Sometimes, lying on the cliffs of Kerry or Clare, on a cloudless autumn
day, when not a breath of wind is stirring, you may see rank after rank
of heavy purple billows rolling sullenly in from the offing: these are
messengers coming to tell us of battles fought a thousand leagues to the
westward, in which they, too, have borne their part. Before the mail
comes in we are prepared to hear of a storm that has worked its wicked
will for nights and days, thundering among the granite boulders of
Labrador, or tearing through the fog-banks of Newfoundland. This is
perhaps the most commonplace of all ancient comparisons; but where will
you find so apt a parallel for the vagaries of the human heart as the
phases of the deep, false, beautiful sea?
On the morning after Madame de Verzenay's party, Cecil rose in a very
troubled frame of mind. She had no feeling of irritation left against
Royston Keene; but she was uneasy, and uncomfortable, and loth to meet
him. What she had felt and what she had heard had moved her too deeply
for her to resume at once her wonted composure. So it was that she
accepted very readily an invitation from Mrs. Fullarton to accompany
herself and children on a mild botanizing excursion among the hills.
These small _fêtes_ went a long way with that hard-working and
meritorious woman; what with anticipation and retrospect, each lasted
her about two months. Miss Tresilyan was prevented from starting with
the rest of the party; but the chaplain himself was to escort her to the
place of rendezvous, his little daughter Katie being retained to be
invested with the temporary and "local" rank of chaperone--a formality
which, in these days of scanty faith, even married divines are not
allowed to dispense with. The quartette was completed by the
mule-driver--one of those remarkable boys who converse invariably in a
tongue which the beasts of burden seem to understand and sympathize
with, but which, to any other creature whatsoever, is absolutely
destitute of meaning. They had some way to go; so Cecil had taken up
Katie before her on her mule; the pastor walked by her side, glozing
(for the road was not very steep) on all sorts of subjects, gravely and
smoothly, as was his wont. They had crossed the first line of hills, and
were descending into the valley beyond, when, turning a sharp corner
where a projecting rock almost barred the path, they came suddenly on
Royston Keene. He was lying at full length, his head resting against the
knotted root of an olive, with eyes half closed, and the cigar between
his lips, that seldom left them when he was alone. It _was_ odd that he
should have selected that especial spot for the scene of his _siesta_.
Cecil did her very utmost to look unconcerned: it was too provoking that
she could not help blushing! Mr. Fullarton evidently looked upon it in
the light of an ambush. Had he ventured to give his thoughts utterance,
certainly the ready text would have sprung to his lips, "Hast thou found
me, O mine enemy?" If there was "malice prepense" there, the "enemy"
deserved some credit for the perfectly natural air of surprise with
which he rose and greeted them.
"Are you recruiting after last night's triumphs, or escaping from
popular enthusiasm, Miss Tresilyan? I have met several Frenchmen already
who are quite childish about your singing. I should not advise you to
venture on the Terrace to-day. There might be temptations to vanity,
which Mr. Fullarton will tell you are dangerous."
She had so completely made up her mind to some allusion to her change of
purpose, or to his own absence, that it was rather aggravating to find
him ignore both utterly. But she rallied well.
"Nothing half so imaginative, Major Keene. It was a very stupid party,
and I only sang once, as, I dare say, you have heard. We are only going
to help Mrs. Fullarton to find some wild-flowers. I hope you have not
anticipated us?"
He _fixed_ her with the cool, appreciative look that was harder to meet
than even his sneer.
"No; the flowers are safe from me. I don't care enough about them to
keep them; and it is a pity to pick them and throw them away to wither.
But I would have asked to be allowed to help you in your search, only--I
don't like to spoil a picture. You brought a very good one to my mind as
you turned the corner, a 'Descent into Egypt,' that I saw long ago. The
blot _there_, I remember, was a very stout, rubicund Joseph, not at all
worthy of the imperial Madonna."
While he was speaking he drew back, and leaned lazily against the stem
of the olive, with the evident intention of resuming his original
posture as soon as courtesy would allow. Miss Tresilyan could not
restrain a quick gesture of impatience.
"As we did not come out to _poser_, Mr. Fullarton, don't you think we
had better not delay any longer? We are so late already, that I am sure
the rest of the party will be tired of waiting."
Guess if her companion was loth to obey her.
