In the autumn of that year my chest became so troublesome that I was obliged to try Italy. Thither I went; and, about the same time, Guy was gazetted to the —— Life Guards. The struggle between climate and constitution was protracted, and for a long time doubtful; but winters without fog, and springs without cold winds, worked wonders, and at last carried the day. In the fourth year they told me I might risk England again. Moving homeward slowly, I reached London about the beginning of December—a most unfavorable season, it is true; but I was weary of foreign wandering, and wanted to spend Christmas somewhere in the fatherland, though where I had not yet determined.
I had heard tolerably often from Livingstone during my absence. His letters were very amusing, containing all sorts of news, and remarks on men and manners. They would have pleased me more if they had not indicated a vein of sarcasm deepening into cynicism.
I stand very much alone in this world, and had few family visits to detain me; so, on the morning after my arrival, I went down to the Knightsbridge barracks, where Guy's regiment happened to be quartered.
It was a field-day, his servant said, and his master was out with his troop; but he expected him in very shortly. Captain Forrester was waiting breakfast for him up stairs.
As I entered the room, its occupant turned his head languidly on the sofa-cushion which supported it; but when he saw it was a stranger, sat up, and, on hearing my name, actually rose and came toward me.
"Livingstone will be charmed to find you here, Mr. Hammond," he said, in a voice that, though slightly affected and traînante, was very musical. "I don't know if he ever mentioned Charley Forrester to you, who must do the honors of the barrack-room in his absence?"
I had heard of him very often; and, though my expectations as to his personal appearance had been raised, I own the first glance did not disappoint them. He was about three-and-twenty then, rather tall, but very slightly built; his eyes long, sleepy, of a violet blue; features small and delicately cut, with a complexion so soft and bright that his silky, chestnut mustache hardly saved the face from effeminacy; his hands and feet would have satisfied the Pacha of Tebelen at once as to his purity of race; indeed, though Charley was not disposed to undervalue any of his own bodily advantages, I imagine he considered his extremities as his strong point. His manner was very fascinating, and, with women, had a sort of caress in it which is hard to describe, though even with them he seldom excited himself much, preferring, consistently, the passive to the active part in the conversation. Indeed, his golden rule was the Arabic maxim, Agitel lil Shaitan—Hurry is the Devil's—so, in the flirtations which were the serious business of his life, he always let his fish hook themselves, just exerting himself enough to play them afterward.
In ten minutes we were very good friends, talking pleasantly of all sorts of things, though Forrester had resumed his recumbent posture, and I could not help fearing it was only a strong effort of politeness or sense of duty which enabled him always to answer at the right time.
Before long we heard the clatter of horses' hoofs and the rattle of steel scabbards, and I looked out at the squadrons defiling into the barrack-yard. My eye fell upon Livingstone at once: it was not difficult to distinguish him, for few, if any, among those troopers, picked from the flower of all the counties north of the Humber, could compare with him for length of limb and breadth of shoulder. I felt proud of him, as the hero of my boyhood, looking at him there, on his great black charger, square and steadfast as the keep of a castle.
His servant spoke to him as he dismounted. I saw his features soften and brighten in an instant; in five seconds he was in the room, and the light was on his face still—I like to think of it—the light of a frank, cordial welcome, as he griped my hand.
He was changed, certainly, but for the better. The features, which in early youth had been too rugged and strongly marked, harmonized perfectly with the vast proportions of a frame now fully developed, though still lean in the flanks as a wolf-hound. The stern expression about his mouth was more decided and unvarying than ever—an effect which was increased by the heavy mustache that, dense as a Cuirassier's of the Old Guard, fell over his lip in a black cascade. It was the face of one of those stone Crusaders who look up at us from their couches in the Round Church of the Temple.
Before our first sentences were concluded, Forrester had nerved himself to the effort of rising, and turned to go.
"You must have fifty things to say to each other," he said. "You'll find me in the mess-room. But, Guy, don't be long; I've no appetite myself this morning, and it will refresh me to see you eat your breakfast;" and so faded away gradually through the door.
"How do you like him?" Livingstone called out from the inner room, where he was donning the "mufti." "He's not so conceited as he might be, considering how the women spoil him; and, lazy as he looks, he is a very fair officer, and goes across country like a bird. Did I ever tell you what first made him famous?"
"No; I should like to hear."
"Well, it was at a picnic at Cliefden. Charley was hardly nineteen then, and had just joined the ——th Lancers at Hounslow; he wandered away, and got lost with Kate Harcourt, a self-possessed beauty in high condition for flirting, for she had had three seasons of hard training. When they had been away from their party about two hours, she felt, or pretended to feel, the awkwardness of the situation, and asked her cavalier, in a charmingly helpless and confiding way, what they were to do. 'Well, I hardly know,' Forrester answered, languidly; 'but I don't mind proposing to you, if that will do you any good.' A fair performance for an untried colt, was it not? Miss Harcourt thought so, and said so, and Charley woke next morning with an established renown. Shall we go and find him?"
After breakfast we went with Guy to his room, to do the regulation cigar.
"I know you've made no plans, Frank," Livingstone said, "so I have settled every thing for you already. You are coming down to Kerton with us. We have just got our long leave, and our horses went down three days ago."
"It's very nice of him to say 'our horses,'" interrupted Forrester. "Mine consist of one young one, that has been over about eight fences in his life, and a mare, that I call the Wandering Jewess, for I don't think she will ever die, and I am sure she will never rest till she does: what with being park-hack in the summer and cover-hack in the winter, with a by-day now and then when the country's light, she's the best instance of perpetual motion I know. Well, it's not my fault the chief won't let us hunt our second chargers—that's the charm of being in a crack regiment—I always have one lame at least, and no one will sell me hunters on tick."
