Royston Keene had indeed good reason to augur ill of the ending of his
love-dream; but it was in his nature always to walk straight on to the
accomplishment of his purpose, overlooking the obstacles that lay
between and the dangers that lay beyond. This partly accounted for his
utter insensibility to ordinary inconveniences and annoyances. His own
words to Molyneux one day, when the latter remarked on this peculiarity,
though somewhat allegorical, expressed his theory and practice fairly:
"Hal, when we are traveling, we always remember where we change our
large notes; but life is not long enough to recollect how the thalers
and piastres go." His companion thought this rather a brilliant
illustration, especially as it squared with his own ideas of existence.
But in reality, between the two men there was a marked distinction. A
genial kindliness in the one, and a hard unscrupulous determination in
the other, worked out nearly the same results.
Royston liked Cecil Tresilyan better than any woman he had ever seen,
and he made up his mind to win her. It is more than doubtful if he took
the probable consequences to either into consideration at all. Foot by
foot he was gaining ground till he felt almost sure of success; but this
confidence never made him for an instant less vigilant in watching the
chances, less careful in scoring every point of the game. He had played
it long enough to know these right well.
Yet to him, too, the Past brought its warning. He was rarely troubled or
favored with dreams; but one night was an exception to the rule. To
understand it you must look back once more, and bear with me while we
moralize yet again. _Excusez du peu._
There is a regret that has power to move and torment the coldest Stoic
that vegetates on earth; it comes when our own hand or act has slain the
one living thing that loved us best of all. We may have done the deed
unwittingly or unwillingly; we may have been unconscious of the love
that was borne us till it was too late for acknowledgment; we may never
in thought or word or act have injured our victim before that last wrong
of the death-blow; well for those who can plead so fair an excuse; yet
even this, with all the rest, the inexorable Nemesis laughs to scorn. I
wonder that poets and dramatists have not oftener selected this saddest
theme. It may be true that the last murmur from the lips of the
Llewellyn, when his life was ebbing away in the Pass of the Ambush,
syllabled the name, not of wife or child or friend, but of a stanch
wolfhound; and perhaps tears less bitter have been shed over the graves
of many exemplary Christians than those that sprinkled the turf under
the birch-trees where Gelert was sleeping. It could not free the Ancient
Mariner from the remorse that clung to him like a poisoned garment till
it made him a "world's wonder," because, when he shot the albatross, he
thought he was benefiting his fellows. Not less accusingly did the
voices of the sea wail in the ears of the desolate Viking, because, when
the bitter arrow went aside, he was fighting hard to save Oriana.
Nothing could be more correct than the conduct of Virginius, or more
creditable to a Roman father; but when he harangued in the Forum in
after days, I doubt if the commons thronged so densely as to shut out
from the demagogue a vision of fair hair dabbled in blood, gleaming
awfully in the sunlight, and of dark-blue eyes turned upon him in a
wondering horror till that look froze in them forevermore. I doubt if
the cheers of his partisans were so noisy as to drown the memory of a
certain choked shivering moan; in the long, lonely winter nights at
least, be sure those sights and sounds visited the tribune's hearth,
often enough to satisfy the savage spirit of the doomed decemvir.
It was this remorse which had stricken Royston Keene sorely, even
through his armor of proof, as he knelt, not very long ago, by the side
of a death-bed. A woman lay there, scarcely past girlhood, and fair
enough to have been the pride of any English household, as daughter or
sister or wife. You shall not read unnecessarily an episode of sin and
bitter sorrow, and of shame that was not less heavy to bear because the
eyes of the world were blinded and saw it not. It is enough to say that
the blood of Emily Carlyle was as certainly on her tempter's head as
that of any one of those whom he had slain in open fight with shot or
steel. This is what she answered when he asked her to forgive him: "My
own, I have forgiven you long ago! I could not help it if I would. I can
not reproach you either, for though I have tried hard to repent, I fear,
if all were to come over again, I should not act more coldly or wisely.