They moved on for some time almost in silence. Cecil's thoughts were
busy with a picture too--not the less vivid because only her own
imagination had painted it. Her deep, dreamy eyes passed over the
landscape actually before them without catching one of its details: they
were looking on a desolate stony plain, cracked and calcined by a fierce
Indian sun--a few plumy palms in the background, and the rocky bed of a
river half dried up--in the foreground a crowd of wild barbaric
soldiery, with savage, swarthy features, bareheaded or white-turbaned;
mingled with these were horsemen in the uniform of our light dragoons,
sabring right and left mercilessly. In the very centre of the _mêlée_
was one figure, round which all the others seemed to group themselves as
mere accessories. She saw, very distinctly, the dark, determined face,
set, every line of it, in an unspeakable ferocity, with a world of
murderous meaning in the gleaming eyes--so distinctly that it drove out
the remembrance of the same man's face, expressive of nothing but
passionless indifference, though she looked upon it but a few minutes
since under the gray branches of the olive. She almost heard his clear,
imperious tones cheering on and rallying his troopers, when a ruder
voice broke her reverie.
"_Halte là!_"
If there was one thing that miserable muleteer-boy ought to have known
better than another, it was the insuperable objection entertained by the
Provençal peasant to any thing like trespass on his territory (the
touchiness of the _propriétaire_ bears generally an inverse ratio to the
extent of his possessions); yet, to make a short cut of about two
hundred yards, he had led his party through a gap in the low stone wall
over a strip of ground belonging to the very man who was least likely to
overlook the intrusion. Jean Duchesne had a bad name in the
neighborhood, and deserved it thoroughly; he was surly enough when sober
(which was the exception), but when drunk there were no bounds to his
blind, brutish ferocity, and his great personal strength made him a
formidable antagonist. He was not an agreeable object to contemplate,
that gaunt giant, as he stood there in his squalid, tattered dress, with
rough, matted hair, and face flushed by recent intemperance, and flecked
with livid stains of past debauches. You may see many such crowding
round the guillotine or the tumbrel in pictures of the French
Revolution.
It is very odd that one can not write or read those two words without a
boiling of the blood, a tingling at the fingers' ends, and a tightening
of the muscles of the forearm--ineffably absurd when excited by a
recollection seventy years old! Yet so it is. You may talk of oppression
till you are tired; you may catalogue all the wrongs that _Jacques
Bonhomme_ endured before his day of retaliation came; you may bring in
your pet illustration of "the storm that was necessary to clear the
atmosphere;" but you will never make some of us feel that the guilt of
an Order--had it been blacker by a hundred shades--palliated the
Massacre of its Innocents. If the _Marquis_ and _Mousquetaire_ only had
suffered, they might have laid down their lives cheerfully, as they
would have done the stake of any other lost game; and as for the
priests, it was their privilege to be martyrs. But think of those fair
matrons, and gentle girls, and delicate _mignonnes_, that had been
petted from their childhood, cooped up in the foul courts of the Abbaye
and La Force, with even the necessaries of life begrudged them, till the
light died in their eyes and the gloss faded from their tresses; and
then brought out to die in the chill, misty _Brumaire_ morning, howled
at and derided by the swarm of bloodsuckers, till they cowered down, not
in fear, but sickening horror, welcoming Samson and his satellites as
friends and saviors. Remember, too, that there was scarcely an exception
to the rule of patient courage, calm self-sacrifice, and pride of birth
that never belied itself. Dubarry might shriek on the scaffold, but the
Rohans died mute.
Of all the digressions we have indulged in, this is perhaps the most
unwarrantable; and, though it has relieved me unspeakably, I hereby
tender a certain amount of contrition for the same. _Revenons à nos
moutons_--though there was very little of the sheep in the appearance of
Jean Duchesne, whose demeanor (when we left him) you will recollect was
decidedly aggressive. It was evident that the mule-boy thought mischief
was brewing, for he twisted his features--irregular and _tumbled_ enough
already--into divers remarkable contortions expressive of remorse and
terror.
"Who, then, dares to trespass on my lands? Do you think we sow our crops
for your cursed mules to trample on?"
He spoke in a hoarse, thick voice (suggestive of spirituous liquors),
and in the disagreeable Provençal dialect, which must have altered
strangely since the time of the _troubadours_: brief as his speech was,
it found room for more than one of those expletives which are nowhere so
horribly blasphemous as in the south of France.
Cecil had started slightly at the first interjection, which broke her
day-dream, but she was not otherwise alarmed or discomposed: she seemed
to regard the _propriétaire_ simply as an unpleasant obstacle to their
progress, and glanced at Mr. Fullarton as if she expected him to clear
it away. The latter was not good at French, but he did manage to express
their sorrow if they had done any harm unconsciously, and their wish to
retire instantly. "Not before paying," was the reply. "_Quinze francs de
dedommagemens; et puis, filez aux tous les diables!_"
Women are not expected to carry purses or any other objects of simple
utility; but why Mr. Fullarton should have left his at home on this
particular day is between himself and his own conscience. The party very
soon realized the fact that they could muster about a hundred and fifty
centimes among them.
