QUARTE AND TIERCE.
Monsieur Bagasse, meanwhile, resuming his equanimity, stood sighting
beyond the muzzle of an invisible cannon, as if the door was the mark,
looking very much like some slovenly, awkward old artilleryman, of an
uncouth pattern, and not at all like a fencing-master. The door flew open
presently with a bang, letting in two smart young men not yet out of
their teens, who swaggered forward with a very rakish, gasconading air.
Milk street clerks—Fisk and Palmer by name—snobbish in dress and rude in
manners.
“Bon swor, Monsoor,” said Palmer, loud and patronizing. This address,
couched in a purely domestic French, was intended both as an elegant
recognition of the nationality of Monsieur Bagasse, and as a way of
bidding him good morning. The old man, who with ready politeness had
silently saluted the new comers upon their entrance, surveyed the speaker
over the rims of his round goggles, with open mouth, and an odd smile on
his upturned visage.
“Ha, Miss’r Pammer,” he said with vivacity, “you zink ze day is gone, eh?”
Palmer, who was taking off his coat, stopped and stared.
“I don’t understand you, Monsoor,” he rejoined; “I’m going to take my
lesson.”
“Hah! Zat is well,” said the old man. “But you say, _bon soir_, Miss’r
Pammer. Zat is, good night. You intend _bon jour_; zat is, good day.”
Palmer, seeing the grotesque, good-natured face of the fencing-master
smiling at him, and beginning to comprehend what his domestic French
had meant, grinned rather foolishly, and turned off. His companion, who
stood in his shirtsleeves with a wire-mask already on his face, burst
into a rude guffaw at the blunder, and slapped him on the back with a
fencing-glove. It may be mentioned here that these young cubs, in process
of getting their taste for the wolf’s milk of trade, had come upon the
heady wine of Dumas’ “Three Guardsmen”—which admirable romance had so
intoxicated their ardent fancy with excited day-dreams of D’Artagnan and
Porthos, that, filled with the spirit of the sword, they had resolved
to take fencing-lessons of Monsieur Bagasse. This practical recognition
of the literary genius of the great French mulatto, was one incident in
their joint career. Another, not so creditable, was their participation
in a mob of clerks and salesmen, who not long before had brawled down an
orator of Dumas’ own color—Frederick Douglass—at the Thompson meeting in
Faneuil Hall. It is to be feared that the gallant Alexandre himself would
have fared no better at their hands, or their employers’ either, had he
ever been fool enough to leave the democratic streets of Paris, for the
color-phobic pavements of Boston.
Monsieur Bagasse put away his pipe and spectacles, shuffled across the
room to shut the door which the cubs had left open, and returning took
down a foil and glove to give the lesson. Fisk was buckling on Palmer’s
plastron, as the leathern breastplate is called, an operation rather
hindered by his sense of the supercilious smile with which Witherlee
regarded his efforts from his chair against the wall, as well as by the
circumstance of his having his face incased in the wire mask, and his
arms hampered by the heavy leather gloves which he was holding with his
elbows against his sides. While Monsieur Bagasse waited, standing in an
awkward drooping posture, with the foil in his gloved hand, a firm step
was heard bounding up the stairs, the door flew open, and, with a light,
springing tread, a young man, flushed and smiling, and so handsome that
any one would have turned to look at him, darted in, bringing with him a
warm gust of fragrance into the chill musty pallor of the room. An odd,
fond smile shot at once to the visage of the fencing-master.
“Ha, good monning, good monning, Missr Wentwort’,” he chirruped,
returning with a military salute the quick gesture of gay cordiality the
young man made on entering. “How you feel to-day?”
“Capital! most potent, grave and reverend seignior! My very noble and
approved good fencing-master, how are you? Hallo, Fernando,” his eye
catching sight of the equably-smoking Witherlee: “here you are again, old
fellow?”
“Just so, Heliogabalus,” coolly drawled the bilious-cynical youth from
his chair. “Say, Heliogabalus—do you know how to get that smell out of
your clothes? Bury ’em!”
There was a decided flavor of verjuice in the manner of Witherlee, as
he let fly this borrowed jest at the perfumed raiment of the other.
Wentworth, though he took it as a jest, could not help wincing a little
at it, and was made even more uncomfortable at the application to him of
the name of one of the most bestial of the Roman Emperors.
“Well, Fernando,” he returned with a smile, “if ever there was a prickly
cactus, you’re one. You’re a perfect Diogenes. Get a tub, Fernando, do.”
“Quarte and tierce, Heliogabalus,” responded the cool Fernando, with his
turtle-husky chuckle.
Wentworth turned away, and met the smiling look of admiration and
fondness on the upturned visage of the old man-at-arms. A handsome young
fellow, in the very flower of youth and May, elegantly dressed—who
could look at him without admiration and fondness? An artist—one could
have told that at the first glance. Long auburn locks curled in a thick
cluster under his dark Rubens hat, and around his florid cheeks. He had
a gay, electric, passionate face; bright blue eyes; a fair complexion;
red lips, shaded by a light brown moustache coquettishly curled up at the
ends, and quick to curve into a proud, brilliant smile. His figure was
compact, well-knit, shapely, of middle-height, and seeming taller than it
was by force of its gallant carriage. The quality of his face was in his
voice—so quick, lively, clear and ringing.
“Ah, Missr Wentwort’,” said the old man, in hoarse tones, which were yet
soft and facile, “you bring me back ever so far—you look so gay! You look
as I sall feel wis my young blood tirty, tirty-five years ago. We marsh
zen wis ze great Nap-oleon dis mont’, all so proud, so gallant, for zat
dam Waterloo. Hah! I feel zen jus’ like you. So young—so gay! Wis my
littel flower like zat at my bouton—ze flower zat ze pretty girl haf give
me. Jus’ so.”
He touched a nosegay of violets in the young man’s buttonhole with the
hilt of the foil as he spoke. Wentworth laughed lightly, taking out the
nosegay.
“Jupiter! Bagasse,” he cried, “you shall have the flowers for the sake
of the memory. What are you grinning at, Fernando!” This to Witherlee,
whose cynical grin changed into a cool lift of the eyebrows. “Now,
Bagasse,” resumed Wentworth, “I’ll give them to you since they remind you
of old times. Here, let me fix them in your jacket. There now—guard them
well against every foil. Violets, you know, Monsieur Bagasse! Worn in
remembrance of Corporal Violet—the great little corporal!”
