy arouse any feeling in you, in you who should be, so far as I am
concerned, outside of the common life of mankind and should create for
me a world of enchantment--in you of all men! I am displeased with you
already, Raymon; I perceive that there is something like wounded
self-esteem in this angry feeling displayed toward this poor cousin. It
seems to me that you are more jealous of the lukewarm preference which I
display for him in public than of the exclusive affection which I might
secretly entertain for another."
"Forgive me, forgive me, Indiana, I am wrong! I am not worthy of you,
angel of goodness and gentleness! but I confess that I have suffered
cruelly because of the right that man has seemed to assume."
"He assume rights, Raymon! Do you not know what sacred gratitude binds
us to him? do you not know that his mother was my mother's sister? that
we were born in the same valley; that in our early years he was my
protector; that he was my mainstay, my only teacher, my only companion
at Ile Bourbon; that he has followed me everywhere; that he left the
country which I left, to come and live where I lived; in a word, that he
is the only being who loves me and who takes any interest in my life?"
"Curse him! all that you tell me, Indiana, inflames the wound. So he
loves you very dearly, does this Englishman, eh? Do you know how I love
you?"
"Oh! let us not compare the two. If an attachment of the same nature
made you rivals, I should owe the preference to the one of longer
standing. But have no fear, Raymon, that I shall ever ask you to love me
as Ralph loves me."
"Tell me about the man, I beg you; for who can penetrate his stone
mask?"
"Must I do the honors for my cousin?" she said with a smile. "I confess
that I do not altogether like the idea of describing him; I love him so
dearly that I would like to flatter him; as he is, I am afraid that you
will not find him a very noble figure. Do try to help me; come, how does
he seem to you?"
"His face--forgive me if I wound you--indicates absolute nonentity; but
there are signs of good sense and education in his conversation when he
deigns to speak; but he speaks so hesitatingly, so coldly, that no one
profits by his knowledge, his delivery is so depressing and tiresome.
And then there is something commonplace and dull in his thoughts which
is not redeemed by measured purity of expression. I think that his is a
mind imbued with all the ideas that have been suggested to him, but too
apathetic and too mediocre to have any of his own. He is just the sort
of man that one must be to be looked upon in society as a serious-minded
person. His gravity forms three-fourths of his merit, his indifference
the rest."
"There is some truth in your portrait," said Indiana, "but there is
prejudice too. You boldly solve doubts which I should not dare to solve,
although I have known Ralph ever since I was born. It is true that his
great defect consists in looking frequently through the eyes of others;
but that is not the fault of his mind but of his education. You think
that, without education, he would have been an absolute nonentity; I
think that he would have been less so than he is. I must tell you one
fact in his life which will help to explain his character. He was
unfortunate to have a brother whom his parents openly preferred to him;
this brother had all the brilliant qualities that he lacks. He learned
easily, he had a taste for all the arts, he fairly sparkled with wit;
his face, while less regular than Ralph's, was more expressive. He was
affectionate, zealous, active, in a word, he was lovable. Ralph, on the
contrary, was awkward, melancholy, undemonstrative; he loved solitude,
learned slowly and did not make a display of what little knowledge he
possessed. When his parents saw how different he was from his older
brother, they maltreated him; they did worse than that: they humiliated
him. Thereupon, child as he was, his character became gloomy and pensive
and an unconquerable timidity paralyzed all his faculties. They had
succeeded in inspiring in him self-aversion and self-contempt; he became
discouraged with life, and, at the age of fifteen, he was attacked by
the spleen, a malady that is wholly physical under the foggy sky of
England, wholly mental under the revivifying sky of Ile Bourbon. He has
often told me that one day he left the house with a determination to
throw himself into the sea; but as he sat on the shore collecting his
thoughts, as he was on the point of carrying out his plan, he saw me
coming toward him in the arms of the negress who had been my nurse. I
was then five years old. I was pretty, they say, and I manifested a
predilection for my taciturn cousin which nobody shared. To be sure, he
was attentive and kind to me in a way I was not accustomed to in my
father's house. As we were both unhappy, we understood each other even
then. He taught me his father's language, and I lisped mine to him. This
blending of Spanish and English may be said to express Ralph's
character. When I threw my arms around his neck, I saw that he was
weeping, and, without knowing why, I began to weep too. Thereupon he
pressed me to his heart and, so he told me afterward, made a vow to live
for me, a neglected if not hated child, to whom his friendship would at
all events be a kindness and his life of some benefit. Thus I was the
first and only tie in his sad life. After that day we were hardly ever
apart; we passed our days leading a free and healthy life in the
solitude of the mountains. But perhaps these tales of our childhood bore
you, and you would prefer to join the hunt and have a gallop."
"Foolish girl," said Raymon, seizing the bridle of Madame Delmare's
horse.
