ALL ADRIFT
The Marquise scarcely heard him. She was intent on those two figures
scrambling up the opposite shore, and fast disappearing into the darkness
beyond. It seemed that the darkness was closing in around herself, never
again to be dispelled. When those were gone what was there left on earth
for _her_? She had lost Cerise, she told herself, the treasure she had
guarded so carefully; the darling for whom she would have sacrificed her
life a thousand times, as the events of the last few hours proved; the
one aim and object of her whole existence, without which she was alone
in the world. And now this man had come and taken her child away, and it
would never be the same thing again. Cerise loved him, she was sure of
that. Ah! they could not deceive _her_; and he loved Cerise. She knew it
by his voice in those few words when he suggested that the girl should
cross the water first. The Marquise twined her fingers together, as if
she were in pain.
They must be safe now. Walking side by side on the peaceful beach,
waiting for the boat that should bear them away, would they forget all
about her in the selfishness of their new-found happiness, and leave her
to perish here? She wished they would. She wished the rioters, coming
on in overwhelming numbers, might force the pass and drive these honest
blue-jackets in before them to make a last desperate stand at the water’s
edge. She could welcome death then, offering herself willingly to ensure
the safety of those two.
And what was this man to her that she should give him up her daughter,
that she should be ready to give up her life rather than endanger his
happiness? She winced, she quivered with pain and shame because of the
feelings her own question called up. What was he to her? The noblest,
the dearest, the bravest, the best-beloved; the realisation of her
girl’s dreams, of her woman’s passions, the type of all that she had
ever honoured and admired and longed for to make her happiness complete!
She remembered so well the boy’s gentle brow, the frank kind eyes
that smiled and danced with delight to be noticed by her, a young and
beautiful widow, flattered and coveted of all the Great King’s Court. She
recalled, as if it were but yesterday, the stag-hunt at Fontainebleau;
the manly figure and the daring horsemanship of the Grey Musketeer; her
own mad joy in that wild gallop, and the strange keen zest life seemed
to have acquired when she rode home through those sleeping woods, under
the dusky purple of that soft autumnal night. How she used to watch
for him afterwards, amidst all the turmoil of feasts and pleasures
that constituted the routine of the new Court. How well she knew his
place of ceremony, his turn of duty, and loved the very sentries at the
palace-gate for his sake. Often had she longed to hint by a look, a
gesture, the flirt of a fan, the dropping of a flower, that he had not
far to seek for one who would care for him as he deserved; but even the
Marquise shrank, and feared, and hesitated, woman-like, where she really
loved. Then came that ever-memorable night at the Masked Ball, when
she cried out aloud, in her longing and her loneliness, and never knew
afterwards whether she was glad or sorry for what she had done.
It was soon to be over then, for ere a few more days had elapsed the
Regent ventured on his shameless outrage at the Hôtel Montmirail, and lo!
in the height of her indignation and her need, who should drop down, as
it seemed, from the skies, to be her champion, but the man of all others
whom most she could have loved and trusted in the world!
Since then, had she not thought of him by day and dreamt of him by night,
dwelling on his image with a fond persistency none the less cherished
because sad and desponding—content, if better might not be, to worship it
in secret to the last, though she might never look on its original again?
The real and the ideal had so acted on each other, that while he seemed
to her the perfection of all manhood should be, that very type was
unconsciously but a faithful copy of himself. In short, she loved him;
and when such a man is loved by such a woman it is usually but little
conducive to his happiness, and thoroughly destructive of her own.
If I have mistaken the originator of so beautiful and touching an
illustration, I humbly beg his pardon, but I think it is Alphonse Karr
who teaches, in his remarks on the great idolatry of all times and
nations, that it is well to sow plenty of flowers in that prolific
soil which is fertilised by the heart’s sunshine and watered by its
tears—plenty of flowers, the brighter, the sweeter, the more fragile,
perhaps, the better. Winter may cut them down indeed to the cold earth,
yet spring-time brings another crop as fair, as fresh, as fragile, and as
easily replaced as those that bloomed before. But it is unwise to plant
a tree; _because, if that tree be once torn up by the roots, the flowers
will never grow over the barren place again_!
The Marquise had not indeed planted the tree, but she had allowed it
unwittingly to grow. Perhaps she would never have confessed its existence
to herself had it not thus been forcibly torn away by roots that had
for years twined deeper and deeper among all its gentlest and all its
strongest feelings, till they had become as the very fibres of her heart.
It is needless to say that the Marquise was a woman elevated both by
disposition and education above the meaner and pettier weaknesses of her
sex. If she was masculine in her physical courage and moral recklessness
of consequences, she was masculine also in a certain generosity of
spirit and noble disdain for anything like malice or foul-play. Jealousy
with her—and, like all strong natures, she could feel jealousy very
keenly—would never be visited on the object that had caused it. She would
hate and punish herself under the torture; she might even be goaded to
hate and punish the man at whose hands she was suffering; but she would
never have injured the woman whom she preferred, and, indeed, supported
by a scornful pride, would have taken a strange morbid pleasure in
enhancing her own pain by ministering to that woman’s happiness.
Therefore she was saved a keen pang now. A pang that might have rendered
her agony too terrible to endure. She had not concealed from herself
to-night that the thrill of delight she experienced from the arrival
of succour was due rather to the person who brought it than to the
assistance itself; but almost ere she had time to realise its charm the
illusion had been dispelled, and she felt that, dream as it all was, she
had been wakened ere she had time to dream it out.
