The Saturday night is waning, but Molyneux shows no signs of moving yet
from Keene's apartments. He has been a model of prudence though so far,
as to his drinks, and, in good truth, their companion is not amusing, or
instructive, or convivial enough, to tempt or to excuse transgression.
Dick Tresilyan looks about twenty-five, strongly and somewhat heavily
built; rather over the middle height, even with the decided stoop of his
broad, round shoulders. He carries far too much flesh to please a
professional eye, and by the time he is fifty will be very unwieldy; but
there is more activity in him than might be supposed, and he walks
strongly and well, as you would find if you tried to keep pace with him
through the turnips on a sultry September day. His face, without a
pretension to beauty in itself, suggests it--just the face that makes
you say, "that man must have a handsome sister;" indeed, it bears an
absurdly strong family likeness to Cecil's, amounting to a parody. But
the outline of feature which in her is so fine and clear, is dull and
filled out even to coarseness. It reminded one of looking at the same
landscape, first through the medium of a bright blue sky, and then
through driving mist, when crag, and cliff, and wood still show
themselves, but blurred and dimly. His hair and eyes are, by several
shades, the lighter of the two. The great difference is in the mouth.
Cecil's is so delicately chiseled, so apt at all expressions, from
tender to provocative, that many consider it one of her best points; her
brother's is so weak and undecided in its character (or rather want of
character), that it would make a more intellectual face vacuous and
inane.
The "Tresilyan constitution" holds its own gallantly against the inroads
of hardish living, and Dick looks the picture of rude health. Men
endowed with an invincible obtuseness of intellect and feeling, have no
mental wear and tear, and if the machine starts in good order, it seems
as if it might last out indefinitely; so it would, I dare say, if it
were not for a propensity to drink, and otherwise to abuse their bodily
advantages, peculiar to this class. But for this neutralizing element in
their composition perhaps they would live as long as crows or elephants,
and we should be visited by a succession of stupid Old Parrs; which
would be a very dreadful dispensation indeed. The present subject takes
a good deal of exercise, to be sure, and naturally, few cares have ever
troubled him; he has always had more money than he knew what to do with,
and--as for serious annoyances, a certain train of thought is necessary
to form them, while our poor Dick's brain is utterly incapable of
holding more than one idea at a time. Whatever may happen to be the
dominant thought, reigns with an undivided empire, and will not endure a
rival even near its throne, till it is violently thrust out and
annihilated by its successor, on the principle of
The priest that slays the slayer,
And shall himself be slain.
He never originates a conception, of course, but is always open to a
fair offer in the way of a suggestion from any body, and adopts it with
the blind zeal of a proselyte. It follows that chance occurrences may
bother him for the moment, but he is saved an infinity of trouble by
being independent of foresight and memory. To this last defect there is
one exception. If he is crossed, or vexed, or injured, he cherishes
against the offender a dull, misty, purposeless sort of resentment,
scarcely amounting to animosity, but can not explain, either to you or
to himself, _why_ he does so. Fortunately he is tolerably harmless and
unsuspicious, for to reconcile him would be simply impossible.
Not one _mésalliance_ could be detected in the main line of the
Tresilyans; but there must have been a blot somewhere, a link of base
metal in the golden chain, of which an adulteress and her confessor
could have told. Perhaps the son of the transgressor bore no stigma on
his forehead, and ruffled it among his peers as bravely as the best of
them, never witting of his mother's dishonor; but the stain had come out
in this generation. Even the faults and vices of that strong, stubborn
race were curiously distorted and caricatured in their representative.
His pride, for instance, chiefly displayed itself in a taste for low
company, where he could safely lord it over his inferiors. He did this
whenever he had a chance, but, to do him justice, by no means in an
ill-natured or bullying way. He had resided almost entirely on his own
estates; and, during his rare visits to London, had not extended his
knowledge of the world beyond the experience that may be picked up by
frequenting divers equivocal places of public resort, and from
occasional forays on the extreme frontier of the _demi-monde_. The
result was, that in general society he felt himself in a false position,
and was evidently anxious to escape into a more congenial atmosphere.
