Sword and Gown Part 8

While he was speaking he drew back, and leaned lazily against the stem of the olive, with the evident intention of resuming his original posture as soon as courtesy would allow. Miss Tresilyan could not restrain a quick gesture of impatience.

"As we did not come out to _poser_, Mr. Fullarton, don't you think we had better not delay any longer? We are so late already, that I am sure the rest of the party will be tired of waiting."

Guess if her companion was loth to obey her.

They moved on for some time almost in silence. Cecil's thoughts were busy with a picture too--not the less vivid because only her own imagination had painted it. Her deep, dreamy eyes pa.s.sed over the landscape actually before them without catching one of its details: they were looking on a desolate stony plain, cracked and calcined by a fierce Indian sun--a few plumy palms in the background, and the rocky bed of a river half dried up--in the foreground a crowd of wild barbaric soldiery, with savage, swarthy features, bareheaded or white-turbaned; mingled with these were hors.e.m.e.n in the uniform of our light dragoons, sabring right and left mercilessly. In the very centre of the _melee_ was one figure, round which all the others seemed to group themselves as mere accessories. She saw, very distinctly, the dark, determined face, set, every line of it, in an unspeakable ferocity, with a world of murderous meaning in the gleaming eyes--so distinctly that it drove out the remembrance of the same man's face, expressive of nothing but pa.s.sionless indifference, though she looked upon it but a few minutes since under the gray branches of the olive. She almost heard his clear, imperious tones cheering on and rallying his troopers, when a ruder voice broke her reverie.

"_Halte la!_"

If there was one thing that miserable muleteer-boy ought to have known better than another, it was the insuperable objection entertained by the Provencal peasant to any thing like trespa.s.s on his territory (the touchiness of the _proprietaire_ bears generally an inverse ratio to the extent of his possessions); yet, to make a short cut of about two hundred yards, he had led his party through a gap in the low stone wall over a strip of ground belonging to the very man who was least likely to overlook the intrusion. Jean d.u.c.h.esne had a bad name in the neighborhood, and deserved it thoroughly; he was surly enough when sober (which was the exception), but when drunk there were no bounds to his blind, brutish ferocity, and his great personal strength made him a formidable antagonist. He was not an agreeable object to contemplate, that gaunt giant, as he stood there in his squalid, tattered dress, with rough, matted hair, and face flushed by recent intemperance, and flecked with livid stains of past debauches. You may see many such crowding round the guillotine or the tumbrel in pictures of the French Revolution.

It is very odd that one can not write or read those two words without a boiling of the blood, a tingling at the fingers' ends, and a tightening of the muscles of the forearm--ineffably absurd when excited by a recollection seventy years old! Yet so it is. You may talk of oppression till you are tired; you may catalogue all the wrongs that _Jacques Bonhomme_ endured before his day of retaliation came; you may bring in your pet ill.u.s.tration of "the storm that was necessary to clear the atmosphere;" but you will never make some of us feel that the guilt of an Order--had it been blacker by a hundred shades--palliated the Ma.s.sacre of its Innocents. If the _Marquis_ and _Mousquetaire_ only had suffered, they might have laid down their lives cheerfully, as they would have done the stake of any other lost game; and as for the priests, it was their privilege to be martyrs. But think of those fair matrons, and gentle girls, and delicate _mignonnes_, that had been petted from their childhood, cooped up in the foul courts of the Abbaye and La Force, with even the necessaries of life begrudged them, till the light died in their eyes and the gloss faded from their tresses; and then brought out to die in the chill, misty _Brumaire_ morning, howled at and derided by the swarm of bloodsuckers, till they cowered down, not in fear, but sickening horror, welcoming Samson and his satellites as friends and saviors. Remember, too, that there was scarcely an exception to the rule of patient courage, calm self-sacrifice, and pride of birth that never belied itself. Dubarry might shriek on the scaffold, but the Rohans died mute.