But listen! I know you will be able, if you choose it, to make others
love you nearly as well as I have done--and you _will_ choose it.
Darling, promise me that, for my sake, you will spare _one_. I could die
easier if I thought my intercession had saved another's soul, though I
was so weak in guarding my own. It might help me too, perhaps--if any
thing can help me--where I am going." Even Royston Keene shivered at the
low terror-stricken whisper in which these last words were spoken. He
gave the promise though, and remembered it occasionally till--the time
for keeping it came.
The major had been spending the evening with Cecil Tresilyan, making
arrangements for a pic-nic that was to take place two days later. He had
had a passage-of-arms or two with Mrs. Danvers, wherein that
strong-principled but weak-minded enthusiast had been utterly
discomfited and routed with great slaughter. Altogether it was very
pleasant entertainment; and he went to his rest in a state of great
contentment and satisfaction. He woke (or seemed to wake) with a sudden
start and shudder, for he was aware of the presence of something in the
room that was not there when he lay down.
Out of the black darkness a face slowly defined itself, bending over the
pillow and creeping close to his own--only a face--he could not
distinguish even the outline of a figure. He knew it very well, and the
eyes, too--but there was an upbraiding there that, while she lived, he
had never seen in those of gentle Emily Carlyle; and a reproach came
from the white lips, though they did not move to give it passage. "All
forgotten! I--the promise, too. And yet--I suffer--I suffer always." The
sad, pleading expression of the face and eyes vanished then; and a
strange, pale glare, not like the moonlight, that seemed to come from
within, lighted them up--fixed and rigid, yet eloquent, of unutterable
agony: there was written plainly the self-abhorrence of a heart
conscious of the coils of the undying worm--the despair of a soul
looking far into Futurity, yet seeing no end to the wrath to come. Then
the darkness swallowed up all; and, before Keene thoroughly roused
himself--with a smothered cry--he knew that he was alone again.
A cold dew lingered on the dreamer's forehead, as if a breath from
beyond the grave had lately passed over it; but terror was not the
predominating feeling. He had ruled that timid, trusting girl too long
and too imperiously to quail before her disembodied spirit. But a
strange sadness overcame him as he pondered upon all that she had
endured--and might still be enduring--for his sake: a glimmer of
something like generosity and compassion flickered for a brief space
over the surface of the cast-steel heart. He rose, and leaned out into
the steady, outer moonlight, musing for several minutes, and then began
muttering aloud. "It would be as well to clear off one debt at least. I
did pass my word. She deserves this sacrifice, if it were only for never
complaining: let her have her way. By G--d, I'll go off to-morrow
evening, and I'll tell Cecil so as soon as I can see her. Bah! what is a
man worth if he can not forget? Besides, I don't know--" The rest of his
doubts and scruples he confessed--not even to the stars.
Climate has a great deal to answer for. A sudden tempest or an opportune
mist has turned the scale of more battles than some of the most
successful generals would have liked to own. If the next morning had
broken sullenly, things might have gone far otherwise. But it was one of
those brilliant days that make even the invalids not regret, for the
moment, that they have given up all English comforts and home-pleasures
for the off-chance of wringing another month or two of life out of the
wreck of their constitution. Every thing looked bright and in holiday
guise, from the wreaths of ivy glistening on the brows of the shattered
old castle, down to the [Greek: _anêrithmong elasma_] of the
turquoise-sea. Under the circumstances, it was very unlikely that
Royston would keep to his virtuous resolutions. The first half of them
he carried out perfectly: he did go straight to Cecil Tresilyan, and
tell her of his intentions to depart. She did not betray much of her
disappointment or surprise, but she argued with so fascinating a
casuistry against the necessity of such a sudden step, that it was no
wonder if she soon convinced her hearer of the propriety of at least
delaying it. In a case like this an excuse of "urgent private affairs"
that would suffice for the most rigid martinet that ever tyrannized over
a district or a division sounds absurdly trivial and insincere. When a
proud beauty does condescend to plead, a man who really cares for her
must be very peculiarly constituted if he remains constant in denial.
