TASSO.
I daresay I was a great fool; but if you had seen the peculiar and
unpleasant face of Monsieur Droqville, and heard his harsh nasal voice,
in which there was something of habitual scorn, you would make excuses.
I confess I was in a great fright by the time we had got well into the
dark avenue that leads up to the house.
I hesitated a little as we reached that point in the carriage-road, not
a long one, which commands a clear view of the hall-door steps. I had
heard awful stories of foolish girls spirited away to convents, and
never heard of more. I have doubts as to whether, had I seen Monsieur
Droqville or his carriage there, I should not have turned about, and ran
through the trees. But the courtyard in front of the house was, as
usual, empty and still. On its gravel surface reposed the sharp shadows
of the pointed gables above, and the tufts of grass on its surface had
not been bruised by recent carriage wheels. Instead, therefore, of
taking to flight, I hurried forward, accompanied by Laura Grey, to seize
the fortress before it was actually threatened.
In we ran, lightly, and locked the hall door, and drew chain and bolt
against Monsieur Droqville; and up the great stairs to our room, each
infected by the other's panic. Safely in the room, we locked and bolted
our door, and stood listening, until we had recovered breath. Then I
rang our bell furiously, and up came Anne Owen, or, as her countrymen
pronounce it, Anne Wan. There had been, after all, no attack; no human
being had attempted to intrude upon our cloistered solitude.
"Where is Mrs. Torkill?" I asked, through the door.
"In the still-room, please, miss."
"Well, you must lock and bolt the back-door, and don't let any one in,
either way."
We passed an hour in this state of preparation, and finally ventured
downstairs, and saw Rebecca Torkill. From her we learned that the
strange gentleman who had been with Mr. Carmel had driven away more than
half an hour before; and Laura Grey and I, looking in one another's
faces, could not help laughing a little.
Rebecca had overheard a portion of a conversation, which she related to
me; but not for years after. At the time she had no idea that it could
refer to any one in whom she was interested; and even at this hour I am
not myself absolutely certain, but only conjecture, that I was the
subject of their talk. I will tell it to you as nearly as I can
recollect.
Rebecca Torkill, nearly an hour before, being in the still-room, heard
voices near the window, and quietly peeped out.
You must know that immediately in the angle formed by the junction of
the old house, known as the steward's house, which Mr. Carmel had been
assigned as a residence, and the rear of the great house of Malory,
stand two or three great trees, and a screen of yews, behind which, so
embossed in ivy as to have the effect of a background of wood, stands
the gable of the still-room. This strip of ground, lying immediately in
the rear of the steward's house, was a flower-garden; but a part of it
is now carpeted with grass, and lies under the shadow of the great
trees, and is walled round with the dark evergreens I have mentioned.
The rear of the stable-yard of Malory, also mantled with ivy, runs
parallel to the back of the steward's house, and forms the other
boundary of this little enclosure, which simulates the seclusion of a
cloister; and but for the one well-screened window I have mentioned,
would really possess it. Standing near this window she saw Mr. Carmel,
whom she always regarded with suspicion, and his visitor, that gentleman
in black, whose looks nobody seemed to like.
"I told you, sir," said Mr. Carmel, "through my friend Ambrose, I had
arranged to have prayers twice a week, at the Church in Paris, for that
one soul."
"Yes, yes, yes; that is all very well, very good, of course," answered
the hard voice; "but there are things we must do for ourselves--the
saints won't shave us, you know."
"I am afraid, sir, I did not quite understand your letter," said Mr.
Carmel.
"Yes, you did, pretty well. You see she may be, one day, a very valuable
acquisition. It is time you put your shoulder to the wheel--d'ye see?
Put your shoulder to the wheel. The man who said all that is able to do
it. So mind you put your shoulder to the wheel forthwith."
The younger man bowed.
"You have been sleeping," said the harsh, peremptory voice. "You said
there was enthusiasm and imagination. I take that for granted. I find
there is spirit, courage, a strong will; obstinacy--impracticability--no
milksop--a bit of a virago! Why did not you make out all that for
yourself? To discover character you must apply tests. You ought in a
single conversation to know everything."
The young man bowed again.
"You shall write to me weekly; but don't post your letters at
Cardyllion. I'll write to you through Hickman, in the old way."
She could hear no more, for they moved away. The elder man continued
talking, and looked up at the back-windows of Malory, which became
visible as they moved away. It was one of his fierce, rapid glances; but
he was satisfied, and continued his conversation for two or three
minutes more. Then he abruptly turned, and entered the steward's house
quickly; and, in two or three minutes more, was driving away from Malory
at a rapid pace.
A few days after this adventure--for in our life any occurrence that
could be talked over for ten minutes was an adventure--I had a letter in
mamma's pretty hand, and in it occurred this passage:
"The other day I wrote to Mr. Carmel, and I asked him to do me a
kindness. If he would read a little Italian with you, and Miss Grey I am
sure would join, I should be so much pleased. He has passed so much of
his life in Rome, and is so accomplished in Italian; simple as people
think it, that language is more difficult to pronounce correctly even
than French. I forget whether Miss Grey mentioned Italian among the
languages she could teach. But however that may be, I think, if Mr.
