It is not very easy to confront, with decorous composure, the sudden
apparition of the person on earth that one would have least liked to
see. All things considered Cecil carried it off creditably, and greeted
her unexpected visitor with sufficient cordiality. Mark took her offered
hand gravely, without eagerness, not holding it an instant longer than
was necessary. Then he spoke--
"They told me I should find you alone. I was so anxious to do so as soon
as possible, that I ventured to break in upon you even at this
unseasonable hour. You will guess that I had powerful reasons."
The Tresilyan threw back her haughty head, as a war-horse might do at
the first blast of the trumpet: she scented battle in the wind.
"Will you be good enough to explain yourself?" she said, as she took her
own seat again, and motioned him into another; "I am sure you would not
trifle with me, or vex me unnecessarily."
Waring did not avail himself of the chair indicated, but crossed his
arms over the back of it, and stood so, regarding her intently.
"You only do me justice there," he replied; "I will speak briefly, and
plainly too. I came here from Nice to ask you how much truth there is in
the reports that couple your name with Major Keene's?"
No one likes to give the death-blow to the loyalty of a faithful
adherent, be he ever so humble; and Cecil was bitterly pained that she
could not speak truly, and satisfy him. Her face sank lower and lower,
till it was buried in her hands. Nothing more was needed to convince
Waring that his worst fears were realized; for a moment or two he felt
sick and faint. No wonder; he had given up hope long ago, but not trust
and faith; now, these were blasted utterly. In any religion, whether
true or false, the fanatic is happier, if not wiser, than the infidel;
if you can not replace it with a better, it is cruel to shake the
foundation of the simplest creed. Mark's voice--hollow, and hoarse, and
changed--could not but betray his agony.
"God help us both! Has it come to this--that you have no words to answer
me, when I dare to hint at your dishonor?"
She looked up quickly, flushing to her white brow, rose-red with anger.
"I will not endure this, even from you. Understand at once--I deny your
right to question me." The clear blue eyes met the violet ones with a
steady, judicial calmness, undazzled by their ominous lightning.
"Listen to me quietly--two minutes longer," he said, "and then resent
my presumption as much as you will. Three years ago it pleased you to
make me the subject of an experiment. How far you acted heedlessly, and
in ignorance of the consequences, I have never stopped to inquire--it
would be wasting time; the sophistries of coquetry are too subtle for
me. I only know what the result has been. Before I met you I could have
offered to any woman, who thought it worth her acceptance, a healthy,
honest love; now--even if I could conquer my present infatuation--I
could only offer a feeling something warmer than friendship; to promise
more would be base treachery. Do you think I would stand by God's altar
with a worse lie than Ananias's on my lips? Is it nothing that, to
gratify your vanity or your whims, you should have condemned a man,
whose blood is not frozen yet, to something worse than widowhood for
life? My religion may be a false and vain idolatry; but it is all I have
to trust to. I will not stand patiently by and see the image that I have
bowed down to worship pilloried for the world to scorn. Now--do you deny
my right to interfere?"
His words had a rude energy, though little eloquence; but they came so
evidently from the depths of a strong, troubled heart, that they caused
a revulsion in Cecil's feelings; returning remorse bore down her
stubborn pride. Very low and plaintive was the whisper--"Ah! have
mercy--have mercy; you make me so unhappy;" but there came a more
piteous appeal from her eyes. In Mark's stout manhood was an element of
more than womanish compassion and tenderness; he never could bear to see
even a child in tears; no wonder if his anger vanished before the
contrition of the one being whom he loved far better than life. He lost
sight of his own wrongs instantly, but _not_ of the object he had in
view.
"Forgive me for speaking so roughly; I ought to have declined your
challenge. I behaved better once, you remember. But be patient while I
plead for the right, though, if you would but listen to them, prudence
and your own conscience could do that better than I. When infatuation
exists, it is worse than useless to prove the object of it unworthy, so
I will not attempt to blacken Major Keene's character; besides, it is
not to my taste to attack men in their absence. I fear there are few
capitals in Europe where his name is not too well known. From what I
have heard, I believe his wife was most in fault when they separated,
but the life he has led since deprives him of all right to complain of
her, or condemn her. Recollect you have only heard one side. But it is
not a question of his eligibility as an acquaintance. There is the
simple fact--he is married, and your name being connected with his
involves disgrace. You can not have fallen yet so far as to be reckless
about such an imputation. In my turn I say, 'Have mercy!' Do not force
me henceforth to disbelieve in the purity of any created thing."
