Sword and Gown Part 10

There is a regret that has power to move and torment the coldest Stoic that vegetates on earth; it comes when our own hand or act has slain the one living thing that loved us best of all. We may have done the deed unwittingly or unwillingly; we may have been unconscious of the love that was borne us till it was too late for acknowledgment; we may never in thought or word or act have injured our victim before that last wrong of the death-blow; well for those who can plead so fair an excuse; yet even this, with all the rest, the inexorable Nemesis laughs to scorn. I wonder that poets and dramatists have not oftener selected this saddest theme. It may be true that the last murmur from the lips of the Llewellyn, when his life was ebbing away in the Pa.s.s of the Ambush, syllabled the name, not of wife or child or friend, but of a stanch wolfhound; and perhaps tears less bitter have been shed over the graves of many exemplary Christians than those that sprinkled the turf under the birch-trees where Gelert was sleeping. It could not free the Ancient Mariner from the remorse that clung to him like a poisoned garment till it made him a "world's wonder," because, when he shot the albatross, he thought he was benefiting his fellows. Not less accusingly did the voices of the sea wail in the ears of the desolate Viking, because, when the bitter arrow went aside, he was fighting hard to save Oriana.

Nothing could be more correct than the conduct of Virginius, or more creditable to a Roman father; but when he harangued in the Forum in after days, I doubt if the commons thronged so densely as to shut out from the demagogue a vision of fair hair dabbled in blood, gleaming awfully in the sunlight, and of dark-blue eyes turned upon him in a wondering horror till that look froze in them forevermore. I doubt if the cheers of his partisans were so noisy as to drown the memory of a certain choked shivering moan; in the long, lonely winter nights at least, be sure those sights and sounds visited the tribune's hearth, often enough to satisfy the savage spirit of the doomed decemvir.

It was this remorse which had stricken Royston Keene sorely, even through his armor of proof, as he knelt, not very long ago, by the side of a death-bed. A woman lay there, scarcely past girlhood, and fair enough to have been the pride of any English household, as daughter or sister or wife. You shall not read unnecessarily an episode of sin and bitter sorrow, and of shame that was not less heavy to bear because the eyes of the world were blinded and saw it not. It is enough to say that the blood of Emily Carlyle was as certainly on her tempter's head as that of any one of those whom he had slain in open fight with shot or steel. This is what she answered when he asked her to forgive him: "My own, I have forgiven you long ago! I could not help it if I would. I can not reproach you either, for though I have tried hard to repent, I fear, if all were to come over again, I should not act more coldly or wisely.

But listen! I know you will be able, if you choose it, to make others love you nearly as well as I have done--and you _will_ choose it.

Darling, promise me that, for my sake, you will spare _one_. I could die easier if I thought my intercession had saved another's soul, though I was so weak in guarding my own. It might help me too, perhaps--if any thing can help me--where I am going." Even Royston Keene shivered at the low terror-stricken whisper in which these last words were spoken. He gave the promise though, and remembered it occasionally till--the time for keeping it came.

The major had been spending the evening with Cecil Tresilyan, making arrangements for a pic-nic that was to take place two days later. He had had a pa.s.sage-of-arms or two with Mrs. Danvers, wherein that strong-principled but weak-minded enthusiast had been utterly discomfited and routed with great slaughter. Altogether it was very pleasant entertainment; and he went to his rest in a state of great contentment and satisfaction. He woke (or seemed to wake) with a sudden start and shudder, for he was aware of the presence of something in the room that was not there when he lay down.

Out of the black darkness a face slowly defined itself, bending over the pillow and creeping close to his own--only a face--he could not distinguish even the outline of a figure. He knew it very well, and the eyes, too--but there was an upbraiding there that, while she lived, he had never seen in those of gentle Emily Carlyle; and a reproach came from the white lips, though they did not move to give it pa.s.sage. "All forgotten! I--the promise, too. And yet--I suffer--I suffer always." The sad, pleading expression of the face and eyes vanished then; and a strange, pale glare, not like the moonlight, that seemed to come from within, lighted them up--fixed and rigid, yet eloquent, of unutterable agony: there was written plainly the self-abhorrence of a heart conscious of the coils of the undying worm--the despair of a soul looking far into Futurity, yet seeing no end to the wrath to come. Then the darkness swallowed up all; and, before Keene thoroughly roused himself--with a smothered cry--he knew that he was alone again.

