THE BARON’S STORY.
‘I am afraid you will weary of me before I have finished my recital,’
commenced the Baron.
‘I shall not weary, monsieur,’ I answered simply.
‘You will keep my confidence, I know! This is the first time I have ever
told the history of my folly to a living creature.’
I wondered for a moment, then, why he should have elected to tell it to
me. But he went on too rapidly for me to put the question to him.
‘I have never had the happiness to possess a mother, a sister, or even a
female relation sufficiently near to whom I could confide my sorrows or
my perplexities. From a little child I was brought up in the society of
men, and taught, as far as possible, to guide myself. That circumstance
has been a terrible drawback to me, mademoiselle.’
‘Yes—so long as you were a little child.’
‘And not afterwards?’
‘Not so much afterwards! The mother is the God of the child, monsieur,
and if a boy has a good, true, pure-hearted mother who loves him, he can
have no better friend nor _confidante_ than herself, until he becomes a
man. But then their positions should alter. The _man_ who leans upon his
mother is a milksop. He should be her protector—her guide—even her
counsellor. It is thus that women are rewarded for the care and pains
with which they have watched over the infancy of their little ones.’
‘How true a woman you are!’ he said, earnestly.
‘I hope so, monsieur! I should be sorry to deserve any other name. But
we are wandering from your story.’
‘My mother died when I was quite a baby. She was very beautiful, and my
father, who held a high position at Court, was so distracted by her loss
that he threw up his appointment, left all his friends, and wandered for
many years in foreign countries. Meanwhile, I was transferred from my
nurse’s arms to those of a private tutor, whose house I left only to go
to college. I had an uncle on the mother’s side, Le Sieur de Beaupré,
the father of the cousin to whom I told you I was once betrothed. This
betrothal was contracted when I was very young—not yet sixteen, whilst
Blanche had only completed her fourteenth year. We were betrothed with
the consent and at the desire of my father, who was at that time
wandering about the Brazils, and expressed his intention of not
returning to Paris until I had passed through the _Athénée_, and was
ready to be married. I had grown, therefore, up to eighteen years of age
without ever having seen my father.’
‘What a sad, desolate childhood!’ I exclaimed; ‘and how different from
mine, monsieur! My father died, it is true, but my dear mother never
left me, day nor night, from the hour of my birth. No wonder that you
should have gone wrong, without affection, counsel, or home. Those who
left you so are more to blame for what followed than you are.’
‘You pity me, mademoiselle?’
‘I do indeed! From the bottom of my heart! I see you as a child and a
growing man, lonely and unloved, and I could weep for the many desolate
and unhappy hours you must have passed.’
‘_Que le bon Dieu te bénisse!_’ he said softly, as he lifted the hand
that was lying idly on my lap to his lips, and let it quickly drop
again. The action sent the blood rushing to both our faces, and for a
minute or two we were silent altogether.
‘Yes! I was very unhappy at that period,’ continued the Baron. ‘It
seemed to me that Heaven was unjust in so unequally dividing its
favours. I had every luxury, because my father was rich, but I would
have exchanged them all for a caress when I went to bed at night, or for
the touch of a soft hand upon my head. I saw other fathers proud of
their sons, and I wondered what I had done that mine should never care
to see or hear from me, and scarcely took the trouble to write home to
ask if I were dead or alive. Such thoughts embittered my mind and made
it callous, and after I entered the _Athénée_ and joined the wild band
of students assembled within its walls, I soon became the wildest of
them all, and well known to the authorities as a dangerous leader into
all sorts of mischief. Why should I not be? what was there to restrain
me? No mother’s look of pain—no father’s frown—nothing but a
remonstrance from Monsieur de Beaupré, that my allowance did not last
long enough, and that if I could not moderate my expenses he should be
obliged to inform his brother-in-law. So things went on till I was
twenty-one, when the news reached Paris of my father’s death. I came
into my title and my fortune, and was considered to be one of the best
matches in Paris. But, mademoiselle, I am fatiguing you. Why should I be
so vain as to imagine that all these paltry details can hold any
interest for you?’
‘Indeed, monsieur, I am deeply interested. Pray believe me when I say
so.’