Even kings and kaisers, when _incogniti_, have ere this been reduced to
the extremest straits of ignominy from the want of a few available
pieces of silver; and, in ordinary life, five shillings ready at the
moment are frequently of more importance than as many hundreds in
expectancy. There lives even now a man who missed the most charming
rendezvous with which fortune ever favored him, because he rode a mile
round to avoid a turnpike, not having wherewithal to pay it. Since that
disastrous day he is ever furnished with such a weight of small change
that, had Cola Pesce carried it, the strong swimmer must have sunk like
a stone--in penance, probably, even as James of Scotland wore the iron
belt. At a pause in the conversation you may hear him rattling the
coppers in his pocket moodily, as the spectres in old romances rattle
their chains; but his remorse is unavailing. A fair chance once lost,
Whist and Erycina never forgive. The beautiful bird that might _then_
have been limed and tamed shook her wings and flew away exultingly: far
up in air the unlucky fowler may still sometimes hear her clear mocking
carol, but she is too near heaven for his arts to reach, and has escaped
the toils forever.
On the present occasion Katie Fullarton "flashed" her one half-franc
with great courage and confidence, but the display of all that small
capitalist's worldly wealth did not mollify Jean Duchesne. He had been
lashing himself up all along into such a state of brutal ferocity, that
he would have been disappointed if his extortion had been immediately
satisfied; so he broke in savagely on the chaplain's confused excuses
and promises to settle everything at a fitting season: "Tais toi,
blagueur! On ne me floue pas ainsi avec des promesses; je m'en fiche pas
mal. Au moins, on me laissera un gage." His blood-shot eyes roved from
one object to another till they lighted on the parasol that Miss
Tresilyan carried: it was of plain dark-gray silk, with a slight black
lace trimming, but the carvings of the ivory handle made it of some real
value. Before any one could divine his intention he had plucked it
rudely from her hand.
Almost with the same motion Cecil set Katie down, and sprang herself
from the saddle. In her eyes there was such intensity of anger that the
drunken savage recoiled a pace or two, and for the first time in his
life felt something like self-contempt: to have saved her soul she could
not have spoken one word, but her silence was expressive enough as she
turned to Mr. Fullarton. It is difficult to say what line she expected
him to take--not the _voie de fait_ certainly; at least, if the
hypothesis had been put to her when she was cool enough to consider it,
she would utterly have repudiated such an idea. Perhaps she had a right
to look for moral support, if not for active championship.
We will not enter into the vexed question of physical courage and
cowardice: it is a truism to say that the latter may co-exist with great
moral firmness, which is, of course, far the superior quality. They will
tell you that, when confronted with mere personal peril, a butcher or
grenadier may match the best of us. Possibly; I am not going to dispute
it. Only remember that there are occasions (very few in these civilized
days) when the most refined of _bas-bleus_ would rather see a strong,
brave, honest man at her side, than an abstruse philosopher, a clever
conversationalist--ay, even than a perfect Christian--whose nerves are
not to be depended on; when Parson Adams would be worth a bench of
bishops. We can not all be athletes; and, with the best intentions, some
of us at such times are liable to defeat and discomfiture. The most
utterly fearless man I ever knew had a _biceps_ that his own small
fingers could have spanned. No woman, however--keeping the attributes of
her sex--would think the worse of her champion for being trampled under
foot when he had done his best to defend her. You know their province is
to console, and even pet the vanquished; they make up lint for the
wounded as readily as they weave laurels for the conquerors. But when
they have once seen a man play the coward, the silver tongue, with all
its eloquent explanation and honeyed pleadings, will hardly banish from
their eyes the peculiar expression wavering betwixt compassion and
contempt. They may forgive cruelty, or insolence, or even treachery--in
time; but they can find no palliation, and little sympathy, for that one
unpardonable sin. Truly, transgression in this line, beyond a certain
point, may scarcely be excused; for weakness may be controlled, if not
cured: if we can not be dashingly courageous, we may at least be
decently collected: not all may aspire to the cross of valor, but it is
not difficult to steer clear of courts-martial.
