Ralph.--Help down with the hangings.
Roger.--By and by, Ralph.
I am making up the trunks here.
Ralph.--Who looks to my lady's wardrobe? Humphrey!
Down with the boxes in the gallery,
And bring away the couch-cushions.
Shorthose.--Will it not rain?
No conjuring abroad, nor no devices
To stop this journey.
--_Wit without Money_.
Away, you trifler!--Love?--I love thee not:
I care not for thee, Kate; this is no world
To play with mammets, and to tilt with lips:
We must have bloody noses, and cracked crowns,
And pass them current, too. Godsme, my horse!
--_Henry IV_.
Lord Strathern returned the next day to Elvas, and found his daughter
very desolate, and full of more than filial anxiety to see him. She
was alone, for the Commissary had, the day before, sent off his heavy
baggage toward Lisbon. Lady Mabel would, at any time, have grieved at
parting with a true-hearted friend like Mrs. Shortridge; but now other
troubles weighed heavy on her, and so aggravated her obvious grief,
while the chief cause was hidden, that her kind friend was deeply
moved and greatly flattered at perceiving it. Had she staid longer in
Elvas, Lady Mabel would have confided her troubles to her, knowing
that, though she might not think wisely, she could feel rightly, and
give both advice and sympathy. But after a struggle of hesitation, she
let Mrs. Shortridge depart in ignorance, receiving from her many kind
messages and adieus for L'Isle.
Perhaps it was best that it should be so; for, had the good lady
learned the usage her favorite had met with, she might, for once in
her life, have boiled over with indignation.
"Well, _Ma Belle_," said Lord Strathern, as soon as he was alone with
his daughter, "so that fellow, L'Isle, beat us, after all, at our own
game. I did expect that your woman's wit would have carried it through
successfully."
"Would to Heavens, papa, my woman's wit, as you call it, had been
sufficient to keep me out of it altogether. How could you think of
putting such a part upon me? I never would have dreamed of it, if you
had not urged--insisted on my detaining him here. What is Colonel
L'Isle to me, that I should manoeuvre to keep him in Elvas, when Sir
Rowland Hill expects him in Alcantara? And as for my resenting your
quarrels with him, there is an impropriety in it, and yet more in the
mode you made me adopt. I am ashamed of myself--I am ashamed of you,
papa, for conceiving it."
"And to fail, after all," said Lord Strathern. "And yet, by L'Isle's
own account, you played your part well."
"His account!" exclaimed Lady Mabel. "To whom?"
"To us all--Sir Rowland, Bradshawe, Conway, and myself. He was
disposed to be sulky and silent, at first; but, with Sir Rowland's
help, we drew it all out of him."
"Drew it all out of him!" said Lady Mabel, in a faltering tone. She
gasped for breath, and her cheek grew pale. But the next moment the
blood rushed into her face, and she exclaimed: "What! Did Colonel
L'Isle give you a full account of the party--of all that occurred that
evening?"
"Full and minute. He was very reluctant to tell, as we were all
laughing at him; but Sir Rowland is a good inquisitor, and made him
speak out, and at length. I did not know he had so good a memory, or
you so much wit."
"For Heaven's sake, papa, what did he tell you?" Lady Mabel sat
watching her father with eager eyes, her hands firmly clasped, and her
heel impatiently tapping the floor, while she strove to master her
almost uncontrollable confusion and anxiety.
"Why, he handed me your note," said Lord Strathern. "Perhaps he meant
it for my eye alone; but it was such capital bait for the trap, that I
read it aloud. He then seemed to make up his mind to conceal
nothing. He told us of your artful delays, your slow-paced coach
crawling up-hill; of your efforts to entertain Mrs. Shortridge's
company, and keep him employed as interpreter; your songs and your
care to prolong the amusements of the evening; your affected fears at
riding home in your old coach with your new postillion. He described
your supper-party, and repeated your entertaining conversation, your
libel on Moodie, gone drunk to bed, and your satire on Sir Rowland and
the rest of us; your well-acted terror of robbers, and your triumph
over him when you thought the game was won. If you had not been
over-confident and too hasty, Mabel, we would have had L'Isle on the
hip."
