show the ruins. For a little distance they walked up the path in single
file; not that it was too narrow to accommodate two, but M. Lacordaire’s
courage had not yet been screwed to a point which admitted of his
offering his arm to the widow. For in France, it must be remembered,
that this means more than it does in some other countries.
Mrs. Thompson felt that all this was silly and useless. If they were not
to be dear friends this coming out fêting together, those boots and
gloves and new hat were all very foolish; and if they were, the sooner
they understood each other the better. So Mrs. Thompson, finding that
the path was steep and the weather warm, stood still for a while leaning
against the wall, with a look of considerable fatigue in her face.
“Will madame permit me the honour of offering her my arm?” said M.
Lacordaire. “The road is so extraordinarily steep for madame to climb.”
Mrs. Thompson did permit him the honour, and so they went on till they
reached the top.
The view from the summit was both extensive and grand, but neither
Lilian nor Mimmy were much pleased with the place. The elder sister, who
had talked over the matter with her school companions, expected a fine
castle with turrets, battlements, and romance; and the other expected a
pretty smiling house, such as princes, in her mind, ought to inhabit.
Instead of this they found an old turret, with steps so broken that M.
Lacordaire did not care to ascend them, and the ruined walls of a
mansion, in which nothing was to be seen but the remains of an enormous
kitchen chimney.
“It was the kitchen of the family,” said the guide.
“Oh,” said Mrs. Thompson.
“And this,” said the woman, taking them into the next ruined
compartment, “was the kitchen of monsieur et madame.”
“What! two kitchens?” exclaimed Lilian, upon which M. Lacordaire
explained that the ancestors of the Prince de Polignac had been very
great people, and had therefore required culinary performances on a
great scale.
And then the woman began to chatter something about an oracle of Apollo.
There was, she said, a hole in the rock, from which in past times,
perhaps more than a hundred years ago, the oracle used to speak forth
mysterious words.
“There,” she said, pointing to a part of the rock at some distance, “was
the hole. And if the ladies would follow her to a little outhouse which
was just beyond, she would show them the huge stone mouth out of which
the oracle used to speak.”
Lilian and Mimmy both declared at once for seeing the oracle, but Mrs.
Thompson expressed her determination to remain sitting where she was
upon the turf. So the guide started off with the young ladies; and will
it be thought surprising that M. Lacordaire should have remained alone
by the side of Mrs. Thompson?
It must be now or never, Mrs. Thompson felt; and as regarded M.
Lacordaire, he probably entertained some idea of the same kind. Mrs.
Thompson’s inclinations, though they had never been very strong in the
matter, were certainly in favour of the “now.” M. Lacordaire’s
inclinations were stronger. He had fully and firmly made up his mind in
favour of matrimony; but then he was not so absolutely in favour of the
“now.” Mrs. Thompson’s mind, if one could have read it, would have shown
a great objection to shilly-shallying, as she was accustomed to call it.
But M. Lacordaire, were it not for the danger which might thence arise,
would have seen no objection to some slight further procrastination. His
courage was beginning, perhaps, to ooze out from his fingers’ ends.
“I declare that those girls have scampered away ever so far,” said Mrs.
Thompson.
“Would madame wish that I should call them back?” said M. Lacordaire,
innocently.
“Oh, no, dear children! let them enjoy themselves; it will be a pleasure
to them to run about the rock, and I suppose they will be safe with that
woman?”
“Oh, yes, quite safe,” said M. Lacordaire; and then there was another
little pause.
Mrs. Thompson was sitting on a broken fragment of a stone just outside
the entrance to the old family kitchen, and M. Lacordaire was standing
immediately before her. He had in his hand a little cane with which he
sometimes slapped his boots and sometimes poked about among the rubbish.
His hat was not quite straight on his head, having a little jaunty twist
to one side, with reference to which, by-the-bye, Mrs. Thompson then
resolved that she would make a change, should ever the gentleman become
her own property. He still wore his gloves, and was very smart; but it
was clear to see that he was not at his ease.
