It is not pleasant to stand by and assist at each step of an incantation
that draws down a star from heaven, or darkens the face of the moon. Let
us be content to accept the result, when it is forced upon us, without
inquiring too minutely into the process. Not with impunity can even the
Adepts gain and keep the secrets of their evil Abracadabra. The beard of
Merlin is gray before its time; premature wrinkles furrow the brow of
Canidia; though the terror of his stony eyes may keep the fiends at bay,
the death-sleep of Michael Scott is not untroubled; the pillars of
Melrose shake ever and anon as though an earthquake passed by, and the
monks cross themselves in fear and pity, for they know that the awful
wizard is turning restlessly in his grave.
As we are not writing a three-volume novel, we have a right, perhaps,
not to linger over this part of our story. For any one who likes to
indulge a somewhat morbid taste, or who happens to be keen about
physiology, there is daily food sufficient in those ingenious romances
_d'Outre-mer_.
It is hardly worth while speculating how far Cecil deluded herself when
she thought that she was safe in trusting to her own strength of
principle and to the generosity of Royston Keene. All this seems to me
not to affect the main question materially. Does it help us--after we
have yielded to temptation--that our resolves, when it first assailed
us, should have been prudent and sincere, if such a plea can not avert
the consequences or extenuate the guilt? The grim old proverb tells us
how a certain curiously tesselated pavement is laid down. Millions of
feet have trodden those stones for sixty ages, yet they may well last
till the Day of Judgment, they are so constantly and unsparingly
renewed.
It is more than rashness for any mortal to say to the strong,
treacherous ocean, "Thus far shalt thou go, and no farther;" it is
trenching on the privilege of Omnipotence. The dikes may be wisely
planned and skillfully built; but one night a wilder wind arises than
any that they have withstood; the legions of the besieging army are
mustering to storm. At one spot in the seawall, where patient miners
have long been working unseen, a narrow breach is made, widening every
instant; it is too late now to fly; the wolfish waves are within the
intrenchments, mad for sack and pillage. On the morrow, where trim
gardens bloomed, and stately palaces shone, there is nothing but a waste
of waters strewn with wrecks and blue, swollen corpses. The Zuyder Zee
rolls, ten fathoms deep, over the ruins of drowned Stavoren.
So we will not enter minutely into the details of poor Cecil's
demoralization--gradual, but fearfully rapid. It was not by words that
she was corrupted; for Royston was still as careful as ever to abstain
from uttering one cynicism in her presence; but none the less was it
true that daily and hourly some fresh scruple was washed away, some holy
principle withered and died. The recklessness which ever carried him on
straight to the attainment of a purpose or the indulgence of a fancy,
trampling down the barriers that divide good from evil, seemed to
communicate itself to Cecil contagiously. She seldom ventured on
reflection now--still less on self-examination; but she could not help
being herself sensible of the change: thoughts that she would have
shrunk back from in horror not so long ago (if she could have
comprehended them fully) had ceased now to startle or repel her as she
looked them in the face. Do not suppose for an instant that there was a
corresponding alteration in her outward demeanor, or that it displayed
any wildness or eccentricity. Melodrama, etc., may be very successful at
a trans-pontine theatre, but it is unpardonably out of place in our
_salons_. The Tresilyan understood the duties of her social, if not of
her moral position (so long as the first was not forfeited) as well as
the strictest duenna alive. Though she might choose to defy the world's
censure, she never dreamed of giving an opening to its ridicule; she was
less capable of _gaucherie_ than of a crime. In her bearing toward
others she was just the same as ever; if any thing, rather more
brilliant and fascinating, and, if crossed or interfered with, perhaps a
shade more haughtily independent.
Only when alone with Royston did she betray herself. It was sad to see
how completely the stronger and worse nature had absorbed the weaker and
better one till all power of volition and free agency vanished, and even
individuality was lost. She was not sentimental or demonstrative in his
presence (on the contrary, at such times, that loveliest face was very
apt to put on the delicious _mine mutine_, which made it perfectly
irresistible), but the idea seemed never to enter her mind that it would
be possible to resist or controvert any seriously-expressed wish of
her--_lover_. There! the word is written; and woe is me! that I dare not
erase it. It must have come sooner or later, and it is as well to have
got it over.
