All the inquiries that the chaplain had "felt it his duty" to make
respecting the antecedents of Royston Keene had failed to elicit any
thing more discreditable than may be said of the generality of men who
have spent a dozen years in rather a fast regiment, keeping up to the
standard of the corps. Doubtless graver charges might have been imputed
to him, if the whole truth had been known; but the living witnesses who
could have proved them had good reasons for their silence. Whether
successful or defeated, the Cool Captain was not wont to take the world
into his confidence. As for betraying his own or another's secrets--his
lips were about as likely to do _that_ as those of an effigy on a
tomb-stone.
Naples was a cover that the reverend investigator had not drawn; so he
was considerably startled by the following words in a letter from
thence, received that morning: "I meet a lady constantly in society
here, of whose history I am curious to know more. She is the wife of
Major Keene, the famous Indian _sabreur_; but has been separated from
him for several years. She never makes an allusion to his existence; it
was by the merest chance that I heard this, and also that her husband is
spending the winter at Dorade. Perhaps you can throw some light on the
cause of the 'separate maintenance?' People are not particular here, and
have no right to be; still, one would like to know. I fancy it can not
be her fault; she is perfectly gentle in her manner, but rather
cold--very beautiful too, in a placid, statuesque style." It is not
worth transcribing the writer's farther speculations. If a silent, but
ultra-fervent benediction can at all profit the person for whom it is
intended, very few people have been so well paid for epistolary labor,
as was, then, Mr. Fullarton's correspondent. The reason why has already
been explained.
Well, he had made his great _coup_ without carefully counting the
cost--that financial pleasure was still to come. He could not help
feeling that it had been rather _fiasco_. The man whom he had purposed
utterly to discomfit had throughout been provokingly at his ease; the
best that could be made of it was, a drawn battle. A disagreeable
consciousness crept over the chaplain of having made himself generally
obnoxious, without reaping any equivalent advantage or even
satisfaction. No one seemed to look kindly or admiringly at him since
the disclosure, except Mrs. Danvers; and, glutton as he was of such
dainties, the adulation of that exemplary but unattractive female began
rather to pall on his palate. He was clear-sighted enough to be aware
that Miss Tresilyan was probably offended with him beyond hope of
reconciliation, but this did not greatly trouble him. He had been
sensible for some time of the decay of his influence in that quarter.
Last of all rose on his mind, with unpleasant distinctness, Cecil's
warning, "If I were a man, I should not like to have Major Keene as my
enemy." He had thrown the lance over that enemy's frontier, and it was
now too late to talk of truce. A dread of the consequences overcame him
as he thought of the reprisals that might be exacted by the merciless
and unscrupulous guerilla. True, it was not very evident what harm the
latter could do him; nevertheless, he could not shake off a vague,
depressing apprehension. More and more, as he strolled on, moodily
musing, far in the rear of the rest, he felt inclined to appreciate the
wisdom of the ancient proverb, "Let sleeping dogs lie." Years afterward
he remembered with what a startled thrill, raising his eyes at a sharp
angle of the path, he found himself face to face with Royston Keene.
For some seconds they contemplated each other silently--the priest and
the soldier. A striking contrast they made. The one, heated, and
excited, and nervous, both in appearance and manner, looking more like a
culprit brought up for judgment than a pillar of the Established Church;
the other, outwardly as undemonstrative as the rock against which he
leaned--just a shade of paleness telling of the sharp mental struggle
from which he had come out victorious--his whole bearing and demeanor
precisely what might have been expected if he had been sitting on a
court-martial.
The absurdity of the position struck the chaplain as soon as he
collected himself from his first surprise. It never would do for _him_
to look as if he had any thing to be ashamed of; so, summoning to his
aid all the dignity of his office and his own self-importance, with a
great effort, he spoke steadily:
"I presume you wish to talk to me, Major Keene? I shall be glad to hear
any thing that you may have to communicate or explain. It is my duty as
well as my desire to be useful to any member of my congregation, however
little disposed they may be to avail themselves of their privileges.
