"Sweetest lips that ever were kissed,
Brightest eyes that ever have shone,
May sigh and whisper, and _he_ not list,
Or look away, and never be missed
Long or ever a month be gone."
It was a very curious _ménage_ that of the Forresters'. They were
wonderfully happy, yet you could not call theirs _domestic_ felicity.
They went out perpetually every where, and were scarcely ever alone
together at home. Tho cold-water cure of matrimony had not been able to
cool either down into the dignity and steadiness befitting that
honorable state. As far as I could see, Charley flirted as much as ever;
the only difference was, that he stole upon his victims now with a sort
of protecting and paternal air, merging gradually, as the interest
deepened, into the old confidential style. The whole effect was, if any
thing, more seductive than before.
The fair Venetians admired him intensely. His bright, clear complexion
and rich chestnut hair had the charm of novelty for them. Though without
the faintest respect for grammar or idiom, he spoke their language with
perfect composure, confidence, and self-satisfaction, and his tones were
so well adapted to the slow, soft, languid tongue, that his blunders
sounded better than other men's correctness of speech. _Mallem
mehercule cum Platone errare_. When he said "_Si, Siora_," it seemed as
if he were calling the lady by a pet name.
Isabel did a good deal of mischief too in her unassuming way, but I
think she confined her depredations chiefly to her compatriots.
The best of it was, that neither objected in the least to the other's
proceedings, appearing, indeed, to consider them rather creditable than
otherwise. Perhaps it would be as well if this principle of reciprocal
free agency were somewhat extended, though not quite to the latitude to
which they carried it.
We can not send our wives about surrounded by a detachment of semiviri
to keep the peace; our climate is too uncertain, and influenza too
prevalent, for us to watch their windows ourselves, as they do at Cadiz.
Fancy mounting guard in Eaton Square at 4 P.M., shrouded in a yellow
fog, on the chance of surprising a forbidden morning visitor!
Supposing that we could adopt either of those methods, why should they
prove more efficacious than they are said to be on their native soil? If
the British husband will allow nothing for the principles, charitably
supposed by others to be inherent in the wife of his bosom--nothing for
the Damoclean damages hanging over the imaginary plotter against his
peace--why should he depreciate his own merits and powers so completely
as to consider himself out of the lists altogether? If he would only
desist from making himself consistently disagreeable, I believe, in most
cases, his substantial interest would be little endangered.
That poor Hephæstus! The net was an ingenious device, and a pretty
piece of workmanship, but--it didn't answer.
In despite of Mrs. Ellis, there are women whose mission it is _not_ to
be good housewives; they can't be useful if they would, any more than
May-flies can spin silk. Like them, they can attract fish (and sometimes
get snapped up if they go too close), that's all. If you marry them, you
must accept them as they are, and take your chance. Be generous, then,
and don't stop their waltzing. I believe there may be flirting without
the most distant idea of criminality--fencing with wooden foils, where
no blood is drawn.
A lady was asked the other day "what she did when an admirer became too
lover-like." Her answer was, "I never had such a case." I think she
spoke the truth; yet she was a coquette renowned through a good part of
two hemispheres.
As for the doubts and fears of the other sex, the subject is too vast
for me. To the end of time there will be Deianiras (with imaginary
Ioles), Zaras, and Mrs. Caudles. Tragedy and comedy have tried in vain
to frighten or to laugh them out of the indulgence of the fatal passion,
that wreaks itself indiscriminately on the beat and the worst, the
youngest and the oldest, the simplest and the most guileful of adult
males. Let us not attempt to argue, then, but, wrapping ourselves in our
virtue, endure as best we may the groundless reproaches and accusations
of our ox-eyed Junos.
We _did_ Venice very severely, with the exception of Forrester, who,
after strolling once through the Palace of the Doges (a pilgrimage
interrupted by many halts and profuse lamentations), declined seeing any
thing more than what he could view from his gondola. I never saw any
one so completely at home in that most delicious of conveyances. His
Venetian friends encouraged and sympathized with him in his laziness,
and pitied him with eyes and words, forever being teased about it.
Indeed, he was generally left alone; but one day we were landing to see
a church of great repute, and Miss Devereux made a strong appeal to him
to follow her. She was a handsome, clever girl, a great favorite of
Charley's. I believe they used to quarrel and make it up again about six
times in every twenty-four hours. We saw that it was hopeless, but she
was obstinate enough to try and persuade him.