The old man bowed low, with the violets on his breast. With the rush of
thrilling souvenirs which the pet name of the beloved Emperor revived, a
dark glow came to his rugged visage, and the one bright eye grew suddenly
dim, leaving the face blind. Wentworth saw that he was touched, and with
a quick regret that he had brought a tear to the old heart, turned away,
humming an air.
“But where’s Harrington, I wonder?” he burst out, whirling around again.
“He said he’d be here before me.”
“He will come pretty soon, I zink, Missr Wentwort’,” replied Monsieur
Bagasse. “You haf seen him dis morning?”
“Oh, yes. I found him, as usual, pegging away at the books, and we walked
out together. Afterward we went with him, Witherlee and I, to his room,
and then started out again to come here. He left us on the way, saying
he’d be here before us, and I left Witherlee on the way, saying I’d be
here before him. Two promises of pie-crust, those. I’ll bet a denier,
Fernando, that dog has something to do with his absence,” and the young
artist laughed.
“No doubt,” returned Witherlee, smoking, with a sarcastic smile. “Perhaps
he’s commencing his education—developing, on Kant’s principle, all the
perfection of which the doggish nature is capable.”
“Dog?” inquired Monsieur Bagasse, curiously.
“Oh, it’s a dog we passed this morning,” explained Wentworth; “a
miserable old vagabond white cur, with just about life enough in him to
crawl. Some Irish and negro boys were lugging the poor old devil along by
the ears and tail, and whacking him with sticks, as we came along, and
Harrington, of course, stopped to order them off.”
“Bright in Harrington,” put in Witherlee, with a sneer; “as if they
wouldn’t be at him again before we’d gone twenty yards!”
“Yes, by Jupiter, but before we had gone twenty yards, Fernando, you and
I went into the shop, you know, where you bought the cigars, and it was
there that Harrington said he had to go back to the house for something,
and made off with himself. It never occurred to me till now—but I’ll bet
a franc he went back to those boys!”
He burst into a peal of laughter at the idea.
“I’d give something to know what Harrington did with the old cur,” he
said in a moment.
“Took him off to the butcher’s perhaps, and sold him for sausages,”
suggested Witherlee.
“Ah, Missr Wentwort’,” said the old man, grotesquely serious, “you
friend, Missr Harrin’ton, is vair fine, vair mush humane, vair fine
zhentilman. I feel vair mush warm to him.”
“Rather too much of the Don Quixote order, though,” drawled Witherlee,
affectedly, giving the Spanish pronunciation to the ‘Don Quixote’ and
calling it Don Kehoty.
“O you be hanged, Fernando,” burst in Wentworth. “He’s no more like Don
Kehoty, as you call it, than you’re like Sancho Panza. He’s the grandest
fellow that ever lived, and makes me ashamed of myself every day of my
life. Hallo, I guess he’s coming.”
Witherlee, biliously pale with spite at the double injury of his
pronunciation of “Don Quixote” having been mimicked, and Harrington
having been so warmly praised, busied himself with adjusting the loosened
skin of his cigar, while Monsieur Bagasse and Wentworth turned to the
door, which voices and trampling feet were nearing. Presently the door
opened and a group of seven or eight poured in with a confusion of
salutations. Four or five of them were young mercantiloes, and instantly
swarmed around Fisk and Palmer, who were still fussing over the plastron.
One was a heavy, taciturn man—a Pennsylvania Dutchman—with blue, fishy
eyes, a sodden face and a yellow beard. His name was Whilt, and he kept a
wine-cellar, and boarded with Monsieur Bagasse. With him was another of
the fencing-master’s boarders—a tall, slender, handsome, swaggering young
man, half-soldier, half-coxcomb in his bearing, with bright dark eyes,
brilliant color, long black hair, well oiled and curled, and a long,
slim, black moustache, shaved into two sections, and clinging to his
upper lip, and curving around his moist, scarlet mouth, like two flaccid
leeches. He was fancifully clad in bright blue, tight-fitting trowsers,
a short, rakish coat, gay vest and neckerchief, wore his falling
collar open at the throat, and had a Kossuth hat, with a black plume,
set smartly on his head. This was Captain Vukovich, a young Hungarian
officer, who had come over in the train of Kossuth. Though it was only
eight o’clock, he and Whilt had a strong smell of Rhine wine about them,
which they diffused through the room upon entering.
“How are you, Whilt,” said Wentworth, carelessly nodding. “Captain, how
are you? I thought you had gone on to New York with Kossuth.”
Wentworth had the Kossuth furor, prevalent about that time, and saluted
Vukovich with a touch of enthusiasm.
“No,” responded the Hungarian, in a soft voice, conceitedly fingering
his moustache, and swaying on his shapely legs as he spoke. “No, I stays.
Se Gofernor go on, an’ I stays back. I sink to keep cigar shop in Bosson
pretty soon. So I stays. Goot tay, Mossieu Bagasse. How you feel?”
He begun to talk in French to the fencing-master, and Wentworth, full
of fiery sentiment for liberty and Hungary, moved away to the foils,
humming the Marseillaise. Presently, Palmer and Fisk were ready, and
Monsieur Bagasse, after much preliminary effort to get Palmer into strict
position, began to give him his lesson.
Both Witherlee and Wentworth were very sensitive to all forms of
artistic beauty, and they now saw, with strange pleasure, as they had
often seen before, the wonderful transformation of the fencing-master’s
awkward, sloven figure. Looking at him in his ordinary aspect, nobody
would ever have imagined that he was cut out for a pillar of the school
of arms. But now, as he threw himself into the noble attitude of the
exercise, every deformity seemed suddenly to have dropped from his face
and figure, and vanished. The head erect and proud—the lit face turned
square in rugged, grand repose, with the visor of the old cap looking
now like the raised visor of a helmet—the one eye firm and jewel-bright,
fixed on his adversary’s—the left arm thrown up and out behind in easy
balance—the body set in perfect poise on legs as strong as iron, as
flexible as steel—and the lithe foil gently playing from the extended
ease of his right arm over the stiff guard of his antagonist, like a
line of living light—so, with every trait and outline of his figure
blended into an indescribable ensemble, he stood, an image of martial
grace, superb and invincible. For one instant, the two young men drank
in with eager eyes the beauty of that military statue—the next, Palmer’s
blade lunged in swift and stiff—was parried wide aside with a light,
almost imperceptible, deft motion, and a flashing clash—and the figure
of Bagasse had changed into another statue of martial grandeur, the left
arm down aslope with the left leg, the body heaved forward on the bent
right knee, the right arm up and out in strong extension, and the foil,
a gleaming curve of steel, with its buttoned point on the breast of the
adversary.