"Don't be so plaintive, Charley; you've nearly all mine to ride: it's a treat to them, poor things, to feel your light weight and hand, after carrying my enormous carcass. That's settled, then, Frank; you come with us?" Guy said.
"I shall be very glad. I only want a day to get my traps together." So two days afterward we three came down to Kerton Manor. It was not my first visit to Livingstone's home, but I have not described it before.
Fancy a very large, low house, built in two quadrangles—the offices and stables forming the smaller one farthermost from the main entrance—of the light gray stone common in Northamptonshire, darkened at the angles and buttresses into purple, and green, and bistre by the storms of three hundred years; on the south side, smooth turf, with islands in it of bright flower-beds, sloped down to a broad, slow stream, where grave, stately swans were always sailing to and fro, and moor-hens diving among the rushes; on the other sides, a park, extensive, but somewhat rough-looking, stretched away, and, all round, lines of tall avenue radiated—the bones of a dead giant's skeleton—for Kerton once stood in the centre of a royal forest.
You entered into a wide, low hall, the oak ceiling resting on broad square pillars of the same dark wood; all round hung countless memorials of chase and war, for the Livingstones had been hunters and soldiers beyond the memory of man.
Often, passing through of a winter's evening, I have stopped to watch the fitful effects of the great logs burning on the andirons, as their light died away, deadened among brown bear-skins and shadowy antlers, or played, redly reflected, on the mail-shirt and corslet of Crusader or Cavalier.
There were many portraits too; one, the most remarkable, fronted you as you came through the great doorway, the likeness of a very handsome man in the uniform of a Light Dragoon; under this hung a cavalry sword, and a brass helmet shaded with black horse-hair. The portrait and sword were those of Guy's father; the helmet belonged to the Cuirassier who slew him.
It was in a skirmish with part of Kellermann's brigade, near the end of the Peninsular war; Colonel Livingstone was engaged with an adversary in his front, when a trooper, delivering point from behind, ran him through the body. He had got his death-wound, and knew it; but he came of a race that ever died hard and dangerously; he only ground his teeth, and, turning short in his saddle, cut the last assailant down. Look at the helmet, with the clean, even gap in it, cloven down to the cheek-strap—the stout old Laird of Colonsay struck no fairer blow.
It was curious to mark how the same expression of sternness and decision about the lips and lower part of the face, which was so remarkable in their descendants, ran through the long row of ancestral portraits. You saw it—now, beneath the half-raised visor of Sir Malise, surnamed Poing-de-fer, who went up the breach at Ascalon shoulder to shoulder with strong King Richard—now, yet more grimly shadowed forth, under the cowl of Prior Bernard, the ambitious ascetic, whom, they say, the great Earl of Warwick trusted as his own right hand—now, softened a little, but still distinctly visible, under the long love-locks of Prince Rupert's aid-de-camp, who died at Naseby manfully in his harness—now, contrasting strangely with the elaborately powdered peruke and delicate lace ruffles of Beau Livingstone, the gallant, with the whitest hand, the softest voice, the neatest knack at a sonnet, and the deadliest rapier at the court of good Queen Anne. Nay, you could trace it in the features of many a fair Edith and Alice, half counteracting the magnetic attraction of their melting eyes.
On the sunny south side, looking across the flower-garden, were Lady Catharine Livingstone's rooms, where, diligent as Matilda and her maidens, in summer by the window, in winter by the fire; the pale châtelaine sat over her embroidery. What rivers of tapestry must have flowed from under those slender white fingers during their ceaseless toil of twenty years!
The good that she did in her neighborhood can not be told. She was kind and hospitable, too, to her female guests, in her own haughty, undemonstrative way; nevertheless, the wives and daughters of the squirearchy regarded her with great awe and fear. Perhaps she felt this, though she could not alter it, and the sense of isolation may have deepened the shades on her sad face. She had only one thing on earth to centre her affections on, and that one she worshiped with a love stronger than her sense of duty; for, since his father died, she had never been able to check Guy in a single whim.
When he had a hunting-party in the house, she sometimes would not appear for days; but, however early he might start for the meet, I do not think he ever left his dressing-room without his mother's kiss on his cheek. She knew, as well as any one, how recklessly her son rode; nothing but his science, coolness, and great strength in the saddle could often have saved him from some terrible accident. Many times, in the middle of the day's sport, the thought has come across me piteously of that poor lady, in her lonely rooms, trembling, and I am very sure praying, for her darling.
On the opposite side of the court were Guy's own apartments: first, what was called by courtesy his study—an armory of guns and other weapons, a chaos e rebus omnibus et quibusdam aliis, for he never had the faintest conception of the beauty of order; then came the smoking-room, with its great divans and scattered card-tables; then Livingstone's bed-room and dressing-room.
Did the distance and the doors always deaden the sounds of late revels, so as not to break Lady Catharine's slumbers? I fear not.
CHAPTER VI.
It was a woodland meet, a long way off, the morning after we arrived, so we staid at home; and, after breakfast, Guy having to give audience to keepers and other retainers, I strolled out with Forrester to smoke in the stables. I have seldom seen a lot which united so perfectly bone and blood. Livingstone gave any price for his horses; the only thing he was not particular about was their temper; more than one looked eminently unsuited to a nervous rider, and a swinging bar behind them warned the stranger against incautious approach.
After duly discussing and admiring the stud, we established ourselves on the sunniest stone bench in the garden, and I asked my companion to tell me something of what Guy had been doing during my absence.
