I
It was in Brittany, and the apples were already acquiring a ruddier,
autumnal tint, amid their greens and yellows, though Autumn was not
yet; and the country lay very still and fair in the sunset which had
befallen, softly and suddenly as is the fashion there. A man and a
girl stood looking down in silence at the village, Ploumariel, from
their post of vantage, half way up the hill: at its lichened church
spire, dotted with little gables, like dove-cotes; at the slated roof
of its market; at its quiet white houses. The man's eyes rested on it
complacently, with the enjoyment of the painter, finding it charming:
the girl's, a little absently, as one who had seen it very often
before. She was pretty and very young, but her gray serious eyes, the
poise of her head, with its rebellious brown hair braided plainly,
gave her a little air of dignity, of reserve which sat piquantly upon
her youth. In one ungloved hand, that was brown from the sun, but very
beautiful, she held an old parasol, the other played occasionally with
a bit of purple heather. Presently she began to speak, using English
just coloured by a foreign accent, that made her speech prettier.
'You make me afraid,' she said, turning her large, troubled eyes on
her companion, 'you make me afraid, of myself chiefly, but a little of
you. You suggest so much to me that is new, strange, terrible. When
you speak, I am troubled; all my old landmarks appear to vanish; I
even hardly know right from wrong. I love you, my God, how I love you!
but I want to go away from you and pray in the little quiet church,
where I made my first Communion. I will come to the world's end with
you; but oh, Sebastian, do not ask me, let me go. You will forget me,
I am a little girl to you, Sebastian. You cannot care very much for
me.'
The man looked down at her, smiling masterfully, but very kindly. He
took the mutinous hand, with its little sprig of heather, and held it
between his own. He seemed to find her insistence adorable; mentally,
he was contrasting her with all other women whom he had known,
frowning at the memory of so many years in which she had no part. He
was a man of more than forty, built large to an uniform English
pattern; there was a touch of military erectness in his carriage which
often deceived people as to his vocation. Actually, he had never been
anything but artist, though he came of a family of soldiers, and had
once been war correspondent of an illustrated paper. A certain
distinction had always adhered to him, never more than now when he was
no longer young, was growing bald, had streaks of gray in his
moustache. His face, without being handsome, possessed a certain
charm; it was worn and rather pale, the lines about the firm mouth
were full of lassitude, the eyes rather tired. He had the air of
having tasted widely, curiously, of life in his day, prosperous as he
seemed now, that had left its mark upon him. His voice, which usually
took an intonation that his friends found supercilious, grew very
tender in addressing this little French girl, with her quaint air of
childish dignity.
'Marie-Yvonne, foolish child, I will not hear one word more. You are a
little heretic; and I am sorely tempted to seal your lips from
uttering heresy. You tell me that you love me, and you ask me to let
you go, in one breath. The impossible conjuncture! Marie-Yvonne,' he
added, more seriously, 'trust yourself to me, my child! You know, I
will never give you up. You know that these months that I have been at
Ploumariel, are worth all the rest of my life to me. It has been a
difficult life, hitherto, little one: change it for me; make it worth
while. You would let morbid fancies come between us. You have lived
overmuch in that little church, with its worm-eaten benches, and its
mildewed odour of dead people, and dead ideas. Take care,
Marie-Yvonne: it had made you serious-eyed, before you have learnt to
laugh; by and by, it will steal away your youth, before you have ever
been young. I come to claim you, Marie-Yvonne, in the name of Life.'
His words were half-jesting; his eyes were profoundly in earnest. He
drew her to him gently; and when he bent down and kissed her forehead,
and then her shy lips, she made no resistance: only, a little tremor
ran through her. Presently, with equal gentleness, he put her away
from him. 'You have already given me your answer, Marie-Yvonne.
Believe me, you will never regret it. Let us go down.'
They took their way in silence towards the village; presently a bend
of the road hid them from it, and he drew closer to her, helping her
with his arm over the rough stones. Emerging, they had gone thirty
yards so, before the scent of English tobacco drew their attention to
a figure seated by the road-side, under a hedge; they recognised it,
and started apart, a little consciously.
'It is M. Tregellan,' said the young girl, flushing: 'and he must have
seen us.'
Her companion, frowning, hardly suppressed a little quick objurgation.
'It makes no matter,' he observed, after a moment: 'I shall see your
uncle to-morrow and we know, good man, how he wishes this; and, in any
case, I would have told Tregellan.'
The figure rose, as they drew near: he shook the ashes out of his
briar, and removed it to his pocket. He was a slight man, with an
ugly, clever face; his voice as he greeted them, was very low and
pleasant.
'You must have had a charming walk, Mademoiselle. I have seldom seen
Ploumariel look better.'
'Yes,' she said, gravely, 'it has been very pleasant. But I must not
linger now,' she added breaking a little silence in which none of them
seemed quite at ease. 'My uncle will be expecting me to supper.' She
held out her hand, in the English fashion, to Tregellan, and then to
Sebastian Murch, who gave the little fingers a private pressure.
They had come into the market-place round which most of the houses in
Ploumariel were grouped. They watched the young girl cross it briskly;
saw her blue gown pass out of sight down a bye street: then they
turned to their own hotel. It was a low, white house, belted half way
down the front with black stone; a pictorial object, as most Breton
hostels. The ground floor was a _café_; and, outside it, a bench and
long stained table enticed them to rest. They sat down, and ordered
_absinthes_, as the hour suggested: these were brought to them
presently by an old servant of the house; an admirable figure, with
the white sleeves and apron relieving her linsey dress: with her good
Breton face, and its effective wrinkles. For some time they sat in
silence, drinking and smoking. The artist appeared to be absorbed in
contemplation of his drink; considering its clouded green in various
lights. After a while the other looked up, and remarked, abruptly.