‘Why should I tell this tale of folly and dissipation to you?’ he went
on, musingly; ‘I knew I should have to confess it some day, to the woman
I should make my wife—if such an event ever happens—but I never thought
to disclose it before. _Hélas!_ this world brings strange things to
pass! As soon as my uncle Beaupré heard of my father’s death, he tried
to persuade me to complete the marriage with his daughter at once, but I
was averse to the idea of tying myself down so soon, and refused to do
so until the time named in the contract, which was on the attainment of
my twenty-fourth year. I left the _Athénée_, of course, and, settling in
my own _hôtel_, on the Boulevards des Tuileries, plunged, with the aid
of my old college companions, into every sort of dissipation. Will
mademoiselle pardon me for mentioning such a thing?’
‘We are better used to the mention of it in England, monsieur, than your
ladies are in Paris, although we recognise its necessity less, and
deplore its existence more. We Englishwomen are permitted to know that
our men lead very different lives from ourselves, but we are taught at
the same time that, for that very reason, it behoves us to be all the
purer and more discreet, in order to win them back to a right and
virtuous living.’
‘And you do so win them! In all the world there are no such lovers of
domestic life as there are in England.’
‘I believe it,’ I answered, for I am very proud of and very devoted to
my own country-people, whatever friends I may have found in other
nations.
‘I am speaking now, mademoiselle, of ten years ago—when the first notes
of that terrible discord that shook France to her foundations were
beginning to be heard, and Paris was in a state of ferment and
expectation. The revolution had not commenced, but disaffection was
already pre-evident amongst the labouring classes, and _émeutes_ and
brawls were of hourly occurrence in the city. It was on the occasion of
the last night of the old year, which devotees celebrate in the churches
and roysterers in the streets. I was returning home after the theatre
with some of my friends, about the hour of midnight mass, when, just
outside the church of the Madeleine, I saw a young girl standing up
against the wall, and prevented from passing on her way by a band of
tipsy artisans who surrounded her, calling out, “_A bas_ the
aristocrat!”—“Pull off her hood and rub her face in the mud!”—“Down on
her knees and make her pray for the _bonnets rouges_!” and other phrases
of similar import. You may suppose that was more than I and my friends
could stand, and we went at once to her rescue. The poor child caught
hold of my arm, crying, “Oh! save me, monsieur; I am no aristocrat. My
father is a commoner, and lives but a couple of streets from here.” A
few blows and rough words soon dispersed the rioters, and I took the
young lady home under my protection. I found that her name was Corinne
Duplat, and her father was a man of letters. She was very beautiful——’
‘Oh yes, I know! You needn’t tell me,’ I interrupted him, impatiently.
‘She was the loveliest creature you had ever seen, and you became
enamoured of her at once. You can skip all that! I have heard it so
often before.’
The Baron fixed his dark eyes upon me with an expression of the greatest
surprise. After all my amiability and interest, he did not know what to
make of the sudden change. I suppose I looked as sulky as a bear, for he
immediately began to apologise.
‘I felt I should weary mademoiselle. Let me say no more than to thank
you for the patience with which you have listened to me.’
But this was not what I wanted.
I sat there, biting my lip and feeling very much as if I should cry;
whilst Armand de Nesselrode looked deeply annoyed and a little bit
wounded.
‘I have abused your goodness,’ he continued, ‘and I shall never forgive
myself.’
‘No, no, monsieur! Do not think so. It was only because I was in such
haste to hear the end of the story. Go on about Corinne! She was very
beautiful, and you loved her!’
‘I _thought_ I loved her,’ he corrected me, gently. ‘I was very young
and knew no better; I have found out since what true love is.’
‘Yes, monsieur?’
‘Her father neglected her dreadfully, and let her go anywhere alone,
which is unheard of amongst young ladies in Paris. It was natural that
after a while I should constitute myself her protector. She was only
seventeen, and very fragile—almost ethereal in appearance; and when I
had known her for about six months, I felt I should like to make her my
wife. I forgot my betrothal to my cousin Blanche. All my wishes centred
in the hope of marrying Corinne. I broached the subject one day to her
father, almost timidly. He was taken aback by my communication.
‘“Marry my daughter!” he exclaimed. “You cannot know what you are asking
for.”
‘“I know I am not worthy of her,” I began, but he cut me short.
‘“My dear Baron, such an alliance as you would offer Corinne is beyond
all my hopes. But it is impossible.”
‘“Why?”
‘“Because she is doomed. She carries in her the seeds of a disease which
must terminate her existence within a few years. She can marry no one.”
‘This intelligence was a great blow to me. I would not believe it—she
looked so healthy, though delicate. I urged Monsieur Duplat to permit
the marriage to take place, and I believe it would have been
accomplished, had a sudden chill not taken the poor child off before
another month was over her head.’