"Well, it's rather hard to say," answered Charley. "He never takes the trouble to conceal any thing; but then, you see, he never tells one any thing either; so it's only guess work, after all. He lives very much like other men in the Household Brigade; plays heavily, though not regularly; but he always has two affaires de cœur, at least, on hand at once; that's his stint."
"So he still persecutes the weaker sex unremittingly?" I asked, laughing.
"In a way peculiar to himself," said Forrester; "he is always strictly courteous, but decidedly sarcastic. Poor things, they are easily imposed upon; he very soon has them well in hand, and they can never get their heads up afterward. I suppose they like it, for it seems to answer admirably. Last season he divided himself pretty equally between Constance Brandon and Flora Bellasys—quite the two best things out, though as opposite to each other in every way as the poles. To do Miss Brandon justice, I don't think she knew much of the other flirtation; she always went away early, and he used to take up her rival for the rest of the evening."
"But the said rival—how did she like the divided homage?"
"Not at all at first; at least, she used to look revolvers at Guy from time to time—(ah! you should see the Bellasys' eyes when they begin to lighten)—but he always brought her back to the lure, and at last she seemed to take it quite as a matter of course, keeping all her after-supper waltzes for him religiously, though half the men in town were trying to cut in. I can't make out how he does it. Do you think his size and sinews can have any thing to do with it?" He said this gravely and reflectively.
"Not unlikely," I replied; "the fortiter in re goes a long way with women apparently, even where there is not a tongue like his to back it. Don't you remember Juvenal's strong-minded heroine, who left husband and home to follow the scarred, maimed gladiator? I doubt if the Mirmillo was a pleasant or intellectual companion. Now I want you to tell me something about Guy's cousin and her father; they are coming here to-day, and I have never met them."
"Mr. Raymond is very like most calm, comfortable old men with a life interest in £2000 a year," Charley said; "rather more cold and impassible than the generality, perhaps. He must be clever, for he plays whist better than any one I know; but not brilliant, certainly. His daughter is"—the color deepened on his cheek perceptibly—"very charming, most people think; but I hate describing people. I always caricature the likeness. You'll form your own judgment at dinner. Shall we go in? We shoot an outlying cover after luncheon, and the blackthorns involve gaiters."
We had very fair sport, and were returning across the park, picking up a stray rabbit every now and then in the tufts of long grass and patches of brake. One had just started before Forrester, and he was in the act of pulling the trigger, when Livingstone said suddenly,
"There's my uncle's carriage coming down the north avenue."
It was an easy shot in the open, but Charley missed it clean.
"What eyes you have, Guy," he said, pettishly; "but I wish you wouldn't speak to a man on his shot."
Guy's great Lancaster rang out with the roar of a small field-piece, and the rabbit was rolling over, riddled through the head, before he answered,
"Yea, my eyes are good, and I see a good many things, but I don't see why you should have muffled that shot, particularly as my intelligence was meant for the world in general, and it was not such an astounding remark, after all."
Charley did not seem ready with a reply, so he retained his look of injured innocence, and walked on, sucking silently at his cigar. The Raymonds reached the house before us; but, not being in a presentable state, I did not see them before dinner.
Forrester was right; there was nothing startling about Mr. Raymond. He had one of those thin, high-bred looking faces that one always fancies would have suited admirably the powder and ruffles of the last century. It expressed little except perfect repose, and when he spoke, which was but seldom, no additional light came into his hard blue eyes. His daughter was his absolute contrast—a lovely, delicate little creature, with silky dark-brown hair, and eyes en suite, and color that deepened and faded twenty times in an hour, without ever losing the softness of its tints. She had the ways of a child petted all its life through, that a harsh word would frighten to annihilation. She seemed very fond of Guy, though evidently rather afraid of him at times.
Nothing passed at dinner worth mentioning; but soon after the ladies left us, Mr. Raymond turned lazily to his nephew to inquire,
"If he would mind asking Bruce to come and stay at Kerton, as he was to be in the neighborhood soon after Christmas."
He did not seem to feel the faintest interest in the reply.
"I shall be too glad, Uncle Henry," answered Guy (he did not look particularly charmed though), "if it will give you or Bella any pleasure. Need he be written to immediately?"
"Thank you very much," said Raymond, languidly. "I know he bores you, and I am sure I don't wonder at it; but one must be civil to one's son-in-law that is to be. No, you need not trouble yourself to invite him yet. Bella can do it when she writes. I suppose she does write to him sometimes."
I looked across the table at Forrester. This was the first time I had heard of Miss Raymond's engagement. He met my eye quite unconcernedly, pursuing with great interest his occupation of peeling walnuts and dropping them into Sherry. It did not often happen to him to blush twice in the twenty-four hours. Directly afterward we began to talk about pheasants and other things.
After coffee in the drawing-room Guy sat down to piquet with his uncle. Raymond liked to utilize his evenings, and never played for nominal stakes. He was the beau ideal of a card-player, certainly; no revolution or persistence of luck could ruffle the dead calm of his courteous face. He would win the money of his nearest and dearest friend, or lose his own to an utter stranger with the same placidity. To be sure, to a certain extent, he had enslaved Fortune; though he always played most loyally, and sometimes would forego an advantage he might fairly have claimed, his rare science made ultimate success scarcely doubtful. He never touched a game of mere chance.