A cold dew lingered on the dreamer's forehead, as if a breath from beyond the grave had lately pa.s.sed over it; but terror was not the predominating feeling. He had ruled that timid, trusting girl too long and too imperiously to quail before her disembodied spirit. But a strange sadness overcame him as he pondered upon all that she had endured--and might still be enduring--for his sake: a glimmer of something like generosity and compa.s.sion flickered for a brief s.p.a.ce over the surface of the cast-steel heart. He rose, and leaned out into the steady, outer moonlight, musing for several minutes, and then began muttering aloud. "It would be as well to clear off one debt at least. I did pa.s.s my word. She deserves this sacrifice, if it were only for never complaining: let her have her way. By G--d, I'll go off to-morrow evening, and I'll tell Cecil so as soon as I can see her. Bah! what is a man worth if he can not forget? Besides, I don't know--" The rest of his doubts and scruples he confessed--not even to the stars.

Climate has a great deal to answer for. A sudden tempest or an opportune mist has turned the scale of more battles than some of the most successful generals would have liked to own. If the next morning had broken sullenly, things might have gone far otherwise. But it was one of those brilliant days that make even the invalids not regret, for the moment, that they have given up all English comforts and home-pleasures for the off-chance of wringing another month or two of life out of the wreck of their const.i.tution. Every thing looked bright and in holiday guise, from the wreaths of ivy glistening on the brows of the shattered old castle, down to the [Greek: _anerithmong elasma_] of the turquoise-sea. Under the circ.u.mstances, it was very unlikely that Royston would keep to his virtuous resolutions. The first half of them he carried out perfectly: he did go straight to Cecil Tresilyan, and tell her of his intentions to depart. She did not betray much of her disappointment or surprise, but she argued with so fascinating a casuistry against the necessity of such a sudden step, that it was no wonder if she soon convinced her hearer of the propriety of at least delaying it. In a case like this an excuse of "urgent private affairs"

that would suffice for the most rigid martinet that ever tyrannized over a district or a division sounds absurdly trivial and insincere. When a proud beauty does condescend to plead, a man who really cares for her must be very peculiarly const.i.tuted if he remains constant in denial.

The vision of the night had faded away already. Those poor ghosts! They have no chance--the mystics say--against embodied spirits, if the latter only keep up their courage, and choose to a.s.sert their supremacy.

Besides, they must, perforce, fly before the dawn. And what dawn was ever so bright as the Tresilyan's smile when she guessed from Royston's face, without his speaking, that she had won the day?

So the pic-nic came off according to the arrangement. The weather and every thing else looked so promising that even the vinegar in Bessie Danvers's composition was acidulated; and, when Keene greeted her at the place of _rendezvous_, she favored him with just such a smile as one of the grim Puritan dames, in a rare interval of courtesy, may have granted to Claverhouse or Montrose--the right of reprobation being reserved. It is greatly to be feared that the Malignant did not appreciate the condescension, his attention was so entirely taken up in another quarter.

Cecil Tresilyan was perfectly dazzling in the splendor and insolence of her beauty: the calm self-possession that usually distinguished her seemed changed into almost reckless high spirits: even her dress betrayed a certain intention of coquetry; and her splendid violet eyes flashed ever and anon with a mischievously mutinous expression that made their glance a challenge. Such a frame of mind the Scotch describe when they speak of a person being "fey," holding it to be a sure presage of impending disaster.

Oh, guileless maidens! be warned, and trust not to attractive appearances. Lo! there is not a cloud in the sky that smiles over the Nysian vale; all round the roses and lilies are blooming, till the air is faint with their perfume; merry and musical rings the laugh of Persephone, as she goes forth with her comrades a-Maying; but worse things than serpents lurk beneath the waving gra.s.s. We, who have read the ancient legend, listen already for the roll of the nether thunder: we know that, in another minute, the earth will disgorge Adoneus, the smart ravisher, with his iron chariot: then will come a struggle of the dove in the clutch of the falcon--a cry for help drowned in a hoa.r.s.e growl of triumph--shrieks and wild disorder among the flying nymphs; but the loveliest of the land will rejoin them never any more. Demeter (like other careful chaperones), when she is most wanted, is far away, tending her corn-lands or reveling in the odors of sacrifice. Finding her after long-baffled search, she will hardly recognize her innocent child in the pale Queen of Shades, that seems worthy of her awful throne far-gleaming through the leaden twilight: the little hand that used to weave garlands so deftly sways the golden sceptre right royally; but the deep, solemn eyes have forgotten how to smile. She who once wept bitterly over her pet bird when it died listens, unmoved, to the clank of Megaera's scourge, and to the wail of a million spirits in torment.

Her beauty is more magnificent than ever, but it is tinged with the austere and dreary majesty that befits the consort of the King of h.e.l.l.

Ah, woeful mother! desist from intercession, and dry those unavailing tears: it is too late now to tempt her to follow you, even if Hades will let its empress depart for a season: the pure, natural fruits of your upper earth have lost all savor for the lips that once have tasted the fatal pomegranate.