A man is not pleasant to contemplate when terror has driven out all
self-command; so we will not draw Mr. Fullarton's picture: he could
scarcely stammer out words enough to suggest an immediate retreat. It
was painful--_not_ ludicrous--to see how justly his own child
appreciated the position: the little thing left her father's side
instinctively, and clung for protection to Cecil Tresilyan. The latter
saw instantly how matters stood; and if the glance she cast on the
aggressor was not pleasant to meet, far more unendurable was that which
fell upon her unlucky companion: it was piercing enough to penetrate the
strong armor of his wonderful self-complacency, and to rankle for many a
day. She struck her small foot on the ground with a gesture of imperial
disdain. Even so the Scythian Amazon might have spurned the livid head
of Cyrus the Great King.
"I will not stir till I see if no one will come who can take my part.
Ah! I would give--"
"Don't be rash, Miss Tresilyan. You might be taken at your word."
Cecil turned quickly, with a delicious sense of confidence and triumph
thrilling through every fibre of her frame: on the top of the rock that
rose ten feet high, like a wall, on their right, stood Royston Keene. A
more pacific character would have dared a greater danger for the reward
and the promise of her eyes.
He took in the whole scene at a glance (perhaps he had heard more than
he chose to own), and, swinging himself lightly down, strode right
across the _potager_ with a disregard of the proprietor's interests and
feelings refreshing to see.
"It seems to me that the ancient positions have been reversed. You have
been spoiled by the Egyptians, Miss Tresilyan. Shall we try the secular
arm? You have scarcely been safe under the protection of the
church--_militant_."
There was a pause before the last word, and it was unpleasantly
emphasized. Then he advanced a step or two toward the Frenchman, without
waiting for a reply, and spoke in a totally different tone--brief and
imperative--"_Tu vas me rendre ça?_"
Duchesne had been rather startled by the apparition of the new-comer,
and, if he had been cool enough to reflect, would not have fancied him
as an antagonist; but his passion blinded him, and strong drink had
heated his brutal blood above boiling point; he ground his teeth, as he
answered, till the foam ran down--
"Le rendre--à toi--chien d'Anglais? je m'en garderai bien. Si la belle
demoiselle veut le ravoir, elle viendra demain, me prier bien gentiment;
et elle viendra--seule."
Now Royston Keene was thoroughly impregnated with the bitterest of
aristocratic prejudices: no man alive more utterly ignored the doctrines
of liberty, equality, and fraternity; besides this, he had acquired, to
an unusual extent, the overbearing tone and demeanor which the habit of
having soldiers under them is supposed to bring, too commonly, to modern
centurions. He actually experienced a "fresh sensation" as he heard the
insult leveled by those coarse plebeian lips at the woman "he delighted
to honor." His swarthy face grew white down to the lips, whose quivering
the heavy mustache could not quite conceal, and he shivered from head to
foot where he stood. Jean Duchesne thought he detected the familiar
signs of a terror he had often inspired. "Tu as peur donc? Tu
tressailles déjà, blanc-bec! Tonnerre de Dì! tu as raison." Not a trace
of passion lingered in the major's clear, cold voice, that fell upon the
ear with the ring of steel. "On ne tressaille pas, quand on est sûr de
gagner. Regarde donc en arrière."
Involuntarily the Frenchman looked behind him, expecting a fresh
adversary from that quarter. As he turned his head Keene sprang forward,
and plucked the parasol from his grasp: in one second he had laid it
lightly in its owner's hand; in the next he had returned to his
position, and stood, ready for the onset, motionless as the marble
Creugas.
He had not long to wait. Even a "well-conditioned" Gaul does not like
being outwitted, and the successful _ruse_ exasperated Duchesne into
insanity. Roaring like a wild beast that has missed its spring, he
rushed in to grapple. Royston never moved a finger till the enemy was
well within distance; then, slinging his left hand straight out from the
hip, he "let him have it" fairly between the eyes.
One blow--only one--but a blow that, had it been stricken in the days of
Olympian and Nemean contests--where Pindar and his peers were
"reporters"--might well have earned a dithyramb; a blow that would have
gladdened the sullen spirit of the old gladiator who trained the Cool
Captain, if the prophet had lived to see his auguries fulfilled, or if
sights and sounds from upper earth could penetrate to the limbo of
defunct athletæ. Nothing born of woman could have stood before it, and
it was small blame to Jean Duchesne that he dropped like a log in his
tracks. In another instant his conqueror had one knee on the chest of
the fallen man, and both hands were griping his throat.
His own face was fearfully changed. It wore an expression that has been
very often seen in the sixty centuries that have passed since Cain
struck his brother down, but has very seldom been described; for the
dead tell no tales beyond what their features, stiffened in hopeless
terror, may betray. It has been seen on lost battle-fields--in the
streets of cities given up to pillage, when the storming is just over
and the carnage begun--on desolate hill-sides--in dark forest-glades--in
chambers of lonely houses, strongly but vainly barred--in every place
where men in the death agony have "cried and there was none to help
them." It was full time for _some one_ to interfere when the devil had
entered into Royston Keene.