I heard a good story of him in Paris. They were playing a game like Brag; the principle being that the players increase the stakes without seeing each other's cards, till one refuses to go on and throws up, or shows his point. Raymond was left in at last with one adversary; the stakes had mounted up to a sum that was fearful, and it was his choice to double or abattre. Of course, it was of the last importance to discover whether the antagonist was strong or not; but the Frenchman's face gave not the slightest sign. He was beau joueur s'il en fût, and had lost two fair fortunes at play. Raymond hesitated, looking steadily into his opponent's eyes. All at once he smiled and doubled instantly. The other dared not go on; he showed his point, and lost. They asked Raymond afterward how he could have detected any want of confidence to guide him in a face that looked like marble.
"I saw three drops of perspiration on his forehead," he said; "and I knew my own hand was strong."
Lady Catharine was resting on a sofa: she looked tired and paler than usual, not in the least available for conversation. Miss Raymond had nestled herself into the recesses of a huge arm-chair close to the fire—she was as fond of warmth, when she could not get sunshine, as a tropical bird—and Forrester was lounging on an ottoman behind her, so that his head almost touched her elbow. When I caught scraps of their conversation it seemed to be turning on the most ordinary subjects; but even in these I should have felt lost—I had been so long away from England—so I contented myself with watching them, and wondering why discussions as to the merits of operas and inquiries after mutual acquaintances should make the fair cheeks hang out signals of distress so often as they did that evening.
I lingered in the smoking-room about midnight for a moment after Forrester left us.
"So your cousin is really engaged?" I asked Guy.
"Tout ce qu'il y a du plus fiancé," was the answer. "It was one of the last affairs of state that my poor aunt concluded before she died. Bruce is a very good match. I don't think Bella worships him, though I have scarcely ever seen them together, and I am sure he is not a favorite with Uncle Henry; but nothing on earth would make him break it off; indeed, I know no one who would propose such a thing to him—not his daughter, certainly. There's no such hopeless obstacle as the passive resistance of a thoroughly lazy man. Good-night, Frank. I've sent the Baron on for you to-morrow. We must start about nine, mind, for we've fifteen miles to go to cover."
I went to bed, and dreamed that Raymond was playing ecarté with Forrester for his daughter, who stood by blushing beautifully—and never held a trump!
CHAPTER VII.
So the days went on. The stream of visitors usual in a country house during the hunting season flowed in and out of Kerton Manor without any remarkable specimen showing itself above the surface. One individual, perhaps, I ought to except, the curate of the parish, who was a very constant visitor.
His appearance was not fascinating: he had a long, narrow head, thatched with straight, scanty hair; little, protruding eyes, and a complexion of a bright unvarying red—in fact, he was very like a prawn.
It was soon evident that the Rev. Samuel Foster was helplessly smitten by Miss Raymond, or, as Forrester elegantly expressed it, "hard hit in the wings, and crippled for flying!" Helplessly, I say, but not hopelessly; for that wicked little creature, acting perhaps under private orders, gave him all sorts of treacherous encouragement. I never saw any human being evolve so much caloric under excitement as he did, except one young woman whom I met ages ago—(a most estimable person; her Sunday-school was a model)—whose only way of evincing any emotion, either of anger, fear, pain, or pleasure, was—a profuse perspiration. Mr. Foster not only got awfully hot, but electrical into the bargain. His thin hairs used to stand out distinctly and in relief from his head and face, just like a person on the glass tripod. Charley suggested insulating him unawares, and getting a flash out of his knuckles, if not out of his brain. In truth, it was piteous to see the struggle between passion and nervousness that raged perpetually within him. He would stand for some time casting lamb's-eyes at the object of his affections—to the amorous audacity of the full-grown sheep he never soared—then suddenly, without the slightest provocation, he would discharge at her a compliment, elaborate, long-winded, Grandisonian, as a raw recruit fires his musket, shutting his eyes, and incontinently take to flight, without waiting to see the effect of his shot. If he had spent half the time and pains on his sermons that he did on his small-talk (I believe he used to write out three or four foul copies of each sentence previously at home), what a boon it would have been to his unlucky audience on Sundays!
Why is it that the great proportion of our pastors seem to conspire together with one consent to make the periodical duty of listening to them as hard as possible? Can they imagine there is profit or pleasure in a discourse wandering wearily round in a circle, or dragging a slow length along of truisms and trivialities? In the best of congregations there can be but few alchemists; and, without that science, who is to extract the essence of Truth from the moles incongesta of crass moralities?
To persuade or dissuade you must interest the head or the heart. I admire those who can do either successfully, but I do protest against those clerical tyrants who shelter themselves behind their license to fire at us their ruthless platitudes. If such could only struggle against that strong temptation of our fallen nature—the delight of hearing one's own sweet voice—so as to concentrate now and then! The best orators, spiritual and mundane, have been brief sometimes.
I am no theologian, but I take leave to doubt if, in the elaborate divinity of fourteen epistles, the apostle of the Gentiles ever went so straight to his hearer's heart as in that farewell charge, when the elders of Ephesus gathered round him on the sea-sand, "Sorrowing most of all for the words that he spake, that they should see his face no more."
Do you remember Canning and the clergyman? When the latter asked him, "How did you like my sermon? I endeavored not to be tedious;" I always fancy the statesman's weary, wistful look, which would have been compassionate but for a sense of personal injury, as he answered, in his mild voice, "And yet—you were."
Well, the flirtation went on its way rejoicing, to the intense amusement of all of us, especially of Forrester, till one day his cousin came into Guy's study, who had just returned from hunting, looking rather frightened, like a child who has let fall a valuable piece of china—it was only an honest man's heart that she had broken. Slowly the truth came out; Mr. Foster had proposed to her that afternoon in the park.
We, far off in the drawing-room, heard the shrill whistle with which Livingstone greeted the intelligence.
