VAE VICTIS!
Valerie de Rohan is Mrs. Ropsley now; she has dropped the rank of
Countess, and prides herself upon the facility with which she has
adopted the character of an English matron. She speaks our language, if
anything, a little less correctly than when I knew her first; never
shakes hands with any of her male acquaintances, and cannot be brought
to take a vehement interest in Low Church bishops, parliamentary
majorities, or the costly shawls and general delinquencies of her pretty
next-door neighbour, whose private history is no concern of yours or
mine. In all other respects she is British enough to be own
grand-daughter to Boadicea herself. She makes her husband's breakfast
punctually at ten; comes down in full morning toilet, dressed for the
day, bringing with her an enormous bunch of keys, such as we bachelors
scrutinise with mysterious awe, and of the utility of which, inasmuch as
they are invariably forgotten and left on the breakfast-table, we
nourish vague and secret doubts; further, she studies Shakspeare and
Burke (not the statesman, but the compiler of that national work which
sets forth the pedigrees of peers and baronets, and honourable messieurs
and mesdames) with divided ardour, and although she thinks London a
little _triste_, believes her own house in Belgravia to be a perfect
paradise, and loves its lord and hers with a pure, simple, and entire
devotion. Mrs. Ropsley is very happy, and so is he.
"The boy is father to the man." I can trace in the late Guardsman--who
relinquished his profession at the Peace--the same energy, the same
calculating wisdom, the same practical good sense, that distinguished
his youth; but he has lost the selfishness which made his earlier
character so unamiable, and has acquired in its stead an enlarged view
of the duties and purposes of life, a mellower tone of thought, a deeper
sense of feeling as to its pleasures and its pains. He has discovered
that the way to be happy is not to surround oneself with a rampart of
worldly wisdom, not to cover the human breast with a shield of cynical
defiance, which always fails it at its need, but to take one's share
manfully and contentedly of the roses as of the thorns--no more ashamed
to luxuriate in the fragrance of the one, than to wince from the sharp
points of the other. He entered on life with one predominant idea, and
that one perhaps the least worthy of all those which sanguine boyhood
proposes so ardently to itself; but he had purpose and energy, and
though self was his idol, he worshipped with a perseverance and
consistency worthy of a better cause. Circumstances, which have warped
so many to evil, rescued him at the turning point of his destiny. When
he met Valerie at Vienna, he was rapidly hardening into a bold, bad man,
but the affection with which she inspired him saved him, as such
affection has saved many a one before, from that most dangerous state of
all in which he lies who has nothing to care for, nothing to hope, and
consequently nothing to fear. Oh! you who have it in your power to save
the fallen, think of this. How slight is the cable that tows many a
goodly vessel into port; what a mere thread will buoy up a drowning man;
do not stand on the bank and wag your heads, and say, "I told you so;"
stretch but a little finger, throw him the rope that lies to your hand;
nay, think it no shame to wet your feet and bring him gently and
tenderly ashore, for is he not your brother?
The good work that Valerie's influence had begun, was perfected by the
hardships and horrors of the Crimean campaign. No man could witness the
sufferings so cheerfully borne, or take his share in the kindly offices
so heartily interchanged on that dreary plateau above Sebastopol,
without experiencing an improvement in his moral being, and imbibing far
more correct notions than he had entertained before as to the
_realities_ of life and death. No man could take his turn of duty day
by day in the trenches, see friends and comrades one by one struck down
by grape-shot, or withering from disease, and not feel that he too held
life on a startlingly uncertain tenure; that if the material were indeed
all-in-all, he had no business there; that the ideal has a large share
even in this life, and will probably constitute the very essence of that
which is to come. It is a mistake to suppose that danger hardens the
heart; on the contrary, it renders it peculiarly alive to the softer and
kindlier emotions. The brave are nearly always gentler, more
susceptible, than apparently weaker natures; and many a man who does not
quail at the roar of a battery, who confronts an advancing column with a
careless smile and a pleasant jest upon his lips, will wince like a
child at an injury or an unkindness dealt him from the hand he loves.