"Was that _all_ he told you?" asked Lady Mabel.
"Why? Was there any thing more to tell?" inquired her father.
Lady Mabel drew a deep, long breath. "Then he said nothing about
my--my singing--'Constant my heart' to him?"
"How!" exclaimed Lord Strathern. "Did you sing 'Constant my heart'
_at_ him?"
"How could I help it, papa, it came in so pat to the purpose?"
"The devil it did! It seems you did not mean to fail, by under acting
your part. It is lucky he forgot to mention it. Was there any thing
more?"
"And he said nothing about squeezing my hand in the coach," asked she,
hesitatingly, "when I showed so much fear of its overturning?"
"Squeezing your hand?"
"Or of his kissing it, after supper?"
"What! Had he got on so far? And pray, madam, what did you tell him?"
"Tell him!" said Lady Mabel. "I was acting a part, you know, papa; so
I told him his presumption had put Jenny Aiken quite out of
countenance."
"By Jove! you were acting your part with a vengeance! Why not tell
him, at once, never to kiss your hand when a third person was
present?"
"How can you talk so, papa? I meant no such thing. But what account
did he give of his leaving the house?"
"Merely that he hurried away when you unmasked the plot to him;
hastened to Elvas to get his horse, and post off to Alcantara."
"Then he said nothing of his leaping out of the window?"
"Did he leap out of the window?"
"Or of my trying to hold him back?"
"What!" exclaimed Lord Strathern, starting up. "Did he escape by
jumping out of the window, and you try to detain him?"
"The height was so great, I feared he would break his neck."
"Damn his neck!" said Lord Strathern, striding up and down the
room. "Better a neck cracked than a reputation. Things have come to a
pretty pass. You singing love-songs at him, he squeezing and kissing
your hand--perhaps going further. In these cases, women never tell the
whole truth! When he would escape by a leap from your window, you try
to keep him by strength of arm. You get on finely, madam! Three months
in the army have done wonders for you. Three months more will
accomplish you so thoroughly, that you will be fit for no other
society through life. I will tell you what, Mabel, I will not lose a
moment, but bundle you up, and pack you off to your aunt, while you
are yet worth sending!"
Between shame and indignation at this unjust assault from such a
quarter, poor Lady Mabel burst into tears, and rushed off to her room,
where she locked herself up, resolving never again to leave it until
she commenced her journey homeward. It was not long before her hasty
father repented of his coarse and violent attack on her, in a case in
which the heaviest fault was his own. He came rapping at her door, and
by dint of apologies, remonstrance, and commands, brought her out, and
induced her to spend the evening in his company. And a very
uncomfortable evening it was to both of them.
Two days after this, L'Isle rode into Elvas, and brought orders with
him that set the town astir. Such a breaking up of all the comfortable
and luxurious arrangements of messes and quarters had not been lately
seen. For Elvas was the Capua of the brigade, which had to lighten
itself of many an incumbrance, including much of what Shortridge
termed its heavy baggage, in order to bring itself to a condition to
march. There was many a woeful parting, too, and scandal says that the
ladies of Elvas might have laid the dust with their tears. But we will
leave these stories to Colonel Bradshawe.
All was confusion in the household at headquarters. Lord Strathern had
to bestir himself, to get both his brigade and himself ready to march
by one route, and Lady Mabel had to prepare for her journey by
another. It was now that Moodie's worth shone manifestly forth. The
old coach and harness were overhauled and put in order. He secured, we
believe, by impressment, another pair of mules and two postillions.
Every leaf of the _hortus siccus_ was carefully packed, and put into
the hands of an _arriero_, bound for Lisbon, and Jenny Aiken and
William, the footman, were pulled and shoved about in a way that
convinced them that it was time to be moving; yet he found plenty of
time to spur up my lord's own servants, and push forward their
preparations. Busy as Lord Strathern was, he failed not to remark
Moodie's prompt, methodical, and energetic labors. He pronounced him
the prince of quartermasters, and a heavy loss to the army. "The old
fellow would evacuate a fortress, or conduct a retreat with the
precision of a parade, and not leave even a dropped cartridge to the
enemy behind him." In fact, had Marshal Soult sworn to sack Elvas
to-morrow, Moodie could not have been more on the alert in getting
Lady Mabel ready to leave it. Not that he was afraid of a
Frenchman--he would willingly have faced him, and made his mark upon
him--but when all might be lost, and nothing gained by staying,
Moodie, like Xenophon, was proving his soldiership by a speedy, yet
orderly retreat. He was carrying off Lady Mabel, _via_ the villages of
Lisbon and London, to his stronghold of Craggy-side, where, he
trusted, she would be safe from L'Isle and Popery.