“I hope the heat does not incommode you,” he said after a few moments’
silence. Mrs. Thompson declared that it did not, that she liked a good
deal of heat, and that, on the whole, she was very well where she was.
She was afraid, however, that she was detaining M. Lacordaire, who might
probably wish to be moving about upon the rock. In answer to which M.
Lacordaire declared that he never could be so happy anywhere as in her
close vicinity.
“You are too good to me,” said Mrs. Thompson, almost sighing. “I don’t
know what my stay here would have been without your great kindness.”
“It is madame that has been kind to me,” said M. Lacordaire, pressing
the handle of his cane against his heart.
There was then another pause, after which Mrs. Thompson said that that
was all his French politeness; that she knew that she had been very
troublesome to him, but that she would now soon be gone; and that then,
in her own country, she would never forget his great goodness.
“Ah, madame!” said M. Lacordaire; and, as he said it, much more was
expressed in his face than in his words. But, then, you can neither
accept nor reject a gentleman by what he says in his face. He blushed,
too, up to his grizzled hair, and, turning round, walked a step or two
away from the widow’s seat, and back again.
Mrs. Thompson the while sat quite still. The displaced fragment, lying,
as it did, near a corner of the building, made not an uncomfortable
chair. She had only to be careful that she did not injure her hat or
crush her clothes, and throw in a word here and there to assist the
gentleman, should occasion permit it.
“Madame!” said M. Lacordaire, on his return from a second little walk.
“Monsieur!” replied Mrs. Thompson, perceiving that M. Lacordaire paused
in his speech.
“Madame,” he began again, and then, as he again paused, Mrs. Thompson
looked up to him very sweetly; “madame, what I am going to say will, I
am afraid, seem to evince by far too great audacity on my part.”
Mrs. Thompson may, perhaps, have thought that, at the present moment,
audacity was not his fault. She replied, however, that she was quite
sure that monsieur would say nothing that was in any way unbecoming
either for him to speak or for her to hear.
“Madame, may I have ground to hope that such may be your sentiments
after I have spoken! Madame”--and now he went down, absolutely on his
knees, on the hard stones; and Mrs. Thompson, looking about into the
distance, almost thought that she saw the top of the guide’s
cap--“Madame, I have looked forward to this opportunity as one in which
I may declare for you the greatest passion that I have ever yet felt.
Madame, with all my heart and soul I love you. Madame, I offer to you
the homage of my heart, my hand, the happiness of my life, and all that
I possess in this world;” and then, taking her hand gracefully between
his gloves, he pressed his lips against the tips of her fingers.
If the thing was to be done, this way of doing it was, perhaps, as good
as any other. It was one, at any rate, which left no doubt whatever as
to the gentleman’s intentions. Mrs. Thompson, could she have had her
own way, would not have allowed her lover of fifty to go down upon his
knees, and would have spared him much of the romance of his declaration.
So also would she have spared him his yellow gloves and his polished
boots. But these were a part of the necessity of the situation, and
therefore she wisely took them as matters to be passed over with
indifference. Seeing, however, that M. Lacordaire still remained on his
knees, it was necessary that she should take some step toward raising
him, especially as her two children and the guide would infallibly he
upon them before long.
“M. Lacordaire,” she said, “you surprise me greatly; but pray get up.”
“But will madame vouchsafe to give me some small ground for hope?”
“The girls will be here directly, M. Lacordaire; pray get up. I can talk
to you much better if you will stand up, or sit down on one of these
stones.”
M. Lacordaire did as he was bid; he got up, wiped the knees of his
pantaloons with his handkerchief, sat down beside her, and then pressed
the handle of his cane to his heart.
“You really have so surprised me that I hardly know how to answer you,”
said Mrs. Thompson. “Indeed, I cannot bring myself to imagine that you
are in earnest.”
“Ah, madame, do not be so cruel! How can I have lived with you so long,
sat beside you for so many days, without having received your image into
my heart? I am in earnest! Alas! I fear too much in earnest!” And then
he looked at her with all his eyes, and sighed with all his strength.