Ropsley, too, had many a pang of remorse to contend with, many an hour
of unavailing regret, as he looked back to the mischief he had wrought
by his unscrupulous schemes for his own benefit--the misery, to which in
his now softened nature he was keenly alive, that a thoughtless
selfishness had brought on his oldest and dearest friends. Poor Victor
married in haste, when piqued and angry with one who, whatever might be
her faults, was the only woman on earth to _him_. Constance Beverley,
driven into this alliance by his own false representations, and her
father's ill-judged vehemence. Another old school-fellow, whom he was
at last beginning to value and esteem, attributing the wreck of all he
hoped and cherished in the world to this fatal marriage; and he himself
ere long wishing to be connected by the nearest and dearest ties with
those whose future he had been so instrumental in blasting, and who
could not but look upon him as the prime source and origin of all their
unhappiness.
No wonder Ropsley was an altered man; no wonder Victor's sudden and
awful death made a still further impression on his awakened feelings; no
wonder he prized the blessing he had won, and determined to make himself
worthy of a lot the golden joys of which his youth would have sneered at
and despised, but which he was grateful to find his manhood was capable
of appreciating as they deserved.
Happiness stimulates some tempers to action, as grief goads others to
exertion; and Ropsley is not one to remain idle. Though Edeldorf has
passed away from the name of De Rohan for evermore, he has attained a
large fortune with his wife; but affluence and comfort alone will not
fill up the measure of such a man's existence, and his energetic
character will be sure to find some outlet for the talents and
acquirements it possesses. Politics will probably be his sphere; and
those who know of what efforts a bold far-seeing nature is capable, when
backed by study, reflection, above all, common sense; and when blessed
with a happy home of love on which to rest, and from which to gather
daily new hope and strength, will not think me over sanguine in
predicting that something more than a "_Hic Jacet_" will, in the fulness
of time, be carved on Ropsley's tombstone; that he will do something
more in his generation than eat and drink, and pay his son's debts, and
make a will, and so lie down and die, and be forgotten.
It is good to be firm, strong-minded, and practical; it is good to swim
with the stream, and, without ever losing sight of the landing-place, to
lose no advantage of the current, no lull of the back-water, no rippling
eddy in one's favour. It is not good to struggle blindly on against
wind and tide, to trust all to a gallant heart, to neglect the beacon
and the landmark, to go down at last, unconquered it may be in spirit,
but beaten and submerged for all that, in fact. There is an old tale of
chivalry which bears with it a deep and somewhat bitter moral: of a
certain knight who, in the madness of his love, vowed to cast aside his
armour and ride three courses through the melee with no covering save
his lady's night-weeds. Helm, shield, and corslet, mail and plate, and
stout buff jerkin, all are cast aside. With bared brow and naked breast
the knight is up and away!--amongst those gathering warriors clad from
head to foot in steel. Some noble hearts--God bless them!--turn aside
to let him pass; but many a fierce blow and many a cruel thrust are
delivered at the devoted champion in the throng. Twice, thrice he rides
that fearful gauntlet; and ere his good horse stops, the white
night-dress is fluttering in rags--torn and hacked, and saturated with
blood. It is a tale of Romance, mark that! and the knight recovers, to
be happy. Had it been Reality, his ladye might have wrung her hands
over a clay-cold corpse in vain. Woe to him who sets lance in rest to
ride a tournament with the world! Woe to the warm imagination, the
kindly feelings, the generosity that scorns advantage, the soft and
vulnerable heart! How it bleeds in the conflict, how it suffers in the
defeat! Yet are there some battles in which it is perhaps nobler to
lose than to win. Who shall say in what victory consists? "Discretion
is the better part of valour," quoth Prudence; but Courage, with
herald-voice, still shouts, "Fight on! brave knights, fight on!"