Mr. Fullarton and his family completed the party, which was confined to the Molyneux's set. The chaplain was strangely nervous, fussy, and important: it seemed as if the possession of some weighty secret that he was eager, yet afraid to divulge, had disturbed his phlegmatic complacency. He took the first opportunity of beseeching Miss Tresilyan to be allowed to act as her escort: it was customary on all these expeditions that each dame and demoiselle, besides the professional muleteer, should be attended by at least one "dismounted skirmisher."

Cecil was rather puzzled by the pet.i.tion, and by the earnest way in which it was preferred; but she was too happy to deny any body any thing just then; besides which she felt conscious of having visited her pastor of late with a certain amount of neglect, not to say contumely. So she consented, graciously; but the sidelong glance at Keene, asking for his sympathy, did not escape her reverend cavalier.

It was evident that Mr. Fullarton had something on his mind that he intended to impart to his companion; but it was equally clear that he did not see his way to the confidence. The path turned abruptly across the line of hills; and while he was hesitating and looking about for a fair opening, it got so steep and rugged that it soon left him no breath for the disclosure. Before they had gone half a league the divine was decidedly in difficulties; he rolled hither and thither, panting painfully, like one who has already endured all the burden and heat of the day. Still he clung obstinately to Cecil's bridle-rein, rather a.s.sisted than a.s.sisting, till they reached a point where the road resembled greatly a flight of garret stairs, without any regularity in the steps thereof. The mule and its leader stumbled together; the former recovered itself cleverly after the fashion of its kind; but such a _tour de force_ far exceeded the exhausted energies of the pursy pastor.

He was fairly "down upon his head."

Since the cavalcade started, Major Keene had not attempted to disturb the order of march; at first he walked by the side of f.a.n.n.y Molyneux, and did his best to amuse her; when the path became too narrow for three abreast, he resigned the charge to Harry (who never, willingly, when _en voyage_, abdicated the charge of his _mignonne_), and went on by himself, just in the rear of Miss Tresilyan and her clerical escort. He presented, in truth, a striking contrast to that over-tasked pedestrian--going easily, within himself, without a quickened breath, or a bead of moisture on his forehead. _Shikari_ of the Upper Himalayas, gillies of Perthshire and the Western Highlands, chamois-hunters of the Tyrol, and guides of Chamounix or Courmayeur, could all have told tales of that long, slashing stride, to which hill or dale, rough or smooth, never came amiss; before which even the weary German miles were swallowed up like furlongs. He sprang quickly forward when he saw the mishap of his front rank; Miss Tresilyan was quite safe, so he only gave her a smile in pa.s.sing, and then raised the fallen ecclesiastic, with a studied and ostentatious tenderness that would have aggravated a saint.

"I hope you are not severely hurt, Mr. Fullarton? You really should be less rash in over-exciting yourself. The spirit is willing, but the flesh is--somewhat 'short of work.' May I relieve you of your responsibility till you have recovered your wind?"

In spite of his own sacred character, and the proprieties of time and place, had Keene been weak and of small stature, it is within the bounds of possibility that the pastor might have a.s.saulted him, there and then.

If it had not been for that unfortunate sense of the ridiculous which was perpetually offering temptations to Miss Tresilyan, she would have undoubtedly on this occasion espoused the losing side; but she exhausted all her powers of self-control in expressing (with decent gravity) her sorrow, that her guide should have come to grief in her service. She had none left wherewith to concoct a rebuke for the Cool Captain.

Considering the circ.u.mstances, Mr. Fullarton's laugh, and attempt at a jest on his own discomfiture, did him infinite credit. With the smothered expression that half escaped his lips as he fell to the rear, the chronicler has no earthly concern.

As the other two moved onward, Royston spoke, his dark eyes glittering scornfully--

"I wonder if women will ever get tired of deriding us, or we of ministering to their amus.e.m.e.nt? It must have been a great satisfaction to Anne of Austria to see Richelieu dance that saraband. (But Mazarin paid her off for it. I am very glad that the cardinal was avenged by the _charlatan_.) Now, how could you allow the shepherd to be so rash?

Consider that he has a large and increasing family totally dependent on him for support. If I were Mrs. Fullarton, I would bring an action against you. It is a necessity that his successor should quote _something_; and he really did bring to my mind the description of the White Bull of Duncraggan, who started up-hill so vigorously--

But steep and flinty was the road, And sharp the hurrying pikemen's goad, And when we came to Dennan's Row, A child might scatheless stroke his brow.

I shouldn't like to be the child, though," he added, meditatively, with a backward glance at the object of his remarks, who indeed did present a very "dissolving view."

The tone and manner of his speaking showed how much, within the last few weeks, the relations of the two had altered: the scale was already wavering, and ere long might be foretold a change in the balance of power.

His beautiful companion shook her head till the soft curling plumes that nestled round her hat danced again; but the effect of the reproving gesture was quite spoilt by the laugh that followed it, suppressed though clear as a silver bell.