"Now, Captain Forrester, you must come. I have set my heart upon it."
He lifted his long eyelashes in a languid satisfaction. "Thank you very
much; I like people to be interested about me; but you see it's simply
impossible. Look at Rinaldo; there's a sensible example for you. He
doesn't mean to stir till he is obliged to do so." The handsome
gondolier had already couched, to enjoy a bask in the sun, which was
blazing fiercely down on his brown face and magnificent black hair.
"There is the most perfect Titian," she persisted.
"No use. I should not appreciate it," he replied. "I have been through a
gallery _with you_ before. It's a delusion and a snare. I never looked
at a single picture. The canvas won't stand the comparison."
"I did not think you would have refused me," Miss Devereux went on,
"particularly after last night, when you were so very--amusing." She
hesitated out the last word with a blush. It evidently was not the
adjective that ought to have closed the sentence.
"Amusing!" replied Charley, plaintively. "You need not say any more. I
am crushed for the day. I meant to be especially touching and pathetic.
Well, there's some good in every thing, though. I entertained an angel
unawares."
"I shall know how far to believe you another time, at all events," she
retorted, getting rather provoked.
"Don't be unjust," said Forrester, profoundly regardless of the fact
that his wife was within three paces of them. "I said I was ready to die
for you. So I am. You may fix the time, but I may choose the place. If
you insist upon it, I'll make an end of it now--here." And he settled
himself deeper into the pile of cushions.
We had no patience to listen to any more, but went off to perform our
duty. Long before he had exhausted his arguments against moving, we had
returned. Margaret Devereux missed seeing the church and its Titian, but
she got a "great moral lesson." She never wasted her pretty pleadings in
such a hopeless cause again.
I remember, when we mounted the Campanile, the solemn way in which he
wished us _buon viaggio_. When we reached the top, we made out his
figure reclining on many chairs in front of "Florian's."
He saw us, too, and lifted the glass before him to his lips with a wave
of approval and encouragement, just as they do at Chamounix when the
telescopes make out a few black specks on the white crests of the
mountain. When we came down, he stopped us before we could say one
word. "Yes, I know--it was magnificent. Bella, I see you are going to
rave about the view. If you do, I'll shut you up for a week _en
penitence_, and feed you on nothing but 'Bradshaw' and water."
We spent a very pleasant month in Venice. It did Guy good being with the
Forresters. He had always been very fond of his cousin, and she seemed
to suit him better than any one else now. She would sit by him for
hours, talking in her low, caressing tones, that soothed him like a cool
soft hand laid on a forehead fever-heated. Isabel was not afraid of him
now, but a great awe mingled with her pity.
It is curious, and tells well perhaps for our human nature; neither
pride of birth, nor complete success, nor profound wisdom, surrounds a
man with such reverence as the being possessed with a great sorrow. At
least no one can envy him; and so those who were his enemies once--like
the gallant Frenchman when he saw his adversary's empty sleeve--bring
their swords to the salute, and pass on.
At last we started for Rome, our party nearly filling two carriages.
There are only two ways of traveling: in your own carriage, with courier
and fourgon, like Russian or transatlantic noble, or with vetturino.
This last mode, which was ours, is scarcely less pleasant, if you are
not in a hurry. The charm of having, for a certain period, every care as
to ways and means off your mind, compensates for the six-miles-an-hour
pace. So we moved slowly southward through Verona, where one thinks more
of the Avon than the Adige--where, in tombs poised like Mohammed's
coffin, the mighty Scagliari sleep between earth and heaven, as if not
quite fit for either--where are the cypresses in the trim old garden,
soaring skyward till the eyes that follow grow dizzy, the trees that
were green and luxuriant years before the world was redeemed. So through
Mantua and Bologna down to Florence, where, I think, the spirits of
Catharine and Cosmo linger yet, the women and the men all so soft-toned,
and silky, and sinful, and cruel. We did not stay long there, for we had
all visited it before once or twice, but kept on our way, by the upper
road, to Rome, till we reached our last halting-place--Civita
Castellana.
We were gathered round the wood fire after dinner (for the October
evenings grew chilly as they closed in); I don't know how it was that
Forrester began telling us about their flight.