Many signs of a speedy flitting were now seen about head-quarters.
Lady Mabel sat melancholy and alone in her half-dismantled
drawing-room. To-morrow, she is again to enter the desert of Alemtejo,
on her way back to Lisbon. What a relief she would have found in busy
preparations, even for that dull journey, now robbed of all the charms
of novelty and expectation; but Moodie's industrious alacrity had
deprived her even of this resource. She was ready, and, instead of
busy preparations, had only sad thoughts to occupy her. About to part
with that father, of whom she had known more in the last three months
than in all her life before; for hitherto her's had been but a child's
knowledge of him--loving him and proud of him--for the defects she
began to see she viewed but as minor blemishes, foreign to his nature,
and due solely to that long career in which he had known no home, nor
companionship, but what he found in garrison and field; she could not
conceal from herself the new career of danger he was about to
run. Everything she heard indicated that he was now to march to fields
where war's wild work would be urged on with a fury, and on a scale
for which the last five campaigns, great as their results had been,
were but the preparation. She shuddered to think that, yet a few days
or weeks, and the veteran of near forty years of service may lie on
his last field. This, perhaps, was not her greatest grief, but she
strove to make it so, and sat gloomily and anxiously awaiting her
father's return from Elvas.
Presently she heard the sound of horses' hoofs clattering on the
pavement of the court. Rising from her melancholy posture, she was
going to meet her father, when, on opening the door, Colonel L'Isle
stood before her.
All the incidents of the last evening they had spent together,
particularly those which he had so carefully suppressed from the
narrative wrung from him, rushed upon her memory. Her folly and his
generous forbearance stood facing each other. Casting her eyes on the
floor, and grasping the handle of the door, to steady her tottering
frame, she could only gasp out, "I expected my father."
"My lord is very busy in Elvas, and so indeed was I," said L'Isle,
coolly; "but, as I march at sunrise to-morrow, I felt bound to borrow
a few minutes from duty to take my leave of Lady Mabel Stewart."
She now recollected herself enough to let go the handle of the door,
and make room for him to enter, and, by a motion of the hand, invited
him to take a seat.
Taking a chair near her, L'Isle ran his eye round the well-remembered
room. Perhaps he was thinking of his last visit here--perhaps
remarking its dismantled, comfortless condition. It was not more
changed than he was. All his earnest frankness of manner was gone. He
seemed to have borrowed a leaf from Colonel Bradshawe's book; and his
air of cool self-possession, his imperturbable manner, under the
present trying circumstances, would have excited that gentleman's
admiration, but it added a chill to the discomfort of Lady Mabel's
position.
Had he been angry, indignant, haughty, or sullen, it would have been
an infinite relief to her. She might have known how to deal with him,
and perchance have soon brought him round to a very different
mood. Now L'Isle evidently waited with cool politeness to hear some
sound from her lips; and she at length stammered out, "I am very sorry
that you are going--that is, that papa and all of you are going so
soon."
"Our pleasant sojourn in Elvas is over!" said L'Isle, carelessly, "and
Elvas is a pleasant place. Your stay here, too, has been quite an
episode in winter quarters. We cannot thank you too much for the
enlivening influence of your presence among us. I, for one, will ever
carry with me a vivid recollection of it."
Lady Mabel bowed. How cold and formal did this sound in her ears.
"To do ourselves justice," continued L'Isle, "some of us have not been
remiss in our efforts to enable you to pass your time pleasantly. I
dare say now, were I to hold myself to a strict account, I could
reckon up many an hour stolen from the dull routine of duty to devote
it to Lady Mabel's service."