Mrs. Thompson’s prudence told her that it would be well to settle the
matter, in one way or the other, as soon as possible. Long periods of
love-making were fit for younger people than herself and her future
possible husband. Her object would be to make him comfortable if she
could, and that he should do the same for her, if that also were
possible. As for lookings and sighings and pressings of the hand, she
had gone through all that some twenty years since in India, when
Thompson had been young, and she was still in her teens.
“But, M. Lacordaire, there are so many things to be considered. There! I
hear the children coming! Let us walk this way for a minute.” And they
turned behind a wall which placed them out of sight, and walked on a few
paces till they reached a parapet, which stood on the uttermost edge of
the high rock. Leaning upon this they continued their conversation.
“There are so many things to be considered,” said Mrs. Thompson again.
“Yes, of course,” said M. Lacordaire. “But my one great consideration is
this;--that I love madame to distraction.”
“I am very much flattered; of course, any lady would so feel. But, M.
Lacordaire----”
“Madame, I am all attention. But, if you would deign to make me happy,
say that one word, ‘I love you!’” M. Lacordaire, as he uttered these
words, did not look, as the saying is, at his best. But Mrs. Thompson
forgave him. She knew that elderly gentlemen under such circumstances do
not look at their best.
“But if I consented to--to--to such an arrangement, I could only do so
on seeing that it would be beneficial--or, at any rate, not
injurious--to my children; and that it would offer to ourselves a fair
promise of future happiness.”
“Ah, madame; it would be the dearest wish of my heart to be a second
father to those two young ladies; except, indeed----” and then M.
Lacordaire stopped the flow of his speech.
“In such matters it is so much the best to be explicit at once,” said
Mrs. Thompson.
“Oh, yes; certainly! Nothing can be more wise that madame.”
“And the happiness of a household depends so much on money.”
“Madame!”
“Let me say a word or two, Monsieur Lacordaire. I have enough for myself
and my children; and, should I every marry again, I should not, I hope,
be felt as a burden by my husband; but it would, of course, be my duty
to know what were his circumstances before I accepted him. Of yourself,
personally, I have seen nothing that I do not like.”
“Oh, madame!”
“But as yet I know nothing of your circumstances.”
M. Lacordaire, perhaps, did feel that Mrs. Thompson’s prudence was of a
strong, masculine description; but he hardly liked her the less on this
account. To give him his due he was not desirous of marrying her solely
for her money’s sake. He also wished for a comfortable home, and
proposed to give as much as he got; only he had been anxious to wrap up
the solid cake of this business in a casing of sugar of romance. Mrs.
Thompson would not have the sugar; but the cake might not be the worse
on that account.
“No, madame, not as yet; but they shall all be made open and at your
disposal,” said M. Lacordaire; and Mrs. Thompson bowed approvingly.
“I am in business,” continued M. Lacordaire; “and my business gives me
eight thousand francs a year.”
“Four times eight are thirty-two,” said Mrs. Thompson to herself;
putting the francs into pounds sterling, in the manner that she had
always found to be the readiest. Well, so far the statement was
satisfactory. An income of three hundred and twenty pounds a year from
business, joined to her own, might do very well. She did not in the
least suspect M. Lacordaire of being false, and so far the matter
sounded well.
“And what is the business?” she asked, in a tone of voice intended to be
indifferent, but which nevertheless showed that she listened anxiously
for an answer to her question.
They were both standing with their arms upon the wall, looking down upon
the town of Le Puy; but they had so stood that each could see the
other’s countenance as they talked. Mrs. Thompson could now perceive
that M. Lacordaire became red in the face, as he paused before answering
her. She was near to him, and seeing his emotion gently touched his arm
with her hand. This she did to reassure him, for she saw that he was
ashamed of having to declare that he was a tradesman. As for herself,
she had made up her mind to bear with this, if she found, as she felt
sure she would find, that the trade was one which would not degrade
either him or her. Hitherto, indeed,--in her early days,--she had looked
down on trade; but of what benefit had her grand ideas been to her when
she had returned to England? She had tried her hand at English genteel
society, and no one had seemed to care for her. Therefore, she touched
his arm lightly with her fingers that she might encourage him.
