"Let me see her once again.
Let her bring her proud dark eyes,
And her petulant quick replies;
Let her wave her slender hand
With its gesture of command,
And throw back her raven hair
With the old imperial air;
Let her be as she was then--
The loveliest lady in all the land
Iseult of Ireland."
Mohun and Livingstone soon fell back into the groove of their old
habits; if any thing, the former was more forbidding and morose, the
latter more reckless than ever.
Just at this time Mrs. Bellasys and her daughter arrived in Paris. It
was Flora's _débût_ there, and she had an immense success. The _jeunesse
dorée_ of the Chaussée d'Antin and the cavaliers of the Faubourg
thronged about her, emulously enthusiastic. Her repartees and sarcasms
were quoted like Talleyrand's. They never wearied in raving over her
perfections, taking them in a regular catalogue--from her magnificent
eyes and hair, that flashed back the light from its smooth bands like
clouded steel, down to the small _brodequins_ of white satin, which it
was her fancy to wear instead of the ball-room _chaussure_ of ordinary
mortals. The intrigues to secure her for a waltz or a mazurka displayed
diplomatic talent enough to have set half a dozen German principalities
and powers by the ears. The succession of admirers was never broken; as
fast as one dropped off, killed by her coldness or caprice, another
stepped into his place. It reminded one of the old "Die-hards" at
Waterloo, filling up their squares torn and ravaged by the pelting
grape-shot.
Here, as elsewhere, she pursued her favorite amusement remorselessly.
Fallowfield called it "her cutting-out expeditions." She used to watch
till a mother and daughter had, between them, secured a good matrimonial
prize, and then employ her fascinations on the captured one--seldom
without effect--so as to steal him out of their hands.
Do you remember Waterton's story of the osprey? The hard-working bird,
by dint of perseverance, has brought up a good fish. Just as it emerges
from the water, there is heard a flap and a whistle of mighty pinions,
and from his watch-tower on the cliff far above swoops down the great
sea-eagle. The poor osprey _a beau crier_, it must drop its booty, and
the strong marauder sails off with a slow and dignified flight, to
discuss it in the wood at his leisure. The only fault in the parallel
was that Flora always dropped the prey with the coolest disdain when it
was once fairly within her clutches. How the match-makers did hate her!
What vows for her discomfiture must have been breathed into bouquets
held up to conceal the angry flush of disappointment or the paleness of
despair!
I own this practice of hers did not raise her in my opinion. I can not
think so hardly as it is the fashion to do of the junior and working
members, at least, of the manoeuvring guild. It is not an elevating or
very creditable profession, certainly, but it seems such a disagreeable
one that none would take it up from choice. The chief fault, at all
events, lies with the trainers; the jockeys (poor little things!) only
ride to orders; and, by the way, I think they generally err in not
knowing how to _wait_, and in making the running too strong at first.
As I meet, year after year, one of these--to whom the seed sown in
London ball-rooms and German watering-places had produced nothing yet
but those tiresome garlands of the vestal--I look curiously to see how
she wears, thinking of the courtier's answer to Louis XIV. when the
latter asked if he was looking older: "Sire, I see some more victories
written on your forehead." It is more defeats that one can read so
plainly on poor Fanny Singleton's.
How many shipwrecks close to port; how many races lost by a head, how
many games by a point, she must have known before her silver laugh
became so hollow, and her pleasant smile so evidently theatrical and
lip-deep; before what once was chanceful became desperate, and she fell
back into the ranks of the forlorn hope--of the "Lost Children!"
On one of these occasions I met her. She was just beginning her
_condottiére_ life then, and was very attractive even to those on whom
she had no designs--believed in balls, and had an ingenious talent for
original composition. I don't think those entertainments are dangerously
exciting to her now; and Heaven forefend that she should write poetry!
One shudders to think of what it would he. Well, she was returning to
the house after a moonlight flirtation (if you can call it so when it
was all on one side). She had been trying to fascinate a stupid, sullen,
commercial Orson--a boy not clever, but cunning, who calculated on his
share in the bank as a means of procuring him these amusements, as other
men might reckon on their good looks or soft tongue. He had just left
her, and I was wishing her good-night under the porch. She forgot her
cue for a moment, and became natural. "I feel so very, very tired," she
said. I remember how drearily she said it, and how the tears glittered
in her weary eyes. I remember, too, how, ten minutes later, I heard that
amiable youth boasting of what had happened, and giving a hideous
travestie of her attempts to captivate him, till at last my wrath was
kindled, and, to his great confusion (for he was of a timid
disposition), I spoke, and sharply, with my tongue.
Ah me! I mind the time when men used to waylay Fanny Singleton in the
cloak-room, and shoot her flying as she went up the staircase, in their
anxiety to secure her for a partner; and now she is a refuge for the
destitute, except when some one, for old acquaintance' sake, takes a
turn with one of the best waltzers in Europe.
I like her for one thing--she has never tried the girlish dodge on yet.
She has never been heard to say, "Mamma always calls me a wild thing."