The vision of the night had faded away already. Those poor ghosts! They
have no chance--the mystics say--against embodied spirits, if the latter
only keep up their courage, and choose to assert their supremacy.
Besides, they must, perforce, fly before the dawn. And what dawn was
ever so bright as the Tresilyan's smile when she guessed from Royston's
face, without his speaking, that she had won the day?
So the pic-nic came off according to the arrangement. The weather and
every thing else looked so promising that even the vinegar in Bessie
Danvers's composition was acidulated; and, when Keene greeted her at
the place of _rendezvous_, she favored him with just such a smile as one
of the grim Puritan dames, in a rare interval of courtesy, may have
granted to Claverhouse or Montrose--the right of reprobation being
reserved. It is greatly to be feared that the Malignant did not
appreciate the condescension, his attention was so entirely taken up in
another quarter.
Cecil Tresilyan was perfectly dazzling in the splendor and insolence of
her beauty: the calm self-possession that usually distinguished her
seemed changed into almost reckless high spirits: even her dress
betrayed a certain intention of coquetry; and her splendid violet eyes
flashed ever and anon with a mischievously mutinous expression that made
their glance a challenge. Such a frame of mind the Scotch describe when
they speak of a person being "fey," holding it to be a sure presage of
impending disaster.
Oh, guileless maidens! be warned, and trust not to attractive
appearances. Lo! there is not a cloud in the sky that smiles over the
Nysian vale; all round the roses and lilies are blooming, till the air
is faint with their perfume; merry and musical rings the laugh of
Persephone, as she goes forth with her comrades a-Maying; but worse
things than serpents lurk beneath the waving grass. We, who have read
the ancient legend, listen already for the roll of the nether thunder:
we know that, in another minute, the earth will disgorge Aïdoneus, the
smart ravisher, with his iron chariot: then will come a struggle of the
dove in the clutch of the falcon--a cry for help drowned in a hoarse
growl of triumph--shrieks and wild disorder among the flying nymphs; but
the loveliest of the land will rejoin them never any more. Demeter
(like other careful chaperones), when she is most wanted, is far away,
tending her corn-lands or reveling in the odors of sacrifice. Finding
her after long-baffled search, she will hardly recognize her innocent
child in the pale Queen of Shades, that seems worthy of her awful throne
far-gleaming through the leaden twilight: the little hand that used to
weave garlands so deftly sways the golden sceptre right royally; but the
deep, solemn eyes have forgotten how to smile. She who once wept
bitterly over her pet bird when it died listens, unmoved, to the clank
of Megæra's scourge, and to the wail of a million spirits in torment.
Her beauty is more magnificent than ever, but it is tinged with the
austere and dreary majesty that befits the consort of the King of Hell.
Ah, woeful mother! desist from intercession, and dry those unavailing
tears: it is too late now to tempt her to follow you, even if Hades will
let its empress depart for a season: the pure, natural fruits of your
upper earth have lost all savor for the lips that once have tasted the
fatal pomegranate.
Mr. Fullarton and his family completed the party, which was confined to
the Molyneux's set. The chaplain was strangely nervous, fussy, and
important: it seemed as if the possession of some weighty secret that he
was eager, yet afraid to divulge, had disturbed his phlegmatic
complacency. He took the first opportunity of beseeching Miss Tresilyan
to be allowed to act as her escort: it was customary on all these
expeditions that each dame and demoiselle, besides the professional
muleteer, should be attended by at least one "dismounted skirmisher."
Cecil was rather puzzled by the petition, and by the earnest way in
which it was preferred; but she was too happy to deny any body any thing
just then; besides which she felt conscious of having visited her pastor
of late with a certain amount of neglect, not to say contumely. So she
consented, graciously; but the sidelong glance at Keene, asking for his
sympathy, did not escape her reverend cavalier.