Only a second, and while murmurs of applause ran round, the first
position was resumed.
“You see now, Miss’r Pammer,” politely said the fencing-master, breaking
the spell, “I hit you zen, be-cause you longe off you guard. Now see—I
show you how.”
He dropped his point, and explained to Palmer where he had done wrong,
showing him with his own foil the way the pass should have been made.
Palmer promised to remember, and the lesson went on.
Presently, while they were on guard, Palmer was wrong again—this time
in his position. Bagasse, smiling politely, lowered his point; whereat,
Palmer, with immense haste, lunged in, and triumphantly bent his foil on
the breast of the fencing-master, who, of course, made no effort to ward.
The young mercantiloes, delighted with this evidence of their friend’s
proficiency, set up a cry of bravo. Witherlee sneered to himself, and
Wentworth laughed and exchanged glances with the surprised Hungarian,
and the imperturbable Whilt. As for Monsieur Bagasse, he stood, with
upturned visage, smiling with grotesque placidity, then made a grimace,
and limping off to the claret-can, gulped a mouthful, and came hurrying
back. Palmer instantly threw himself on guard, thrilling with vanity, and
confident that he was getting ahead of his fencing-master.
“See, now, Missr Pammer,” said the old man, with great vivacity, smiling
good-naturedly as he spoke; “you parry, now—it is simple quarte and
tierce—vair, vair easy. Hey, now! Hey, now! Hey, now! Hey, now! Four.”
Quietly, at every exclamation, Monsieur Bagasse, without effort, bent
his foil almost double on the breast of his antagonist. Palmer could no
more parry the deft lunges than he could fly. Bagasse stood grinning
good-naturedly at him, and lowered his point. Palmer instantly made a
desperate lunge at the unguarded breast, and the same instant found that
his foil had flown out of his hand, and that the blade of Bagasse was
resting in a firm curve on his bosom.
All present, Palmer included, burst into a roar of laughter. All but the
master, who stood silent, with his curious, good-natured smile on his
upturned visage. It was quite plain to the pupil now, that he could not
touch Monsieur Bagasse on or off guard, unless the latter chose to let
him.
Suddenly, like a light magnetic shock, a silence fell upon the uproarious
mirth, as with a surprised and startled feeling, all present recognized
a new figure, serene in youthful majesty, standing quietly at a little
distance near them, in the full light of the windows. It was Harrington.
They all knew him, but somehow the unexpectedness of his appearance gave
him the momentary effect of a stranger. He was a young man of about
twenty-five, tall and stalwart, and of regnant and martial bearing. His
face, looking out from under a black slouched felt hat, was long and
bearded, singularly open and noble in its character, firm, calm-eyed,
straight-featured, broad-nostrilled, and masculine, but very pale. The
beard was light-brown, and the hair, chestnut in color, and darker than
the beard, curled closely, and was worn somewhat long. A loose, dark
sack, with large sleeves, buttoned with a single button at the throat,
showed the spread of his chest, and added to the commanding grace of his
figure. This was the coat which had been so opprobriously celebrated by
the esthetic Witherlee. It was an old coat certainly, but it was not
the less a well-chosen and graceful garment, and it is questionable
whether if it had hung in tatters, it would have diminished the effect
of a presence in contrast with which the others seemed common-place
and inferior. Witherlee himself, set in comparison with Harrington,
looked unmanly and contemptibly genteel. Whilt was nobody, Vukovich a
simpering fop, the mercantiloes simple snobs. Even the handsome and
gallant Wentworth seemed of a lower order beside him, and Bagasse, in his
uncouth and shabby grotesqueness, though not degraded by the contrast,
was so removed by his essential unlikeness, as to be out of comparison
altogether.
Wentworth was the first to recover from the momentary ghostly trance into
which they had all dropped on discovering Harrington in the room.
“Jupiter Tonans!” he exclaimed: “How—when—where—in what manner did you
arrive, Harrington!”
“Well,” returned Harrington in a sweet and cordial baritone voice,
affably saluting the company, “I didn’t exactly step out from behind
the air, though you all look as if you thought so. I came in just now
prosaically at the door—not stealthily either, for John Todd, there, both
heard and saw me. But you were all in such a tempest of merriment that no
one but Johnny noticed me. Come—go on with the fun. Tell me what it’s all
about, that I may laugh too.”
“O, I just disarmed Monsoor—that’s all,” said Palmer.
This quip, though slight, was sufficient to set the group off again in
a confusion of jests and laughter, in the midst of which Harrington
wandered over to the pistol bench, and began to chat with the young
fellow while the bout between Monsieur Bagasse and his pupil went on.
In a few minutes Monsieur Bagasse came over to the claret-can in that
region, drank, and took the opportunity to shake hands with Harrington,
and ask for his health.
“O by the way, Mr. Bagasse,” said Harrington, after due replication to
the old Frenchman’s polite inquiries, taking from his breast pocket as
he spoke, a bunch of violets inclosed in a funnel of stiff white paper,
“here’s a May gift for you. I thought of you and your Corporal Violet so
instantly when I got this bouquet, that I resolved to present it to you.
Hallo, though! you’ve got one already.”
He had just caught sight of the nosegay in the old slate-colored jacket.
Like his own, it was tied with a pink string. A comical look of surprise
came with a slight flush to his frank, pale face, and his eye glanced
quickly at the young artist who, he saw, was eagerly watching him from
the other side of the room. At the same instant he saw Witherlee looking
with opaque eyes over in his direction, very intent upon the iron vice
on the bench near by, and with a face entirely discharged of expression.
Harrington’s intelligence was almost clairvoyant, and he felt that
Witherlee was watching him and not the vice—felt also that Wentworth’s
gaze meant something connected with his present action. With the feeling,
which was as instantaneous as his glance had been, he caught sight of
the eye of the old Frenchman, roguishly twinkling at him. Harrington was
puzzled.