It is better that she should be bitter and sardonic, as she is
sometimes, than that. Mars herself could hardly play the _ingénues_ when
in mature age. Grisi's best part now is not Amina.
The last thing I heard of Fanny was that she was about to unite herself
(the _active_ voice is the proper one) to a very Low-Church clergyman, a
distinguished member of the Evangelical Alliance, pregnant with the odor
of sanctity--_bouquet de Baptiste_ treble distilled. I dare say they
will get on well enough. If the holy man wants to collect "experiences,"
his wife will be able to furnish them, that's certain. It will be very
"sweet."
I pity, but I condemn. In the name of Matuta and of common sense, is
there an imperative necessity that all our maids should become matrons?
If such exists, think, I beseech you, O virgins--pretty, but
penniless--apt for the yoke, how many chances of subjection may turn up
without rushing to put your necks under it. Is the aspiring race of
H.E.I.C.S. cadets extinct? Are Erin's sons so good or so cold as not to
be tempted by woman, even without the gold? Are there not soldiers still
to the fore too inflammable to be trusted near an ammunition wagon? Are
there not--the _bonne bouche_ comes at last--priests and deacons? The
instant a man takes orders, celibacy becomes intolerable to him. I
firmly believe that half the offers made in the year throughout broad
England emanate from those energetic ecclesiastics.
After all, what specimens you do pick up sometimes in your haste! If you
_are_ to lead apes, is it not better to defer the evil day as long as
possible, instead of parading the animals about by your sides here on
this upper earth?
My sermon is too long for the occasion--too short for the text. I close
a discourse not much wiser, perhaps, than poor Wamba's, with his "_Pax
vobiscum!_"
Flora and Guy met with perfect composure on both sides. She did not
appear to think that she had any claim upon him arising from what had
passed, but it was evident that he was still the favorite, and that all
others were complete "outsiders." No betting man would have backed the
field for a shilling. She waltzed with him whenever he asked her, to the
utter oblivion and annihilation of previous engagements, whereat the
Frenchmen chafed inexpressibly, cursing and gnashing their teeth when,
after the ball was over, they went forth into the outer darkness.
Nothing but Livingstone's extraordinary reputation in the
shooting-galleries, added to a certain ferocity of demeanor which had
become habitual to him of late, saved him from more than one serious
quarrel.
He took it all as a matter of course. Flora amused him certainly; she
sympathized with his tastes, and perhaps flattered his vanity. For
instance, she always took an interest in his fortunes at play, watching
and sometimes backing him at _ecarté_, and often inquiring the next
morning how the battle had gone in her absence at the Board of Green
Cloth.
Once when an unfortunate adorer--in bitterness of spirit at being thrown
over twice in one evening--hinted at some of the intrigues which had
made Guy's name unenviably notorious (play was not the guiltiest of his
distractions to thoughts that would come back), Miss Bellasys only
smiled haughtily, and did not even deign to betray any curiosity on the
subject. Those ephemeral passions were not the rivals she feared.
Her mother all this time was very uncomfortable. Though herself
perfectly innocent of any connivance in Flora's schemes, she was
afflicted with a perpetual indistinct sort of remorse. Once or twice, I
believe, she did venture on a remonstrance, but she was put down
decisively, and did not try it again.
One evening Guy had been lingering for some time in the Bellasys' box at
the Opera. As he went out into the _foyer_ he saw an old acquaintance
coming toward him.
Lord Killowen was past sixty: the world had used him roughly, and he had
been ruined very early in life, but he bore both years and troubles
lightly. Looking at his smooth forehead, and square, erect figure, and
listening to his ready, cheery laugh, you would never have guessed how
long he had led that guerrilla existence--for forty years keeping the
bailiffs at bay. His nerve and his seat in the saddle were as firm as
they were on the first night of his joining the ---- Hussars, when he
rode Kicking Kate over the iron pales round Hounslow Barrack-yard, and
hit the layers of the long odds for a cool thousand.
He had been intimate with Colonel Livingstone, and had known his son
from childhood; but he was a still closer friend of the Brandon family,
with whom, indeed, he was distantly connected. He had never seen Guy
since the breaking off of the latter's engagement till this night, when
he caught a glimpse of his lofty head bending over Flora Bellasys'
chair.
Lord Killowen's blood was as hot and his impulses as quick as if he had
not yet seen his twentieth winter, and the chivalry within him was
stirred at what he considered an insolent parade of treachery; for he
had guessed much of what had happened, though he did not know all the
truth; so he passed Guy's extended hand, turning his head studiously
aside.
The latter was startled for a moment, but he could not believe in an
intentional "cut," and he knew his friend to be rather short-sighted; so
with one stride he overtook him, and, touching him on the shoulder,
said, "I must be very much changed if you do not know me, Lord
Killowen."
The brave old Irishman turned short upon his heel and confronted the
speaker, bending on him all the light of his clear blue eyes: he drew
himself up to the full height of a stature that nearly equaled
Livingstone's, and said, coolly and slowly, "Pardon me, you are not
changed in the least; I know you very well."