Can you guess why I have lingered so long over a portrait that might
well have been dispatched in three lines? It is because, in the eyes of
those who knew Cecil Tresilyan, some interest must attach itself to the
basest thing that bears her name; it is because there are men alive who
think that the broidery of her skirt, or the trimming of her mantle,
deserve describing better than the shield of Pelides; who hold that one
of her dark chestnut tresses is worthier of a place among the stars than
imperial Berenicè's hair. A lame excuse, I admit, to the many that never
saw her--even in their dreams.
On this particular evening Dick was supremely happy. Keene had got him
upon shooting--the only subject on which that unlucky man could talk
without committing himself; and, by the time he was well into his fourth
tumbler of iced Cogniac and water, he was achieving a rare
conversational triumph; for he had left off answering monosyllabically,
had volunteered an observation or two, and even ventured to banter his
companions about their not availing themselves sufficiently of the
sporting resources in the neighborhood.
"There are several boars near here," he was saying; "they shoot them
sometimes, and you can go if you manage properly. I wonder you men never
found that out."
"Ah! they _did_ talk a good deal about pigs," Royston remarked
indifferently. "But, you see, we used to stick them in the Deccan. The
first time I heard of their way of doing it here, I felt very like
Deering when they asked him to shoot a fox in Scotland. Tom Deering, you
know, the old boy that has hunted with the Warwickshire and Atherstone
for thirty seasons, and could tell you the names, ages, and colors of
the hounds better than he could those of his own small
family--pedigrees, too, I shouldn't wonder."
Dick tried to look as if he had known the man from his childhood, and
succeeded but very moderately.
"Well," the other went on, "they were beating a cover for roe, and the
gillie suggested a particular pass, as the most likely to get a shot at
what he called a 'tod.' It was some time before Tom realized the full
horror of the proposition: when he did, he shut his eyes like a bull
that is going to charge, and literally _fell_ upon the duinhe-wassel,
bellowing savagely. He had no more idea of using his hands than a
fractious baby; but it is rather a serious thing when sixteen stone of
solid flesh becomes possessed by a devil. Robin Oig was overborne by the
onset, and did not forget the effects of it that season."
Tresilyan laughed applaudingly, as he always did when he could
understand more than half a story.
"I suppose it's pretty good fun hunting them out there?" he said, going
off at score, as usual, on the fresh theme.
"Not bad," Keene replied; "sharp going while it lasts, and a little
knack wanted to stick them scientifically. Some say it's more exciting
than fox-hunting, but that's childish; I never heard a man assert it
whose liver was not on the wane. It's more dangerous, certainly. A
header into the Smite or the Whissendine is nothing to a fall backward
into a nullah, with a beaten horse on the top of you."
Molyneux woke up from a reverie. The familiar word stirred his blood
like a trumpet, and it flashed up brightly in his pale cheek as he
spoke. "Ah! we have had a brushing gallop or two in the gay old times,
before we got married, and invalided, and all that sort of thing. Dick,
I should like to tell you how I got my first spear."
"Of course you would," the major said, resignedly; "it's my fault for
starting the subject. Get over it quickly then, please." He did not stop
him, though, as he would have done on another occasion--_pour cause_.
"I had been entered some time at boar," Harry began, "before I had any
luck at all. Ride as hard as I would at the start, the old hands _would_
creep up at the finish, just in time to get 'first blood.' I gave long
prices for my Arabs, too, and didn't spare them. I own I got
discouraged, and thought the whole thing a robbery, a delusion, and a
snare. One day, however, we had a good deal of deep, marshy ground at
first, and a quick gallop afterward, which served my light weight well.
