Our applicant for the post of secretary entered the street of Lord
Ormont's London house, to present himself to his boyhood's hero by
appointment.
He was to see, perhaps to serve, the great soldier. Things had come to
this; and he thought it singular. But for the previous introduction to
Lady Charlotte, he would have thought it passing wonderful. He ascribed
it to the whirligig.
The young man was not yet of an age to gather knowledge of himself
and of life from his present experience of the fact, that passionate
devotion to an object strikes a vein through circumstances, as a
travelling run of flame darts the seeming haphazard zigzags to catch
at the dry of dead wood amid the damp; and when passion has become
quiescent in the admirer, there is often the unsubsided first impulsion
carrying it on. He will almost sorely embrace his idol with one or other
of the senses.
Weyburn still read the world as it came to him, by bite, marvelling at
this and that, after the fashion of most of us. He had not deserted his
adolescent's hero, or fallen upon analysis of a past season. But he was
now a young man, stoutly and cognizantly on the climb, with a good aim
overhead, axed green youth's enthusiasms a step below his heels: one
of the lovers of life, beautiful to behold, when we spy into them;
generally their aspect is an enlivenment, whatever may be the carving
of their features. For the sake of holy unity, this lover of life,
whose gaze was to the front in hungry animation, held fast to his young
dreams, perceiving a soul of meaning in them, though the fire might have
gone out; and he confessed to a past pursuit of delusions. Young men of
this kind will have, for the like reason, a similar rational sentiment
on behalf of our world's historic forward march, while admitting that
history has to be taken from far backward if we would gain assurance of
man's advance. It nerves an admonished ambition.
He was ushered into a London house's library, looking over a niggard
enclosure of gravel and dull grass, against a wall where ivy dribbled.
An armchair was beside the fireplace. To right and left of it a floreate
company of books in high cases paraded shoulder to shoulder, without
a gap; grenadiers on the line. Weyburn read the titles on their
scarlet-and-blue facings. They were approved English classics; honoured
veterans, who have emerged from the conflict with contemporary opinion,
stamped excellent, or have been pushed by the roar of contemporaneous
applauses to wear the leather-and-gilt uniform of our Immortals, until
a more qualmish posterity disgorges them. The books had costly bindings.
Lord Ormont's treatment of Literature appeared to resemble Lady
Charlotte's, in being reverential and uninquiring. The books she bought
to read were Memoirs of her time by dead men and women once known to
her. These did fatigue duty in cloth or undress. It was high drill with
all of Lord Ormont's books, and there was not a modern or a minor name
among the regiments. They smelt strongly of the bookseller's lump lots
by order; but if a show soldiery, they were not a sham, like a certain
row of venerably-titled backs, that Lady Charlotte, without scruple,
left standing to blow an ecclesiastical trumpet of empty contents; any
one might have his battle of brains with them, for the twining of an
absent key.
The door opened. Weyburn bowed to his old star in human shape: a grey
head on square shoulders, filling the doorway. He had seen at Olmer
Lady Charlotte's treasured miniature portrait of her brother; a perfect
likeness, she said--complaining the neat instant of injustice done to
the fire of his look.
Fire was low down behind the eyes at present. They were quick to scan
and take summary of their object, as the young man felt while observing
for himself. Height and build of body were such as might be expected in
the brother of Lady Charlotte and from the tales of his prowess. Weyburn
had a glance back at Cuper's boys listening to the tales.
The soldier-lord's manner was courteously military--that of an
established superior indifferent to the deferential attitude he must
needs enact. His curt nick of the head, for a response to the visitor's
formal salutation, signified the requisite acknowledgment, like a city
creditor's busy stroke of the type-stamp receipt upon payment.
The ceremony over, he pitched a bugle voice to fit the contracted area:
“I hear from Mr. Abner that you have made acquaintance with Olmer. Good
hunting country there.”
“Lady Charlotte kindly gave me a mount, my lord.”
“I knew your father by name--Colonel Sidney Weyburn. You lost him at
Toulouse. We were in the Peninsula; I was at Talavera with him. Bad day
for our cavalry.”
“Our officers were young at their work then.”
“They taught the Emperor's troops to respect a charge of English horse.
It was teaching their fox to set traps for them.”
Lord Ormont indicated a chair. He stood.
“The French had good cavalry leaders,” Weyburn said, for cover to a
continued study of the face,
“Montbrun, yes: Murat, Lassalle, Bessieres. Under the Emperor they had.”
“You think them not at home in the saddle, my lord?”
“Frenchmen have nerves; horses are nerves. They pile excitement too
high. When cool, they're among the best. None of them had head for
command of all the arms.”
“One might say the same of Seidlitz and Ziethen?”
“Of Ziethen. Seidlitz had a wider grasp, I suppose.” He pursed his
month, pondering. “No; and in the Austrian service, too; generals
of cavalry are left to whistle for an independent command. There's a
jealousy of our branch!” The injured warrior frowned and hummed. He
spoke his thought mildly: “Jealousy of the name of soldier in this
country! Out of the service, is the place to recommend. I'd have advised
a son of mine to train for a jockey rather than enter it. We deal with
that to-morrow, in my papers. You come to me? Mr. Abner has arranged
the terms? So I see you at ten in the morning. I am glad to meet a young
man--Englishman--who takes an interest in the service.”
