A DAY or two after, Madame de Frontignac and Mary went out to gather
shells and seaweed on the beach. It was four o’clock; and the afternoon
sun was hanging in the sultry sky of July with a hot and vaporous
stillness. The whole air was full of blue haze, that softened the
outlines of objects without hiding them. The sea lay like so much
glass; every ship and boat was double; every line, and rope, and spar
had its counterpart; and it seemed hard to say which was the most
real, the under or the upper world. Madame de Frontignac and Mary had
brought along a little basket, which they were filling with shells
and sea-mosses. The former was in high spirits. She ran, and shouted,
and exclaimed, and wondered at each new marvel thrown out upon the
shore, with the _abandon_ of a little child. Mary could not but wonder
whether this indeed were she whose strong words had pierced and wrung
her sympathies the other night, and whether a deep life-wound could lie
bleeding under those brilliant eyes and that infantine exuberance of
gaiety; yet surely all that which seemed so strong, so true, so real,
could not be gone so soon,—and it could not be so soon consoled. Mary
wondered at her, as the Anglo-Saxon constitution, with its strong, firm
intensity, its singleness of nature, wonders at the mobile, many-sided
existence of warmer races, whose versatility of emotion on the surface
is not incompatible with the most intense sameness lower down.
Mary’s was one of those indulgent and tolerant natures which seem to
form the most favourable base for the play of other minds, rather than
to be itself salient,—and something about her tender calmness always
seemed to provoke the spirit of frolic in her friend. She would laugh
at her, kiss her, gambol round her, dress her hair with fantastic
_coiffures_, and call her all sorts of fanciful and poetic names in
French or English, while Mary surveyed her with a pleased and innocent
surprise, as a revelation of character altogether new and different
from anything to which she had been hitherto accustomed. She was to her
a living pantomime, and brought into her unembellished life the charms
of opera, and theatre, and romance.
After wearying themselves with their researches, they climbed round a
point of rock that stretched some way out into the sea, and attained to
a little kind of grotto, where the high cliffs shut out the rays of the
sun. They sat down to rest upon the rocks. A fresh breeze of declining
day was springing up, and bringing the rising tide landward,—each
several line of waves with their white crest coming up and breaking
gracefully on the hard, sparkling sand-beach at their feet.
Mary’s eyes fixed themselves, as they were apt to do, in a mournful
reverie, on the infinite expanse of waters, which was now broken and
chopped into thousand incoming waves by the fresh afternoon breeze.
Madame de Frontignac noticed the expression, and began to play with her
as if she had been a child. She pulled the comb from her hair, and let
down its long silky waves upon her shoulders.
‘Now,’ said she, ‘let us make a Miranda of thee. This is our cave.
I will be Prince Ferdinand. Burr told me all about that,—he reads
beautifully, and explained it all to me. What a lovely story that
is;—you must be so happy who know how to read Shakspeare without
learning. _Tenez!_ I will put this shell on your forehead,—it has a
hole here, and I will pass this gold chain through—now! What a pity
this seaweed will not be pretty out of water; it has no effect; but
there is some green that will do,—let me fasten it so. Now, fair
Miranda, look at thyself.’
Where is the girl so angelic as not to feel a slight curiosity to know
how she shall look in a new and strange costume? Mary bent over the
rock where a little pool of water lay in a brown hollow above the
fluctuations of the tide, dark and still, like a mirror,—and saw a fair
face, with a white shell above the forehead, and drooping wreaths of
green seaweed in the silken hair; and a faint blush and smile rose on
the cheek, giving the last finish to the picture.
‘How do you find yourself?’ said Madame; ‘confess now that I have a
true talent in coiffure. Now I will be Ferdinand.’ She turned quickly,
and her eye was caught by something that Mary did not see; she only saw
the smile fade suddenly from Madame de Frontignac’s cheek, and her lips
grow deadly white, while her heart beat so that Mary could notice its
flutterings under her black silk bodice.