"You accepted him, of course?" he said.
"O Guy!" Miss Raymond answered, blushing more than ever. (I'll back a woman against the world for expressing half a chapter by a simple interjection; Lord Burleigh's nod is nothing to it.) "But, indeed," she went on, "I'm very sorry about it; I never saw any one look so unhappy before. Do you know I think I saw the tears standing in his eyes; and I only guessed at the words when he said 'God bless you!'"
"Ah bah!" replied Guy, with his most cynical smile on his lip; "he'll recover. Who breaks his heart in these days, especially for such little dots of things as you? But, Bella mia, how do you think Mr. Bruce would approve of all these innocent amusements?"
It was no blush now, but a dead waxen whiteness, that came over the beautiful face, even down to the chin. The soft brown eyes grew fixed and wild with an imploring terror. "You won't tell him?" she gasped out; and then stood quivering and shuddering. Guy was very much surprised: he had never believed greatly in his cousin's affection for her betrothed; but here there were signs, not only of the absence of love, but of the presence of physical fear.
"My dear child," he said, very kindly, "don't alarm yourself so absurdly. I have not the honor of Mr. Bruce's confidence; and if I had, how could I tell him of an affair where I have been most to blame? I'll speak to Foster; he must not show his disappointment even before Uncle Henry. You will be quite safe, you see. But, mind, I won't allow any one to frighten or vex my pet cousin." His countenance lowered as he spoke, and there was a threat in his eyes.
As the cloud darkened on his face, the light came back on Isabel Raymond's. She took his hand—all fibre and sinew, like an oak-bough—into her slender fingers and pressed it hard. In good truth, a woman at her need could ask no better defender than he who stood by her side then, tall, strong, black-browed, and terrible as Saul. "Thank you so much, dear Guy," she whispered. "If you speak to Mr. Foster, you will tell him how very sorry I am!" and then she left him.
Guy did speak to the curate, I hope gently. At all events, we never laughed at him again. How could we, when we saw him going about his daily duties, honestly and bravely, and always, when in presence, struggling with his great sorrow, so as not by word or look to compromise the thoughtless child who had won his heart for her amusement, and thrown it away for her convenience?
I have been disciplined since by what I have felt and seen, and I see now how ungenerous we had been.
What right had we to make of that man a puppet for our amusement, because he was shy, and stupid, and slow? He was as true in his devotion, as honorable in all his wishes, as confident in his hopes till they were blasted, as any one that has gone a wooing since the first whisper of love was heard in Eden. If his despair was less crushing than that of other men, it was because his principles were stronger to endure, and perhaps because his temperament was more tranquil and cold. As I have said, he did his day's work thoroughly, and that helped him through a good deal. But, to the utmost of his nature, I believe he did suffer. And could the long train of those whom disappointment has made maniacs or suicides do more?
Let us not trust too much to the absence of feeling in these seemingly impassive organizations.
I wonder how often the executors of old college fellows, or of hard-faced bankers and bureaucrats, have been aggravated by finding in that most secret drawer, which ought to have held a codicil or a jewel, a tress, a glove, or a flower? The searcher looks at the object for a moment, and then throws it into the rubbish-basket, with a laugh if he is good-natured, with a curse if he is vicious and disappointed. Let it lie there—though the dead miser valued it above all his bank-stock, and kissed it oftener than he did his living and lawful wife and children—what is it worth now? Say, as the grim Dean of St. Patrick wrote on his love-token, "Only a woman's hair."
Now these men, unknown to their best friend perhaps, had gone through the affliction which is so common that it is hard to speak of it without launching into truisms. This sorrow has made some men famous, by forcing them out into the world and shutting the door behind them. It has made the fortunes of some poets, who choose the world for their confidant, setting their bereavement to music, and bewailing Eurydice in charming volumes, that are cheap at "3s. 6d. in cloth, lettered." It has made some—I think the best and bravest—somewhat silent for the rest of their lives. I read some lines the other day wise enough to have sprung from an older brain than Owen Meredith's.
Yes, many men have their Rachel; but—there being a prejudice against bigamy—few have even the Patriarch's luck, to marry her at last; for the wife de convenance generally outlives her younger sister; and so, one afternoon, we turn again from a grave in Ephrata-Green Cemetery, somewhat drearily, into our tent pitched in the plains of Belgravia, where Leah—(there was ever jealousy between those two)—meets us with a sharp glance of triumph in her "tender eyes."
We have known pleasanter tête-à-têtes—have we not?—than that which we undergo that evening at dinner, though our companion seems disposed to be especially lively. We have not much appetite; but our carissima sposa tells us "not to drink any more claret, or we shall never be fit to take her to Lady Shechem's conversazione." Of all nights in the year, would she let us off duty on this one? "There are to be some very pleasant people there," she says, "though none, perhaps, that you particularly care about." (Thank you, my love; I understand that good-natured allusion perfectly, and am proportionately grateful.) Her voice sounds shriller than usual as she says this, and leaves us to put some last touches to her toilette. So we order a fresh bottle, notwithstanding the warning, and fall to thinking. How low and soft that other voice was, and, even when a little reproachful, how rarely sweet! She would scarcely have invented that last taunt if matters had turned out differently. Then we think of our respected father-in-law, Sir Joseph Leyburn, of Harran Park—a mighty county magistrate and cattle-breeder. He got Ishmael Deadeye, the poacher, transported last year, and took the prize for Devons at the Great Mesopotamian Agricultural with a brindled bull. We remember his weeping at the wedding-breakfast over the loss of his eldest treasure, and wonder if he was an arrant humbug, or only a foolish, fond old man, inclining morosely toward the former opinion. We don't seem to care much about Sir Roland de Vaux, the celebrated geologist, whom we shall have the privilege of meeting this evening. What are strata to us, when our thoughts will not go lower than about eight feet underground? We shall be rather bored than otherwise by Dr. Sternhold, that eminent Christian divine, who passes his leisure hours in proving St. Paul to have been an unsound theologian and a weak dialectician. Why should Mr. Planet, the intrepid traveler, be always inflicting Jerusalem upon us, as if no one had ever visited the Holy Land before him? Our ancestors did so five hundred years ago, and did not make half the fuss about it; and they had a skirmish or two there worth speaking of, while we don't believe a word of Planet's encounter with those three Arabs on the Hebron road. Pooh! there's no more peril in traversing the Wilderness of Cades than in going up to the Grands Mulets. We are not worthy of those distinguished men, and would prefer the society of hard-riding Dick Foley of the Blues. He had a few feelings in common with us once on a certain point (how we hated him then), and he won't wonder if we are duller than usual this evening. Perhaps his own nerve will scarcely be as iron as usual in the Grand Military, to come off in the course of the week.