Of all the digressions we have indulged in, this is perhaps the most unwarrantable; and, though it has relieved me unspeakably, I hereby tender a certain amount of contrition for the same. _Revenons a nos moutons_--though there was very little of the sheep in the appearance of Jean d.u.c.h.esne, whose demeanor (when we left him) you will recollect was decidedly aggressive. It was evident that the mule-boy thought mischief was brewing, for he twisted his features--irregular and _tumbled_ enough already--into divers remarkable contortions expressive of remorse and terror.

"Who, then, dares to trespa.s.s on my lands? Do you think we sow our crops for your cursed mules to trample on?"

He spoke in a hoa.r.s.e, thick voice (suggestive of spirituous liquors), and in the disagreeable Provencal dialect, which must have altered strangely since the time of the _troubadours_: brief as his speech was, it found room for more than one of those expletives which are nowhere so horribly blasphemous as in the south of France.

Cecil had started slightly at the first interjection, which broke her day-dream, but she was not otherwise alarmed or discomposed: she seemed to regard the _proprietaire_ simply as an unpleasant obstacle to their progress, and glanced at Mr. Fullarton as if she expected him to clear it away. The latter was not good at French, but he did manage to express their sorrow if they had done any harm unconsciously, and their wish to retire instantly. "Not before paying," was the reply. "_Quinze francs de dedommagemens; et puis, filez aux tous les diables!_"

Women are not expected to carry purses or any other objects of simple utility; but why Mr. Fullarton should have left his at home on this particular day is between himself and his own conscience. The party very soon realized the fact that they could muster about a hundred and fifty centimes among them.

Even kings and kaisers, when _incogniti_, have ere this been reduced to the extremest straits of ignominy from the want of a few available pieces of silver; and, in ordinary life, five s.h.i.+llings ready at the moment are frequently of more importance than as many hundreds in expectancy. There lives even now a man who missed the most charming rendezvous with which fortune ever favored him, because he rode a mile round to avoid a turnpike, not having wherewithal to pay it. Since that disastrous day he is ever furnished with such a weight of small change that, had Cola Pesce carried it, the strong swimmer must have sunk like a stone--in penance, probably, even as James of Scotland wore the iron belt. At a pause in the conversation you may hear him rattling the coppers in his pocket moodily, as the spectres in old romances rattle their chains; but his remorse is unavailing. A fair chance once lost, Whist and Erycina never forgive. The beautiful bird that might _then_ have been limed and tamed shook her wings and flew away exultingly: far up in air the unlucky fowler may still sometimes hear her clear mocking carol, but she is too near heaven for his arts to reach, and has escaped the toils forever.

On the present occasion Katie Fullarton "flashed" her one half-franc with great courage and confidence, but the display of all that small capitalist's worldly wealth did not mollify Jean d.u.c.h.esne. He had been las.h.i.+ng himself up all along into such a state of brutal ferocity, that he would have been disappointed if his extortion had been immediately satisfied; so he broke in savagely on the chaplain's confused excuses and promises to settle everything at a fitting season: "Tais toi, blagueur! On ne me floue pas ainsi avec des promesses; je m'en fiche pas mal. Au moins, on me laissera un gage." His blood-shot eyes roved from one object to another till they lighted on the parasol that Miss Tresilyan carried: it was of plain dark-gray silk, with a slight black lace tr.i.m.m.i.n.g, but the carvings of the ivory handle made it of some real value. Before any one could divine his intention he had plucked it rudely from her hand.

Almost with the same motion Cecil set Katie down, and sprang herself from the saddle. In her eyes there was such intensity of anger that the drunken savage recoiled a pace or two, and for the first time in his life felt something like self-contempt: to have saved her soul she could not have spoken one word, but her silence was expressive enough as she turned to Mr. Fullarton. It is difficult to say what line she expected him to take--not the _voie de fait_ certainly; at least, if the hypothesis had been put to her when she was cool enough to consider it, she would utterly have repudiated such an idea. Perhaps she had a right to look for moral support, if not for active champions.h.i.+p.