"I am surely deeply indebted to you for the hours you so borrowed to
bestow on me," Lady Mabel answered, much at a loss what to say, and
looking every way but at L'Isle. "When I look back, I cannot but be
surprised at the amount of my gains, the knowledge and amusement I
have crowded into three short months, and chiefly through you."
"That time has passed, however," said L'Isle; "I can no longer be at
hand to afford you amusement. And as for knowledge, although older
than you, and knowing more of life, the world, and perchance of books,
I doubt whether you have been the greatest gainer in our intercourse.
But feeling a deep interest in you, I sincerely hope that you may gain
one precious lesson through me."
"What is that?" asked Lady Mabel eagerly--for the first time looking
fully at him.
"Never again heartlessly to throw away a friend!!" L'Isle said this
more gravely than bitterly. Then rising, he bowed respectfully but
formally, and was turning to go away.
Can she let him go without one word? But what can she say? She, at
length, gasped out, "It was papa's doing."
"Your father's doing!" exclaimed L'Isle, with well-feigned
astonishment. "Then Lady Mabel is an automaton," he added scornfully,
"and I, blockhead that I am, never found it out till now! But I am
thankful for wisdom even that comes too late. I now know Lady Mabel
and myself."
Was not Lady Mabel now disarmed and defenceless? Completely at his
mercy? By no means! In this extremity she sheltered herself behind her
strongest defences. She covered her face with her hands, and burst
into tears.
Was ever man more embarrassed than L'Isle? His proud, scornful air,
vanished like a snow-flake in the fire--and forgetting all that had
passed, he was seizing her hands to draw them away from her face, when
old Moodie abruptly entered the room, and called out, "Colonel L'Isle,
you are wanted in Elvas?"
"What the devil are you doing here?" said L'Isle, turning round
quickly, and placing himself so as to hide Lady Mabel's face.
"My duty," said the old man sternly, "and they have sent for you to
attend to yours!" for he saw that something had gone wrong; and he
longed to get L'Isle out of the house.
Looking into the passage, L'Isle now saw an orderly, whom Moodie had
officiously brought up-stairs from the door, and he hurried out to
receive the man's message, and send him off. This done, he hastily
re-entered the room to speak to Lady Mabel. But he was too late! The
bird had flown, and her old Scotch terrier was covering her retreat,
shutting the door of the next room behind her, and spitefully locking
it in L'Isle's face.
At sunrise, the next morning, L'Isle marched his regiment out of
Elvas. Setting his face sternly northward, he never once looked back
on the serried ranks which followed him, until the embattled heights
of La Lippe had hidden Elvas and its surroundings. Turning his back
upon the past, he strove to look but to the future; but at the very
moment of this resolve, memory cheated him, and he caught himself
repeating a line of Lady Mabel's song:
"All else forgotten, War is now my theme."
and the thrilling music of her intonation seemed to swell upon his
ear. He hastily exchanged his quotation for a greater poet's words:
"He that is truly dedicate to war,
Hath no self-love."
If it be possible to forget, he will have ample opportunity, amidst
the crash of armies and the crumbling of an empire, to erase from his
memory Elvas, and its "episode in winter quarters." From the heights
of Traz os Montes, Wellington was now to make an eagle's swoop upon
the north of Spain, and a lion's spring upon the herd, driven into the
basin of Vittoria. The march now begun was to lead thence to the
blood-stained passes of the Pyrennees, to Bayonne, Orthes, and
Toulouse, and later, to Paris, from the field of Waterloo. But who
shall measure, step by step, over conquered enemies and fallen
friends, this long eventful road?
"To die beneath the hoofs of trampling steeds,
That is the lot of heroes upon earth!"
CONCLUSION.
He that commends me to mine own content,
Commends me to the thing I cannot get.
I to the world am like a drop of water,
That in the ocean seeks another drop;
Who, falling there to find his fellow forth,
Unseen, inquisitive, confounds himself.
Comedy of Errors.