It was evident that Mr. Fullarton had something on his mind that he
intended to impart to his companion; but it was equally clear that he
did not see his way to the confidence. The path turned abruptly across
the line of hills; and while he was hesitating and looking about for a
fair opening, it got so steep and rugged that it soon left him no breath
for the disclosure. Before they had gone half a league the divine was
decidedly in difficulties; he rolled hither and thither, panting
painfully, like one who has already endured all the burden and heat of
the day. Still he clung obstinately to Cecil's bridle-rein, rather
assisted than assisting, till they reached a point where the road
resembled greatly a flight of garret stairs, without any regularity in
the steps thereof. The mule and its leader stumbled together; the former
recovered itself cleverly after the fashion of its kind; but such a
_tour de force_ far exceeded the exhausted energies of the pursy pastor.
He was fairly "down upon his head."
Since the cavalcade started, Major Keene had not attempted to disturb
the order of march; at first he walked by the side of Fanny Molyneux,
and did his best to amuse her; when the path became too narrow for three
abreast, he resigned the charge to Harry (who never, willingly, when _en
voyage_, abdicated the charge of his _mignonne_), and went on by
himself, just in the rear of Miss Tresilyan and her clerical escort. He
presented, in truth, a striking contrast to that over-tasked
pedestrian--going easily, within himself, without a quickened breath, or
a bead of moisture on his forehead. _Shikari_ of the Upper Himalayas,
gillies of Perthshire and the Western Highlands, chamois-hunters of the
Tyrol, and guides of Chamounix or Courmayeur, could all have told tales
of that long, slashing stride, to which hill or dale, rough or smooth,
never came amiss; before which even the weary German miles were
swallowed up like furlongs. He sprang quickly forward when he saw the
mishap of his front rank; Miss Tresilyan was quite safe, so he only gave
her a smile in passing, and then raised the fallen ecclesiastic, with a
studied and ostentatious tenderness that would have aggravated a saint.
"I hope you are not severely hurt, Mr. Fullarton? You really should be
less rash in over-exciting yourself. The spirit is willing, but the
flesh is--somewhat 'short of work.' May I relieve you of your
responsibility till you have recovered your wind?"
In spite of his own sacred character, and the proprieties of time and
place, had Keene been weak and of small stature, it is within the bounds
of possibility that the pastor might have assaulted him, there and then.
If it had not been for that unfortunate sense of the ridiculous which
was perpetually offering temptations to Miss Tresilyan, she would have
undoubtedly on this occasion espoused the losing side; but she exhausted
all her powers of self-control in expressing (with decent gravity) her
sorrow, that her guide should have come to grief in her service. She had
none left wherewith to concoct a rebuke for the Cool Captain.
Considering the circumstances, Mr. Fullarton's laugh, and attempt at a
jest on his own discomfiture, did him infinite credit. With the
smothered expression that half escaped his lips as he fell to the rear,
the chronicler has no earthly concern.
As the other two moved onward, Royston spoke, his dark eyes glittering
scornfully--
"I wonder if women will ever get tired of deriding us, or we of
ministering to their amusement? It must have been a great satisfaction
to Anne of Austria to see Richelieu dance that saraband. (But Mazarin
paid her off for it. I am very glad that the cardinal was avenged by the
_charlatan_.) Now, how could you allow the shepherd to be so rash?
Consider that he has a large and increasing family totally dependent on
him for support. If I were Mrs. Fullarton, I would bring an action
against you. It is a necessity that his successor should quote
_something_; and he really did bring to my mind the description of the
White Bull of Duncraggan, who started up-hill so vigorously--
But steep and flinty was the road,
And sharp the hurrying pikemen's goad,
And when we came to Dennan's Row,
A child might scatheless stroke his brow.