He paused for a moment, as I have said, and became red; and then feeling
that he had shown some symptoms of shame--and feeling also, probably,
that it was unmanly in him to do so, he shook himself slightly, raised
his head up somewhat more proudly than was his wont, looked her full in
the face with more strength of character than she had yet seen him
assume; and then, declared his business.
“Madame,” he said, in a very audible, but not in a loud voice,
“madame--je suis tailleur.” And having so spoken, he turned slightly
from her and looked down over the valley towards Le Puy.
* * * * *
There was nothing more said upon the subject as they drove down from the
rock of Polignac back to the town. Immediately on receiving the
announcement, Mrs. Thompson found that she had no answer to make. She
withdrew her hand--and felt at once that she had received a blow. It was
not that she was angry with M. Lacordaire for being a tailor; nor was
she angry with him in that, being a tailor, he had so addressed her. But
she was surprised, disappointed, and altogether put beyond her ease. She
had, at any rate, not expected this. She had dreamed of his being a
banker; thought that, perhaps, he might have been a wine merchant; but
her idea had never gone below a jeweller or watchmaker. When those words
broke upon her ear, “Madame, je suis tailleur,” she had felt herself to
be speechless.
But the words had not been a minute spoken when Lilian and Mimmy ran up
to their mother. “Oh, mamma,” said Lilian, “we thought you were lost; we
have searched for you all over the château.”
“We have been sitting very quietly here, my dear, looking at the view,”
said Mrs. Thompson.
“But, mamma, I do wish you’d see the mouth of the oracle. It is so
large, and so round, and so ugly. I put my arm into it all the way,”
said Mimmy.
But at the present moment her mamma felt no interest in the mouth of the
oracle; and so they all walked down together to the carriage. And,
though the way was steep, Mrs. Thompson managed to pick her steps
without the assistance of an arm; nor did M. Lacordaire presume to offer
it.
The drive back to town was very silent. Mrs. Thompson did make one or
two attempts at conversation, but they were not effectual. M. Lacordaire
could not speak at his ease till this matter was settled, and he already
had begun to perceive that his business was against him. Why is it that
the trade of a tailor should be less honourable than that of a
haberdasher, or even a grocer?
They sat next each other at dinner, as usual; and here, as all eyes were
upon them, they both made a great struggle to behave in their accustomed
way. But even in this they failed. All the world of the Hôtel des
Ambassadeurs knew that M. Lacordaire had gone forth to make an offer to
Mrs. Thompson, and all that world, therefore, was full of speculation.
But all the world could make nothing of it. M. Lacordaire did look like
a rejected man, but Mrs. Thompson did not look like the woman who had
rejected him. That the offer had been made--in that everybody agreed,
from the senior habitué of the house who always sat at the head of the
table, down to the junior assistant garçon. But as to reading the
riddle, there was no accord among them.
When the dessert was done, Mrs. Thompson, as usual, withdrew, and M.
Lacordaire, as usual, bowed as he stood behind his own chair. He did
not, however, attempt to follow her.
But when she reached the door she called him. He was at her side in a
moment, and then she whispered in his ear--
“And I, also--I will be of the same business.”
When M. Lacordaire regained the table the senior habitué, the junior
garçon, and all the intermediate ranks of men at the Hôtel des
Ambassadeurs knew that they might congratulate him.
Mrs. Thompson had made a great struggle; but, speaking for myself, I am
inclined to think that she arrived at last at a wise decision.
AARON TROW.