'I may as well tell you that I happened to overlook you, just now,
unintentionally.'
Sebastian Murch held up his glass, with absent eyes.
'Don't mention it, my dear fellow,' he remarked, at last, urbanely.
'I beg your pardon; but I am afraid I must.'
He spoke with an extreme deliberation which suggested nervousness;
with the air of a person reciting a little set speech, learnt
imperfectly: and he looked very straight in front of him, out into the
street, at two dogs quarrelling over some offal.
'I daresay you will be angry: I can't avoid that; at least, I have
known you long enough to hazard it. I have had it on my mind to say
something. If I have been silent, it hasn't been because I have been
blind, or approved. I have seen how it was all along. I gathered it
from your letters when I was in England. Only until this afternoon I
did not know how far it had gone, and now I am sorry I did not speak
before.'
He stopped short, as though he expected his friend's subtilty to come
to his assistance; with admissions or recriminations. But the other
was still silent, absent: his face wore a look of annoyed
indifference. After a while, as Tregellan still halted, he observed
quietly:
'You must be a little more explicit. I confess I miss your meaning.'
'Ah, don't be paltry,' cried the other, quickly. 'You know my meaning.
To be very plain, Sebastian, are you quite justified in playing with
that charming girl, in compromising her?'
The artist looked up at last, smiling; his expressive mouth was set,
not angrily, but with singular determination.
'With Mademoiselle Mitouard?'
'Exactly; with the niece of a man whose guest you have recently been.'
'My dear fellow!' he stopped a little, considering his words: 'You are
hasty and uncharitable for such a very moral person! you jump at
conclusions, Tregellan. I don't, you know, admit your right to
question me: still, as you have introduced the subject, I may as well
satisfy you. I have asked Mademoiselle Mitouard to marry me, and she
has consented, subject to her uncle's approval. And that her uncle,
who happens to prefer the English method of courtship, is not likely
to refuse.'
The other held his cigar between two fingers, a little away; his
curiously anxious face suggested that the question had become to him
one of increased nicety.
'I am sorry,' he said, after a moment; 'this is worse than I imagined;
it's impossible.'
'It is you that are impossible, Tregellan,' said Sebastian Murch. He
looked at him now, quite frankly, absolutely: his eyes had a defiant
light in them, as though he hoped to be criticised; wished nothing
better than to stand on his defence, to argue the thing out. And
Tregellan sat for a long time without speaking, appreciating his
purpose. It seemed more monstrous the closer he considered it: natural
enough withal, and so, harder to defeat; and yet, he was sure, that
defeated it must be. He reflected how accidental it had all been:
their presence there, in Ploumariel, and the rest! Touring in
Brittany, as they had often done before, in their habit of old
friends, they had fallen upon it by chance, a place unknown of Murray;
and the merest chance had held them there. They had slept at the _Lion
d'Or_, voted it magnificently picturesque, and would have gone away
and forgotten it; but the chance of travel had for once defeated them.
Hard by they heard of the little votive chapel of Saint Bernard; at
the suggestion of their hostess they set off to visit it. It was built
steeply on an edge of rock, amongst odorous pines overhanging a
ravine, at the bottom of which they could discern a brown torrent
purling tumidly along. For the convenience of devotees, iron rings, at
short intervals, were driven into the wall; holding desperately to
these, the pious pilgrim, at some peril, might compass the circuit;
saying an oraison to Saint Bernard, and some ten _Aves_. Sebastian,
who was charmed with the wild beauty of the scene, in a country
ordinarily so placid, had been seized with a fit of emulation: not in
any mood of devotion, but for the sake of a wider prospect. Tregellan
had protested: and the Saint, resenting the purely æsthetic motive of
the feat, had seemed to intervene. For, half-way round, growing giddy
may be, the artist had made a false step, lost his hold. Tregellan,
with a little cry of horror, saw him disappear amidst crumbling mortar
and uprooted ferns. It was with a sensible relief, for the fall had
the illusion of great depth, that, making his way rapidly down a
winding path, he found him lying on a grass terrace, amidst _débris_
twenty feet lower, cursing his folly, and holding a lamentably
sprained ankle, but for the rest uninjured! Tregellan had made off in
haste to Ploumariel in search of assistance; and within the hour he
had returned with two stalwart Bretons and M. le Docteur Mitouard.
Their tour had been, naturally, drawing to its close. Tregellan indeed
had an imperative need to be in London within the week. It seemed,
therefore, a clear dispensation of Providence, that the amiable doctor
should prove an hospitable person, and one inspiring confidence no
less. Caring greatly for things foreign, and with an especial passion
for England, a country whence his brother had brought back a wife; M.
le Docteur Mitouard insisted that the invalid could be cared for
properly at his house alone. And there, in spite of protestations,
earnest from Sebastian, from Tregellan halfhearted, he was installed.
And there, two days later, Tregellan left him with an easy mind;
bearing away with him, half enviously, the recollection of the young,
charming face of a girl, the Doctor's niece, as he had seen her
standing by his friend's sofa when he paid his _adieux_; in the
beginnings of an intimacy, in which, as he foresaw, the petulance of
the invalid, his impatience at an enforced detention, might be
considerably forgot. And all that had been two months ago.