From the moment that affairs had assumed such a different aspect Mr.
Fullarton had gradually been recovering his composure, and by this time
was quite himself again. He advanced confidently, and, laying his hand
on the major's shoulder with an imposing air, and with his best pulpit
manner, enunciated, "Thou shalt do no murder!" The latter, as we have
already said, was utterly beside himself; but even this can not excuse
the abrupt, impatient movement that sent such an eminent divine reeling
three paces back. The rigid lips only twisted themselves into an evil
sneer, and the cruel fingers tightened their gripe till the features of
the prostrate wretch grew convulsed and black.
The whole scene had passed so quickly, though it takes so long to
describe (some of us never _can_ succeed in stenography), that Cecil
felt perfectly lost in a whirl of conflicting emotions, till she saw the
face in life before her that she had been fancying ever since last
night. A great fear came over her, but she overcame it, and her woman's
instinct told her what to do. She laid her little hand upon Keene's arm
before he was aware that she was near, and whispered so that only he
could hear, "For _my_ sake." Only these three simple words; but the
exorcism was complete.
Again a shiver ran all through the hardy frame, and for once Love was
more powerful than Hate. He loosed his hold--slowly though, and
reluctantly--and rose to his feet, passing his hand over his eyes in a
strange, bewildered way; but in five seconds his wonderful self-command
asserted itself, and he spoke as coolly as ever. "A thousand pardons.
One does forget one's self sometimes when the _canaille_ are provoking,
but I ought to have remembered what was due to _you_."
Though she could not speak, she tried to smile; but strong reaction had
come on. In the pale woman that trembled so painfully it was hard to
recognize proud Cecil Tresilyan. Royston was watching her narrowly, and
his tone softened till it made his simple words a caress. "Don't make me
more angry with myself than I deserve. Indeed, there is nothing more to
alarm or distress you. If you would only forgive me!" He helped her into
the saddle as he spoke, and she submitted passively. But the happy
feeling of perfect trust in him was coming back fast.
Jean Duchesne had somewhat recovered from his stupor, and was leaning on
one arm, panting heavily, still in great pain; but he was inured to all
sorts of broils, and evidently he would soon recover from the effects of
this one, though he had never been so roughly handled. It was sheer
terror that made him lie so still: he dared move no more than a whipped
hound while in the presence of his late opponent.
The others turned slowly homeward, for it is needless to say the
wild-flowers and the rendezvous were forgotten. As they turned the
corner which cut off the view of Duchesne's ground, Royston looked back
once, longingly. It was well for Cecil's nerves, in their disturbed
state, that she did not catch that Parthian glance. Ah, those
ungovernable eyes! They were gleaming with the expression that
Kirkpatrick's may have worn when he turned into the chapel where the Red
Comyn lay, growling, "_I_ mak sicker."
None of the party were much disposed for conversation; for even Mr.
Fullarton did not feel equal to "improving the occasion" just then.
Cecil broke the silence at last: it was where the road was so narrow
that only two could walk abreast: Royston never left her bridle-rein.
"You must fancy that I have thanked you; I can not do so properly now.
It is strange, though, that you should have come up so very opportunely.
Was it a presentiment that made you follow us?"
The answer was so low that she had almost to guess at it from the motion
of his lips, "Have you forgotten Napoleon's last rallying-cry, '_Qui
m'aime me suit?_'" No wonder that his pulse would throb exultantly as he
saw the bright, beautiful blush that swept over his companion's cheek
and brow! They had almost reached home when he spoke again, "You would
have been liberal in your promises twenty minutes ago if I had not
stopped you, Miss Tresilyan. I _should_ like to have some memorial of
to-day. Very childish, is it not? Will you give me _this_? I deserve
something for saving that pretty parasol." He touched the glove she had
just drawn off--a light riding-gauntlet, fancifully cut, and embroidered
with silk. Cecil hesitated, though she would have been loth to refuse
him any thing just then. She felt, as most proud, sensitive women feel
the first time they are asked for what may be interpreted into a _gage
d'amour_. The tribute may be nominal, and the suzerain may be lenient
indeed, but none the less does it establish vassalage.
Royston interpreted her reluctance aright, and went on with an
earnestness very unusual with him: for once it was honest and true.
"Pray trust me. The moment I cease to value that _souvenir_ as it
deserves, on my honor I will return it."
He was fated to triumph all through that day. When Cecil was alone she
put something away with a very unnecessary carefulness, for surely
nothing can be more valueless than a glove that has lost its mate.