Interested, as I must be in the welfare of all committed to my charge, I
need hardly say that the course you have chosen to pursue here has
caused me great pain and anxiety--I own, not so much for your sake as
that of others, to whom your influence was likely to be pernicious. What
I heard this morning makes matters look still worse. I wish I could
anticipate any satisfactory explanation."
The old _ex cathedrâ_ feeling came back upon him while he was speaking;
his tone, gradually becoming rounder and more sonorous, showed this. Was
he so besotted by sacerdotal confidence as to fancy that he could win
that grim penitent to come to him to be confessed or absolved?
Since the chaplain first saw him Royston had never changed his attitude.
He was leaning with his shoulder against the corner of rock round which
the path turned, standing half across it, so that no one could pass him
easily. The dense blue cloudlets of smoke kept rolling out from his lips
rapidly, but regularly, and his right hand twined itself perpetually in
the coils of his heavy brown mustache. That gesture, to those who knew
his temper well, was ever ominous of foul and stormy weather. He did not
reply immediately, but, taking the cigar from his mouth, began twisting
up the loose leaf in a slow, deliberative way. At last he said,
"You did that rather well this morning. How much did you expect to get
for it? My wife is liberal enough in her promises sometimes, when she
wants to make herself disagreeable, but she don't pay well. You might
have driven a better bargain by coming to me. I would have given you
more to have held your tongue." His tone was such as the other had never
heard him use--such as most people would be loth to employ toward the
meanest dependent. No description can do justice to the intensity of its
insolence; it made even Mr. Fullarton's torpid blood boil resentfully.
"How dare you address such words to me?" he cried out, trembling with
rage. "If it were not for my profession--"
"Stop!" the other broke in, rudely; "you need not trouble yourself to
repeat that stale clap-trap. You mean to say that, if I were not safe
from your profession, I should not have said so much. It isn't worth
while lying to yourself, and I have no time to trifle. The converse is
the truer way of putting it. You know better than I can tell you that,
if you had been unfrocked, you would never have ventured half what you
have done to day. You don't stir from hence till this is settled. Do you
suppose I'll allow my private affairs to be made, again, an occasion for
indulging your taste for theatricals?"
The chaplain flushed apoplectically. He just managed to stammer out,
"I will not remain another instant to listen to your blasphemous
insults. If you mean to prevent me from passing, I will return another
way."
Scornfully
He turned; but thrilled with priestly wrath, to feel
His sacred arm locked in a grasp of steel.
A bolder man might have got nervous, finding himself on a lonely
hill-side, face to face with such an adversary, reading, too, the savage
meaning of those murderous eyes. Remember that Mr. Fullarton held
Royston capable of any earthly crime. His own short-lived anger was
instantly annihilated; the sweat of mortal terror broke out over all his
livid face; his lips could hardly gasp out an unintelligible prayer for
mercy.
The soldier's stern face settled into an expression of contempt: in his
gentlest moods he could find little sympathy for purely physical fear.
"Don't faint," he said; "there is no occasion for it. Do you think I
shall 'slay you as I slew the Egyptian yesterday?' Well, I have scanty
respect for your office, especially when its privileges are abused. If
it were not for good reasons, I would serve you worse than I did that
drunken scoundrel who frightened you almost to death down there among
the vines; but that don't suit my purpose. Listen: if you dare to
interfere again, by word, or deed, or sign, in the affairs of me and
mine, I know a better way of making you repent it."
As soon as he saw that there was no real danger to life or limb, the
chaplain's composure began to return. He launched forth immediately into
a gallant though incoherent defiance. Royston's features never for an
instant changed or softened in their scorn.