"I will not be made an accomplice in your irreverent comparisons; I don't admit the resemblance; if there were one, it was too bad of 'the pikemen' not to be more considerate. You always try to impute malicious motives to the most innocent. How could I guess that Mr. Fullarton would suffer so for his devotion to my interests? I will give you back your quotation in kind. See! if I were as mischievous as you insinuate--

My loss may pay my folly's tax; I've broke my trusty battle-axe."

The ivory handle of her parasol (the same that had been rescued from d.u.c.h.esne) chanced to be entangled in the bridle when the mule stumbled, and the jerk snapped the frail shaft in two. Keene took the fragment from her, and looked at it for an instant.

"Poor thing!" he said compa.s.sionately; "so it was fated to be short-lived? It was hardly worth while saving it from the wrath of the sinner, if it was to be sacrificed so soon to the awkwardness of the saint."

"Not at all," Cecil replied. "It was my fault, for being so heedless.

But I can not afford another misadventure to-day. Will you take great care of me?"

Her soft, caressing tones thrilled through Royston's veins till the blood mounted to his forehead; but he made no answer in words, only looking up earnestly into her face with his rare smile.

I have tried throughout to avoid inflicting on you a dialogue that does not bear in some way on the incidents of our tale; on this principle we will not record the conversation that occupied those two till they reached the crown of the pa.s.s. It was probably interesting to _them_, for it was long before either forgot a word that was spoken. But the imagination or the memory of the reader will doubtless fill up a better fancy-sketch than the one omitted here.

There was a general halt on the brow of the hill. Indeed the view was worth a pause. From below their feet the tract of low woodland rolled right down to the edge of the sea, like a broad tossing river, swelling into great billows of gray or dark green, where the taller olives or fir-trees grew, and broken here and there with islets of many-colored stone. With the rest came up the chaplain, who had recovered by this time his breath, and, to a certain extent, his equanimity. While the others stood silent, he saw one of those openings for improving the occasion professionally of which he was ever so ready to avail himself.

So, casting his hand abroad theatrically, he declaimed,

How glorious are thy works, Parent of Good!

The words came oozing out in the oiliest of his unctuous tones; and the elocutionist's expansive glance fell first on the landscape patronizingly, then on the by-standers encouragingly. It was as though he said, "You may fall to, and admire now. I have asked a blessing."

Nothing more occurred worthy of note till they reached their destination in safety.

Of course, "there never was such a place for a picnic;" but, as that has been said of about three hundred different spots in every civilized country of Europe, it is certainly not worth while describing this particular one. The luncheon went on very much as such things always do when the arrangements are perfect, the commissariat unexceptionable, and the guests hungry and happy.

Mr. Fullarton, however, applied himself so a.s.siduously to Champagne-cup that his sober-minded helpmate (the only person who took much notice of his proceedings) was filled with an uncomfortable wonder. At last, during a pause in the general conversation, he addressed Royston abruptly--there was a strange huskiness in his voice, and his lower lip kept trembling--

"I heard from Naples this morning. My friend mentions having met Mrs.

Keene there."

The major looked up at the speaker with the cool, indifferent glance that had often irritated him. "Indeed! I was not aware that my mother had got so far south yet. She wrote last from Rome." The other tossed off his gla.s.s with an unsteady hand, and set it down sharply. "I never heard of your mother, sir," he said; "I was speaking of--_your wife_."

CHAPTER XVI.

To quarrel with a man over his cups, or in any wise to molest him in his drink, is an offense against the proprieties that even the good-natured Epicurean can not find it in his easy heart to palliate or pardon. On this point he speaks mildly, but very firmly:

Natis in usum laet.i.tiae scyphis Pugnare, Thrac.u.m est. Tollite barbarum Morem: verecundumque Bacchum Sanguineis prohibete rixis.

The ghost of Banquo was an uncivilized spectre, or--strong as was the provocation--it would have confronted Macbeth in any other place sooner than the banqueting-hall. The worst deed in the life of a cruel, false king was the setting on of the black bull's head before the doomed Douglases; and perhaps Pope Alexander, though singularly exempt from all vulgar prejudice, found it hard to obtain his own pontifical absolution for the poisoned wine in which he pledged the Orsini and Colonna. In these, and a hundred like instances, there was certainly the shadowy excuse of political expediency or necessity; but what shall we say of that individual who interrupts the harmony of a meeting solely to gratify his own private pique or pleasure? Truly, with such enormities Heaven "heads the count of crimes." I consider the most abominable act of which Eris was ever guilty was the selection of that particular moment for the production of the golden apple. If she was bound to make herself obnoxious, she might have waited till the Olympians were sitting in conclave, or at least at home again. It was infamous to disturb them while doing justice to the talents of Peleus's _cordon-bleu_. I wish very much that injured and querulous OEnone had met her somewhere on the slopes of Ida, and "given her a piece of her mind."