“Ah, ha, Missr Harrin’ton,” said Monsieur Bagasse in a bantering whisper,
“zere are two ladee zat gif ze vilet, an’ two zhentilmen zat gif ze vilet
too! Eh, now, zem zhentilmen sall not be so vair mush fond of zem ladee
zat zey gif away zere littel bouquet! Ha?”
“Two ladies!” exclaimed Harrington. “How do you know there are two? I
didn’t say so.”
Monsieur Bagasse was caught, and shrugged his humpy shoulders with an
odd grimace. A feeling of honor withheld him from saying how he came by
his information, since that would involve the exposure of the blabbing
Witherlee. Witherlee, meanwhile, fully conscious of the ridiculous
impropriety he had been guilty of, in tattling about his friends’ affairs
to any person, much less the old fencing-master, and momently expecting
to be subjected to the rage of Wentworth, and the rebuke of Harrington,
stood nervously dreading the reply of Bagasse, and looking pale in spite
of himself. Wentworth, for his part, taking a true-lover’s stand-point,
was considerably amazed to see Harrington, whom he thought the secret
lover of Miss Ames, so coolly bestowing her nosegay on the old Frenchman.
As for Harrington, he was divided between wonder at Wentworth, for having
not only given to the old Frenchman the flowers he had received from
Miss Eastman—whom he in turn thought Wentworth secretly loved—but having
also, as he naturally supposed, made the old Frenchman his confidant, at
least to the extent of telling him of the two ladies and of their gifts.
Fisk and Palmer were at it, quarte and tierce, with the foils. Meanwhile,
there was a game of quarte and tierce of another sort begun between four,
all against each other, and Monsieur Bagasse had just been buttoned.
Harrington smiled good-naturedly, and silently gave the violets to
the fencing-master, who took them and bowed without a word. Just then
Wentworth approached with a composed air, which was so evidently assumed
that Harrington began to laugh. Wentworth’s florid color had paled a
little, but he answered Harrington’s laugh with a constrained smile,
looking meanwhile in his face.
“Well, Harrington,” he said, with an unsuccessful attempt at
carelessness, “what the deuce is there in my giving Bagasse the violets,
to make you show your maxillary muscles and the teeth under, your beard
so delightedly? Hanged if I see anything to laugh at.”
The maxillary muscles, which were unusually developed in Harrington’s
cheeks, and always wrinkled them when he laughed, relaxed at this, but
his white, regular teeth still showed in a curious, half-sad, half-absent
smile, as he fixed his clear, broad gaze wistfully on the face of his
friend. Wentworth, nettled at the mystery of a look he could not fathom,
became peevish, and began to twirl his moustache, half smiling, half
irritated.
“Don’t be vexed, Wentworth,” said Harrington, throwing his long arm
affectionately around the latter’s shoulder, and moving away up the
room with him, while Bagasse shuffled off to his pupils. “I laughed
thoughtlessly—but, frankly, I was somewhat surprised to see that you had
given away the violets. That was all.”
“All!” exclaimed Wentworth. “And why shouldn’t I give them away? They
were mine, weren’t they? Why, you gave yours away too, didn’t you?”
“To be sure,” replied Harrington, with a bothered air, adding tranquilly,
“Emily gave them to me, and I gave them to Bagasse.”
“Well,” retorted Wentworth, “Muriel gave them to me and I gave them to
Bagasse also. What of it?”
Harrington, who could not see into this matter at all, was silent, and
stroked his beard with his hand, a habit of his when he was very much
puzzled.
“No matter—it’s a trifle,” he said lightly, after a pause. “Only,
Richard, to be very plain with you—I hope you’ll not think me
intrusive—well, I thought it was—odd—that you should have given away the
flowers Muriel gave you.”
He spoke these words with marked, but delicate significance—stammering
and hesitating a little in his speech, which was unusual with him. It
was the first allusion he had ever made to Wentworth’s supposed love for
Miss Eastman. Loving her himself, it was not made without a pang. If
Wentworth had been cool, he could not but have understood it. As it was,
it only put him in a rage.
“Well, if I ever heard the like of this!” he sputtered. “To be very plain
with me—what in thunder—blast it all, Harrington, what are you driving
at? Why, I was struck all of a heap at the oddity of your giving away
Emily’s nosegay, and here you turn upon me and tell me it’s odd—yes, odd,
that I should give away Muriel’s! What’s the difference, I’d like to
know? Now, just tell me!”
Harrington was silent, and again stroked his beard, wondering what sort
of cross-purposes they were playing at. Wentworth stood for a moment with
flushed face and passionate eyes, angry with Harrington for the first
time in his life, and then walked away in great exasperation.
Perplexed and amazed at this state of affairs, and grieved to think he
had, however unwittingly, angered his friend, Harrington stood looking
after him, irresolute whether to follow and attempt an explanation now,
or wait till his fume was over. Presently, he resolved to wait, and sadly
musing, began to pace to and fro at the upper end of the long room.
On his way down to the fencing-ground, Wentworth was met by Witherlee,
who had been watching the conference, and though he could not catch
a word, knew well enough by Wentworth’s excited tones then, and by
his flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes now, that there had been some
difference between the two.
“What’s the matter, Richard?” he asked, kindly.
“O nothing, nothing!” fretfully replied the vexed Wentworth, taking off
his Rubens hat, dashing back the thick curls from his handsome, sloping
forehead with a hasty hand, and passionately slapping on the hat again.
“I am very sorry, very. Harrington is really very aggravating sometimes,”
ventured the kind Fernando.
At any other time Wentworth would have resented this insidious speech, as
a slander upon the gentle Harrington. But now—
“He’s the most aggravating fellow I ever knew in my life,” was his hot
answer.
“Well, I wouldn’t go so far as that,” returned Fernando, with mild
moderation. “By no means. Harrington has fine qualities, you know. You
should remember that the best of us are apt to be a little forgetful when
our own personal interests, or wishes, or affections are involved.”
Blandly and kindly said, with just a shade of hesitating emphasis on
“personal” and “affections”—just a shade.
“What do you mean by that, Fernando?” asked Wentworth, almost choking,
and catching at the insidious hint, which the good Fernando had made
almost impalpable by throwing it out with the easy manner of one uttering
a mere generality.
“Mean?” he asked, with a delicate shade of bewilderment, “why nothing
particular, that I know of.”
