Contraband Part 11

'These arts are mine, to wield the steel, To curb the warlike horse; To swim the lake, or skate on heel, To urge my rapid course; To draw the bow, to fling the spear, To brush with oar the main: All these are mine, and shall I bear A Danish maid's disclaim?'

I wonder, for my part, that the Danish maid could resist him."

"Oh, I don't!" answered Frank. "Danish maids are pretty tough, I should think; spotted too, probably, like Danish dogs. Who did you say the fellow was, and what did he brush?"

"I said he was a soldier," replied Miss Ross demurely. "Most likely a mounted volunteer."

"And who was the lady?--the Danish maid, I mean."

"I don't know--I wish _I_ was!" she answered, with a sigh.

Frank pondered, resting on his oars. It was not this young officer's habit to puzzle his wits unnecessarily in the solution of intricate problems, and whatever genius he possessed was in no way akin to that of a mathematician, who takes pleasure in the actual process by which results are worked out. To ride a comrade's horse "truly through" in a steeple-chase, to make the most of his own in a run, to lead his squadron straight, and as fast as his colonel would permit, to have his troop at the highest possible pitch of efficiency, befriending the men, pacifying their wives, and keeping an especial eye on buckles, to drive the regimental coach without "putting it over," and never to turn his back on a friend, comprised the simple articles of his creed; nor, until he met Helen Hallaton at her father's house, had it ever entered his head there could be an interest in life more engrossing than regimental duty and field-sports. But he was learning to _think_ now, and, like all beginners, found himself somewhat at sea in the process.

What was this strange, subtle intoxication of the brain, rather than the heart, which stole over him so gently, while he looked in that pale, eager, restless face, not a yard off, over the stretcher yonder, turned so wistfully towards his own, while he caught the tones of that low, pleading voice, blending so musically with the jerk of his oars, the leap and gurgle of the stream beneath his prow? Was this the enchantment he had a vague recollection of as practised by the Syrens in his school-books, by the Mermaidens of nursery lore, by the Ondines and Lurlines, the Wilis and Walpurgis of the stage? Must he learn so soon, while yet in the flush of youth and hope, that the coquette is immortal as the vampire, equally thirsty, tenacious, and insatiable? Was this the same mysterious influence exercised on him by Miss Hallaton? or was it not rather a dazzling and illusive imitation, resembling truth as the scenery of a theatre resembles Nature's landscapes; its tinsel and glitter, the splendour of real gems and gold? Well, it was no use troubling one's head about these matters. If you once begin a.n.a.lysing, what becomes of everything we call pleasure? Who would drink wine if he knew how it was made, or, indeed, a gla.s.s of pure water, if he reflected on the mingled gases and impurities of which that innocent element is composed?

Sculling on towards the lock, Frank Vanguard was content to leave his own questions unanswered, and abandon himself to the claims of his companion and the fascination of the hour.

With her it was different. Young in years, Miss Ross was yet an old stager in that broad road between the roses, along which it is all down hill. She had travelled it many a time, usually at her own pace, and, so to speak, with horses perfectly well broke. She knew, none better, each smiling nook, each romantic peep of the country on either side,--this awkward turn, that comfortable resting-place, when to put the drag on with judicious caution, where to make the most of her ground at a gallop. She liked to feel her blood stir to the old familiar pastime once more, liked it none the worse that the team was getting out of her hand, the pace no longer at her own control.

All the while it was no more the real Frank Vanguard who excited these welcome sensations in her ill-regulated mind than it was Uncle Joseph, or young Goldthred, or Punch! Men and women, we are but children in our dearest dreams, and Jin was no wiser than the rest of us. She had dressed her doll in the gaudy habiliments that suited her own taste, and persuaded herself the creation of her fancy was a tangible and existing truth.

Frank Vanguard seemed at present her ideal of the robust Scandinavian, polished up a little and modernised, of course. It would be a duty, she considered, to sacrifice him in accordance with her principles of manslaughter. It would be a pleasure to watch the tortures of her victim at the stake. Perhaps, after all, she would grant him a milder punishment than the rest. She wondered more than ever at the northern girl's insensibility to her stalwart admirer.

"No," she murmured, after a pause, during which Frank had set the boat going once more; "I don't think I should have snubbed him long, if I had been the Danish maid."