Weyburn fancied the hearing of a step; he heard the whispering dress. It
passed him; a lady went to the armchair. She took her seat, as she had
moved, with sedateness, the exchange of a toneless word with my lord.
She was a brune. He saw that when he rose to do homage.
Lord Ormont resumed: “Some are born to it, must be soldiers; and in
peace they are snubbed by the heads; in war they are abused by the
country. They don't understand in England how to treat an army; how to
make one either!
“The gentleman--Mr. Weyburn: Mr. Arthur Abner's recommendation,” he
added hurriedly, with a light wave of his hand and a murmur, that might
be the lady's title; continuing: “A young man of military tastes should
take service abroad. They're in earnest about it over there. Here
they play at it; and an army's shipped to land without commissariat,
ambulances, medical stores, and march against the odds, as usual--if it
can march!
“Albuera, my lord?”
“Our men can spurt, for a flick o' the whip. They're expected to be
constantly ready for doing prodigies--to repair the country's omissions.
All the country cares for is to hope Dick Turpin may get to York. Our
men are good beasts; they give the best in 'em, and drop. More's the
scandal to a country that has grand material and overtasks it. A blazing
disaster ends the chapter!”
This was talk of an injured veteran. It did not deepen the hue of his
ruddied skin. He spoke in the tone of matter of fact. Weyburn had been
prepared for something of the sort by his friend, Arthur Abner. He noted
the speaker's heightened likeness under excitement to Lady Charlotte.
Excitement came at an early call of their voices to both; and both
had handsome, open features, bluntly cut, nothing of aquiline or the
supercilious; eyes bluish-grey, in arched recesses, horny between
the thick lids, lively to shoot their meaning when the trap-mouth was
active; effectively expressing promptitute for combat, pleasure in
attack, wrestle, tag, whatever pertained to strife; an absolute sense of
their right.
As there was a third person present at this dissuasion of military
topics, the silence of the lady drew Weyburn to consult her opinion in
her look.
It was on him. Strange are the woman's eyes which can unoffendingly
assume the privilege to dwell on such a living object as a man without
become gateways for his return look, and can seem in pursuit of thoughts
while they enfold. They were large dark eyes, eyes of southern night.
They sped no shot; they rolled forth an envelopment. A child among toys,
caught to think of other toys, may gaze in that way. But these were a
woman's eyes.
He gave Lord Ormont his whole face, as an auditor should. He was
interested besides, as he told a ruffled conscience. He fell upon the
study of his old hero determinedly.
The pain of a memory waking under pillows, unable to do more than strain
for breath, distracted his attention. There was a memory: that was
all he knew. Or else he would have lashed himself for hanging on the
beautiful eyes of a woman. To be seeing and hearing his old hero was
wonder enough.
Recollections of Lady Charlotte's plain hints regarding the lady present
resolved to the gross retort, that her eyes were beautiful. And he knew
them--there lay the strangeness. They were known beautiful eyes, in a
foreign land of night and mist.
Lord Ormont was discoursing with racy eloquence of our hold on India:
his views in which respect were those of Cuper's boys. Weyburn ventured
a dot-running description of the famous ride, and out flew an English
soldier's grievance. But was not the unjustly-treated great soldier well
rewarded, whatever the snubs and the bitterness, with these large dark
eyes in his house, for his own? Eyes like these are the beginning of
a young man's world; they nerve, inspire, arm him, colour his life; he
would labour, fight, die for them. It seemed to Weyburn a blessedness
even to behold them. So it had been with him at the early stage; and his
heart went swifter, memory fetched a breath. Memory quivered eyelids,
when the thought returned--of his having known eyes as lustrous.
First lights of his world, they had more volume, warmth, mystery--were
sweeter. Still, these in the room were sisters to them. They quickened
throbs; they seemed a throb of the heart made visible.
That was their endowment of light and lustre simply, and the mystical
curve of the lids. For so they could look only because the heart was
disengaged from them. They were but heavenly orbs.
The lady's elbow was on an arm of her chair, her forefinger at her
left temple. Her mind was away, one might guess; she could hardly be
interested in talk of soldiering and of foreign army systems, jealous
English authorities and officials, games, field-sports. She had personal
matters to think of.
Adieu until to-morrow to the homes she inhabited! The street was a
banishment and a relief when Weyburn's first interview with Lord Ormont
was over.
He rejoiced to tell his previous anticipations that he had not been
disappointed; and he bade hero-worshippers expect no gilded figure. We
gather heroes as we go, if we are among the growing: our constancy is
shown in the not discarding of our old ones. He held to his earlier
hero, though he had seen him, and though he could fancy he saw round
him.
Another, too, had been a hero-lover. How did that lady of night's eyes
come to fall into her subjection?
He put no question as to the name she bore; it hung in a black
suspense--vividly at its blackest illuminated her possessor. A man is
a hero to some effect who wins a woman like this; and, if his glory
bespells her, so that she flings all to the winds for him, burns the
world; if, for solely the desperate rapture of belonging to him, she
consents of her free will to be one of the nameless and discoloured, he
shines in a way to make the marrow of men thrill with a burning envy.