According to all rules for such cases laid down and provided, Cecil's
life ought to have been spent in alternations between feverish
excitement and poignant remorse. But the truth must be told--she was
unaccountably happy. The simple fact was that she had no time to be
otherwise. Even when entirely alone her conscience could find no
opportunity of asserting itself. Her thoughts were amply occupied with
recalling every word that Royston had said, and with anticipating what
he would say at their next meeting. It is idle to suppose that remorse
can not be kept at arm's length for a certain time; but the debt
recklessly incurred must generally be paid to the uttermost farthing.
Life, if sufficiently prolonged, will always afford leisure for
reflection and retrospect, and at such seasons we appreciate in full
force the tortures of "solitary confinement." The criminal may go on
pilgrimage to a hundred shrines, and never light on the purification
that will scare the Erinnyes.
In this instance the victor certainly did not abuse his advantage, and
was any thing but exacting in his requirements. It was strange how his
whole manner and nature altered when alone with his beautiful captive.
The more evident became her subjugation, the more he seemed anxious to
treat her with a delicate deference. They talked, as a rule, on any
subject rather than their own feelings; and he spoke on all such
indifferent topics honestly, if not wisely. For the rest of the world
his sarcasm and irony were ready as ever; he kept all his sincerity and
confidence for Cecil Tresilyan. This is the secret of the influence
exercised by many men, at whose successes we all have marveled. Sweet,
as well as disenchanting experiences are sometimes gained behind the
scenes. None but those who have tried it can appreciate the delight of
finding, in a manner that the uninitiate call cold and repellent, an
ever-ready loving caress. But in Royston's case there was no acting: it
was only that he allowed Cecil to see one phase of hid character that
was seldom displayed.
The subordinates in the drama betrayed much more outward concern and
disquietude than the principals. When Fanny Molyneux found that Royston
did not intend to evacuate his position, she tried the effect of a
vigorous remonstrance on her friend. The latter heard her patiently, but
quite impassively, declining to admit any probability of danger or
necessity to caution. _La mignonne_ was not convinced, but she yielded.
She wound her arm round Cecil's waist, as they sat and whispered,
nestling close to her side--"Dearest, remember this: if any thing should
happen, I shall always think that some blame belongs to me, and I will
never give you up--never."
The Tresilyan bent her beautiful swan-neck, as though she were caressing
a dove nestling in her bosom, and pressed her lips on her companion's
cheek long and tenderly.
"I could not do _that_," she said, "if I were guilty."
Neither had Harry refrained from lifting up his testimony against what
he saw and suspected. The major would take more from him than from any
man alive; he was not at all incensed at the interference.
"My dear Hal," he said, "don't make an old woman of yourself by giving
credit to scandal, or inventing it for yourself. If you choose to be
worried before your time, I can't help it; but it is more than
unnecessary. Una can take care of herself perfectly well, without your
playing the lion. Besides--what is the brother there for? You know there
are some subjects I never talk about to you, and you don't deserve that
I should be communicative now. But listen--you shall not think of Cecil
worse than she is: up to this time, I swear, even her lips are pure from
me. Now I hope you are satisfied; you have made me break my rule, for
once; drop the subject, in the devil's name."
Though fully aware of his friend's unscrupulous character, Harry was
satisfied that nothing _very_ wrong had occurred so far. Royston never
lied.
"I'm glad that you can say so much," he replied; "the worst of it is,
people will talk. I wonder that obnoxious parson has not made himself
more disagreeable already. I didn't go to church last Sunday afternoon,
because I felt a conviction that he was going to be personal in his
sermon."
The major laughed his hard, unpleasant laugh. "Don't let that idea
disturb your devotions another time. He is not likely to bite or even to
bark very loud: he don't get my muzzle off in a hurry."
Indeed, it was profoundly true that since the disclosure the chaplain's
reticence had become remarkable. When his own wife questioned him on the
subject (very naturally), he checked her with some asperity, and read
her a lecture on feminine curiosity that moved the poor woman, even to
weeping. Mrs. Danvers was greatly surprised and disconcerted by the
decision with which Mr. Fullarton rejected her suggestion, that he
should aid and abet in thwarting Keene's supposed designs. "He had
thought it right," he said, "to make Miss Tresilyan and others aware of
the real state of the case; but he did not conceive that farther
interference lay within the sphere of his duty." It was odd how that
same once arbitrarily elastic sphere had contracted since the prophet
met the lion in the pathway! Dick Tresilyan--the only other person much
interested in the progress of affairs--did not seem to trouble himself
much about them. He was perpetually absent on shooting expeditions; but,
when at home, it was observed that he drank harder than ever, getting
sulky sometimes without apparent reason, and disagreeably quarrelsome.