Three eventful years have passed, and a general peace is giving rest
to exhausted Europe. The war has cut off many a brave man; but it
remained for peace to terminate the military career of a rising
soldier in L'Isle's person; and sad to say, before he was either Major
general or knight of the Bath; though sought in many a dangerous path,
he had not found his golden spurs.
Regiments have been disbanded, his comrades are scattered, and he
himself has nothing to do, not even the poor resource of having to
study economy on half-pay, or of looking for more additional means to
eke out a living.
It is the curse of those entirely engrossing pursuits, which excite
all our enthusiasm, and task every energy, and of which the
statesman's and the soldier's callings are the best examples, that,
when they fail us, we can find no substitute. All things else are, by
comparison, stale, flat, and unprofitable. Can the brandy drinker
cheer himself with draughts of small beer? Screw up his nervous
energies to their accustomed tone with slops?
Tired to death of fox-hunting, pleasant shooting, and country
neighbors; all the means of excitement around him exhausted, L'Isle
lounged in the library at C----d Hall, with half a dozen open but
discarded volumes before him, revolving in his mind all possible means
of occupation. At one time he would resolve to travel the world over,
and get up a personal narrative, attractive as that of Humboldt, and
views of nature, that should look through nature's surface to the
recognition of Nature's God, whom the philosopher seems never to have
found in all his works. At another time, in order more effectively to
counteract the ill effects, on mind and habits, of the soldier's
exciting and unsettled life, he resolves to subject himself to still
severer regimen: not to go rambling about the world, an idling
philosopher, but to tie himself down to one spot, and take violently
to a course of high farming; grow the largest turnips, breed the
fattest South-downs, and the heaviest Devonshires, and carry off
agricultural prizes as substitutes for additional Waterloo medals.
But this was too severe a contrast to his late mode of life, and the
prospect soon disgusted him utterly. Having strong influence to back
him, he now thought of getting a seat in Parliament, and for a moment
the prophetic cries of 'Hear! hear!' arose from both sides of a full
House of Commons. But he knew that the occasion, even more than the
man, makes the orator; and in 'this weak piping time of peace,' these
cost-counting, debt-paying days, he foresaw no occasion that could
call forth the thunders of Demosthenes or Burke.--But although a new
light shines in upon him, and he suddenly makes up his mind that,
since he can no longer take the field, because all the world is tired
of fighting, and yet more of paying the bills run up in that expensive
diversion, he will write the narrative of the campaigns in which he
had taken part, without letting the '_quorum pars magna fui_' fill too
large a place in the picture.--Where can he find so much of the
materials needed in the construction of his work as in London? So to
London he went.
The season was at its height, and the town was full. L'Isle's object
required that he should not only examine many musty papers, but see
many persons; as some of his gayer friends soon found him out, and
induced him to look in upon the inner circles of London fashionable
life, to which his early and long absence from England had kept him a
stranger.
It so happened that Lord Strathern had come up from his moors, where
the winter had got too cold for him (the climate had changed much
since he was a boy), to visit the clubs and meet old comrades. But
these proved too much for the old veteran, who soon had to shut
himself up, in order to stave off an attack of his old enemy, the
gout. He would not, however, permit Lady Mabel to stand the siege with
him. The consequence was, that not long after L'Isle had come up to
London, he found himself in one of Lady D----'s thronged rooms, within
four steps of Lady Mabel.
In three years she had become, if we may be pardoned the bull, more
like herself than ever, for she was now all that she had promised to
be. She shone out in a richer and riper beauty, and a more sedate and
womanly deportment set it off, retaining not the least trace of that
somewhat cavalier manner she had picked up in the brigade. She was
more than three years wiser, and certainly more dangerous than ever.
L'Isle had long and studiously schooled himself to the conviction that
his fair and fascinating companion in Elvas was, after all, but a
heartless woman. Yet his vanity, to say nothing of any other feeling,
had never quite gotten over the rude shock it had received on Mrs.