But he smiled slightly and lifted his handsome eyebrows very slightly,
and then lapsed into an expression of soft compassion.
“Yes, I understand,” said Wentworth, walking away in passionate misery.
What particular meaning the good Fernando’s vague words and mysterious
looks expressed, nobody could have told. It was their especial beauty,
perhaps, that they really expressed nothing definite at all, and were
merely random spurs to the imagination of the listener, goading him on
the path he happened to be pursuing. Wentworth’s path at that moment was
the vague suspicion that Harrington was selfishly supplanting him in
his relation to Emily. It was a path out of which he had turned several
times, urged by his strong sense of Harrington’s perfect nobility, but
he was now in it again, and with the talented Fernando’s last bunch of
thorns insidiously tied to his galloping fancy, and stinging it on, he
was going at a headlong pace for mad jealousy and outright hostility, and
would soon be there.
Witherlee, meanwhile, highly gratified at the success of his insinuations
with Wentworth, was enjoying the young artist’s distress when he caught
sight of Harrington standing at the upper end of the room, and looking
at him. It was embarrassing, and he was about to avert his eyes, but at
that instant Harrington beckoned to him. He hesitated, and then with
considerable trepidation, for he did not know what was coming, he walked
up the room.
Harrington’s face was introverted and sad, and his eyes were fixed on
vacancy. Witherlee felt glad that the broad gaze did not rest on his
face, for he feared its inquest.
“Fernando,” said Harrington, calmly and kindly, though with evident
embarrassment, “I want to speak with you on a very delicate subject. You
have known Miss Eastman and Miss Ames a long time—much longer than I
have. You”—
Harrington paused for a moment. Witherlee’s heart beat an alarmed tattoo,
though his colorless face was perfectly impassible.
“Richard is in a strange state lately,” resumed Harrington, smiling
vaguely. “You must have noticed it, Fernando. Just now, he spoke to me
in a manner which I do not understand. Something frets him. Have you any
idea what it is?”
“Not the least, though I’ve noticed it,” returned the imperturbable
Fernando.
“Well, I haven’t either,” said Harrington. “But see here. You remember
what you said to me at my room about a week ago. Previous to that
conversation, it was my own fancy that Richard was very much attached
to Miss Ames. You surprised me very much when you told me you thought
his feeling was for—for Muriel. I never should have guessed it. You
astonished me still more by what you told me after that. But something
Richard said just now made me fancy that you may have been mistaken, and
I want to ask you if you are perfectly sure of what you saw.”
Harrington paused again, nervously twitching his beard with his large
shapely hand. Before Witherlee could reply, he went on again.
“Let me recall that conversation,” he said. “You sat in my arm-chair
smoking, and you were praising Muriel, which was pleasant for me to
hear. Presently, you remarked, ‘she’ll make Wentworth a superb wife,’
and then you quoted from Tennyson’s ‘Isabel’—‘the queen of marriage, a
most perfect wife.’ I was, I own, amazed. ‘Why, Wentworth?’ I asked. You
looked surprised, and said, ‘Why not Wentworth?’ Then you added—‘When
people love, don’t they marry?’ ‘Certainly,’ I returned, ‘but you are
mistaken, I think.’ ‘I think not,’ you replied, with a manner so cool and
positive, that I was, to be frank with you, a little annoyed. I was about
to drop the subject there, for it seemed to me hardly fair to canvass
such a matter, when you remarked, ‘In fact, I _know_ I’m not.’ I replied,
‘It is quite impossible that you should _know_ it, Fernando, though you
may have what seem to you strong reasons for believing it.’ You answered,
rather unkindly it appeared to me—‘Do you doubt my word?’ ‘Not at all,’ I
said. ‘How can you think so—it’s not a question of veracity at all, but
of judgment?’ ‘Well,’ said you, ‘I have proof—ocular proof—I wouldn’t say
it if you didn’t put me to it.’ And then you told me that you visited the
house the previous afternoon, and as you were entering the parlor, you
saw Richard and Muriel standing together at the other end of the room,
with their arms around each other, and saw them kiss each other. You drew
back instantly, you said, without having been perceived by them, and made
a clatter in the hall before you entered again. I could hardly forgive
you at the time for having told me what you saw, or myself for having
listened to you, for it was not a thing to be either told of or listened
to. But I grant it happened naturally enough in the heat of the moment,
and after all, I am glad to have known of an occurrence, the knowledge of
which may prevent misunderstanding and trouble.”
Harrington paused once more, with vague emotion struggling in his
features and his eyes fixed sadly on vacancy. The truth of the matter
was this: Witherlee had seen on the occasion referred to, two persons in
the attitude described, one of whom was Wentworth, and the other a young
lady who, at the first glance, he thought was Muriel, inasmuch as she
wore a lilac dress such as Muriel wore at times. He had, as he had said,
retreated instantly—quite astounded too, for he had made up his mind that
Emily was Wentworth’s sweetheart. But on entering again, he saw that he
had been mistaken, and that the lady with Wentworth was not Muriel, but
Emily. The illusion, however, made a strong impression on his fancy, and
his mind teemed with tempting imaginings of Wentworth and Muriel in the
Romeo and Juliet tableau. It was an easy step in his controversy with
Harrington, begun simply for aggravation and continued with an obstinate
desire to establish what he had so impudently assumed, to present his
fancy as a fact, and insist upon it. This was a fair specimen of one
of the good Fernando’s lies, which were rarely sheer inventions, but
generally had a basis of truth in them.
“Now, Fernando,” resumed Harrington, “I want to ask you whether it is
possible that you could have been mistaken? Are you absolutely sure that
it was Muriel you saw with Wentworth, and not Miss Ames?”
Fernando’s drowsy conscience awoke just enough to give him a lethargic
pinch, and dozed off again.
“I do not see, Harrington,” he replied with an injured air, “how I could
be mistaken. There was nobody else in the room but Wentworth and Muriel
when I first looked in. Emily was coming in through the conservatory door
at the end of the parlor as I entered, but she was not there before.”
This was an ingenious transposition of the fact. It was Muriel who came
in at the conservatory door, and not Emily. But Fernando had covered his
position famously. In the event of the truth coming out, he could swear
that in the confusion of the moment he had mistaken one lady for the
other, apologize profusely, and make the explanation seem plausible.