Cecil could only murmur, "It is too late--too late!" The ghastly look of
horror that swept over Waring's face showed that his thoughts had gone
beyond the truth. "I mean," she went on, blushing painfully, "that I
have promised."
"Promised!" Mark repeated in high disdain; "I have lived too long when I
hear such devil's logic from your lips. You know full well there is more
sin in keeping than in breaking such engagements. I will try to save
you in spite of yourself. Listen. I do not threaten; I know you well
enough to be certain that such an argument would be the strongest
temptation to you to persevere in taking your own course. I simply tell
you what I will do. I shall speak to your brother first; if he can not
understand his duty, or shrinks from it, I will carry out what I believe
to be mine. I utterly disapprove of and despise the practice of dueling,
but, at any risk, I _will_ stand between you and Major Keene. He shall
not gain possession of you while I am alive. When I am dead, if you
touch his hand, you shall know that my blood is upon it, and the guilt
shall be on your own head. I believe that in keeping you apart I should
act kindly toward both. I do him this justice--it would make him
miserable to see you pining away. There are limits to human endurance,
and you are too proud to bear dishonor."
Cecil felt that every word he had spoken was good and true, and that he
would not waver in his purpose for an instant. She remembered how, when
they were returning together four days ago, the sidelong glance of a
matronly Pharisee had lighted on her in a spiteful triumph, and how,
though neither of them alluded to it afterward, the dark-red flash of
anger had mounted to Royston's forehead. She had ceased to care for
herself, but could she not save _him_ while yet there was time? And
more--had she not wrought wrong enough to Mark Waring without having his
murder on her soul? for she never doubted as to the result if those two
should meet as foes.
They talk of hair that has grown gray in the briefest space of mental
anguish. It is all a delusion and an old wife's fable. When Cecil rose
the next morning there was not a silver line in her tresses. Outward
signs of the mortal struggle, while it lasted, there were none, for her
clasped hands veiled her face jealously; when she raised it, her cheek
was paler than death and wet with an awful dew, and when she spoke her
voice retained not one cadence of its wonted melody.
"You have prevailed, as the truth always ought to prevail. Now tell me
what to do."
Mark Waring would have drained his heart's blood drop by drop to have
lightened one throb of her agony, but he never thought of flinching from
his purpose.
"There are perils where the only safety lies in flight. You must leave
this before Major Keene returns, and he returns to-morrow."
Perhaps I have failed in making you understand one hereditary
peculiarity of the Tresilyans. When their hand was fairly laid to the
plow they were incapable of looking back. Had Mark come ten hours later,
when Cecil's purpose was absolutely fixed, all his arguments would have
been futile. As it was, once having decided finally on the line she was
to take, it never occurred to her to make farther objections. "Yes, I
will go," she said; "but I must write to him."
"I think you ought to do so," answered Waring, "and if you will give me
the letter I will deliver it myself."
Every vestige of the returning color faded from Cecil's cheek. "You do
not know him: I dare not trust you." He misinterpreted the cause of her
terror. "I promise you that, however angry Major Keene may be, I will
bear it patiently, and never dream of resenting it. He is safe from me
now."
She smiled very sadly, yet not without a dreary pride; she could have
seen Royston pitted against any mortal antagonist, and never would have
feared for _him_. "You scarcely understand me; I was not anxious for his
safety, but for yours."
Mark was too brave and single-hearted to suspect a taunt, even had such
been intended. "Then there is nothing more to be settled," he said,
quietly, "but the time and manner of your departure. I will leave you
now; I shall see you before you go."
Cecil Tresilyan rose and laid her hand on his arm, her beautiful face
fixed in its firm resolve like that of one of those fair Norse Valas,
from whose rigid lips flowed the bode of defeat or victory, when the
Vikings went forth to the Feast of the Ravens.
"I am not angry with one word you have said to-night; you have only
expressed what my own cowardly conscience ought to have uttered;
nevertheless, to-morrow sees our last meeting. All your account against
me is fairly balanced now. I do not know what I may have to suffer, but
I do know that I _will_ be alone till I die. Perhaps some day I may
thank you in my thoughts for what you have done; I can not--now."
With a heavy heart Waring owned to himself that her words were bitterly
true. In curing such diseases, the physician must work without hope of
reward or fee; it will be long before the patient can touch without a
shudder the hand that inflicted the saving cautery.
Her tone changed, and she went on murmuring, low and plaintively, as if
in soliloquy and unconscious of another's presence.