The insult was palpable. Guy fairly staggered as if he had received a
sword-thrust; then the angry blood rushed up to his temples, making the
veins start out like muscles, and he spoke in a voice hoarse and
indistinct with passion, "You will answer this."
True, his antagonist was more than old enough to have been his father,
but in feast, field, and fray, Lord Killowen remembered his own age so
seldom that other men might be excused for forgetting it sometimes.
The old man was going to answer eagerly, but he checked himself with an
effort, as if repressing a strong temptation; when, after some seconds,
he spoke, there was more of sadness and warning than of anger in his
tone.
"No, I will not fight, even in this quarrel, with your father's son;
besides, I might be anticipating one who has a better right. Four days
ago Cyril Brandon landed from India."
It would have been difficult, I think, to have found another, among
living men, both by constitution and temperament, so inaccessible to
material terrors as Livingstone, yet when that name came upon him thus
suddenly he felt a thrill and a start through his nerves, so
unpleasantly like commonplace physical fear that ever, when he thought
of it, it made his cheek burn with shame. He could not, after that,
controvert gallant Lannes' maxim: "It is only a coward who says that he
never was afraid."
He stood silently, and allowed Lord Killowen to pass him, bowing
courteously, though coldly, to him. The latter never knew what mischief
he had done. After that momentary sensation had passed off, all the
worst elements of Guy's stubborn, haughty nature rose in rebellion at
what he deemed a despicable weakness. As if in defiance of the
consequences, all that evening and on the succeeding days he devoted
himself to Flora Bellasys with such unusual ardor that it made her
nervous: she thought it was too good to last.
When Mohun heard what had happened, he would not admit that there was
the slightest chance of a meeting with Cyril Brandon, though he knew the
character of the latter--fierce and intractable to a degree.
"Don't flatter yourself you will wipe off the score in that way," he
said to Guy, with his sardonic laugh. "Men will quarrel over cards and
about _lorettes_ easily enough, but who fights for a 'broken covenant'
now? We live two hundred years too late."
Ralph remembered how long he had lingered on the French seaboard
waiting for a challenge from beyond the Channel which never came, though
there was deeper provocation to justify it.
A few mornings after this had occurred Livingstone found himself without
a servant. His demeanor toward this estimable class had always been
imperious and stern to a fault, but latterly they, as well as others,
had felt the effects of his exasperated temper, and he was sometimes
brutally overbearing in his reprimands. On this particular occasion he
must have been unusually oppressive, for it exhausted the patience of
the much-enduring Willis, so that the worm turned again--insolently.
Before he had said ten words his master interrupted him, his eye turning
toward a heavy horsewhip that lay near with an expression that made
Willis retreat toward the door.
"So you have robbed me of enough to make you independent? Very well;
make your book up; the _maître d'hôtel_ will settle with you. You will
carry away some of my property, of course? I shall not trouble myself to
have your trunks searched, but if you take any thing that I happen to
want afterward, I'll have you arrested, wherever you are. Now go."
The man left the room sulkily: an hour later he returned. "I am going
this instant, Mr. Livingstone; but I could tell you something first that
you ought to know, if you would promise not to be violent. I am very
sorry now I did it." There was a curious expression--half spiteful, half
frightened--on his cunning face as he spoke.
Guy looked at him carelessly. "Thank you; I am in no humor to listen to
your confessions. You may be quite easy; I give you credit for all
imaginable rascality. Remember what I said: if I miss any thing, the
police will be after you the same day. Now, once more, go. If I see your
face about here again, it will be the worse for you."
There was a good deal of meaning in Willis's smile, though, his lips
were white with fear. "You will never miss what I was going to tell you
about, sir," he said; and then faded away out of the room with his usual
noiseless step, closing the door softly behind him.
If his master could have guessed what was the secret he had refused to
hear, haughty as he was, I do believe there is no earthly degradation to
which he would not have abased himself to gain its knowledge.
But the hour for the humbling of the strong, self-reliant nature had not
come yet, though it was very near. The wild bull never saw the net till
its meshes had trapped him fast.
The same morning Guy, who was lounging an hour away at the Bellasys',
mentioned to them what had occurred. If he had glanced at Flora's face
just then, he would have been puzzled to guess what there was in the
intelligence to turn her so deadly pale. It was only for an instant that
the accomplished actress forgot her part, and when he looked at her next
there was not a trace of emotion in her face.
"Have you filled up his place?" she asked, carelessly.
"I have ordered my landlord to provide me," replied Guy. "I shall find
some well-trained scoundrel on my return, I hope. I shall never get
another like Willis, though. It's just my luck. The great principle of
the gazelle runs through life: When they come to know you well, &c. What
made you ask? Surely you have no _protégé_ to recommend?"
Flora laughed gayly as she answered in the negative, and so the subject
dropped; but all the afternoon she was pensive and absent, and flashes
of vexation gleamed every now and then fitfully in her stormy eyes.