For that must be the idolatrous devotion desired by them all.
Weyburn struck down upon his man's nature--the bad in us, when beauty
of woman is viewed; or say, the old original revolutionary, best kept
untouched; for a touch or a meditative pause above him, fetches him up
to roam the civilized world devouringly and lawlessly. It is the special
peril of the young lover of life, that an inflammability to beauty in
women is in a breath intense with him. He is, in truth, a thinly-sealed
volcano of our imperishable ancient father; and has it in him to be the
multitudinously-amorous of the mythologic Jove. Give him head, he can be
civilization's devil. Is she fair and under a shade?--then is she doubly
fair. The shadow about her secretes mystery, just as the forest breeds
romance: and mystery is a measureless realm. If we conceive it, we have
a mysterious claim on her who is the heart of it.
He marched on that road to the music of sonorous brass for some drunken
minutes.
The question came, What of the man who takes advantage of her
self-sacrifice?
It soon righted him, and he did Lord Ormont justice, and argued the case
against Lady Charlotte's naked hints.
This dark-eyed heroine's bearing was assured, beyond an air of
dependency. Her deliberate short nod to him at his leave-taking, and the
toneless few words she threw to my lord, signified sufficiently that she
did not stand defying the world or dreading it.
She had by miracle the eyes which had once charmed him--could
again--would always charm. She reminded him of Aminta Farrell's very
eyes under the couchant-dove brows--something of her mouth, the dimple
running from a corner. She had, as Aminta had, the self-collected and
self-cancelled look, a realm in a look, that was neither depth nor
fervour, nor a bestowal, nor an allurement; nor was it an exposure,
though there seemed no reserve. One would be near the meaning in
declaring it to bewilder men with the riddle of openhandedness. We read
it--all may read it--as we read inexplicable plain life; in which let
us have a confiding mind, despite the blows at our heart, and some
understanding will enter us.
He shut the door upon picture and speculations, returning to them by
another door. The lady had not Aminta's freshness: she might be taken
for an elder sister of Aminta. But Weyburn wanted to have her position
defined before he set her beside Aminta. He writhed under Lady
Charlotte's tolerating scorn of “the young woman.” It roused an uneasy
sentiment of semi-hostility in the direction of my lord; and he had no
personal complaint to make.
Lord Ormont was cordial on the day of the secretary's installation; as
if--if one might dare to guess it--some one had helped him to a friendly
judgement.
The lady of Aminta's eyes was absent at the luncheon table. She came
into the room a step, to speak to Lord Ormont, dressed for a drive to
pay a visit.
The secretary was unnoticed.
Lord Ormont put inquiries to him at table, for the why of his having
avoided the profession of arms; and apparently considered that the
secretary had made a mistake, and that he would have committed a greater
error in becoming a soldier--“in this country.” A man with a grievance
is illogical under his burden. He mentioned the name “Lady Ormont”
distinctly during some remarks on travel. Lady Ormont preferred the
Continent.
Two days later she came to the armchair, as before, met Weyburn's eyes
when he raised them; gave him no home in hers--not a temporary shelter
from the pelting of interrogations. She hardly spoke. Why did she come?
But how was it that he was drawn to think of her? Absent or present,
she was round him, like the hills of a valley. She was round his
thoughts--caged them; however high, however far they flew, they were
conscious of her.
She took her place at the midday meal. She had Aminta's voice in some
tones; a mellower than Aminta's--the voice of one of Aminta's family.
She had the trick of Aminta's upper lip in speaking. Her look on him was
foreign; a civil smile as they conversed. She was very much at home with
my lord, whom she rallied for his addiction to his Club at a particular
hour of the afternoon. She conversed readily. She reminded him,
incidentally that her aunt would arrive early next day. He informed her,
some time after, of an engagement “to tiffin with a brother officer,”
and she nodded.
They drove away together while the secretary was at his labour of
sorting the heap of autobiographical scraps in a worn dispatch-box, pen
and pencil jottings tossed to swell the mess when they had relieved
an angry reminiscence. He noticed, heedlessly at the moment, feminine
handwriting on some few clear sheets among them.
Next day he was alone in the library. He sat before the box, opened it
and searched, merely to quiet his annoyance for having left those sheets
of the fair amanuensis unexamined. They were not discoverable. They had
gone.
He stood up at the stir of the door. It was she, and she acknowledged
his bow; she took her steps to her chair.
He was informed that Lord Ormont had an engagement, and he remarked, “I
can do the work very well.” She sat quite silent.
He read first lines of the scraps, laid them in various places, as in
a preparation for conjurer's tricks at cards; refraining from a glance,
lest he should disconcert the eyes he felt to be on him fitfully.
At last she spoke, and he knew Aminta in his hearing and sight.
“Is Emile Grenat still anglomane?”
An instant before her voice was heard he had been persuading himself
that the points of unlikeness between his young Aminta and this tall
and stately lady of the proud reserve in her bearing flouted the
resemblance.