‘She is _dead_!’ I exclaimed, pity taking the place of all other
feelings. ‘Oh, how you must have grieved for her!’
‘Yes, I was very inconsolable for a time, and it was this grief,
mademoiselle, that led to all my subsequent misfortunes. Monsieur Duplat
was a _littérateur_ whose very uncertain income was dependent on his
humour for writing, and unfortunately his humour too often took the
direction of drinking instead. In my sorrow for the loss of Corinne, I
conceived the romantic idea of being a son to her father, and invited
the old man to come and live with me in my hôtel. I had so much money,
there was plenty for us both. Why should he not enjoy it also? Amidst
all my former dissipations I had never been a gambler, and it was
Monsieur Duplat himself who had on our first acquaintanceship introduced
me to the gaming-tables of Paris. After he came to live with me,
idleness and regret for his daughter’s death seemed to drive him to them
oftener than before, and wherever he went I accompanied him. I felt
reckless too at that time, and quite indifferent as to my future. I
believed, like most young mourners, that I should never be happy again,
and it did not signify what became of me. This is how I contracted the
spirit of gaming. Two of us were drawing on my (apparently)
inexhaustible fortune at the same moment, for you may be sure I paid all
Duplat’s debts before my own. My uncle Beaupré was not long in hearing
of my lavish expenditure, and remonstrated with me in his daughter’s
name. But a devil seemed to have entered into me—and when I found that I
had caused a large portion of my fortune to disappear, I attempted to
remedy the evil by staking more recklessly than before. At last the
crash came, and my eyes were opened. Monsieur Duplat had persuaded me to
stand security for an extravagant sum of money by which, as he said, he
was to be made independent for life, and the day after he got it he
decamped, leaving me in the lurch to meet all his liabilities as well as
my own. The creditors swooped down upon me like birds of prey. I found
that Duplat had procured valuables all over the town in my name, besides
forging it for a large amount of ready money from my bankers, and I was
literally ruined.’
‘What an ingrate!’ I exclaimed. ‘Oh, monsieur! I am sure that, with your
generous spirit, the ingratitude of it was the hardest part to bear.’
‘It was not calculated to raise my opinion of human nature,
mademoiselle, and when I thought of poor little Corinne, and how it
would have broken her heart to see her father’s conduct to me, I was
glad that she was safe in heaven, and freed from it all. My uncle came
to Paris as soon as he knew of my ruin, and informed me that all idea of
a marriage between _mademoiselle ma cousine_ and myself was at an end,
which I was not sorry to hear. It was found that twelve years’ income
would only suffice to discharge the debts for which I was liable; my
estates in Versailles and Lausanne being entailed and consequently not
marketable. I had the choice, therefore, of two alternatives—to
expatriate myself to this place and live upon a yearly sum of six
thousand francs allowed me by my creditors, or to go to gaol. I chose
the former, though there is but little to choose between them. St.
Pucelle is like a prison to me, and I have only vegetated since I came
here. Conceive if you can, mademoiselle, the change from the life I led
in Paris, and the solitude I now enjoy.’
‘But it will not last for ever, monsieur. How many years have you lived
at the château?’
‘Nine. I was thirty on my last birthday.’
‘Then the time of your probation will soon be up, will it not?’
‘There are three or four years more to run. _Three or four years! Mon
Dieu!_ what an eternity it seems in prospect!’
I hardly knew how to answer him. I longed so much to give him comfort,
but if he could not see the lesson this trial was calculated to teach
him in the same light that I did, I feared my words might irritate
instead of soothe him. So I only said:
‘Monsieur le Baron, don’t despair! There is one person feels very deeply
for you, and that is myself.’
‘You do not despise me, then! You have heard all, and you can still be
my friend.’
‘Most certainly! You have been very weak, but you have not been wicked.
The money you wasted was your own. It was that base ungrateful creature
Duplat that caused your ruin.’
‘Remember that I have told it you in confidence. Even Monsieur Beaupré
does not know the extent to which he robbed me. He was Corinne’s father,
and for her sake I wish, as far as possible, to spare him.’
‘I respect you for the wish; but, monsieur, now that the worst is over,
will you not take courage and look forward to the time that is coming,
when you will begin life anew, and be able to show the world that you
are capable of upholding the honour of your name and of your family?’
‘These terrible years that must intervene,’ he groaned. ‘Sometimes I
wonder if I shall live through them.’
‘Oh yes, you will! You are young and strong. Why should you fear
otherwise? I wish you were married, monsieur! and had a nice wife at the
château, to make it pleasant and cheerful for you. Then the time of
waiting would not seem so long.’