“It was certainly Muriel,” he resumed. “Still the affair may be
susceptible of a different interpretation. You must concede at least that
Muriel and Wentworth like each other very much, and they might kiss each
other and still be only friends.”
“No,” said Harrington, firmly—“that is not possible. That is not like
Muriel. I know her too well to suppose that for a moment. If she kissed
Wentworth, she loves him. I do not doubt you, Fernando. Their present
close intimacy with each other confirms your story, I own. But something
Richard said just now shook my belief—made me think, in fact, that you
were in error, and I wanted to be doubly sure that you were not. Let me
only say that I have a better motive for this inquiry than curiosity—and
now let all this be forgotten. Never mention it again, I beg of you, to
any person. Let it all pass forever.”
Witherlee’s conscience smote him terribly, and he felt maddened at his
meanness, as Harrington strode away. But he was fully committed to his
course, and to own his fault was impossible with him.
Wentworth, meanwhile, was standing apart with a gloomy face, listlessly
watching the fencing. His fancy was still galloping furiously with him
to the goal of the jealous lover, but it began to swerve from the track
in spite of him, as he saw Harrington coming down the room. Harrington’s
mere presence was a constant demand on every person for the best that was
in them; and before the conquering sweetness of his smile, Wentworth’s
jealous doubts and suspicions at once scattered and fled, and his nobler
feelings rushed forward. The tears filled his bright eyes as Harrington
came straight up to him and caught his hand. He tried to speak, but his
lips faltered.
“Richard, I ask your pardon,” said Harrington. “I am sorry to have
annoyed you; but it was entirely unintentional. I want to have a talk
with you, that we may understand each other better. Not now—another time.
In the meantime, let us be friends.”
Wentworth wrung his hand, wholly vanquished, and unable to say a word.
“Come,” said Harrington, gaily, with the muscles in his cheeks wrinkling
again, and his teeth gleaming in his beard, with a rich smile—“come, that
was only a zephyr. Let’s go fence.”
No more was said, and they went over to the fencing-ground, where Fisk
was being punched and poked and interjected at and admonished by Monsieur
Bagasse, to his utter bewilderment. In a few minutes, the master got
through with him, and set him and Palmer to practise against each other.
He then turned to Wentworth, who had taken off hat and coat, and was
chattering like a mercurial magpie, with his handsome face enveloped in a
mask.
“Come, now, Missr Wentwort’,” said Bagasse. “You pink zat ozzer vilet if
you can. _En garde._”
Wentworth laughed, and, crossing blades, they fell to. The young artist
fenced briskly and well, though somewhat rashly. Once he contrived to
touch the fencing-master on the arm, for which lucky stroke he got paid
with half a dozen in succession on his breast.
“Thunder!” he exclaimed as he got the last, “what’s the use of fencing
with you, Bagasse? Nobody can touch you, and you’re as light on your pins
as though you were twenty.”
The old man chuckled grimly, relapsing into his clumsiest and most
ungainly attitude.
“Light!” put in Witherlee. “I guess he is. His legs are made of
caout-chouc, I should think, judging by the way he can kick.”
“Oh, yes, I can keek,” returned Bagasse. “I haf my leg pretty su-ple.”
He turned toward the post against which Witherlee was leaning, and laid
his grimy finger on a notch a little above his own head. Witherlee stood
aside, and every eye followed the fencing-master. Suddenly, rising on
one foot, he dealt the notch a furious kick, amidst cries of “good” and
“bravo.” Sure enough, the leg had flown up to the mark, like a leg of
india-rubber.
“Ha!” he exclaimed, complacently, “you do zat, you young men. Try
now—evairy one.”
Wentworth tried first, kicked high, but did not come within a foot of the
mark. Whilt came next, stolid and taciturn, kicked, and tumbled over,
amidst general laughter. Vukovich lifted his shapely leg, kicked within
half a foot, and split his blue trowsers, at which he looked grieved, and
swore softly in Hungarian, while the rest laughed at him. Then came Fisk
and Palmer and the others, with poor success, and amidst much merriment.
In the quiet that followed, Whilt, who had been as dumb as a skull,
suddenly began to shake and whinny so with guttural mirth, that everybody
looked at him with surprise. It came out, after some inquiry, that he was
laughing at Vukovich for having torn his trowsers, an incident which had
just touched his sense of the ludicrous when everybody else had almost
forgotten it. Of course there was another obstreperous roar of merriment,
and Witherlee told Whilt he laughed too soon—he ought to have waited till
next week—with other sarcasms of the same nature, which the slow Dutchman
took into sober consideration.
“Come, Harrington,” said Wentworth, “you try.”
Harrington had stood apart, smiling amusedly, through all this clatter.
“Ah, Missr Harrin’ton, he can keek wis me,” exclaimed Bagasse. “He keek
sublime.”
Harrington laughed, and advancing, took up a bit of chalk from the floor,
and marked a line on the post, as much above his own head as the notch
had been above the fencing-master’s. Then poising a second, he threw up
his leg, and brought away chalk on his boot. There was a general burst of
acclamation.
“Ah, ha! it is grand—it is superb!” cried Monsieur Bagasse. “Missr
Harrin’ton, he can keek wis me, he can fence wis me, he can shoot wis
me, he can engage wis me in ze broadsword—ze single-steek, he can do
everysing so I can. It is his talent. _Sacrebleu!_ He is for-r-mi-dabble.”
Harrington laughed, with an expression and gesture of deprecation.
“How many men could you fight together, Monsoor?” asked Palmer.
“Me? I fight you all. Evairy one. Togezzer,” replied the Frenchman.
“Mawdoo!” ejaculated Palmer. “Isn’t he a trump!”
“Come, Bagasse, that will do for the marines,” said Wentworth. “You can’t
do it.”
“Ah,” replied the fencing-master, “you zink not? Bah! Come, I show you.”
In a minute he had seven or eight of them, Wentworth, Vukovich, Palmer
and Fisk included, masked and foiled. Then putting his back to the wall,
he directed them to set upon him. It was agreed that if he was touched
the contest was to end there. On the other hand, every combatant touched
was to withdraw.
“Pardoo! It is splendid!” exclaimed Palmer.
“Mawdoo! It is fine!” returned Fisk.