"I believe you _are_ the Danish maid!" said he. "You're not _quite_ English, I'm sure, though I can't tell how I know. You're not Scotch, for you don't speak the language. Welsh? No. You're scarcely my idea of a Welsh woman; at least, judging by those I've seen with wooden collars and milkpails in London."

"Guess again."

"Irish; that's it. 'Kathleen Mavourneen,' 'Arrah na Pogue,' 'Norah Creina,' and 'The Shan Van Voght!'"

"You might have added, 'Teddy, you Gander,'" she replied, laughing. "No; what should make you think I'm Irish? I never was in Ireland in my life?

I don't mind telling _you_ I'm more a French woman than anything else.

In honest truth, I've no country, no relations, no belongings, no friends," and she carolled out in her rich clear voice--

"I care for n.o.body, no, not I, And n.o.body cares for me."

"That's impossible!" exclaimed Frank, pushing the boat out of certain shallows into which he had inadvertently guided it, with the blade of his oar, and looking over his shoulder to see how far the lock was ahead. "That's simply impossible!" he repeated, as they shot back into deep water, where, nevertheless, the stream ran very swift and strong.

"I should say a great many people did. More than you think, I am sure.

Steady! Miss Ross. Let him alone, please! He'll swamp us in two seconds, if he tries to come on board. Ah! I thought how it would be; and, of course, she can't swim!"

The last sentence Frank sputtered out with a mouthful of Thames water, shaking his head the while, to clear his eyes, as he came to the surface from an immersion, sudden as involuntary, consequent on the indiscreet proceedings of his pa.s.senger. Since the adventure of Leda down to our own times, when Landseer has consigned him to an immortality of suffering in the eagle's clutch, it appears that the swan has been a consistent admirer of beauty, both in and out of his proper element. He drew the car of Venus, he piloted the galley of Cleopatra, he spied Miss Ross glittering like a jewel on the bosom of Father Thames. Exasperated, as it would seem, by Vanguard's good fortune, he made rapidly for the boat containing this treasure, wreathing his neck, ruffling his wings in angry curves, and tearing up the water like a river steamboat. Miss Ross laughed merrily, and splashed the enemy with considerable energy. The swan advanced, the lady leaned over, Frank backed water hard with one scull, a heavy lurch, a little scream, a sway, a surge, and the rushing stream rose over the boat's side from stem to stern, while a wisp of muslins, a gaudy hat, and a tangle of black hair, were already splashing, struggling, sinking, a dozen yards farther down the river in the direction of London and the Nore. Frank was a good swimmer, Miss Ross possessed courage and presence of mind. The shallows were close, and a punt was already putting out from the neighbouring lock, where the man in charge had a view of the accident, nevertheless it was not without the exertion of considerable strength and skill, without great personal risk, a very sufficient wetting, and the swallowing of at least a quart of dirty water, that Vanguard succeeded in placing the lady on her feet in the shallows before mentioned, thanking Heaven fervently in his heart that they were not five strokes farther off, and that he had been enabled to reach them with his burden by aid of a strong stream running in his favour. Draggled, limp, exhausted, dripping from top to toe, Miss Ross clung tight to her preserver, with the more reason that although the stream here scarcely reached her knees, it ran so hard she found some difficulty in keeping her feet. She behaved, thought Frank, very pluckily and well. No nonsense, no hysterics, no theatrical grat.i.tude of gasps and groans. She held one of his hands, indeed, very tight, and her face was paler than ever, but she only said:

"How stupid of me to upset the boat! What a ducking we've both had, Captain Vanguard! You'll never take me on the water again."

"_Won't_ I?" thought Frank, helping her into the punt which had now come to the rescue, and wondering at the ma.s.ses of black hair, released and straightened by immersion, that hung round her in such unusual length and volume.

Like most bachelors, Frank entertained exaggerated notions as to feminine delicacy, both of mind and body. In the present instance, he was satisfied that unless Miss Ross could be enveloped in blankets, dosed with hot brandy-and-water, and taken home on the instant, death must inevitably ensue. a.s.sisted by the lock's-man and his wife, who, without partaking of his fears, joined heartily in his exertions, he had Miss Ross swathed up like a mummy in less than ten minutes; and, by her own desire, helped her to walk the short distance between the lock and The Lilies at as good a pace, and, indeed, almost with the same results, as if they had been waltzing. Frank found so much to think of, that it was not till he reached the gate he remembered his own dishevelled plight, and the unusual costume, or rather want of it, in which he meditated a morning call. Reflecting that his straw hat was gone, that he was bare to the shoulders, that his dress consisted only of a light jersey, flannel trowsers, and canvas shoes, the whole of which, after being thoroughly saturated, had dried on a dusty road, he was perhaps hardly disappointed to learn that the ladies were at the races, and n.o.body had stayed at home except Mrs. Lascelles's maid.