We will not enter into the vexed question of physical courage and cowardice: it is a truism to say that the latter may co-exist with great moral firmness, which is, of course, far the superior quality. They will tell you that, when confronted with mere personal peril, a butcher or grenadier may match the best of us. Possibly; I am not going to dispute it. Only remember that there are occasions (very few in these civilized days) when the most refined of _bas-bleus_ would rather see a strong, brave, honest man at her side, than an abstruse philosopher, a clever conversationalist--ay, even than a perfect Christian--whose nerves are not to be depended on; when Parson Adams would be worth a bench of bishops. We can not all be athletes; and, with the best intentions, some of us at such times are liable to defeat and discomfiture. The most utterly fearless man I ever knew had a _biceps_ that his own small fingers could have spanned. No woman, however--keeping the attributes of her s.e.x--would think the worse of her champion for being trampled under foot when he had done his best to defend her. You know their province is to console, and even pet the vanquished; they make up lint for the wounded as readily as they weave laurels for the conquerors. But when they have once seen a man play the coward, the silver tongue, with all its eloquent explanation and honeyed pleadings, will hardly banish from their eyes the peculiar expression wavering betwixt compa.s.sion and contempt. They may forgive cruelty, or insolence, or even treachery--in time; but they can find no palliation, and little sympathy, for that one unpardonable sin. Truly, transgression in this line, beyond a certain point, may scarcely be excused; for weakness may be controlled, if not cured: if we can not be das.h.i.+ngly courageous, we may at least be decently collected: not all may aspire to the cross of valor, but it is not difficult to steer clear of courts-martial.

A man is not pleasant to contemplate when terror has driven out all self-command; so we will not draw Mr. Fullarton's picture: he could scarcely stammer out words enough to suggest an immediate retreat. It was painful--_not_ ludicrous--to see how justly his own child appreciated the position: the little thing left her father's side instinctively, and clung for protection to Cecil Tresilyan. The latter saw instantly how matters stood; and if the glance she cast on the aggressor was not pleasant to meet, far more unendurable was that which fell upon her unlucky companion: it was piercing enough to penetrate the strong armor of his wonderful self-complacency, and to rankle for many a day. She struck her small foot on the ground with a gesture of imperial disdain. Even so the Scythian Amazon might have spurned the livid head of Cyrus the Great King.

"I will not stir till I see if no one will come who can take my part.

Ah! I would give--"

"Don't be rash, Miss Tresilyan. You might be taken at your word."

Cecil turned quickly, with a delicious sense of confidence and triumph thrilling through every fibre of her frame: on the top of the rock that rose ten feet high, like a wall, on their right, stood Royston Keene. A more pacific character would have dared a greater danger for the reward and the promise of her eyes.

He took in the whole scene at a glance (perhaps he had heard more than he chose to own), and, swinging himself lightly down, strode right across the _potager_ with a disregard of the proprietor's interests and feelings refres.h.i.+ng to see.

"It seems to me that the ancient positions have been reversed. You have been spoiled by the Egyptians, Miss Tresilyan. Shall we try the secular arm? You have scarcely been safe under the protection of the church--_militant_."

There was a pause before the last word, and it was unpleasantly emphasized. Then he advanced a step or two toward the Frenchman, without waiting for a reply, and spoke in a totally different tone--brief and imperative--"_Tu vas me rendre ca?_"

d.u.c.h.esne had been rather startled by the apparition of the new-comer, and, if he had been cool enough to reflect, would not have fancied him as an antagonist; but his pa.s.sion blinded him, and strong drink had heated his brutal blood above boiling point; he ground his teeth, as he answered, till the foam ran down--

"Le rendre--a toi--chien d'Anglais? je m'en garderai bien. Si la belle demoiselle veut le ravoir, elle viendra demain, me prier bien gentiment; et elle viendra--seule."

Now Royston Keene was thoroughly impregnated with the bitterest of aristocratic prejudices: no man alive more utterly ignored the doctrines of liberty, equality, and fraternity; besides this, he had acquired, to an unusual extent, the overbearing tone and demeanor which the habit of having soldiers under them is supposed to bring, too commonly, to modern centurions. He actually experienced a "fresh sensation" as he heard the insult leveled by those coa.r.s.e plebeian lips at the woman "he delighted to honor." His swarthy face grew white down to the lips, whose quivering the heavy mustache could not quite conceal, and he s.h.i.+vered from head to foot where he stood. Jean d.u.c.h.esne thought he detected the familiar signs of a terror he had often inspired. "Tu as peur donc? Tu tressailles deja, blanc-bec! Tonnerre de D! tu as raison." Not a trace of pa.s.sion lingered in the major's clear, cold voice, that fell upon the ear with the ring of steel. "On ne tressaille pas, quand on est sur de gagner. Regarde donc en arriere."