‘Will the sea-nymphs punish the rash presumption of a mortal who
intrudes?’ said Colonel Burr, stepping before them with a grace as
invincible and assured as if he had never had any past history with
either.
Mary started with a guilty blush, like a child detected in an unseemly
frolic, and put her hand to her head to take off the unwonted
adornments.
‘Let me protest, in the name of the graces,’ said Burr, who by that
time stood with easy calmness at her side; and as he spoke he stayed
her hand with that gentle air of authority which made it the natural
impulse of most people to obey him. ‘It would be treason against the
picturesque,’ he added, ‘to spoil that toilet so charmingly uniting the
wearer to the scene.’
Mary was taken by surprise, and discomposed, as every one is who
finds one’s self masquerading in attire foreign to their usual habits
and character; and therefore, when she would persist in taking it to
pieces, Burr found sufficient to alleviate the embarrassment of Madame
de Frontignac’s utter silence in a playful run of protestations and
compliments.
‘I think, Mary,’ said Madame de Frontignac, ‘that we had better be
returning to the house.’
This was said in the haughtiest and coolest tone imaginable, looking at
the place where Burr stood, as if there were nothing there but empty
air. Mary rose to go; Madame de Frontignac offered her arm.
‘Permit me to remark, ladies,’ said Burr, with the quiet suavity which
never forsook him, ‘that your very agreeable occupations have caused
time to pass more rapidly than you are aware. I think you will find
that the tide has risen so as to intercept the path by which you came
here. You will hardly be able to get around the point of rocks without
some assistance.’
Mary looked a few paces ahead, and saw, a little before them, a fresh
afternoon breeze driving the rising tide high on to the side of the
rocks, at whose foot their course had lain. The nook in which they had
been sporting formed a part of a shelving ledge which inclined over
their heads, and which it was just barely possible could be climbed by
a strong and agile person, but which would be wholly inaccessible to a
frail, unaided woman.
‘There is no time to be lost,’ said Burr, coolly, measuring the
possibilities with that keen eye that was never discomposed by any
exigency. ‘I am at your service, ladies; I can either carry you in my
arms around this point, or assist you up these rocks.’ He paused and
waited for their answer.
Madame de Frontignac stood pale, cold, and silent, hearing only the
wild beating of her heart.
‘I think,’ said Mary, ‘that we should try the rocks.’
‘Very well,’ said Burr; and placing his gloved hand on a fragment of
rock, somewhat above their heads, he swung himself on to it with an
easy agility; from this he stretched himself down as far as possible
towards them, and extending his hand, directed Mary, who stood
foremost, to set her foot on a slight projection, and give him both
her hands; she did so, and he seemed to draw her up as easily as if
she had been a feather. He placed her by him on a shelf of rock, and
turned again to Madame de Frontignac: she folded her arms and turned
resolutely away towards the sea.
Just at that moment a coming wave broke at her feet.
‘There is no time to be lost,’ said Burr; ‘there’s a tremendous wave
coming in, and the next wave may carry you out.’
‘_Tant mieux_,’ she responded, without turning her head.
‘Oh, Verginie! Verginie!’ exclaimed Mary,—kneeling and stretching her
arms over the rock; but another voice called Verginie, in a tone which
went to her heart. She turned and saw those dark eyes full of tears.
‘Oh, come,’ he said, with that voice which she could never resist.
She put her cold, trembling hands into his, and he drew her up and
placed her safely beside Mary. A few moments of difficult climbing
followed, in which his arm was thrown now around one and then around
the other, and they felt themselves carried with a force, as if the
slight and graceful form were strung with steel.
Placed in safety on the top of the bank, there was a natural gush of
grateful feeling towards their deliverer. The severest resentment, the
coolest moral disapprobation, are necessarily somewhat softened when
the object of them has just laid one under a personal obligation.