"Then I'll wish you good-bye, Miss Ross," said Frank. "I can't do anything more for you now. Only mind you go to bed till dinner-time, and I hope you haven't caught cold."

"Won't you come in?" asked Miss Ross. "They'll give you some sherry, or brandy, or whatever you ought to have. I'm sure you must want it."

"Never felt so well in my life!" he answered gaily. "Besides, I must go back to recover my floating capital: jacket, hat, boat, stretcher, and pair of sculls, not to mention your pretty parasol. They were all swimming different ways when I saw them last, but I dare say they'll get together again on this side of Staines. We landed the cargo, which was the great thing, but I wish we could have managed to keep it dry."

He was turning away, with a light laugh, when she called him back. "I've never thanked you," said she, "but I know you risked your own life to-day to save mine. If you had lost it--I--I should like to have gone down too!"

He started. There was a tremble in her voice that seemed very strange to him, nor was the sensation without its charm; but he had not yet contemplated the subject from this romantic point of view, so he could think of no better answer than to put out his hand.

She caught it eagerly, and for one half-second pressed it against her heart, while she murmured:

"Good-bye, Captain Vanguard, good-bye; when shall I see you again?"

The dark, pleading eyes were turned on him so kindly, the pale, bewitching face was drawing so near his own--close, closer yet, as he bent towards it--and so their lips met in one long, clinging, and totally unjustifiable kiss. Then Miss Ross, blushing to her ears, scudded up-stairs like a lap-wing, while Frank walked dreamily away from the front door, feeling as if he had behaved very badly about something or somebody, and couldn't bring his mind to regret it as he ought.

CHAPTER XI.

MANOEUVRING.

We must return to Uncle Joseph, endeavouring to compose his mind by riding Punch at an uncomfortable jog-trot along a succession of shady lanes calculated to bring him back by a roundabout way to his own dwelling-place. This _detour_, much against the pony's inclination--for that sagacious animal protested at every homeward turn--he took advisedly and with deliberation, that he might have time to ponder on his position and his wrongs. Like most men who have pa.s.sed middle age, he set a great value on the blessing of health, and prudently reflected that a towering pa.s.sion, an obstinate cob, and a broiling sun, formed a combination likely to produce one of those bilious attacks which lay the sufferer on his back for a week, and make him as yellow as a guinea for a fortnight. Therefore he thought it wise to cool down in solitude, and consider his own case dispa.s.sionately, before deciding on a future line of conduct. Had he been a young man he would have broken with Jin on the spot. Storms of invective, reproach, and recrimination, would have ensued, to be succeeded by thorough reconciliation and a subsequent state of slavery more degrading than the first, after much unnecessary wear and tear of body and mind. But Uncle Joseph had arrived at a period of life when, highly as we prize our hearts, we set also a sufficient value on our livers, and see no reason why lacerated affections should be aggravated by an impaired digestion. There is much knowledge of human nature comprised in Sir John Suckling's shrewd and suggestive stanza:

"Why so pale and wan, fond lover, Prithee, why so pale?

Will, if looking well can't move her, Looking ill prevail?"

That is doubtless the least decisive defeat which is most skilfully concealed, and one of the first principles in manoeuvring is to "show a front," the steadier the better, however severe may be the loss under which you are compelled to retire.

By the time Uncle Joseph had ridden a mile (and at Punch's pace, when turned away from home, this distance afforded some leisure for reflection) he made up his mind not to put himself in a pa.s.sion. Ere he had gone two, and settled another difference with the pony by diverse jobs in the mouth and kicks in the stomach, he sought and found many excuses for the young lady's conduct, and almost decided not to quarrel with her at all.

If less agile and less ardent, these mature lovers are, at any rate, more patient, more considerate, more forbearing, than their impetuous juniors. They take thought, they give time, they make allowances, they have learned one of life's most important lessons, only set forth towards the end of the chapter, "Not to expect too much." Could they but keep the smooth skin, the jaunty step, the trim waist, the clear eye, the glossy locks, the buoyancy, the sparkle, and the bloom! Alas! alas!

turn it how we will, there is no disputing that the one quality of youth outweighs all advantages of experience, wisdom, fame, intellect; and that the figure 50, so acceptable in a _rouleau_--

"Sounds ill in love, whate'er it may in money."