Shortridge's great night there. His first thought was to withdraw from
the dangerous neighborhood. But he blushed at his own cowardice; and
the moment after, having caught her eye, he, self-confident, made his
way through the crowd, and greeted her politely as an old
acquaintance. It was plain that she was a little nervous on his
approach; her lips were compressed for a moment, and she drew more
than one deep breath, while watching him closely, and carefully
modeling her manner by his. Yet no stranger could have inferred, from
word or look, that they had not met for years, still less that they
had ever met on terms of intimacy. If L'Isle needlessly prolonged the
conversation, to the annoyance of the gentlemen at her elbow, his sole
object was to prove to her, beyond the possibility of doubt, by his
easy self-possession, that he had now, at least, attained to a sublime
indifference where she was concerned.
The ice once broken, accident seemed to throw them frequently into the
same company. L'Isle doubtless needed relaxation from his historical
labors; and a London season had at least the attraction of novelty for
him. He was, too, just the man to win friends among the ladies; yet he
still made it a point, whenever he met Lady Mabel, to bestow on her a
few minutes cold attention and indifferent notice, for old
acquaintance sake.
Lady Mabel stood in no need of these attentions. It was not her first
season; and many a butterfly, that hovered about that garden which
blooms in winter at the West-End, had hailed with delight the
reappearance of this rare flower. And she liked to have them buzzing
about her; it was her due, and yielded pleasant pastime. Yet while
busiest dealing sentiment, jest, and repartee among them, she now had
always an ear and a word for L'Isle, when he condescended to bestow a
few minutes cold consideration on her.
Her gentlemen in waiting wondered at her having so much to say to
L'Isle. She seemed to be under an obligation to be at leisure for him;
and Sir Charles Moreton, who was argus-eyed where Lady Mabel was
concerned, ventured to ask: "What pleasure can you find in talking to
this austere soldier? His smile is a sneer; he warms only to grow
caustic, and his cynical air betrays how little he cares even for
you."
"Were you ever clogged with sweet things?" asked Lady Mabel. "At times
I tire of bonbons, and long for vinegar, salt and pepper. My austere
friend deals in these articles."
She seemed to have found a special use for him, treating him as a
complete thinking machine, of high powers of observation, inflection,
thought and reason, but not susceptible of aught that savored of
feeling, sentiment or passion. She quietly threw the mantle of Mentor
over his shoulders, deferred to his judgment, had recourse to him as a
store-house of knowledge; and seemed so fully impressed with the fact
that he had a head, as utterly to forget the probability of his having
a heart. With a strange perversity, L'Isle was at once flattered and
annoyed at the use she made of him. It was an unequal game he was
playing, like a moth fluttering round a candle. His temper began to be
worn threadbare, and oftener than ever he repeated to himself, "She is
a heartless woman!"
In this mood L'Isle was listening, with a curled lip, to an animated
discussion between Lady Mabel, Sir Charles Moreton, and another
gentleman, as to the merits of a new actress, a dramatic meteor, then
briefly eminent on the London boards. The Honorable Mr. L----, who
was a _savant_ in the small sciences that cater to amusement,
pronounced her the Siddons of the day; Lady Mabel called her a ranter,
then, as if alarmed at her temerity, appealed as usual to L'Isle.
"No one can be a better judge of acting than Lady Mabel," said
L'Isle. "But for her opinion, I would call your favorite an
indifferently good actress."
Thus to "damn with faint praise," displeased Mr. L---- more than
positive censure, and he exclaimed: "Then you never saw her play Jane
Shore. The illusion is perfect. The house is deceived into forgetting
the drama, to witness the living and dying agonies of the desolate
penitent. Who can equal her?"
"Many," answered L'Isle; "and Lady Mabel can do better."
"Lady Mabel! She doubtless excels in everything. But I never saw her
act."
"I have," said L'Isle bitterly. "The illusion of Mrs. ----'s acting is
limited to the spectators. Lady Mabel deceives him who acts with her."
Lady Mabel turned pale, and then red, while the two gentlemen stared
at her and L'Isle alternately. Suddenly exclaiming, "There is my
friend, Mrs. B----. I have not seen her for a month. I must go and
speak to her," she accepted the arm of the _savant_ in small things,
and hastened after her friend, who had appeared so opportunely.
"You set little value on Lady Mabel's favors," said Sir Charles,
looking inquisitively at L'Isle. "You have certainly offended her
greatly."