Royston had only stated the simple fact when he said that Cecil was free
from any stain of actual guilt or dishonor. Whether the credit of having
borne her harmless was most due to her own prudence and remains of
principle, or to her tempter's self-restraint, we will not, if you
please, inquire. It is as well to be charitable now and then. Her escape
was little less than miraculous, considering how often she had trusted
herself unreservedly to the mercy of one who was wont to be as unsparing
in his love as in his anger. Let not this immunity be made an excuse for
credulous confidence, or induce others to emulate her rashness. The
Millenium will not come in our time, I fancy; and, till it arrives,
neither child nor maiden may safely lay their hand on the cockatrice's
den. The ballad tells us that Lady Janet was happy at last; but she paid
dearly through months of sorrow and shame for those three red roses
plucked in the Elfin Bower. The precise cause of Keene's forbearance it
would be very difficult to explain: more than one feeling probably had
to do with it.
If memory has any pleasures worth speaking of (which many grave and
learned doctors take leave to doubt), certainly among the purest is the
recollection of having once been endowed with the whole love of a rare
and beautiful being which we did not abuse or betray. This is the only
sort of lost riches on which we can look back with comfort out of the
depths of present and pressing poverty; the pearl is so very precious
that it confers on its possessor a certain dignity which does not
entirely pass away, even when the jewel has slipped from his grasp,
following the ring of Polycrates. Alas! alas! less generous than the
blue Ægæan are the sullen waters of the deep. _Mare mortuum._ Only on
these grounds can that wonderful self-possession be accounted for, which
enables men, seemingly ill-fitted for the situation, to confront the
world in all its phases with so grand a calmness. It is refreshing to
see how even coquetry recoils from that armor of proof, and to fancy how
the dead beauty might triumph over the defeat of her living rivals,
laughing the seductions of their loveliness to scorn. Even in crises of
graver difficulty, where sterner assailants are to be encountered than
Helen's magical smile or Florence's magnetic eyes, the invisible
presence seems to inspire her lover with supernatural valiance. Remember
the story of Aslauga's Knight; when once through the cloud of
battle-dust gleamed the golden tresses, horse and man went down before
him.
Royston was not half good enough to appreciate all this; yet some
shadowy and undefined feeling, allied to it, may have helped to hold him
back from pushing his advantage to the uttermost. Another and more
selfish presentiment worked probably more powerfully. There was one
phantom from which the Cool Captain never could escape; for years it had
followed close on the consummation of all his crimes, and was, in truth,
their best avenger: his Nemesis was satiety. He knew too well how the
sweetest flowers lost their color and fragrance, so soon as they were
plucked and fairly in his grasp, not to shrink before the prospect of a
certain disenchantment. This curse attaches to many of his kind: the
instant the prize is won there arise misgivings as to its value; and
defects develop themselves hourly in what seemed faultless perfection
before. It is boys' play to simulate being _blasé_; but the reality
makes mature manhood disbelieve any thing sooner than inevitable
retribution. Very often the thought forced itself upon Keene's mind, "If
I were to weary of _her_ too?" and made him pause before he urged Cecil
to the step that must have linked him to her fate forever.
Under other circumstances his patience might have held out still longer;
but there were numberless difficulties and obstacles in the way of their
meeting, and the perpetual constraint fretted Royston sorely. His
principle always had been not openly to violate conventionalities
without gaining an adequate equivalent; so he was more careful of
Cecil's reputation than she was inclined to be, and, among worse
lessons, taught her prudence. They met very seldom alone. When Mrs.
Danvers was present she made it her business to be as much as possible
in the way; and her awkward attempts at interference were sometimes
inexpressibly provoking. On one particular evening she had been
unusually pertinacious and obtrusive. The major stood it tolerably well
up to a certain point, but his savage temper gradually got the better of
him; his face grew darker and darker, till it was black as midnight when
he rose to go, and his lips were rigid as steel. It was evident he had
come to some resolution that he meant to keep. When he was wishing
Bessie "good-night," he held her hand imprisoned for a moment without
pressing it. "You are so good a theologian," he said, "that perhaps you
can tell me where a text comes from that has haunted me for the last
hour. It speaks of some one who 'loosed the bands of Orion.'" His manner
and the sudden address disconcerted Mrs. Danvers so completely as to
incapacitate her from reply: she suffered "judgment to go by default;"
and left Royston under the impression that she had never read the Book
of Job.