I had it all to myself when he came to bay; so I went in, full of
confidence, and gave point, as I thought, well behind the
shoulder-blade. I did not calculate on the pace we were going, and I was
just three inches too forward. My horse was as young and hot as I was,
and though he had no idea of flinching, didn't know how to take care of
himself. The instant the brute felt the steel he wheeled short round,
and cut The Emperor's forelegs clean from under him. We all came down in
a heap; my spear flew yards away; and there I was on my face, clear of
my horse, with my right wrist badly sprained. Would you have fancied the
position? _I_ didn't. The devil was too blown to begin offensive
operations at once, for we had burst him along pretty sharply, but he
stood right over me, champing and rasping his tusks, and getting his
wind for a good vicious rip. I felt his boiling foam dropping upon me as
I lay quite still. I thought that was the best thing to do. All at once
hoofs came up at a hard gallop; something swept above me with a rush;
there was a short, smothered sound like a tap on a padded door, and then
the beast stretched himself slowly out across my legs, and shivered, and
died. That man opposite to you had leapt his horse over us both, and,
while he was in the air, speared the boar through the spinal marrow. If
he had been struck any where else he might still have torn me badly
before the life was out of him. Neatly done, wasn't it?"
Harry drank off the remains of his sherry and seltzer rather excitedly,
and then sighed. He was thinking how often, in other days, when health
and nerves were to the fore, he had drained a stronger and deeper
draught to "Snaffle, spur, and spear!"
"A mere stage trick," Keene remarked; "effective, but not in the least
dangerous, with a horse under you as steady as poor old Mahmoud. May his
rest be glorious! Gilbert killed a tiger that had got loose in the same
way, which _was_ something to talk about, for even clean-bred Arabs
don't like facing tigers. You made rather better time than usual over
that story to-night, Hal; it's practice, I suppose."
Tresilyan's eyes fastened on the speaker, full of a heavy, pertinacious
admiration. You might have told him of the noblest action of generosity
or self-denial that ever constituted the stock in trade of a moral hero,
and he would have listened patiently, but without one responsive
emotion. Bodily prowess and daring he could appreciate. Keene's physical
_prestige_ was just the thing to captivate his limited imagination;
besides which the ground was prepared for the seed-time. He had some
soldier friends, and dining with these at the "Swashing Buckler," he had
heard some of those club chronicles in which the Cool Captain's name
figured prominently.
The latter interpreted perfectly well the gaze that was riveted upon
him, without being in the least flattered by it. He felt, perhaps, the
same sort of satisfaction that one experiences when, fighting for the
odd trick, the first card in our hand is a heavy trump. Dick's thorough
and undivided allegiance once secured, was a good card in the game he
was playing at the moment. Whatever his thoughts might have been, his
face told no tales. He had been flooring glass for glass with his guest
till the liquor began to work its way into the cracks even of such a
seasoned vessel; but, for any outward or visible sign in feature,
speech, or manner, he might have been assisting at a teetotaller's
_soirée_.
Very often--late on guest-nights, or other tournaments of deep drinking,
where Trojan and Tyrian met to do battle for the credit of their
respective corps--the calm, rigid face, never flushing beyond a clear
swarthy brown, and the cold, bright, inevitable eyes, had stricken
terror into the hearts of bacchanalian Heavies, and given consolation,
if not confidence, to the Hussars, who were failing fast: these knew
that though their own brains might be reeling and their legs
rebelliously independent, their single champion was invincible. As the
last of the Enomotæ went down, he saw Othryades standing steadfastly,
with never a trace of wound or weakness, still able and willing to write
[Greek: NIKH] on his shield.
When our poor Dick was once thoroughly impressed, for the first time,
with awe or admiration, either for man or woman, he generally fell into
a species of trance, from which it was exceedingly difficult to bring
him round. He would have sat there, staring stupidly, till morning, with
perfect satisfaction to himself, if Molyneux had not attacked him with a
direct question, "How long do you think of staying at Dorade? And have
you made any plans afterward?"
_Le mouton qui rêvait_ roused himself with an effort, and searched the
bottom of his empty glass narrowly for a reply. Eventually he succeeded
in finding one:
"Cecil talks about two months; then we are to go on by Nice, Genoa,
Florence, Rome, and Naples, and so come back by--Italy." He had got up
the first names by rote, and run them off glibly enough, but was
evidently at fault about the last one. I fancy he had some vague idea of
Austrian troops being quartered in these regions, and looked upon
Hesperia in the light of an obscure state or moderate-sized town
somewhere in the north of Europe.
Harry was balked in his inclination to laugh; the rising smile was
checked upon his lip, just in time, by a glance from his chief, severely
authoritative.