‘Where am I to find a wife, mademoiselle, who will consent to bury
herself in St. Pucelle, on six thousand francs a year, for the next four
years? Tell me, and I will offer her my hand and heart upon the spot.’
Now, I thought, is the time to put in a word for Tessie. His eyes have
but to be opened to see all her virtues for himself.
‘I know of several,’ I answered confidently: ‘sweet good girls, who
would love you for your own merits, and care nothing about your money.
There is Tessie Lovett, for instance. Where could you find a woman that
would make a better wife than she?’
His face fell to about a yard long.
‘Miss Lovett! the very pale one, you mean, with blond locks. Why, she is
like a statue, mademoiselle! She hardly ever opens her mouth. She has no
spirit—no _chic_ about her. I don’t think she would brighten up the old
château very much—nor me either, for the matter of that.’
Oh, the insolence of men! I really began to believe they were all alike,
and never too miserable nor unfortunate to lose their self-conceit. Here
was a young fellow, who had just acknowledged himself to be everything
that was bad and wicked, and unworthy the regard of any woman, turning
up his nose at one of the best and sweetest creatures God ever made,
just because she had not got cheeks as red as peonies, and a tongue that
clacked like a water-mill all day!
‘Why, she is all the better for not talking!’ I exclaimed indignantly.
‘Do you mean to tell me that you like a woman who chatters like a
magpie?’
‘No, mademoiselle. But I like a woman who can converse with me and
sympathise with me; who can scold me a little when I do wrong, and
advise me for my good; and who is brave and unselfish, and has been
brought up by a good mother in whose footsteps she will follow.’
I blushed at this eulogium, because it sounded so much as if it was
meant for myself. But I was true to Tessie notwithstanding.
‘And how do you know, monsieur, that Miss Lovett is not all that you
say?’ I inquired.
‘I do not know—but I have my opinions.’
‘I thought you liked her so much,’ I said disappointedly.
‘So I do. But I will not _like_ my wife, I will _love_ her.’
‘_Petite_ Ange is more sprightly and talkative than her sister,’ I
observed.
‘_Petite_ Ange is a lovely child,’ he answered: ‘nothing more. She is
open and innocent as the day. Any one might deceive her who had the mind
to do so. She loves birds and flowers and the poor, and considers
_monsieur son père_ to be a saint from heaven. _Voilà!_ that is _petite_
Ange.’
‘Do you think she will make the worse wife for being so sweet and
innocent?’
‘Not for a good man, mademoiselle, who can guide her aright; but I am a
bad man who requires guidance. And the woman who can do that must be
something very much higher and better than the ordinary run of women.’
‘Oh, then you had better marry old Denise,’ I said, out of patience with
his trifling. ‘She is old enough and steady enough to keep you straight,
and as she whipped you when you were in petticoats, it will come quite
naturally to her.’
How he laughed at the idea! I had never heard Armand de Nesselrode laugh
before, but now his voice rang out sweet and clear along the deserted
road, and woke the echoes in the hills beyond.
‘I am glad you approve of my proposal,’ I continued, fain to laugh with
him, though I tried hard to prevent it.
‘Mademoiselle, you do me too much honour! I have never yet aspired to a
Baronne de Nesselrode without a tooth left in her head. Now, have
patience whilst I give you a description of the sort of woman I want to
win for my wife.’
But something in his eyes alarmed me, and I would not let him speak.
‘No, no, no!’ I exclaimed hastily, as I jumped up from my grassy seat,
and shook the dust from my skirts. ‘I don’t want to hear it, monsieur: I
have not time. It is very late, and I must go home at once. What will
they all say when they hear of my adventure?’
‘You must not come this way again alone, since you are easily
frightened, mademoiselle. But if you will let me know—me only, you
understand, it is not necessary we should tell our private affairs to
all the world—when you intend to make your promenade upon the Piron
road, I will take care to be within call—not to intrude upon your
privacy, but to be ready in case you desire to appeal to me for
assistance.’
Was he laughing at me, or did he imagine it possible I could permit him
to follow at my heels like a dog or a lacquey, waiting to receive my
orders? I glanced up at his face, expecting to see a twinkle in his eyes
which should prove he was only in jest, but they were solemn as those of
a judge. The Baron de Nesselrode, in his beautiful chivalry and devotion
to the weaker sex, had been really in earnest in making this offer. But
of course I rejected it.
‘It is impossible!’ I replied. ‘You must not dream of such a thing. You
would set all St. Pucelle talking about me!’