The next day he asked Cecil to elope with him.
She listened without betraying either terror, or anger, or disdain; but
she raised her beautiful eyes to his with a sad, searching inquiry,
before which many men would have quailed. "Have you counted the cost to
yourself and to me?"
"I have done both," replied Keene, gravely. "I can not say that you will
never repent it; but I know that I shall never regret it."
There were no promises or vows exchanged; but a silence for two long
minutes; and, when these were passed, the sweet, pure lips had lost
their virginity.
So with few more words it was finally arranged; and the next day Royston
left Dorade to make preparations all along the road of their intended
flight. Their plan was to take boat at Marseilles for the East, making
their first permanent resting-place one of the islands of the Grecian
Archipelago. Both were most anxious to evade any possibility of
interception, more especially of collision with Dick Tresilyan.
On that evening Cecil was alone in her own room (Mrs. Danvers had gone
out to a sort of love-feast at the Fullartons', where the company were
to be entertained with weak tea and strong doctrine _à discretion_). She
had rejected the offer of Fanny's companionship on the plea, not
altogether false, of a tormenting headache. _La mignonne_ was too
innocent to suspect the reason that made her friend shudder in their
parting embrace, half averting her cheek, though Cecil's arms clung
round her as though they would never let her go. The saddest feeling of
the many that were busy then in the guilty, troubled heart, was a
consciousness that in a few hours the gulf between them would be deep
and impassable as the chasm dividing Abraham from Dives.
Miss Tresilyan had taken unconsciously an attitude in which you saw her
once before, half-reclined, and gazing into the fire; outwardly still
remained the same pensive, languid grace; but very different was the
careless reverie that had stolen over her then, from the wild chaos of
conflicting thoughts that involved her now.
Her whole being was so bound up in Royston Keene's, that she felt
without him there would be nothing worth living for; neither had she the
faintest misgiving as to the chances of his inconstancy. There had
descended to her some of the stability and determination of purpose
which had made many of her race so powerful for good or evil; in the
pursuit of either they would never admit a doubt, or listen to a
compromise. When Cecil believed, she believed implicitly, and, not even
with her own conscience, made conditions of surrender. So long as _his_
strong arm was round her, she felt that she could defy shame, and even
remorse; but how would it be if that support should fail? He had not
been away yet twenty hours, and already there came creeping over her a
chilling sense of helplessness and desolation. She knew her lover's
violent passions and haughty temper, impatient of the most distant
approach to insolence or even contradiction from others, too well not to
be aware that such a man walked ever on the frontier-ground between life
and death. Suppose that he were taken from her?--her spirit, dauntless
as it was, quailed before the ghastly terrors of imagined loneliness. An
evil voice that had whispered perhaps in the ear of more than one of the
"bitter, bad Tresilyans," seemed to murmur, "You, too, can die:" but
Cecil was not yet so lost as to listen to the suggestion of the subtle
fiend. She wasted no regrets on the past, and the wreck of all its
brilliant promises: she was resolute to meet the perils of the future;
nevertheless, her heart was heavy with apprehension. Remember the answer
that the stout Catholic made to Des Adrets, when the savage baron
taunted him with cowardice for shrinking twice from the death-leap on
the tower, "_Je vous le donne, en dix_." So it is not in
womanhood--however ruined in principle or reckless of the consequences,
to venture deliberately, without a shudder, on the fatal plunge from
which no fair fame has ever risen unshattered again. Even prejudices may
not be torn up by the roots without stirring the earth around them.
She might have sat musing thus for about an hour; so deep in thought
that she never heard the _portière_ slowly drawn aside that divided the
room from an ante-chamber. The Tresilyan had her emotions under
tolerable control, and at least was not given to screaming; but she
could hardly repress the startled cry that sprang to her lips when she
raised her eyes.
The reproachful spectre that had haunted her for years--till very
lately, when a stronger influence chased it away--assumed substance of
form and feature, as the dark doorway framed the haggard, pain-stricken
face of Mark Waring.