I would wish to declare, at the beginning of this story, that I shall
never regard that cluster of islets which we call Bermuda as the
Fortunate Islands of the ancients. Do not let professional geographers
take me up, and say that no one has so accounted them, and that the
ancients have never been supposed to have gotten themselves so far
westwards. What I mean to assert is this--that, had any ancient been
carried thither by enterprise or stress of weather, he would not have
given those islands so good a name. That the Neapolitan sailors of King
Alonzo should have been wrecked here, I consider to be more likely. The
vexed Bermoothes is a good name for them. There is no getting in or out
of them without the greatest difficulty, and a patient, slow navigation,
which is very heart-rending. That Caliban should have lived here I can
imagine; that Ariel would have been sick of the place is certain; and
that Governor Prospero should have been willing to abandon his
governorship, I conceive to have been only natural. When one regards the
present state of the place, one is tempted to doubt whether any of the
governors have been conjurors since his days.
Bermuda, as all the world knows, is a British colony at which we
maintain a convict establishment. Most of our outlying convict
establishments have been sent back upon our hands from our colonies, but
here one is still maintained. There is also in the islands a strong
military fortress, though not a fortress looking magnificent to the eyes
of civilians, as do Malta and Gibraltar. There are also here some six
thousand white people and some six thousand black people, eating,
drinking, sleeping, and dying.
The convict establishment is the most notable feature of Bermuda to a
stranger, but it does not seem to attract much attention from the
regular inhabitants of the place. There is no intercourse between the
prisoners and the Bermudians. The convicts are rarely seen by them, and
the convict islands are rarely visited. As to the prisoners themselves,
of course it is not open to them--or should not be open to them--to have
intercourse with any but the prison authorities.
There have, however, been instances in which convicts have escaped from
their confinement, and made their way out among the islands. Poor
wretches! As a rule, there is but little chance for any that can so
escape. The whole length of the cluster is but twenty miles, and the
breadth is under four. The prisoners are, of course, white men, and the
lower orders of Bermuda, among whom alone could a runagate have any
chance of hiding himself, are all negroes; so that such a one would be
known at once. Their clothes are all marked. Their only chance of a
permanent escape would be in the hold of an American ship; but what
captain of an American or other ship would willingly encumber himself
with an escaped convict? But, nevertheless, men have escaped; and in one
instance, I believe, a convict got away, so that of him no further
tidings were ever heard.
For the truth of the following tale I will not by any means vouch. If
one were to inquire on the spot one might probably find that the ladies
all believe it, and the old men; that all the young men know exactly how
much of it is false and how much true; and that the steady, middle-aged,
well-to-do islanders are quite convinced that it is romance from
beginning to end. My readers may range themselves with the ladies, the
young men, or the steady, well-to-do, middle-aged islanders, as they
please.
Some years ago, soon after the prison was first established on its
present footing, three men did escape from it, and among them a certain
notorious prisoner named Aaron Trow. Trow’s antecedents in England had
not been so villanously bad as those of many of his fellow-convicts,
though the one offence for which he was punished had been of a deep dye:
he had shed man’s blood. At a period of great distress in a
manufacturing town he had led men on to riot, and with his own hand had
slain the first constable who had endeavoured to do his duty against
him. There had been courage in the doing of the deed, and probably no
malice; but the deed, let its moral blackness have been what it might,
had sent him to Bermuda, with a sentence against him of penal servitude
for life. Had he been then amenable to prison discipline,--even then,
with such a sentence against him as that,--he might have won his way
back, after the lapse of years, to the children, and perhaps, to the
wife, that he had left behind him; but he was amenable to no rules--to
no discipline. His heart was sore to death with an idea of injury, and
he lashed himself against the bars of his cage with a feeling that it
would be well if he could so lash himself till he might perish in his
fury.
And then a day came in which an attempt was made by a large body of
convicts, under his leadership, to get the better of the officers of the
prison. It is hardly necessary to say that the attempt failed. Such
attempts always fail. It failed on this occasion signally, and Trow,
with two other men, were condemned to be scourged terribly, and then
kept in solitary confinement for some lengthened term of months. Before,
however, the day of scourging came, Trow and his two associates had
escaped.