Well, the bottle is out, and Mademoiselle Zelpa comes to say that "Madame is ze raidèe." So one glass of Cognac neat, as a chasse (to more things than good Claret), and then—let us put on our whitest tie and our most attractive smile, and "go forth, for she is gone."
CHAPTER VIII.
We were asked to dine and sleep at Brainswick, where the hounds met on the following morning. Mr. Raymond could not make up his mind to the exertion, so Forrester and I accompanied Guy alone.
"By-the-by," the latter observed, as we were driving over in his mail-phaeton, "I wonder if we shall see the Bellasys to-night? I know they were to come down about this time. Steady, old wench! where are you off to?" (This was to the near wheeler, who was breaking her trot.) "I think you'll admire her, Frank; but, gare à vous, she's dangerous. Eh, Charley?"
"Well, you ought to know," answered Forrester; "I never tried her much myself. She's two or three stone over my weight. I wonder what she has been doing lately? They sent her down to rusticate somewhere at the end of the season. She ought to be in great condition now, with a summer's run."
Livingstone smiled, complacently I thought, as if some one had praised one of his favorite hunters, but did not pursue the subject.
When I came down before dinner he was talking to a lady in dark blue silk, with black lace over it, a wreath curiously plaited of natural ivy in her hair. I guessed her at once to be Flora Bellasys.
Let me try to paint—though abler artists have failed—the handsomest brunette I have ever seen.
She was very tall; her figure magnificently developed, though slender-waisted and lithe as a serpent. She walked as if she had been bred in a basquiña, and her foot and ankle were hardly to be matched on this side of the Pyrenees; the nose slightly aquiline, with thin, transparent nostrils; and the forehead rather low—it looked more so, perhaps, from the thick masses of dark hair which framed and shaded her face. Under the clear, pale olive of the cheeks the rich blood mantled now and then like wine in a Venice glass; and her lips—the outline of the upper one just defined by a penciling of down, the lower one full and pouting—glistened with the brilliant smoothness of a pomegranate flower when the dew is clinging. Her eyes—the opium-eaters of Stamboul never dreamed of their peers among the bevies of hachis-houris. They were of the very darkest hazel; one moment sleeping lazily under their long lashes, like a river under leaves of water-lilies; the next, sparkling like the same stream when the sunlight is splintered on its ripples into carcanets of diamonds. When they chose to speak, not all the orators that have rounded periods since Isocrates could match their eloquence; when it was their will to guard a secret, they met you with the cold, impenetrable gaze that we attribute to the mighty mother, Cybèle. Even a philosopher might have been interested—on purely psychological grounds, of course—in watching the thoughts as they rose one by one to the surface of those deep, clear wells (was truth at the bottom of them?—I doubt), like the strange shapes of beauty that reveal themselves to seamen, coyly and slowly, through the purple calm of the Indian Sea.
Twice I have chosen a watery simile; but I know no other element combining, as her glances did, liquid softness with lustre.
When near her, you were sensible of a strange, subtle, intoxicating perfume, very fragrant, perfectly indefinable, which clung, not only to her dress, but to every thing belonging to her. From what flowers it was distilled no artist in essences alive could have told. I incline to think that, like the "birk" in the ghost's garland,
Guy took Miss Bellasys in to dinner, and I found myself placed on her other side. I had been introduced to her ten minutes before, but had little opportunity for "improving the occasion," as the Nonconformists have it, for she never once deigned a look in my direction.
My right-hand neighbor was an elderly man of a full habit, whom it would have been cruel to disturb till the rage of hunger was appeased, so I was fain to seek amusement in the conversation going on on my left. There was no indiscretion in this, for I knew Guy would never touch secrets of state in mixed company.
For some time they talked nothing but commonplaces, evidently feeling each other's foils. The real fencing began with a question from Flora—if he was not surprised at seeing her there that evening.
"Not at all," was the reply; "I knew we must meet before long. It is only parallels that don't; and there is very little of the right line about either you or me."
"Speak for yourself," Miss Bellasys said; "I consider that a very rude observation."
"Pardon me," retorted Guy; "I seldom say rude things—never intentionally. I don't know which is in worst taste, that, or paying point-blank compliments. Without being mathematical, you may have heard that the line of beauty is a curve."
Flora laughed.
"It is difficult to catch you. What have you been doing since we parted?"
"That is just the question that was on my lips, so nearly uttered that I consider I spoke first. Now, will you confess, or must I cross-question some one else? I will know. It is easy to follow you, like an invading army, by the trail of devastation."