Carmel will take that trouble, it would be very desirable."
Mr. Carmel, however, made no sign. If the injunction to "put his
shoulder to the wheel" had been given for my behoof, the promise was but
indifferently kept, for I did not see Mr. Carmel again for a fortnight.
During the greater part of that interval he was away from Malory, we
could not learn where. At the end of that time, one evening, just as
unexpectedly as before, he presented himself at the window. Very much
the same thing happened. He drank tea with us, and sat on the bench--his
bench, he called it--outside the window, and remained, I am sure, two
hours, chatting very agreeably. You may be sure we did not lose the
opportunity of trying to learn something of the gentleman whom he had
introduced to us.
Yes, his name was Droqville.
"We fancied," said Laura, "that he might be an ecclesiastic."
"His being a priest, or not, I am sure you think does not matter much,
provided he is a good man, and he is that; and a very clever man, also,"
answered Mr. Carmel. "He is a great linguist: he has been in almost
every country in the world. I don't think Miss Ethel has been a
traveller yet, but you have, I dare say." And in that way he led us
quietly away from Monsieur Droqville to Antwerp, and I know not where
else.
One result, however, did come of this visit. He actually offered his
services to read Italian with us. Not, of course, without opening the
way for this by directing our talk upon kindred subjects, and thus
deviously up to the point. Miss Grey and I, who knew what each expected,
were afraid to look at each other; we should certainly have laughed,
while he was leading us up so circuitously and adroitly to his "palpable
ambuscade."
We settled Monday, Wednesday, and Friday in each week for our little
evening readings. Mr. Carmel did not always now sit outside, upon his
bench, as at first. He was often at our tea-table, like one of
ourselves; and sometimes stayed later than he used to do. I thought him
quite delightful. He certainly was clever, and, to me, appeared a
miracle of learning; he was agreeable, fluent, and very peculiar.
I could not tell whether he was the coldest man on earth, or the most
impassioned. His eyes seemed to me more enthusiastic and extraordinary
the oftener and longer I beheld them. Their strange effect, instead of
losing, seemed to gain by habit and observation. It seemed to me that
the cold and melancholy serenity that held us aloof was artificial, and
that underneath it could be detected the play and fire of a nature
totally different.
I was always fluctuating in my judgment upon this issue; and the problem
occupied me during many an hour of meditation.
How dull the alternate days had become; and how pleasant even the
look-forward to our little meetings! Thus, very agreeably, for about a
fortnight our readings proceeded, and, one evening on our return,
expecting the immediate arrival of our "master," as I called Mr. Carmel,
we found, instead, a note addressed to Miss Grey. It began: "Dear Miss
Eth," and across these three letters a line was drawn, and "Grey" was
supplied. I liked even that evidence that his first thought had been of
me. It went on:
"Duty, I regret, calls me for a time away from Malory, and our
Italian readings, I have but a minute to write to tell you not to
expect me this evening, and to say I regret I am unable, at this
moment, to name the day of my return.
"In great haste, and with many regrets,
"Yours very truly,
"E. Carmel."
"So he's gone again!" I said, very much vexed. "What shall we do
to-night?"
"Whatever you like best; I don't care--I'm sorry he's gone."
"How restless he is! I wonder why he could not stay quietly here; he
can't have any real business away. It may be duty; but it looks very
like idleness. I dare say he began to think it a bore coming to us so
often to read Tasso, and listen to my nonsense; and I think it a very
cool note, don't you?"
"Not cool; a little cold; but not colder than he is," said Laura Grey.
"He'll come back, when he has done his business; I'm sure he has
business; why should he tell an untruth about the matter?"
I was huffed at his going, and more at his note. That pale face, and
those large eyes, I thought the handsomest in the world. I took up one
of Laura's manuals of The Controversy, which had fallen rather into
disuse after the first panic had subsided, and Mr. Carmel had failed to
make any, even the slightest, attack upon our faith. I was fiddling with
its leaves, and I said:
"If I were an inexperienced young priest, Laura, I should be horribly
afraid of those little tea-parties. I dare say he is afraid--afraid of
your eyes, and of falling in love with you."
"Certainly not with me," she answered. "Perhaps you mean he is afraid of
people talking? I think you and I should be the persons to object to
that, if there was a possibility of any such thing. But we are talking
folly. These men meet us, and talk to us, and we see them; but there is
a wall between, that is simply impassable. Suppose a sheet of plate
glass, through which you see as clearly as through air, but as thick as
the floor of ice on which a Dutch fair is held. That is what their vow
is."
"I wonder whether a girl ever fell in love with a priest. That would be
a tragedy!" I said.
"A ridiculous one," answered Laura; "you remember the old spinster who
fell in love with the Apollo Belvedere? It could happen only to a
madwoman."
I think this was a dull evening to Laura Grey; I know it was for me.