"I could not help loving him, though I knew it was sin; if there is
shame in confessing it, I can not feel it yet. I wish I had told
him--_once_--how dearly I loved him; I shall never be able to whisper it
to him now, and I dare not write it. No, he will not forget me as he has
forgotten others; but he will hate me, and call me false, and fickle,
and cold. Cold--if he could only read my heart! I never read it myself
till now, when we must be parted forever."
Is it pleasant, think you, to listen to such words as these, uttered by
the woman that you have worshiped, even if it be hopelessly, for years?
Men have gone mad under lighter tortures than those that Mark Waring was
then forced to endure. But he knew that it was the extremity of her
anguish that had hardened for a season Cecil's gentle, generous, nature,
and made her heedless of the pain she inflicted. So he answered in a
slow, steady voice, such as we employ when trying to calm the ravings of
a fever-fit:
"Hush! you speak wildly. My presence here does you no good. You may
think of me as hardly as you will; perhaps time will soften your
judgment; if not--I shall still not repent to-night's work. I will come
for your letter at the moment of your departure. Good-night; I pray that
God may help you now, and guard you always." He raised her hand and just
touched it with his lips, with the same grave courtesy that had marked
his manner when they parted last, three years ago, and in another second
Cecil was alone again.
She was not long in recovering from her bewilderment; and when Mrs.
Danvers returned she was perfectly collected and calm. It is not worth
while recording Bessie's noisy expressions of astonishment and delight,
nor describing Dick Tresilyan's way of receiving notice of the sudden
change in their plans. His stolid composure was not greatly disturbed
thereby; he muttered, under his breath, some sulky anathemas on "women
who never knew their own minds;" but this was only because he considered
a growl to be the form of protest suitable to the circumstances and due
to his masculine dignity. On the whole, he was rather glad to go. It had
become evident, even to his dull comprehension, that great mischief was
brewing somewhere, and for days he had been in a state of hazy
apprehension--as he expressed it, "not seeing his way out of it at all."
So he set about his part of the preparations for their exodus with a
right good will. Neither will we give the details of Cecil's parting
with _la mignonne_. The latter was so rejoiced at the idea of her
friend's being out of harm's way that she did not question her much as
to the reasons for such an abrupt departure: it was not till afterward
that she learned that it had been brought about by the influence of
Waring. It is unnecessary to mention that the adieus were not
accomplished without a certain amount of tears; but they were all shed
by Fanny Molyneux. Cecil dared not yet trust herself to weep. She took a
far more formal farewell of Mr. Fullarton, and the chaplain did not even
venture a parting benediction.
The heavy traveling-chariot, with its hundred cunning contrivances, is
packed at last, and Karl, the accomplished courier, wiping from his
blonde mustache the drops of the stirrup-cup, touches his cap with his
accustomed formula, "Zi ces dames zont brêtes?" Mark Waring leans over
the carriage door to say "Good-by:" the hand he presses lies in his
grasp, unresponsive and unsympathetic as a splinter from an iceberg. His
sad, earnest look pleads in vain, for there is no softening or kindness
in Cecil's desolate, dreamy eyes. The road on which they are to travel
is the same for some leagues as that along which Royston Keene must
return, and she is thinking, divided between hope and fear, if there may
not be a possibility of their meeting. The wheels move, and hasty
farewells are waved, and Mark stands there half stupefied, unconscious
of any thing but a sense of lonely wretchedness. The one solitary link
that still binds him to Cecil Tresilyan will be severed when the letter
is delivered that he holds in his hand.
As the carriage swept round the corner of the terrace, it passed close
to the spot where Armand de Châteaumesnil sat basking in the sunshine.
The invalid lifted his cap in courteous adieu, but his face grew dark,
and his shaggy brows were knit savagely.
"On l'a triché donc, après tout," he muttered; "Sang Dieu! les absens
ont diablement tort." Sunk as she was at that moment in gloomy
meditations, Cecil never forgot that the last object on which her eyes
lighted in Dorade was the blasted wreck of the crippled Algerian.
Molyneux and his wife stood silent till their friends were quite out of
sight, then Harry turned slowly round and gazed at his _mignonne_. He
knew that the same thought was in both their minds, for her sweet face
was paler than his own. (Neither of them guessed at the truth, and they
saw in Mark Waring nothing more than an old acquaintance of the
Tresilyans.)
"Royston will be here in four hours," he said, "and who will tell him
this? _I_ dare not."
Fanny feigned a carelessness that she was far from feeling.
"I don't know how that is to be managed, but I believe it is all for the
best. He can't kill either of us; that is some comfort."
Harry did not smile; his countenance wore an expression of grave
anxiety, such as had seldom appeared there.
"No, he will not hurt us, but I fear he will have _some one's_ blood
before all is done."