Involuntarily the Frenchman looked behind him, expecting a fresh adversary from that quarter. As he turned his head Keene sprang forward, and plucked the parasol from his grasp: in one second he had laid it lightly in its owner's hand; in the next he had returned to his position, and stood, ready for the onset, motionless as the marble Creugas.

He had not long to wait. Even a "well-conditioned" Gaul does not like being outwitted, and the successful _ruse_ exasperated d.u.c.h.esne into insanity. Roaring like a wild beast that has missed its spring, he rushed in to grapple. Royston never moved a finger till the enemy was well within distance; then, slinging his left hand straight out from the hip, he "let him have it" fairly between the eyes.

One blow--only one--but a blow that, had it been stricken in the days of Olympian and Nemean contests--where Pindar and his peers were "reporters"--might well have earned a dithyramb; a blow that would have gladdened the sullen spirit of the old gladiator who trained the Cool Captain, if the prophet had lived to see his auguries fulfilled, or if sights and sounds from upper earth could penetrate to the limbo of defunct athletae. Nothing born of woman could have stood before it, and it was small blame to Jean d.u.c.h.esne that he dropped like a log in his tracks. In another instant his conqueror had one knee on the chest of the fallen man, and both hands were griping his throat.

His own face was fearfully changed. It wore an expression that has been very often seen in the sixty centuries that have pa.s.sed since Cain struck his brother down, but has very seldom been described; for the dead tell no tales beyond what their features, stiffened in hopeless terror, may betray. It has been seen on lost battle-fields--in the streets of cities given up to pillage, when the storming is just over and the carnage begun--on desolate hill-sides--in dark forest-glades--in chambers of lonely houses, strongly but vainly barred--in every place where men in the death agony have "cried and there was none to help them." It was full time for _some one_ to interfere when the devil had entered into Royston Keene.

From the moment that affairs had a.s.sumed such a different aspect Mr.

Fullarton had gradually been recovering his composure, and by this time was quite himself again. He advanced confidently, and, laying his hand on the major's shoulder with an imposing air, and with his best pulpit manner, enunciated, "Thou shalt do no murder!" The latter, as we have already said, was utterly beside himself; but even this can not excuse the abrupt, impatient movement that sent such an eminent divine reeling three paces back. The rigid lips only twisted themselves into an evil sneer, and the cruel fingers tightened their gripe till the features of the prostrate wretch grew convulsed and black.

The whole scene had pa.s.sed so quickly, though it takes so long to describe (some of us never _can_ succeed in stenography), that Cecil felt perfectly lost in a whirl of conflicting emotions, till she saw the face in life before her that she had been fancying ever since last night. A great fear came over her, but she overcame it, and her woman's instinct told her what to do. She laid her little hand upon Keene's arm before he was aware that she was near, and whispered so that only he could hear, "For _my_ sake." Only these three simple words; but the exorcism was complete.

Again a s.h.i.+ver ran all through the hardy frame, and for once Love was more powerful than Hate. He loosed his hold--slowly though, and reluctantly--and rose to his feet, pa.s.sing his hand over his eyes in a strange, bewildered way; but in five seconds his wonderful self-command a.s.serted itself, and he spoke as coolly as ever. "A thousand pardons.

One does forget one's self sometimes when the _canaille_ are provoking, but I ought to have remembered what was due to _you_."

Though she could not speak, she tried to smile; but strong reaction had come on. In the pale woman that trembled so painfully it was hard to recognize proud Cecil Tresilyan. Royston was watching her narrowly, and his tone softened till it made his simple words a caress. "Don't make me more angry with myself than I deserve. Indeed, there is nothing more to alarm or distress you. If you would only forgive me!" He helped her into the saddle as he spoke, and she submitted pa.s.sively. But the happy feeling of perfect trust in him was coming back fast.