"So you do care to know?" the soft voice said, that could make the nerves of even an indifferent hearer thrill and quiver strangely.
After once listening to it, it was very easy to believe the weird stories of Norse sorceresses, and German wood-spirits and pixies, luring men to death with their fatally musical tones.
"Simple curiosity," Guy replied, coolly, "and a little compassion for your victims. They might be friends of mine, you know."
Miss Bellasys bit her lip, half provoked, half amused, apparently, as she answered, "The dead tell no tales."
"No, but the wounded do, and they cry out pretty loudly sometimes. I suppose all the cases did not terminate fatally. Will you confess?"
"I have nothing to tell you," Flora said, very demurely and meekly, only for once her eyes betrayed her. "Mamma took me down into Devonshire, where we have an aunt or two, for sea-breezes and seclusion. I rather liked at first having nothing on earth to do, and nothing—yes, I understand—really nothing to think about. I used to sleep a great deal, and then drive a little obstinate pony, to see views. But I don't care much about views—do you? Then mamma was always wanting me to help her look for shells and wild-flowers; and the rocks hurt my feet, and the bushes never would leave me alone in the woods." She shuddered slightly here.
"The Bushes! a Devonshire family of that name, I presume?" Guy interrupted, with intense gravity. "How wrong of them! They are very ill-regulated young men down in those parts, I believe."
"Don't be absurd; I never saw a creature for months between fifteen and fifty. Are not those ages safe?" (A shake of the head from Livingstone.) "I began to be very unhappy; I had no one to tease; my aunts are too good-natured, and mamma is used to it. At last I had the greatest mind to do something desperate—to write to you, for instance—merely to see the household's horror when your answer came. You would have answered, would you not? I should not have opened it, you know, but given it to mamma, like a good child."
"Of course; I know you show all your letters to your mother. But that ruralizing must have been fearful for you, poverina! People were talking a good deal of agricultural distress, but this is the most piteous case I've heard of. So there were really no men to govern in that wood?"
"Not even a little boy," said Flora, decisively. "There were two or three from Oxford in the neighborhood; I used to see them sitting outside their lodgings in the sun, like rabbits, but they always ran in before—"
"Before you could get a shot at them, you mean?" broke in Guy; "you ought to have crept up, and stalked them cleverly."
Flora threw hack her handsome head. "I don't war with children. It went on just as I tell you till we left for our round of winter visits, which have been very stupid and correct—till now."
I hardly caught the two last words, she spoke them so low. There was silence for several minutes, and then Guy leaned back to address me.
"Do you remember Arthur Darrell, of Christchurch, Frank, the man that used to speak at the Union, and was always raving about ebon locks and dark eyes?"
"I remember him well. I have not seen him for years; but I heard he was getting on well in the law."
"He'll have time to get tired of brunettes—if any one ever does get tired of them—before he comes back," said Guy. "He's just gone out to try the Indian bar."
"What could have put such an idea into his head?" I asked, very innocently.
"I can't say," was the reply; "men do take such curious fancies. It was a sudden determination, I believe. The beauties of the Eastern hemisphere began to develop themselves to his weak mind last summer while he was down with his people in—Devonshire."
Involuntarily I looked at Miss Bellasys. She saw she was detected; but, instead of betraying any embarrassment, she turned upon Guy a queer little imploring look, not indicative in the least of shame or repentance, but such as might be put on by one of those truly excellent people who do good by stealth and blush to find it known, when some of their benevolent acts have come to light, and they wish to deprecate praise.
Livingstone gazed piercingly at her for several instants without moving a muscle of his face; suddenly its fixed and stern expression—you could not say softened, but—broke up all at once like a sheet of ice shivering.
"Let there be peace," he said, sententiously. "We forgive all the errors of your long vacation in consideration of the good it has evidently done you. You are looking brilliantly!"
There was an unusual softness, almost a tremor, in his deep voice as he spoke the last words, and a look in his bold eyes that many trained coquettes would have shrunk from—a look that I should be sorry and angry to see turned on any woman in whom I felt an interest—a look such as Selim Pasha might wear as the Arnauts defile into his harem-court, bringing the fair Georgians home.
Flora Bellasys only smiled in saucy triumph.
"You say you never pay compliments," she answered, "and I always try to believe you. We will suppose this one is only the truth extorted. My glove—thank you." The same smile was on her lip as she turned her head once in her haughty progress to the door.
As Guy sat down again, and filled a huge glass with claret, I heard him mutter between his teeth, "Royale, quand même!"
"Close up, gentlemen, close up!" broke in the cheery voice of our rare old host. "Livingstone, if you begin back-handing already, you'll never be able to hold that great raking chestnut I saw your groom leading this evening. The man looked as if he thought he would be eaten before he got in."
"Whatever you do, drink fair," Guy answered, laughing; "so saith the immortal Gamp. The squire's beginning to tremble for his '22 wine."
"I don't wonder," said Godfrey Parndon, the M.F.H. "I've always observed that, after flirting disgracefully at dinner, you drink harder afterward. It's to drown remorse, I suppose. So you ride that new horse of yours to-morrow? My poor hounds!"
"Don't be alarmed," cried Guy; "he never kicks hounds, and I won't let him go over them; it's only human strangers the amiable animal can't endure: that's why I call him the Axeine. He is worth more than the £300 I gave for him."
"Well, he nearly spoiled two grooms for Hounscott," Parndon said. "The stablemen at Revesby had a great beer the day they got rid of him."