Burr did not seem disposed to press his advantage, and treated the
incident as the most matter-of-course affair in the world. He offered
an arm to each lady, with the air of a well-bred gentleman, who offers
a necessary support; and each took it, because neither wished, under
the circumstances, to refuse.
He walked along leisurely homeward, talking in that easy, quiet,
natural way in which he excelled, addressing no very particular remark
to either one, and at the door of the cottage took his leave, saying,
as he bowed, that he hoped neither of them would feel any inconvenience
from their exertions, and that he should do himself the pleasure to
call soon, and inquire after their health.
Madame de Frontignac made no reply; but curtsied with a stately grace,
turned and went into her little room, whither Mary, after a few
minutes, followed her.
She found her thrown upon the bed, her face buried in the pillow, her
breast heaving as if she were sobbing; but when at Mary’s entrance she
raised her head, her eyes were bright and dry.
‘It is just as I told you, Mary,—that man holds me. I love him yet, in
spite of myself. It is in vain to be angry. What is the use of striking
your right hand with your left? When we _love_ one more than ourselves,
we only hurt ourselves with our anger.’
‘But,’ said Mary, ‘love is founded on respect and esteem; and when that
is gone——’
‘Why, then,’ said Madame, ‘we are very sorry; but we love yet; do we
stop loving ourselves when we have lost our own self-respect? No! it is
so disagreeable to see, we shut our eyes and ask to have the bandage
put on,—you know _that_, poor little heart; you can think how it would
have been with you, if you had found that he was not what you thought.’
The word struck home to Mary’s consciousness, but she sat down and took
her friend in her arms with an air, self-controlled, serious, rational.
‘I see and feel it all, dear Verginie, but I must stand firm for you.
You are in the waves, and I on the shore. If you are so weak at heart,
you must not see this man any more.’
‘But he will call.’
‘I will see him for you.’
‘What will you tell him, my heart,—tell him that I am ill, perhaps?’
‘No; I will tell him the truth,—that you do not wish to see him.’
‘That is hard,—he will wonder.’
‘I think not,’ said Mary, resolutely; ‘and furthermore I shall say to
him that, while Madame de Frontignac is at the cottage, it will not be
agreeable for us to receive calls from him.’
‘Mary, _ma chère_, you astonish me!’
‘My dear friend,’ said Mary, ‘it is the only way. This man,—this cruel,
wicked, deceitful man,—must not be allowed to trifle with you in this
way. I will protect you.’ And she rose up with flashing eye and glowing
cheek, looking as her father looked when he protested against the
slave-trade.
‘Thou art my Saint Catherine,’ said Verginie, rising up, excited by
Mary’s enthusiasm, ‘and hast the sword as well as the palm; but, dear
saint, don’t think so very, very badly of him,—he has a noble nature;
he has the angel in him.’
‘The greater his sin,’ said Mary; ‘he sins against light and love.’
‘But I think his heart is touched,—I think he is sorry. Oh, Mary, if
you had only seen how he looked at me, when he put out his hands on the
rocks,—there were tears in his eyes.’
‘Well there might be,’ said Mary; ‘I do not think he is quite a fiend;
no one could look at those cheeks, dear Verginie, and not feel sad,
that saw you a few months ago.’
‘Am I so changed?’ she said, rising and looking at herself in the
mirror. ‘Sure enough, my neck used to be quite round,—now you can see
those two little bones, like rocks at low tide. Poor Verginie! her
summer is gone, and the leaves are falling; poor little cat;’—and
Verginie stroked her own chestnut head, as if she had been pitying
another, and began humming a little Norman air, with a refrain that
sounded like the murmur of a brook over the stones.
The more Mary was touched by these little poetic ways, which ran just
on an even line between the gay and the pathetic, the more indignant
she grew with the man that had brought all this sorrow. She felt a
saintly vindictiveness, and a determination to place herself as an
adamantine shield between him and her friend. There is no courage and
no anger like that of a gentle woman when once fully roused; if ever
you have occasion to meet it, you will certainly remember the hour.