In the tomb of his fathers, in a gloomy vault, where a light is
constantly kept burning, sleeps Victor de Rohan, my boyhood's friend, my
more than brother. Many a stout and warlike ancestor lies about him;
many a bold Crusader, whose marble effigy, with folded hands and crossed
legs, makes silent boast that he had struck for the good cause in the
Holy Land, rests there, to shout and strike no more. Not one amongst
them all that had a nobler heart than he who joined them in the flower
of manhood--the last of his long and stainless line. As the old
white-haired sexton opens the door of the vault to trim and replenish
the glimmering death-lamp, a balmy breeze steals in and stirs the heavy
silver fringe on the pall of Victor's coffin--a balmy breeze that plays
round the statue of the Virgin on the chapel roof, and sweeps across
many a level mile of plain, and many a fair expanse of wood and water,
till it reaches the fragrant terraces and the frowning towers of distant
Sieben-buergen--a balmy breeze that cools the brow of yon pale drooping
lady, who turns an eager, wistful face towards its breath. For why? It
blows direct from where he sleeps at Edeldorf.
She is not even clad in mourning, yet who has mourned him as she has
done? She might not even see him borne to his last home, yet who so
willingly would lay her down by his side, to rest for ever with him in
the grave?
Alas for you, Rose, Princess Vocqsal!--you who must needs play with
edged tools till they cut you to the quick!--you who must needs rouse
passions that have blighted you to the core!--you who never knew you had
a heart till the eve of St. Hubert's Day, and found it empty and broken
on the morrow of that festival!
She tends that old man now with the patience and devotion of a
saint--that old childish invalid in his garden chair, prattling of his
early exploits, playing contentedly with his little dog, fretful and
impatient about his dinner. This is all that a paralytic stroke, acting
on a constitution weakened by excess, has left of Prince Vocqsal.
Nor is the wife less altered than her husband. Who would recognise in
those pale sunken features, in that hair once so sunny, now streaked
with whole masses of grey, in that languid step and listless, fragile
form, the fresh, sparkling roseate beauty of the famous Princess
Vocqsal? She has done with beauty now; she has done with love and
light, and all that constitute the charm and the sunshine of life; but
she has still a duty to perform; she has still an expiation to make; and
with a force and determination which many a less erring nature might
fail to imitate, she has set herself resolutely to the task.
Save to attend to her religious duties, comprising many an act of severe
and grievous penance, she never leaves her patient. All that woman's
care and woman's tenderness can provide, she lavishes on that querulous
invalid; with woman's instinct of loving that which she protects, he is
dearer to her now than anything on earth; but oh! it is a sad, sad face
that she turns to the breeze from Edeldorf.
Her director comes to see her twice a day; he is a grave, stern
priest--an old man who has shriven criminals on the scaffold--who has
accustomed himself to read the most harrowing secrets of the human soul.
He should be dead to sensibility, and blunted to all softer emotions,
yet he often leaves the Princess with tears in his grave cold eyes.
She is a Roman Catholic; do not therefore argue that her repentance may
not avail. She has been a sinner--scarlet, if you will, of the deepest
dye; do not therefore say that the door of mercy will be shut in her
face. There are sins besides those of the feelings--crimes which spring
from more polluted sources than the affections. The narrow gate is wide
enough for all. If you are striving to reach it, walking hopefully
along the strait path, it is better not to turn aside and take upon
yourself the punishment of every prostrate bleeding sinner; if you must
needs stop, why not bind the gaping wounds, and help the sufferer to
resume the uphill journey? There are plenty of flints lying about, we
know--heavy, sharp, and three-cornered--such as shall strike the poor
cowering wretch to the earth, never to rise again. Which of us shall
stoop to lift one of them in defiance of Divine mercy? Which of us
shall dare to say, "I am qualified to cast the first stone at her"?