"Very well, I will go on," said she. "Edmond Brown, Ralph's older
brother, died at the age of twenty; his mother also died of grief, and
his father was inconsolable. Ralph would have been glad to mitigate his
sorrow, but the coldness with which Monsieur Brown greeted his first
attempts increased his natural timidity. He passed whole hours in
melancholy silence beside that heartbroken old man, not daring to
proffer a word or a caress, he was so afraid that his consolation would
seem misplaced or trivial. His father accused him of lack of feeling,
and Edmond's death left Ralph more wretched and more misunderstood than
ever. I was his only consolation."
"I cannot pity him, whatever you may do," Raymon interrupted; "but there
is one thing in his life and yours that I cannot understand: it is that
you never married."
"I can give you a very good reason for that," she replied. "When I
reached a marriageable age, Ralph, who was ten years older than I--an
enormous difference in our climate, where the childhood of girls is so
brief--Ralph, I say, was already married."
"Is Sir Ralph a widower? I never heard anyone mention his wife."
"Never mention her to him. She was young and rich and lovely, but she
had been in love with Edmond--she had been betrothed to him; and when,
in order to serve family interests and family sentiment, she was made to
marry Ralph, she did not so much as try to conceal her aversion for him.
He was obliged to go to England with her, and when he returned to Ile
Bourbon after his wife's death, I was married to Monsieur Delmare and
just about to start for Europe. Ralph tried to live alone, but solitude
aggravated his misery. Although he has never mentioned Mistress Ralph
Brown to me, I have every reason to believe that he was even more
unhappy in his married life than he had been in his father's house, and
that his natural melancholy was increased by recent and painful
memories. He was attacked with the spleen again; whereupon he sold his
coffee plantation and came to France to settle down. His manner of
introducing himself to my husband was original, and would have made me
laugh if my good Ralph's attachment had not touched me deeply.
'Monsieur,' he said, 'I love your wife; it was I who brought her up; I
look upon her as my sister and even more as my daughter. She is my only
remaining relative and the only person to whom I am attached. Allow me
to establish myself near you and let us three pass our lives together.
They say that you are a little jealous of your wife, but they say also
that you are a man of honor and uprightness. When I tell you that I have
never had any other than brotherly love for her, and that I shall never
have, you can regard me with as little anxiety as if I were really your
brother-in-law. Isn't it so, monsieur?' Monsieur Delmare, who is very
proud of his reputation for soldierly frankness, greeted this outspoken
declaration with a sort of ostentatious confidence. But several months
of careful watching were necessary before that confidence became as
genuine as he boasted that it was. Now it is as impregnable as Ralph's
steadfast and pacific heart."
"Are you perfectly sure, Indiana," said Raymon, "that Sir Ralph is not
deceiving himself the least bit in the world when he swears that he
never loved you?"
"I was twelve years old when he left Ile Bourbon to go with his wife to
England; I was sixteen when he returned to find me married, and he
manifested more joy than sorrow. Now, Ralph is really an old man."
"At twenty-nine?"
"Don't laugh at what I say. His face is young, but his heart is worn out
by suffering, and he no longer loves anybody, in order to avoid
suffering."
"Not even you?"
"Not even me. His friendship is simply a matter of habit; it was
generous in the old days when he took upon himself to protect and
educate my childhood, and then I loved him as he loves me to-day because
of the need I had of him. To-day my whole heart is bent upon paying my
debt to him, and my life is passed in trying to beautify and enliven
his. But, when I was a child, I loved him with the instinct rather than
with the heart, and he, now that he is a man, loves me less with the
heart than with the instinct. I am necessary to him because I am almost
alone in loving him; and to-day, as Monsieur Delmare manifests some
attachment to him, he is almost as fond of him as of me. His protection,
formerly so fearless in face of my father's despotism, has become
lukewarm and cautious in face of my husband's. He never reproaches
himself because I suffer, provided that I am near him. He does not ask
himself if I am unhappy; it is enough for him to see that I am alive. He
does not choose to lend me a support, which, while it would make my lot
less cruel, would disturb his serenity by making trouble between him and
Monsieur Delmare. By dint of hearing himself say again and again that
his heart is dry, he has persuaded himself that it is true, and his
heart has withered in the inaction in which he has allowed it to fall
asleep from distrust. He is a man whom the affection of another person
might have developed; but it was withdrawn from him and he shrivelled
up. Now he asserts that happiness consists in repose, pleasure, in the
comforts of life. He asks no questions about cares that he has not. I
must say the word: Ralph is selfish."
"Very good, so much the better," said Raymon; "I am no longer afraid of
him; indeed I will love him if you wish."
"Yes, love him, Raymon," she replied; "he will appreciate it; and, so
far as we are concerned, let us never trouble ourselves to explain why
people love us, but how they love us. Happy the man who can be loved, no
matter for what reason!"
"What you say, Indiana," replied Raymon, grasping her slender, willowy
form, "is the lament of a sad and solitary heart; but, in my case, I
want you to know both why and how, especially why."
"To give me happiness, is it not?" she said, with a sad but passionate
glance.
"To give you my life," said Raymon, brushing Indiana's floating hair
with his lips.
A blast upon the horn near by warned them to be on their guard; it was
Sir Ralph, who saw them or did not see them.