I shouldn't like to be the child, though," he added, meditatively, with
a backward glance at the object of his remarks, who indeed did present a
very "dissolving view."
The tone and manner of his speaking showed how much, within the last few
weeks, the relations of the two had altered: the scale was already
wavering, and ere long might be foretold a change in the balance of
power.
His beautiful companion shook her head till the soft curling plumes that
nestled round her hat danced again; but the effect of the reproving
gesture was quite spoilt by the laugh that followed it, suppressed
though clear as a silver bell.
"I will not be made an accomplice in your irreverent comparisons; I
don't admit the resemblance; if there were one, it was too bad of 'the
pikemen' not to be more considerate. You always try to impute malicious
motives to the most innocent. How could I guess that Mr. Fullarton would
suffer so for his devotion to my interests? I will give you back your
quotation in kind. See! if I were as mischievous as you insinuate--
My loss may pay my folly's tax;
I've broke my trusty battle-axe."
The ivory handle of her parasol (the same that had been rescued from
Duchesne) chanced to be entangled in the bridle when the mule stumbled,
and the jerk snapped the frail shaft in two. Keene took the fragment
from her, and looked at it for an instant.
"Poor thing!" he said compassionately; "so it was fated to be
short-lived? It was hardly worth while saving it from the wrath of the
sinner, if it was to be sacrificed so soon to the awkwardness of the
saint."
"Not at all," Cecil replied. "It was my fault, for being so heedless.
But I can not afford another misadventure to-day. Will you take great
care of me?"
Her soft, caressing tones thrilled through Royston's veins till the
blood mounted to his forehead; but he made no answer in words, only
looking up earnestly into her face with his rare smile.
I have tried throughout to avoid inflicting on you a dialogue that does
not bear in some way on the incidents of our tale; on this principle we
will not record the conversation that occupied those two till they
reached the crown of the pass. It was probably interesting to _them_,
for it was long before either forgot a word that was spoken. But the
imagination or the memory of the reader will doubtless fill up a better
fancy-sketch than the one omitted here.
There was a general halt on the brow of the hill. Indeed the view was
worth a pause. From below their feet the tract of low woodland rolled
right down to the edge of the sea, like a broad tossing river, swelling
into great billows of gray or dark green, where the taller olives or
fir-trees grew, and broken here and there with islets of many-colored
stone. With the rest came up the chaplain, who had recovered by this
time his breath, and, to a certain extent, his equanimity. While the
others stood silent, he saw one of those openings for improving the
occasion professionally of which he was ever so ready to avail himself.
So, casting his hand abroad theatrically, he declaimed,
How glorious are thy works, Parent of Good!
The words came oozing out in the oiliest of his unctuous tones; and the
elocutionist's expansive glance fell first on the landscape
patronizingly, then on the by-standers encouragingly. It was as though
he said, "You may fall to, and admire now. I have asked a blessing."
Nothing more occurred worthy of note till they reached their destination
in safety.
Of course, "there never was such a place for a picnic;" but, as that has
been said of about three hundred different spots in every civilized
country of Europe, it is certainly not worth while describing this
particular one. The luncheon went on very much as such things always do
when the arrangements are perfect, the commissariat unexceptionable, and
the guests hungry and happy.
Mr. Fullarton, however, applied himself so assiduously to Champagne-cup
that his sober-minded helpmate (the only person who took much notice of
his proceedings) was filled with an uncomfortable wonder. At last,
during a pause in the general conversation, he addressed Royston
abruptly--there was a strange huskiness in his voice, and his lower lip
kept trembling--
"I heard from Naples this morning. My friend mentions having met Mrs.
Keene there."
The major looked up at the speaker with the cool, indifferent glance
that had often irritated him. "Indeed! I was not aware that my mother
had got so far south yet. She wrote last from Rome." The other tossed
off his glass with an unsteady hand, and set it down sharply. "I never
heard of your mother, sir," he said; "I was speaking of--_your wife_."