The domestically-pronounced French oaths which prefixed these
asseverations, were, of course, borrowed by Messrs. Fisk and Palmer from
the “Three Guardsmen,” and figured extensively on all possible occasions
in their general conversation.
“Come, Harrington, you too,” cried Wentworth.
“No, no—ex-cuse me—pardon,” interrupted Monsieur Bagasse, smiling,
grimacing and bowing all at once; “not Missr Harrin’ton. Zat will be too
mush—vair many too mush.”
Harrington colored slightly, and laughed. Monsieur Bagasse put on a mask,
threw himself on guard, and stood girt with antagonists, with his foil
playing like a pale gleam, menacing them all. Suddenly it darted—there
was a brisk clatter of parries—and Vukovich was touched. It was a
compliment to the skill of the gallant captain that Bagasse had got rid
of him thus early in the game, and he came off simpering, and stroking
his moustache complacently.
“He keel me fery queek, Meeser Haynton,” he observed to the young man,
who stood attentively watching the contest.
“Ah, Captain,” returned Harrington gaily, addressing him in French, “but
your ghost can fence better than most of us still.”
The captain’s vanity was evidently flattered by the compliment, for he
swelled a little with an air of increased complacency, though he made no
reply. Witherlee, who was standing behind him, a silent observer of the
sport, glanced at him with a bilious sneer. Meanwhile, amidst shouts and
laughter, and noisy appels and glizades, the young men were assailing
Bagasse, trying all sorts of feints and tricks to penetrate his guard.
Harrington watched him admiringly—so statue-still in the tumultuous
press, his awkwardness and shabbiness gone, the wire globe of the mask
giving a weird look to his head, his bent arm holding his assailants
at bay, and the pale gleam of the foil glancing nimbly all about the
arc of the ring. Presently the guarding foil whisked and rattled with a
confusion of brilliant coruscations, playing like elfin lightning all
around the semi-circle—the bent arm of the invincible figure at which
all were lunging, straightened and darted thrice, rapid as a flash—and
amidst mock groans and cries and laughter, Wentworth, Fisk, and Palmer
withdrew. They came away vociferously mirthful, and before they had
well got the masks off their flushed faces, the others were all touched
and followed them, leaving Monsieur Bagasse standing alone, erect and
martial, his one eye glowing like a coal in the proud grotesque smile of
his swarthy visage, his left arm akimbo, holding the mask on his hip, and
the victorious foil held aloft in his right hand, and quivering above his
head like a rod of wizard lustre.
There were loud bravos and clapping of hands. The next instant the statue
of military triumph dropped into the clumsy, sloven figure of Bagasse,
and hobbled off to the claret-can. He came hurrying back presently with
the foil and mask in one hand, and stood, the centre of a great smell
of garlic, grinning curiously at Fisk and Palmer, who, in an ecstasy
of excitement from their recent engagement, were playing they were
D’Artagnan and Porthos, and poking furiously at each other with all the
“Guardsmen” oaths and epigrams in full ventilation.
“Well, Missr Wentwort’, what you zink now?” he asked, triumphantly.
“What do I think? I think you could have let Harrington come on too, and
then have beaten us all,” was the gay reply.
“Ah, no,” returned Monsieur Bagasse, “not wis Missr Harrin’ton.”
“Come, Meeser Haynton,” said Vukovich; “you an’ Mossieu Bagasse. Oblise
me and dese sentilmen.”
At once there was a clamor of beseechings, to which the parties
addressed presently yielded. Witherlee, who hated to see Harrington
fence, because he fenced so well, quietly slipped away from the room.
Fisk and Palmer stopped, and gathered with the others around the
fencing-place. Meanwhile, Monsieur Bagasse took the violets from his
jacket and laid them away; then put on a plastron—an honor he had
not paid to any other of his pupils that day, and resumed his mask.
Harrington took off his coat and vest, and arrayed himself also in mask
and plastron.
They took their places, and after performing the beautiful elaborate
salute of the exercise, fell upon guard. Every eye was riveted on the
stalwart grace of Harrington as he crossed blades with his antagonist.
As for the French gladiator, excited by the coming contest with one who
could call into play all his powers, his attitude was superb, and his
transformation more complete than before.
The contest was begun by a feint, quick and light, on the part of the
fencing-master, and in a second it was pass and parry with a rapturous
flash and clash of steel. Presently the right foot of Bagasse beat
the floor with the loud rat-tat of the appel, and foot and arm and
body sprang forward with a terrific lunge. Harrington, immovable as a
pillar, met it with a swift twirl of the wrist, and the next second both
combatants were still, with their foils locked in a complete spiral from
hilt to point.
Disengaging presently, the combatants saluted amidst suppressed murmurs
of applause, crossed blades once more, and stood with each point seeking
an opening. In a moment or two, Bagasse feinted again, and lunged in
tierce. Harrington parried in seconde, letting his point fly up and his
arm extend in the parry, and pushing home, his foil became a curve with
the button resting on the bosom of the fencing-master.
It was the first hit, and everybody hurrahed. Presently the hurrah burst
forth again for Bagasse, who had hit Harrington. In less than five
minutes the combat grew almost as exciting as a duel with swords. To
follow the dazzling rapidity of the lunges and parries became impossible.
The gazers could only see a nimble play of rattling light between the
two—the lines of the foils lost in curves and gleams of brilliance—and
the gloved sword-arms of the antagonists flying like twirling and darting
shuttles above the clashing coruscations. The interest now centred in
the aspect and expression of the combatants. Bagasse, throwing his
whole fiery nature into the soul-entrancing action of the duel, was in
an ecstasy of martial joy, and lunged and parried with exulting shouts
and cries—a darting, swaying figure, terribly alert and alive, with the
spring and strength of a fury. Harrington, on the contrary, was silent
as death, impassible, elastic, swift—a regnant form of muscular grace
poised in superb aplomb, that fell to half its height in the long lunges,
and rose magnificent in the quick recoils. An atmosphere of fiery ether
seemed to envelop the combatants, spreading its glorious delirium through
the veins of the gazers, and kindling the delight of battle in their
eyes. But as the combat continued, the wild passion of the action became
so intense and real that the heroic glow began to pale and mingle with
a cold affright, and Wentworth, beginning to feel his agitation master
him, was on the point of shouting to Harrington to stop, when there was a
sharp snap, followed by sudden silence, and the combat was over. Bagasse
stood panting through his mask with a broken foil in his hand. Harrington
breathing audibly in long, regular breaths through his, remained in
attitude with his point lowered, like one awakened from a dream. The next
instant, Bagasse broke the silence with a wild shout, and throwing away
mask and foil, flung his arms around Harrington in a joyful embrace, and
bursting away, vented the remnant of his joy by dealing the high notch on
the post a kick that might have brought the roof down.