‘You think I would be barbarous enough to take advantage of such a trust
by forcing my conversation upon you! Ah, mademoiselle, you do me wrong!
No saint in her niche could be farther removed from the annoyance of my
presence than you should be, if you thought fit to accept my protection
in your solitary rambles.’
‘But I shall not come this way again, monsieur, when I am by myself. And
I could not think of putting you to all the trouble you propose. I am
not used to be attended on, nor to have a _preux-chevalier_ at my heels,
thank you all the same for thinking of it!’
We were walking back to St. Pucelle together now, through the field-path
that I have mentioned. It was a very narrow way; there was scarcely room
sometimes for us to walk abreast, and our conversation was necessarily
impeded.
‘I have not touched a card since the evening that we spoke of it
together,’ said the Baron presently.
‘I thought so, monsieur, and I am so glad to hear it. I am sure you will
never regret your determination. How do you employ your evenings now?’
‘I read and write and smoke; but I am very lonely. Sometimes I almost
think that I shall cut my throat.’
‘Hush! don’t say that! You hurt me.’
‘At first I considered the possibility of turning my talents, such as
they are, to account, in any post of responsibility that a gentleman
might accept. But whilst I remain under the black cloud of debt, there
is no chance of my procuring a Court appointment such as my father held;
and the De Nesselrodes have never stooped to anything lower.’
‘There is no “stooping” in honest labour, monsieur.’
‘I believe you; but caste has its prejudices. No member of my family has
ever been a tutor or a secretary; and if I became so, I should cut off
all hope of reconciliation with my relations when my term of penal
servitude is ended.’
‘Cannot you write and employ your time in instructing or amusing others?
You can see no degradation in that! Men of the noblest blood have been
authors before now.’
‘Oh yes! and raised themselves by the distinction. But one must have
talents to shine before the world, and I am not clever.’
‘Are you not? Mr. Lovett considers you have a mind of a very high order,
and having been intimately associated with some of the first in Europe,
he ought to be a good judge.’
‘He flatters me. But if I have a mind, or any gift for teaching others,
I know how I should like to employ it.’
‘In what way?’
‘You will not be offended, nor say I am very presumptuous?’
‘I think not.’
‘Then I should like to teach you how to speak French.’
If the evening shadows had not fallen by this time, the Baron would have
seen that his remark made me redden. I knew I spoke his language with a
horribly Anglicised accent, but I was ashamed to be told so.
‘I am quite aware I pronounce it like a barbarian,’ I said bluntly.
‘Ah, mademoiselle, now I have offended you. You do not speak it like a
barbarian. Your voice is very sweet, and makes every word that comes
from your mouth sweet also. But there are certain little niceties, the
lights and shades of our language, that it is impossible to acquire
except from conversing with a Parisian; and it is on these points,
unnecessary as they may appear, that I should like to see you perfect.
There is so little to correct, it is but a word or an expression here
and there that betrays you have not acquired the language abroad; and
since I know you have the ambition to speak it well, I thought, if you
would permit me, to aid you——’
‘Monsieur!’ I interrupted him, for my false shame had evaporated by this
time, ‘pray say no more. I know that my accent and my grammar must set
your teeth on edge every time you hear them, and it is very good of you
to wish to correct them. I am infinitely obliged, but what am I to say
about it? What would your relations think if they heard that a De
Nesselrode had turned French tutor to a raw English girl?’
‘Let them say what they will! Only say yourself that I may give you a
few lessons.’
‘But where am I to take them?’
‘Here—anywhere—so it be out in the beautiful country, with the blue sky
over our heads and the flowers springing around us, and not shut up in a
dull room in the house.’
This seemed so much like making appointments with him, that I hardly
knew what to answer.
‘I cannot agree to meet you at any particular time, monsieur, without
telling my guardian. It would not be _comme il faut_. We English girls
are allowed more liberty than our French sisters, but to make
appointments with gentlemen without the knowledge of our friends is
going a little too far. If we meet by accident, however, I shall always
be glad to take any hints you may be good enough to give me.’
‘I will walk about every day and all day till I _do_ meet you,’ he
replied fervently.
I laughed, but I felt flattered. Why should Armand de Nesselrode take
such an interest in my rough unmusical tongue?
‘And what are you going to charge for your lessons?’ I asked him
jestingly; ‘I am not very rich, you know, so you must not lead me into
extravagance.’
‘_What am I to charge for my lessons!_’ he repeated after me slowly.