And now it seemed to her that nothing would be so good as the excitement
of another skirmish, another struggle, and a sudden death, with the
cheers of these brave Englishmen ringing in her ears. A death that Cerise
would never forget had been encountered for her safety, that _he_ would
sometimes remember, and remembering, accord a smile and a sigh to the
beauty he had neglected, and the devotion he had never known till too
late.
Engrossed with such thoughts, the Marquise was less alive than usual
to surrounding impressions. Presently a deep groan, forced from her
companion by combined pain and weakness, against which the sufferer could
no longer hold out, roused her to a sense of her situation, which was
indeed sufficiently precarious to have warranted much anxiety and alarm.
Hastening to his side, she was shocked to perceive that Bottle-Jack had
sunk to the ground, and was now endeavouring ineffectually to support
himself on his knees in an attitude of vigilance and defence. The
Captain’s pistols lay beside him, and he carried his own in each hand,
but his glazing eye and fading colour showed that the weapons could be
but of little service, and the time seemed fast approaching when the old
sailor should be relieved from his duty by an order against which there
was no appeal.
The Marquise had scarcely listened to the words while he spoke them, but
they came back now, and she understood what he meant when he told her
that, if she pleased, “he would keep _his_ watch first.”
She looked around and shuddered. It was, indeed, a cheerless position
enough. The moon was sinking, and that darkest hour of the night
approached which is followed by dawn, just as sorrow is succeeded by
consolation, and death by immortality. The breeze struck damp and chill
on her unprotected neck and bosom, for there had been no time to think
of cloaks or shawls when she escaped, nor was the air sufficiently cold
before midnight to remind her of such precautions. The surrounding jungle
stirred and sighed faintly, yet sadly, in the night air. The waters of
the deep lagoon, now darkening with a darkening sky, lapped drearily
against their bank. Other noises were there none, for the rioters seemed
to have turned back from the resistance offered by Slap-Jack with his
comrades, and to have abandoned for the present their search in that
direction. The seamen who guarded the defile were peering stealthily into
the gloom, not a man relaxing in his vigilance, not a man stirring on his
post. The only sounds that broke her solitude were the restless movements
of Bottle-Jack, and the groans that would not be suppressed. It was no
wonder the Marquise shuddered.
She stooped over the old seaman and took his coarse, heavy hand in hers.
Even at such an extremity, Bottle-Jack seemed conscious of the contrast,
and touched it delicately, like some precious and fragile piece of
porcelain. “I fear you are hurt,” said she, in his own language, which
she spoke with the measured accent of her countrywomen. “Tell me what it
is; I am not a bad doctor myself.”
Bottle-Jack tried to laugh. “It’s a flea-bite, my lady,” said he, setting
his teeth to conceal the pain he suffered. “’Tis but a poke in the side
after all, though them black beggars does grind their spear-heads to an
edge like a razor. It’s betwixt wind and water, d’ye see, marm, if I may
be so bold, and past caulking, in my opinion. I’m a-fillin’ fast, that’s
where it is, askin’ your pardon again for naming it to a lady like you.”
She partly understood him, and for the first time to-night the tears came
into her eyes. They did her good. They seemed to clear her faculties
and cool her brain. She examined the old man’s hurt, after no small
resistance on his part, and found a deep wound between his ribs, which
even her experience warned her must be mortal. She stanched it as well
as she could, tearing up the lace and other trimmings of her dress to
form a temporary bandage. Then she bent down to the lagoon to dip her
coroneted handkerchief in water and lay it across his brow, while she
supported his sinking frame upon her knees. He looked in her face with
a puzzled, wandering gaze, like a man in a dream. The vision seemed
so unreal, so impossible, so unlike anything he had ever seen before,
Bottle-Jack began to think he had reached Fiddler’s Green at last.
The minutes dragged slowly on. The sky became darker, the breeze colder,
and the strangely matched pair continued in the same position on the
brink of the white lagoon, the Marquise dipping her handkerchief at short
intervals, and moistening the sailor’s mouth. It was all she could do for
him, and like a faithful old dog, wounded to the death, he could only
thank her with his eyes. More than once she thought he was gone, but as
moment after moment crept by, so sad, so slow, she knew he was still
alive.
Would it never be day? She could scarcely see him now, though his heavy
head rested on her knees, though her hand with the moistened handkerchief
was laid on his very lips. At last the breeze freshened, sighing audibly
through the tree-tops, which were soon dimly seen swaying to and fro
against a pale streak of sky on the horizon. Bottle-Jack started and sat
up.
“Stand by!” he exclaimed, looking wildly round. “You in the fore-chains!
Keep you axe ready to cut away when she rounds to. Easy, lads! She’ll
weather it now, and I’ll go below and turn in.”
Then he laid his head once more on Madame de Montmirail’s knees, like a
child who turns round to go to sleep.
The grey streak had grown to a wide rent of pale green, now broadening
and brightening into day. Ere the sky flecked with crimson, or the
distant tree-tops tinged with golden fire, the life of the whole jungle
was astir, waking the discords of innumerable menageries. Cockatoos
whistled, monkeys chattered, parrots screamed, mockingbirds reproduced
these and a thousand other sounds a thousandfold. All nature seemed
renewed, exulting in the freshened energies of another day, but still the
Marquise sat by the lagoon, pale, exhausted, worn out, motionless, with
the dead seaman’s head in her lap.