"Fair words," he retorted; "but I'll make your bubbles burst. You don't
monopolize _all_ the resources of the Private Inquiry Office;" and,
stooping down, he whispered a dozen words in the other's ear. They
related to a charge brought against Mr. Fullarton years ago, so
circumstantial and difficult to disprove that, with all the advantages
of counter-evidence at hand, it had well-nigh borne him down. He knew
right well that, if it were once revived here abroad, where the lightest
suspicion is caught up and used so readily, the consequences would be
nothing short of utter ruin. He was a poor man, with a large family. No
wonder if he quailed.
"You know--you know," he gasped, "that it is a vile, cruel falsehood."
To do him justice, he spoke the simple truth there.
With a cold, tranquil satisfaction, the major contemplated his victim's
agony.
"I choose to know nothing about it, except that it carries more
probability than most stories one hears. The world in general is,
fortunately, not incredulous, and I have seen a man 'broke' on lighter
evidence. Well, you will take your own course, and I shall take mine. I
fancy we understand each other--at last."
By a superhuman effort the unlucky ecclesiastic did contrive to mutter
something about his "determination to do his duty." Royston listened to
him with his worst smile.
"I'll take my chance about that," he said. "I feel tolerably safe. Now
I'll leave you to settle the affair between your interest and your
conscience."
He turned on his heel, and strode away without another word. Long after
he was out of sight the chaplain stood fixed in the same attitude of
panic-stricken, helpless despondency. By my faith! even in these
degenerate days, we have petrifying influences left that may match the
head of the Gorgon.
Meanwhile, the others were wending slowly homeward, truly in a very
different mood from that in which they had gone forth that morning. Even
as no man can be pronounced happy till the hour of his death, so can no
excursion or entertainment be called successful till night has fairly
closed in. Caprice of climate is only one of the many sources of
disappointment, and the event justifies so seldom our sanguine
predictions that we have little right to complain of false and fallible
barometers. It is worthy of remark how often these trifles illustrate
that trite and time-honored simile of Life. The vessel starts gayly
enough, heeling over gracefully to the land-wind in the old, approved
fashion--"Youth at the prow, and pleasure at the helm"--there is not a
misgiving in the heart of any of the passengers; they can not help
pitying those left behind on the shore. What a cheery adieu they wave to
the friends who come down to wish them "good-speed!" After a voyage more
or less prolonged the same ship drifts in slowly shoreward, over the
harbor-bar, under the calm of the solemn sunset. Even the deepening
twilight can not disguise the evidences of a terrible "sea-change." Not
a trace of paint or gilding remains on the wave-worn, shattered timbers.
Sails rent and cordage strained tell tales of many storm-gusts, or,
perchance, of one tornado; and see! her flag is flying half-mast high:
the corpse of the Pilot is on board. Let us stand aside, lest we meet
the passengers as they land. It were worse than mockery to ask how the
yachting trip has sped.
Miss Tresilyan rode somewhat in advance of the rest, under her brother's
escort. Dick was a model in his own line, and other brothers-of-beauties
might well imitate his moderation and discretion. He never thrust
himself into the conversation, or into her presence, when there was a
chance of his intrusion being ill-timed, but was always at hand when he
was wanted: the slightest sign, or even a glance, from Cecil, brought
him to her side, and there he would march for hours in silent but
perfect satisfaction. On the present occasion he seemed disposed to be
unwontedly talkative, and to indulge in certain speculations relative to
the intelligence they had just heard. It was true, he knew it before,
but nothing had been disclosed to him beyond the simple fact that
Royston was married, and married unhappily. Cecil checked him gently,
but very decidedly.
"I had rather not hear or say one word on the subject. It ought not to
interest either of us. In good time, I suppose, we shall be told all
that it is fitting we should know. Meanwhile, it would be very wrong to
make conjectures. No one has any right to pry into Major Keene's affairs
if he chooses to keep them secret. I do not believe any one ever did so,
even in thought, without repenting it. I dare say Mr. Fullarton will
find this out soon, and I shall not pity him in the least. A person
_ought_ to be punished who tries to startle people in that disagreeable
way. Did you hear Fanny's little shriek? I have not had time to laugh at
her about it yet. The path is too narrow for two to ride abreast."