‘Ah! mademoiselle, the price will be very, _very_ high, but you shall
take your own time to pay me.’
I was just going to ask what he meant, when we came within sight of
another couple advancing to meet us. Not really to meet us though, but
creeping slowly along the pathway deeply engaged in talk, with their
heads close together and their eyes cast on the ground. The Baron and I
were walking one after the other, duck fashion, but our two friends were
side by side.
‘It is Monsieur Charteris!’ exclaimed my companion, who had the eye of a
hawk.
‘_Is_ it?’ I returned incredulously. ‘Are you sure? Who can the lady
be?’
As I mooted the question, I thought of Miss Markham. I knew how silly
and romantic she was, delighting in moonlight walks and secret
assignations, and could imagine how she had waylaid Cave Charteris
smoking under the garden wall, and dragged him out into the fields, with
his will or against it. A man can hardly refuse a woman’s request point
blank to her face.
Silly creature that she was! How could she possibly remain so blind to
the fact that her attentions were not agreeable to him!
As I meditated somewhat in this strain, we came right upon the
opposition couple before they were aware of our propinquity, and I
almost ran into Mr. Charteris’s arms.
‘Here is an encounter!’ I said merrily. The woman by his side lifted her
head, and, to my utter astonishment, I saw the beautiful face of Angela
Lovett. ‘_Ange!_’ I exclaimed, ‘what are you doing here—where is Tessie?
Why didn’t she come with you?’
There was such a ring of wonder and, I suppose, dissatisfaction in my
voice, that Mr. Charteris at once took up the cudgels in defence of his
fair companion.
‘I think we shall be justified in putting the same question, Miss Marsh.
What are _you_ doing here, walking alone with Monsieur de Nesselrode?’
‘Oh! _our rencontre_ was a mere accident,’ I replied, with vexation. ‘I
was on the Piron road when I met a horrid animal, half wolf and half
dog, and I thought it was a real wolf and was terribly frightened, and
the Baron happened to meet me, and so——’
‘Oh! did you see one of those savage-looking sheep-dogs, Hilda dear!’
exclaimed Ange, who appeared as ready as myself to drop the subject of
the company she had been detected in keeping. ‘I do not wonder it
alarmed you. I was very nearly bitten by one once. It flew out of a
cottage and attacked me. Papa was so frightened, he wanted to have it
killed; but it wasn’t mad, you know. The village children had been
teasing it, and it took fright at a stick I carried in my hand. But I am
surprised you have not seen one before. There are so many about St.
Pucelle.’
She had left Mr. Charteris’s side and linked her arm in mine, and she
leaned on me with a confiding pressure which seemed to say, ‘Don’t tell
of me.’ I didn’t quite like it, and yet it would have been hard to say
why I was annoyed, for Ange ran about St. Pucelle as she listed, and
gave account of her proceedings to no one.
‘Where is Tessie?’ I reiterated, looking down into the soft violet eyes
that were raised so confidingly to mine.
‘At home, dear, reading to papa. It was so hot indoors, I thought I
should prefer the fields.’
‘Did you come this way to meet me?’
‘No! I didn’t know where you were. Tessie thought you had gone to see
Mrs. Carolus. It is more than two hours since you left home.’
I started guiltily. Put upon my oath to guess the time of my absence, I
should really have thought it had been about thirty or forty minutes.
‘Let us go back as fast as we can then, Ange, or they will begin to
think we have eloped altogether.’
We were both so evidently anxious to have nothing more said about the
companions of our pilgrimage, that we talked on every subject but that
of our evening stroll, and left the gentlemen to amuse each other in the
rear whilst we scuttled home together arm-in-arm, like two rabbits that
had taken fright and were hurrying back to the warren.
But after I had retired to rest that night, I could not help thinking of
dear little Ange, and wondering how she came to choose Mr. Charteris for
her cavalier. I supposed it was very natural she should do so. I had
left him smoking sulkily under the garden wall, and when she came out
for her evening stroll, he had probably proffered the same request to
her that he did to me, and she could hardly have refused him. What
nonsense it was to think twice about such a trifle! Yet I did think of
it, many more times than twice.
Ange was too good and pious to derive any harm from ordinary intercourse
with Cave Charteris, whose opinions on most subjects would be more
calculated, I thought, to shock than to charm her; but she was very
young and unsophisticated, and her father was far too careless of her.
Yet what business was it of mine? The fear of being thought meddlesome
has more than once deterred me from doing what I considered right in
life. It deterred me now.
[Illustration: [Fleuron]]