"Do you think so?" said L'Isle coldly. "Then I suppose I must
apologize and beg my peace."
"If you do it successfully," said his companion, "I will be glad of a
lesson from you in the art."
L'Isle was angry with himself. Not that he felt that he owed Lady
Mabel any amends. But he had never until now made the slightest
allusion to certain scenes in the past. Pride had forbidden it. And he
was still reproaching himself with his want of self-control, when, on
entering another room, he saw Lady Mabel seated between two old
ladies, having ensconced herself there to get rid of the small
_savant_.
She no longer looked discomposed or angry, nor did she turn her eyes
away on his approach. She almost seemed to wish to speak to him. So
he offered his arm, and they walked toward the room he had just left.
"I know that you are too proud," she said, "to ask any pardon for the
attack you made on me just now. So I wish to tell you that I have
already forgiven it."
"That is truly generous," said L'Isle, with haughty irony. "You prove
the adage false which says, 'The injurer never forgives.'"
"Say you so? I see then that you have gone back years to dig up old
offences. Although I remember, to repent of them, I trusted that you
would have willingly forgiven and forgot my folly, or only recall it
to laugh at it. I know now," she said, stealing a look at him, "that
you are of an unforgetting, unforgiving temper." Then looking away,
she added, "I thought better of you once."
"There are some things," answered L'Isle, but in a softened tone, "not
to be forgotten, nor easily forgiven."
"I assure you," said Lady Mabel, with the air of a penitent, "I have
been terribly ashamed of myself ever since. Had I known that you still
viewed my thoughtless conduct as a serious wrong to you, I would
willingly have made you any apology, any reparation."
"Apologies would hardly reach the evil," said L'Isle. "But any
reparation! That is a broad term."
"Any, I mean, that you ought to ask, or I to make."
"There would be no absolute impropriety in my asking a good deal,"
said L'Isle, in tones that reminded Lady Mabel of some witching
moments in Elvas, "I will not make the blunder of asking too little,"
he added resolutely. "Let me first ask when you will be at home
to-morrow--at three?"
"Certainly at three; more certainly at two," she answered in a low
tone.
"And most certainly at one," said he joyously. "I like your
superlative degree of comparison."
"I only meant," she said, yet more confused, "that I am more likely to
be at home alone at two." And turning quickly away, she took a vacant
seat beside one of her friends, to whom, while fanning herself, she
complained of the heated room. She seemed, indeed, quite overcome by
it, which accounted for her labored breathing and heightened color.
* * * * *
"After all," said Lady Mabel, some days after the morning on which
L'Isle found her at home alone, "I was neither so good an actress, nor
so great a hypocrite as you took me for. My offence was not so much
that I simulated, as that I ceased to dissemble."
L'Isle readily embraced the faith that she was no actress but a true
woman, nor did he ever waver from it. But she did not always find so
easy a convert. Old Moodie, true to his nature, baffled all her
efforts to convince him of his errors. It is true that he became in
time, somewhat reconciled to L'Isle, but to his dying day he continued
to laud that special providence, which had snatched Lady Mabel from
the land of idolatry, at the very last moment before her perversion to
Rome.
Lady Mabel was not the woman to forget old friends; and now, that she
could recur with pleasure to her recollections of Elvas, she sought
out that companion who had so amiably filled the part of duenna and
chaperon. She and Mrs. Shortridge fought all their battles over again,
by retracing, step by step, varied excursions and toilsome journey,
while enjoying all the comforts of an English home. But it never does
to tell all that we do, still less, to lay open the spirit in which we
do it. Lady Mabel never let Mrs. Shortridge fully into the secret
history of the last dark treacherous scene in the episode in winter
quarters.
Lord Strathern was much pleased to find that L'Isle had greatly
modified his opinion, as to the mechanical nature of an army, and
hoped in time to dispel certain other erroneous notions, to which he
had formerly clung so stubbornly. It is not known whether or not
L'Isle ever finished his narrative of the Peninsular campaigns. It is
certain that he never published it. The author often labors harder
than the ploughman; and when a man is made happy, he becomes lazy. Let
the wretched toil to mend his lot, or to forget it.