The light tone and manner of her last words might have deceived a closer
observer than honest Dick Tresilyan. He lapsed into silence; but, after
some time, his meditations assumed a cheerfully-roseate hue, as they
resolved themselves into the fixed idea that Royston was lingering
behind "to have it out with the parson."
Some distance in the rear walked Harry Molyneux, holding dutifully his
wife's bridle-rein. It was very touching to see the diffidence and
humility with which he proffered his little attentions, which were
accepted, as it were, under protest. The truth was that _la mignonne_
had forgiven him already, and it was with great difficulty she refrained
from telling him so, by word or smile. Her soft heart melted within her
at the sight of the criminal's contrition, and decided that he had done
penance enough during the last half hour to atone for a graver
misdemeanor; but she deferred asking for explanations till a more
convenient season, when there should be no chance of interruption; and
meanwhile, on grounds of stern political necessity, _elle le boudait_.
(If any elegant scholar will translate that Gallicism for me literally,
I shall feel obliged to him.)
Fancy the sensations of a man fighting his frigate desperately against
overwhelming odds, when he sees the outline of a huge "liner," with
English colors at the main, looming dimly through the smoke, close on
the enemy's quarter; or those of the commander of an untenable post when
the first bayonets of the relieving force glitter over the crest of the
hill, and you will have a fair idea of Harry's relief as he looked back
and saw Keene rapidly gaining on them with his swift, slashing stride.
As he fell back and yielded his post to Royston, this was written so
plainly on his face that the latter could not repress a smile; but there
was little mirth in his voice when he addressed Fanny--she had never
heard him speak so gently and gravely: "I know that you are angry with
your husband, as well as with me, for keeping you in the dark so long. I
must make his peace with you, even if I fail in making my own. He could
not tell you one word without breaking a promise given years ago. If he
had done so, in spite of the excuse of the strong temptation, I would
never have trusted him again. Ah! I see you have done him justice
already: that is good of you. Now for my own part. Why I did not choose
to let you into the secret as soon as I began to know you well I can
hardly say. Hal will tell you all about it, and you will see that, for
once, I was more sinned against than sinning; so I was not afraid of
your thinking worse of me for it. Perhaps the last thing that a man
likes to confess is his one arch piece of folly, especially if he has
paid for it as heavy a price as attaches to most crimes. I think I am
not sorry that you were kept in the dark till now. The past has given me
some pleasant hours with you that might have been darkened if you had
known all. I wish you would forgive me. We have always been such good
friends, and, in your sex at least, I can reckon so few."
If he had spoken with his ordinary accent, Fanny would scarcely have
yielded so readily, but the strange sadness of his tone moved her
deeply. A mist gathered in her gentle eyes as she looked at him for some
moments in silence, and then held out a timid little tremulous hand.
"I should not have liked you worse for knowing that you had been unhappy
once," she whispered; "but I ought never to have been vexed at not being
taken into confidence. I don't think I am wise or steady enough to keep
secrets; only I wish--I do wish--that you had told Cecil Tresilyan."
He answered her in his old cool, provoking way, "I know what you mean to
imply, but you do Miss Tresilyan less than justice, and me too much
honor. What right have you to infer that I look upon her in any other
light than a very charming acquaintance, or that she feels any deeper
interest in to-day's revelation than if she had heard unexpectedly that
any one of her friends was married? Surprises are seldom agreeable,
especially when they are so clumsily brought about. I am sure she has
not told you any thing to justify your suspicions."
Fanny was the worst casuist out. She was seldom certain about her facts,
and when she happened to be so, had not sufficient pertinacity or
confidence to push her advantage. Her favorite argument was ever _ad
misericordiam_. "I wish I could quite believe you," she said,
plaintively; "but I can't, and it makes me very unhappy. You must see
that you ought to go."