There was a ringing hurrah, followed by a burst of hearty laughter,
congratulations, and shaking of hands all round.
“But, by Jupiter,” cried Wentworth, “I’m glad its over, for, upon my
word, I began to get frightened. Blessed if I ever saw you two have such
a bout before! Bagasse, you old reprobate, I believe you were in earnest.”
He turned with a peal of laughter upon the old man, who stood exhaling
garlic, and wiping his hot face with a snuffy old red pocket
handkerchief. Bagasse grinned good-naturedly, gave his old moustache a
dab with the handkerchief, and thrusting out the latter with a joyful
gesture, replied:
“I was teepsy, Missr Wentwort’—daid-drunk wis ze joay of ze beautifool
en-countair. Hah! by dam! zat make me feel young.”
“I should think so, you blood-thirsty old rapier!” bawled Wentworth. “And
you,” he continued, turning upon Harrington, “you were in earnest, too, I
verily believe, and bent upon taking your fencing-master’s life. A nice
pair, both of you, for a peaceable young man like me to meet in a dark
alley going home late.”
Harrington, who was leaning against the wall, getting his wind, as the
saying goes, laughed without replying. His usual pallor had given place
to a faint pink, and his broad winged nostrils were lifting with his
deep breaths under his lighted eyes and white forehead, on which the
brown locks lay damp. Wentworth thought he had never seen him look more
princely.
“But no,” Wentworth rattled on, “I don’t believe it of you, Harrington.
For you’re what Kingsley calls a muscular Christian. As for Bagasse,
he’s a muscular pagan, who lives on raw meat, gunpowder and brandy, and
there’s nothing too bad for me to believe of him. Is there, Bagasse?”
He patted the old man on the shoulder as he said it, looking smilingly
in his face. Bagasse gazed with grotesque fondness at the handsome and
gallant countenance, as on that of a privileged pet, and continued to mop
his glowing visage.
“What’s the time, Richard?” asked Harrington, beginning to dress himself.
“Quarter of ten by all that’s good!” exclaimed the other, looking at
his watch. “Time for me to be at the studio, and you at the books. But
I won’t say that, for upon my word, Harrington, you study too hard. The
Pierian spring will be the death of you, young man.”
“O, no,” replied Harrington, laughing gaily. “I’m in good health. The
daily bout with the foils or broadswords balances the hours at the
books.”
“Nevertheless you look rather Hamletish in your pallor,” returned
Wentworth. “Though to be sure the pale prince was a special good hand
at the rapier, in which, as in other respects, you resemble him. ‘The
scholar, soldier, courtier’s eye, tongue, sword—the expectancy and rose
of the fair State’ of Massachusetts—that’s you, Harrington.”
“Seems to me, Richard, the quotation bung and the head of the soft-soap
barrel are both out together this morning,” bantered Harrington.
“‘I paint you in character,’” returned the mercurial Wentworth, with
another Shaksperean reminiscence. “Being a member of the Boston Mutual
Admiration Society, and this being Anniversary week, soft-soap is
perfectly in order. Therefore, I affirm that you are of the Hamlet order
plus Crichton, plus Raleigh, Sidney, Hatton, Blount, Southampton”—
“Shakspeare and Verulam,” jeered Harrington.
“Together with Shakspeare and Verulam. And now that I have made a
clean breast of it, and as you are dressed, suppose we depart. Young
Mephistopheles, _alias_ Witherlee, has gone already, I notice. Our
mercantile friends are off, too, and a proper rowing they’ll get for
being late at the store this morning. Oh, Bagasse, Bagasse! you’ve
much to answer for—corrupting the mercantile youth of this realm by
traitorously erecting a fencing-school! Apropos of fencing, it’s more
than a week since we’ve had a bout with our dear fairy prince. By
Jupiter! what a pleasure it is to see Muriel at the foils! I’m so glad
you persuaded her to learn”—
“Oh, you’re wrong there,” interrupted Harrington. “It was she persuaded
me to teach her. Muriel has a passion for liberal culture, and fencing is
part of her programme.”
“Isn’t she glorious!” cried Wentworth with enthusiasm. “A woman?—a young
goddess rather! By Jove! the best swimmer of all the girls last summer
at Gloucester. The best skater last winter on Jamaica pond. Climbed the
mountains in October with the best of us. Runs like Atalanta. Dances
like Terpsichore. Sings like a seraph. Talks in a voice like Israfel’s.
Studies almost as hard as you do, Harrington. And now she fences like an
angel. I declare she’s a perfect young Crichtona. And yet how womanly
withal! Not a touch of the masculine about her. Gay, free, strong,
sweet—oh, fairy prince, there’s none like you, none.”
Harrington listened to this ardent celebration of the charms of her
Wentworth called the fairy prince, in perfect silence and with a secret
astonishment in his pale, controlled countenance. He believed Wentworth
loved Muriel, but for the life of him he could not reconcile this lavish
panegyric with that belief. For love is reticent, and we let expressive
silence muse the sweetheart’s praise. How then could Wentworth thus
blazon his beloved? Harrington was puzzled.
“There’s a curious element of surprise in Muriel, too,” resumed
Wentworth, with a musing air. “She is so gentle, so reposeful and
graceful, that when she flashes out in these courageous physical
accomplishments I always feel a little astonished. Don’t you, Harrington?”
“Oh, no,” returned Harrington. “She has a rich, versatile, inclusive
nature. You know that this union of feminine gentleness and manly spirit
is not so uncommon. There was the Countess Emily Plater, for example,
the heroine of the Polish Revolution; yet with all her bravery, she was
peculiarly tender and gentle. There, again, was the Maid of Saragossa,
who fought for her country over the body of her lover; but Byron, who
saw her often at Madrid, says she was remarkable for her soft, feminine
beauty. Muriel is a woman of the same style, I suppose. Come, Richard,
let’s go.”
They saluted the old Frenchman, who stood with the Hungarian at the
pistol bench, and left the room.