While he thus rode along the shady lanes, Uncle Joseph's cogitations, interrupted only by the carelessness and other short-comings of Punch, jumbled themselves together into something like the following soliloquy:

"Comes down to breakfast as sulky as a bear; 'low spirits' the women call it, and 'over-fatigue,' but I know what that means--restless manner, wandering eye, and not half an appet.i.te. Scarcely truffles enough, by the way, in that pie; mustn't forget to write about it. (Hold up, you brute. Such another as _that_ and you'll be on the top of your stupid head!) Then off she goes in a desperate fidget to write letters up-stairs. Up-stairs indeed! I ought to have known at once there was something wrong, for I never remember her in a fidget before; and as for letters, I should suppose she was the worst correspondent in Europe!

Then, after everybody's back is turned, off like a shot through the hay-fields, under a tropical sun, and down to the river. Some sense in that if she'd jumped in for a cold bath. I shouldn't have pulled her out; yes, I should! The girl's a dear girl, and a pretty one. It mayn't be so bad after all. She could _not_ have looked at me as she did last night, when she pinned the pinks in my b.u.t.ton-hole, unless she liked me.

Why does my tailor never put a loop in? Does he think I'm so old n.o.body gives me flowers, or is he a deep dog, who reflects I ought to have the pull of their being pinned in? She shall never pin one in again for _me_ though, unless she can give an account of to-day's doings! What was she about in that cottage, I should like to know, exposing herself to infection of all kinds, and why did she stay so long? Then, who ever heard of a young lady rushing down to the water-side, and jumping into the first boat that pa.s.ses (I wonder she didn't upset it, and I almost wish she had!), with a half-naked man she never saw before in her life?

Who _was_ the man, I wonder? I could only make out that he had very few clothes on! Miss Ross! Miss Ross! you are not treating me well! Perhaps you think I'm an indulgent old fool, and only too pleased to let you do as you like. So I would, my pretty Jin, so I would, if I had your perfect confidence, and felt I could depend upon you. I'm not the least a jealous fellow, I know, though of course I don't want you to make up to anybody else; but I shouldn't mind your pretty little coaxing manner, and your flirting ways. In fact, I rather like them. No, I don't, not a bit, so it's no use saying so. But I could be very good to her if she cared for me. Perhaps she doesn't, after all. And yet that seems unlikely. Julia Bright did, and Jemima Fetters, and I think Miss Flouncer _would_ have, if I'd been more in her set. Can I be so much altered since then?" And thus Uncle Joseph, with his reins on the pony's neck, dropping gradually into a walk, pursued a train of varied thoughts, retrospective and otherwise, comprising diverse incongruous subjects--his shares, his dinner, his present hopes, the state of his health, the increasing proportions of his figure, Punch's failings, Jin's perfidy, the columns of his banker's book, wine, tradespeople, double-entry, boyhood's pastimes, manhood's gains, his last investment, and his first romance.

The afternoon began to wane ere Punch's willing head was in the manger, and Uncle Joseph rang the bell at his own hall-door. The race-goers having returned early, because this, the last day, afforded but a meagre bill of fare for sport, were yet so worn out with the heat that they had retired to their respective dressing-rooms. Was Miss Ross back? Well, sir, Miss Ross came home some time ago, but she seemed to have met with--with something of an accident. No occasion to be alarmed, said the butler, but miss was wet through, however--not a dry st.i.tch on her, the maid told him--and went to her own room at once. Could his master see her? The well-drilled servant thought not. Miss Ross had given orders she was on no account to be disturbed till dinner; and he, the butler, rather opined she had gone to bed: adding, with a sense of what was due to his own importance, that, "for his part, he was thankful it wasn't no worse!"

But Miss Ross had not the least intention of going to bed, nor could she have slept a wink on the softest couch that ever was spread. Busy thoughts were teeming in her brain, strange contradictory feelings thrilling at her heart. She was half pleased with herself, half angry, sometimes absolutely revelling in the recollections of the day, sometimes wishing she had never gone to the cottage at all. In her dark eyes shone a light that told of some new fire kindled within; on her delicate cheek, usually so pale, burned that blush of pleasure which is all the dearer and deeper for being tinged by self-reproach and shame.