Her evident fear of him touched Royston more sharply than the most
venomous reproach or the most elaborate sarcasm could have done; but he
would not betray how it galled him. "Three days ago," he replied, "I had
almost decided on departure; now it does not altogether depend on me.
But you need not be afraid. I shall not worry you long; and while I stay
I have no wish, and, I believe, no power, to do any one any harm." She
looked at him long and earnestly, but failed to extract any farther
confession from the impenetrable face. Keene would not give her the
chance of pursuing the subject, but called up Harry to help him in
turning the conversation into a different channel and keeping it there.
Between the two they held the anxieties and curiosities of the oppressed
_mignonne_ at bay till they entered Dorade.
They were obliged to pass the Terrasse on their way home: there, alone,
under the shadow of the palms, sat Armand de Châteaumesnil. The
invalid's great haggard eyes fixed themselves observantly on Cecil
Tresilyan as she went by. He laid his hand on the major's sleeve when he
came to his side, and said, in a hoarse whisper, "Qu'as tu fait donc,
pour l'atterrer ainsi?" The other met the searching gaze without
flinching, "Je n'en sais rien; seulement--on dit que je suis marié." If
the Algerian had been told on indisputable authority that Paris and its
inhabitants had just been swallowed up by an earthquake, he would only
have raised his shaggy brows in a faint expression of surprise, exactly
as he did now. "Tu es marié?" he growled out. "A laquelle donc des deux
doit on compâtir--Madame ou Mademoiselle?" Yet he did not like Keene the
worse for the impatient gesture with which the latter shook himself
loose, muttering, "Je vous croyais trop sage, M. le Vicomte, pour vous
amuser avec ces balivernes de romancier."
Fanny Molyneux and Cecil passed the evening together _tête-à-tête_. That
kind little creature had a way of taking other people's turn of duty in
the line of penitence and apology. On the present occasion she was
remarkably gushing in her contrition, though her own guilt was
infinitesimal; but she met with scanty encouragement. She had found time
to extract from Harry all the details of the matrimonial misadventure,
and wished to give her friend the benefit of them. Miss Tresilyan would
not listen to a word. She did not attempt to disguise the interest she
felt in the subject, but said that she preferred hearing the
circumstances from Royston's own lips. With all this her manner had
never been more gentle and caressing: she succeeded at last in deluding
Fanny into the belief that every body was perfectly heart-whole, and
that no harm had been done, so that that night _la mignonne_ slept the
sleep of the innocent, no misgivings or forebodings troubling her
dreams. Those brave women!--when I think of the pangs that they suffer
uncomplainingly, the agonies that they dissemble, I am inclined to
esteem lightly our own claims to the Cross of Valor. How many of them
there are who, covering with their white hand the dagger's hilt, utter
with a sweet, calm smile, and lips that never tremble, the falsehood
holier than most outspoken truths--_Poetus non angit_!
When Cecil returned home Mrs. Danvers was waiting for her, ready with
any amount of condolence and indignation. She checked all this, as she
well knew how to do; and at last was alone in her own chamber. Then the
reaction came on; with natures such as hers, it is a torture not to be
forgotten while life shall endure.
There were not wanting in Dorade admirers and sentimentalists, who were
wont to watch the windows of The Tresilyan as long as light lingered
there. How those patient, unrequited astronomers would have been
startled if their eyes had been sharp enough to penetrate the dark
recess where she lay writhing and prone, her stricken face veiled by the
masses of her loosened hair, her slender hands clenched till the blood
stood still in their veins, in an agony of stormy self-reproach, and
fiery longing, and injured pride; or if their ears had caught the sound
of the low, bitter wail that went up to heaven like the cry from Gehenna
of some fair, lost spirit, "My shame--my shame!"
Under favor of the audience, we will drop the curtain here. One of our
puppets shall appear to-night no more. When a heroine is once on the
stage, the public has a right to be indulged with the spectacle of her
faults and follies, as well as of her virtues and excellences; yet I
love the phantasm of my queenly Cecil too well to parade her discrowned
and in abasement.