"You ought to have seen Bella's baggage," he said, at last; "it was so
compact. You can't fancy any thing so tiny as the _sac de nuit_. A
courier's moneybag would make two of it. Then a vast cloak, and that's
all. Quite in light marching order."
"I wonder you are not ashamed to talk about baggage," his wife retorted.
"When we got to Dover, there was his servant with four immense
portmanteaus and a dressing-case nearly as large, waiting for us. Was it
not romantic?"
"Bah!" Charley said. "A man must have his comforts, even if he is
eloping. I am sure I arranged every thing superbly. I don't know how I
did it--an undeveloped talent for intrigue, I suppose."
"Was it not kind of him to take so much trouble?" Isabel asked, quite
innocently, and in perfect good faith, I am sure; but her husband
pinched the little pink ear that was within his reach.
"She means to be sarcastic," he said. "You've spoiled her, Guy. If I had
had time to deliberate, though, I don't think I should ever have come to
the post. I wonder how any one stands the training."
"I'll tell you what would have suited you exactly," Livingstone
remarked--"to have been one of those men in the Arabian Nights, who wake
and find themselves at a strange city's gate, 10,000 leagues from home,
to whom there comes up a venerable vizier, saying, 'My son, heaven has
blessed me with one daughter, a very pearl of beauty; many have sought
her in marriage, but in vain. Your appearance pleases me, and I would
have you for my son-in-law.'"
"Exactly," said Forrester. "I should not have minded turning out
somebody else's child eventually--(they all did that, didn't they?)--for
such a piece of luck as to be taken in and done for off-hand, without
the trouble of thinking about it."
Instead of looking vexed, Isabel laughed merrily, and her eyes glittered
as they rested on him, full of a proud, loving happiness.
"The best of it was," Charley went on, "she was in the most dreadful
state of alarm and excitement all the way to Dover, looking out at every
station, under the impression that she should see the bridegroom there,
'dangling his bonnet and plume' (though how he was to have got ahead of
us, unless he came by electric telegraph, does not appear). What sport
it would have been! I should have liked so to have seen the 'laggard in
love' once more."
"He was not quite _that_," Isabel interrupted, rather mischievously.
"Ah! I dare say you kept him up to the traces," her husband remarked,
languidly. "You have a talent that way. What 'passages,' as Varney
called them, there must have been, eh! Guy? We won't hear your
confession now, Puss. In pity to Mademoiselle Agläe's eyes (which are
very fine), if not to your own (which are very useful), I think you had
better go to bed. That ferocious vetturino will have us up at unholy
hours, and is not to be mitigated."
We sat talking for a little while after Isabel left us; then Forrester
rose and strolled to the window. The flood of light that poured in when
he drew the curtain was quite startling, making the three beaked oil
lamps look smoky and dim.
"I shall smoke my last cigar _al fresco_," Charley said; "I suppose it's
the correct thing to do, with such a moon as that. Won't you come, Guy?
I must not tempt you out into the night air, Hammond."
"Not to-night," Livingstone answered. "I am not in the humor for
admiring any thing. I should be rather in your way."
One of his gloomy fits was coming over him, at which times he always
chose to be alone.
"Well, I shall go and consume the 'humble, but not wholly heart-broken
weed of every-day life,' as Tyrrell used to say. (Don't you remember his
double-barreled adjectives?) If you hear any one singing _very_ sweetly,
don't be alarmed; you'll know it is the harmless lunatic who now
addresses you; the fit won't last more than an hour. We shall be in Rome
to-morrow. The only thing on my mind now is whether I shall find any
thing there to carry me across the Campagna. K---- has a very fair pack,
I understand, and no end of foxes."
Have you ever watched the completion of a photograph, when the nitrate
of silver (or whatever the last lotion may be) is applied? First one
feature comes out, that you may indulgently mistake for a tree, or a
gable-end, or a mountain top; then another, till the whole picture
stands out in clear, brilliant relief.
Just so when I recall that scene--little heed as I took at the time of
them--every gesture, and look, and tone of Forrester's becomes as
distinct as if he stood in the body before me now. I can see him
standing in the shadow of the doorway, the red glare from the blazing
wood with which he was lighting his cigar falling over his delicate
features and bright chestnut hair--I can hear his kind soft voice as he
speaks these last two words, "_Al rivederci_."
Whether that wish will be accomplished hereafter, God alone can tell; if
so, it must be beyond the grave. In life we never saw him any more.