Jean d.u.c.h.esne had somewhat recovered from his stupor, and was leaning on one arm, panting heavily, still in great pain; but he was inured to all sorts of broils, and evidently he would soon recover from the effects of this one, though he had never been so roughly handled. It was sheer terror that made him lie so still: he dared move no more than a whipped hound while in the presence of his late opponent.

The others turned slowly homeward, for it is needless to say the wild-flowers and the rendezvous were forgotten. As they turned the corner which cut off the view of d.u.c.h.esne's ground, Royston looked back once, longingly. It was well for Cecil's nerves, in their disturbed state, that she did not catch that Parthian glance. Ah, those ungovernable eyes! They were gleaming with the expression that Kirkpatrick's may have worn when he turned into the chapel where the Red Comyn lay, growling, "_I_ mak sicker."

None of the party were much disposed for conversation; for even Mr.

Fullarton did not feel equal to "improving the occasion" just then.

Cecil broke the silence at last: it was where the road was so narrow that only two could walk abreast: Royston never left her bridle-rein.

"You must fancy that I have thanked you; I can not do so properly now.

It is strange, though, that you should have come up so very opportunely.

Was it a presentiment that made you follow us?"

The answer was so low that she had almost to guess at it from the motion of his lips, "Have you forgotten Napoleon's last rallying-cry, '_Qui m'aime me suit?_'" No wonder that his pulse would throb exultantly as he saw the bright, beautiful blush that swept over his companion's cheek and brow! They had almost reached home when he spoke again, "You would have been liberal in your promises twenty minutes ago if I had not stopped you, Miss Tresilyan. I _should_ like to have some memorial of to-day. Very childish, is it not? Will you give me _this_? I deserve something for saving that pretty parasol." He touched the glove she had just drawn off--a light riding-gauntlet, fancifully cut, and embroidered with silk. Cecil hesitated, though she would have been loth to refuse him any thing just then. She felt, as most proud, sensitive women feel the first time they are asked for what may be interpreted into a _gage d'amour_. The tribute may be nominal, and the suzerain may be lenient indeed, but none the less does it establish va.s.salage.

Royston interpreted her reluctance aright, and went on with an earnestness very unusual with him: for once it was honest and true.

"Pray trust me. The moment I cease to value that _souvenir_ as it deserves, on my honor I will return it."

He was fated to triumph all through that day. When Cecil was alone she put something away with a very unnecessary carefulness, for surely nothing can be more valueless than a glove that has lost its mate.

CHAPTER XIII.

I am almost ashamed to confess how deeply the scene she had witnessed affected Cecil Tresilyan. The exhibition of Keene's fierce temper ought certainly to have warned, if it did not disgust her. She could only think--"It was for my sake that he was so angry, and he yielded to my first word."

There is rather a heavy run just now against the "physical force"

doctrine. It seems to me that some of its opponents are somewhat hypercritical. For many, many years romancists persisted in attributing to their princ.i.p.al heroes every point of bodily perfection and accomplishment; no one thought then of caviling at such a well-understood and established type. That most fertile and meritorious of writers, for instance, Mr. G. P. R. James, invariably makes his _jeun premier_ at least moderately athletic; so much so, that when he has the villain of the tale at his sword's point we feel a comfortable confidence that virtue will triumph as it deserves. As such a contingency is certain to occur twice or thrice in the course of the narrative, a nervous reader is spared much anxiety and trouble of mind by this satisfactory arrangement. _Nous avons change tout cela._ Modern refinement requires that the chief character shall be made interesting in spite of his being dwarfish, plain-featured, and a victim to pulmonary or some more prosaic disease. Clearly we are right. What is the use of advancing civilization if it does not correct our taste? What have we to do with the "manners and customs of the English" in the eighteenth century, or with the fictions that beguiled our boyhood? Let our motto still be "Forward;" we have pleasures of which our grandsires never dreamed, and inventions that they were inexcusable in ignoring. We are so great that we can afford to be generous. Let them sleep well, those honest but benighted ancients, who went down to their graves unconscious of "Aunt Sally," and perhaps never properly appreciated _caviare_!