"He wouldn't suit every one," remarked Livingstone—"not you, for instance, Godfrey, who always ride with a loose rein. I was obliged to give him his gallops myself at first; he's a devil to pull, and if he once gets away with you, you may 'write to your friends.' But I've nothing like him in my stable."
Then the conversation became general, revolving in a circle of hound-and-horse talk, as it will do now and then in the shires.
"Guy," whispered Forrester, as we went up stairs, "there's a little woman here who says she used to know you very well: won't you go and talk to her?"
"Many little women say that," answered Guy; "it's a way they have. Which is it, now?"
Charley pointed out a small, plump, rather pretty blonde, with long ringlets, and light, laughing blue eyes. It seemed the lady's reminiscences were well founded, for in five minutes Livingstone and she were talking like old friends.
In the course of the evening I found myself near Miss Bellasys. This time she did me the honor to address me, and soon began asking me more questions than I could answer, even had she waited a reply. Did I like Kerton Manor? Had there been many agreeable people there yet? Not any remarkably so! She was surprised at that. Miss Raymond was there en permanence, of course? She was such a favorite with her (Flora), and with her cousin too, she thought. Was Mr. Livingstone always playing with his uncle, and always losing? She supposed he liked losing—at play. Did I know the lady in pink, with twenty-five flowers in her hair? She had counted them. Yes, that was her husband, the stout man looking uncomfortable, in the corner—an old friend of Mr. Livingstone's? He had so many old friends; but he did not always talk to them for a whole evening without intermission. Ah! she was going to sing; that is, if Mr. Livingstone had quite finished with her, and would let her go. Little women with pink cheeks and dresses always did sing, and never had any voice.
I don't know how many more questions she put to me in the same quiet, clear tones; but just then I happened to look down on the handkerchief she held in her hand, and I saw a long rent in its broad Valenciennes border that I am very sure was not there an hour ago; for Flora's toilette, morning and evening, was faultless to a degree.
I had hardly time to remark this when Guy lounged up to us. My companion's dark eyes were more eloquent than her lips, which quivered slightly as she said,
"I wonder you have not more consideration. A new arrival in the county, and compromised irretrievably! Look at Mr. Stafford now."
"The husband?" Guy said, with intense disdain; "the husband's helpless. He may sharpen his—tusks, but he'll never come to battle. How good and great you are! It is quite refreshing to hear your strictures on innocent amusements. But I beg you will speak of that lady with due respect; she is the first—yes, positively the first—woman I ever loved."
"Monseigneur, que d'honneur!" Flora said, curling her haughty lip.
"It is true," Guy went on. "At a children's ball, about fifteen years ago, I met my fate. She was in white muslin, with a velvet bodice (Flora shuddered visibly); for a year after I pictured to myself the angels in no other attire, and now—years vitiate one's tastes so—I can fancy nothing but a jockey in 'black body and white sleeves.' I suppose she was very pretty; let us hope so; it is my only excuse for being enchanted in ten minutes, and stupidly enslaved in half an hour. The thing would not have been complete without a rival; he came—a plump, circular-faced boy, with severely flaxen hair. No, you need not look across the room—not the least like what she is now! Great jealousy may make me unjust, but I don't think he had any advantage over me save one, and he used that mercilessly. He wore collars boldly erect under his fat checks, while those of the rest of us lay prostrate, after the simple fashion of my childhood. The prestige was too much for Ellen's weak mind. (Did I tell you her name was Ellen?) Bottom monopolized Titania for the rest of the evening. I could have beaten him with ease and satisfaction to myself, but I refrained; and, rushing into the supper-room, drained three glasses of weak negus with the energy of despair.
"I have never suffered any thing since like the torment of the next two hours. I saw her several times afterward, and might have made play, perhaps, but the phantom of a round red face, with collars starched à l'outrance, always came between us. It is only a slight satisfaction to hear that she has utterly lost sight of my rival, and promises to cut him dead the first time they meet. There's the history of a young heart blighted—of a crushed affection! I am not aware if there is any moral in it; if there is, you are very welcome to it, I am sure. You might look a little more sympathizing, though, even if I have bored you."
Flora tried to look grave, but the dancing light in her rebellious eyes betrayed her, even before her merry musical laugh broke in.
"It is far the most touching thing I ever heard. Poor child, how you must have suffered! I wonder you ever smiled again. How well she sings, does she not? when she does not try to go too high."
"Don't be severe," Guy retorted; "you may have to sing yourself some day. You prefer talking, though? Well, with a well-managed contralto, it comes nearly to the same thing, and I suppose you consider the world in general is not worthy of it?"
Almost imperceptibly, but very meaningly, her glance turned to where I sat close beside her.
"How absurd! you know why I don't sing often. To-night it would be—too cruel. (Flora's idea of modest merit was peculiar.) Now tell me, what are you going to ride to-morrow? We shall all go and see them throw off."
Without answering her question, he leaned over her, and said something too low for me to hear, which made her color brighten.
From a distant corner two ancient virgins, long past "mark of mouth," surveyed the proceedings with faces like moulds of lemon-ice. Flora glanced toward them this time, and said demurely, making a gesture of crossing her arms a à la Napoléon I., "Take care; from the summit of yonder sofa forty ages behold you."
The caution was a challenge; and so her hearer interpreted it as he sank down beside her.
I seemed to be lapsing rapidly into the terrible third that spoils sport, so I left them; but not all the adjurations of Godfrey Parndon invoking his favorite antagonist to the whist-table could draw Guy from his post again that evening.
I know men who would have given five years of life for the whisper that glided into his ear as he gave Miss Bellasys her candle on retiring, ten for the Parthian glance that shot its arrow home.