"Italy?" the latter said, without a muscle moving; "well, I shouldn't
advise you to stay long there. It's rather a small place, and very
stupid; no society whatever. The others will amuse you, as you have
never seen them."
He rose as he spoke the last words. Perhaps he thought he had done that
night "enough for profit and more than enough for glory." The Cool
Captain seldom suffered himself to be bored without an adequate object
very clearly in view.
"Hal, I am going to turn you out. It is far too late for you to be
sitting up, and we have a good deal to do to-morrow."
Molyneux did not quite comprehend what extraordinary labors were before
any of them, but he rose without making an objection, and Tresilyan
prepared to accompany him. Dick considered that individually he had been
remarkably brilliant, and had left a favorable impression behind him.
But all this newly-acquired confidence, and much strong drink were not
sufficient to embolden him to risk, as yet, a _tête-à-tête_ with Royston
Keene.
Long after they had departed the major sat gazing steadfastly at the
logs burning on the hearth. If he had gone straight to bed, the enormous
dullness of one of the party would have weighed him down like a
nightmare.
Is there one of us who can not remember having seen prettier pictures in
a flame-colored setting than the Royal Academy has ever shown him? What
earthly painter could emulate or imitate the coquettish caprice of light
and shadow, that enhances the charms, and dissembles all possible
defects in those fair, fleeting Fiamminas? Something like this effect
was to be found in the miniatures that were in fashion a dozen years
ago; where part only of a sweet face and a dangerously eloquent eye
looked at you out of a wreath of dusky cloud, that shrouded all the rest
and gave your imagination play. Truly it was not so utterly wrong, the
ancient legend that wedded Hephæstus to Aphroditè. The Minnesingers and
their coevals spoke fairly enough about Love, and probably had studied
their subject; but, rely upon it, passionate Romance died in Germany
when once the close stoves prevailed. Don't you envy the imagination of
the dreamer who could trace a shape of loveliness in those dreadful
glazed tiles?
Being rather a _Guebre_ myself, I once got enthusiastic on the subject
in the company of an eccentric character, who very soon made me repent
my expansiveness. If he had committed any atrocious crime (he was a
small sandy-haired creature, and wore colored spectacles), no one knew
of it, and he never hinted at its nature; but his whole ideas seemed
tinged with a vague gloomy remorse that made him a sadder, but scarcely
a wiser or better man. Perhaps it was a monomania; let us hope so. On
that occasion he heard me out quite patiently; then the blue glasses
raised themselves to the level of my eyes, and I felt convinced their
owner was staring spectrally behind them. Considering that he measured
about thirty-four inches round the chest, his voice was extraordinarily
deep and solemn: it sounded preternaturally so as he said very slowly,
"There is one face that does not often leave me alone here, and will
follow me, I think, when I go to my appointed place: I see it now, as I
shall see it throughout all ages--always _by firelight_."
I felt very wroth, for surely to suggest a new and unpleasant train of
ideas is an infamous abuse of a _tête-à-tête_. I told my friend so; and,
as he declined to retract or apologize, or in any wise explain himself,
departed with the conviction that, though a clever man and an original
thinker, he was by no means an exhilarating or instructive companion. I
should have borne him a grudge to this day, but as I was walking home,
decidedly disconsolate (there's no such bore as having a pet fancy
spoiled, it is like having your favorite hunter sent home with two
broken knees), it suddenly occurred to me that if the penitent was in
the habit of looking at the fire through those blue barnacles, it was
not likely there would be much rose-color in his visions. In great
triumph I retraced my steps, and knocked the culprit up to put in this
"demurrer." I flatter myself it floored him. He did attempt some lame
excuse about "taking his spectacles off at such times," but I refused to
listen to a word, and marched out of the place with drums beating and
colors flying, first exasperating him by the assurance of my complete
forgiveness. Since then, if sitting alone, _ligna super foco largè
reponens_, I involuntarily recur to that ill-favored conception, it
suffices to contrast with it the grotesque appearance of its originator,
and the pale phantom evanisheth.
I have no excuse to offer for this long and egotistical anecdote, except
the pendant which Maloney used to attach to his ultra-_marine_
stories--"The point of it is, that--it's strictly true."