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5 | None | You could not but suppose, my Curtius, when you came to the end of my last letter, that I should soon write again, and not leave you ignorant of the manner in which I passed the evening at the palace of Zenobia. Accordingly, knowing that you would desire this, I had no sooner tied and sealed my epistle, than I sat down to give you those minute recollections of incident and of conversation in which you and Lucilia both so much delight, and which indeed, in the present instance, are not unimportant in their bearing upon my future lot. But this I shall leave to your own conjectures. A tempest of rain makes me a necessary prisoner to the house, but the pleasant duty of writing to you spreads sunshine on all within my room. I trust in the gods that you are all well.
Of the banquet in that Egyptian hall, and its immediate attendant circumstances, I need not tell you. It was like other feasts of ceremony, where the niceties of form constantly obtrude themselves, and check too much the flow of conversation. Then too one's mind is necessarily distracted, where the feast is sumptuous, by the rarity of the dishes, the richness of the service, and the pomp and stir of the attendance. Never was it my fortune in Rome to recline at a table of more imperial splendor. For Lucilia's sake I will just say, that the service was of solid gold, most elaborately carved, and covered with designs illustrative of points of the Egyptian annals. Our wine cups were also of gold, enriched with precious stones; and for each kind of wine, a different cup, set with jewels, typical of the character of the wine for which it was intended. These were by the hand of Demetrius. It was in all respects a Roman meal, in its fashions and conduct, though the table was spread with many delicacies peculiar to the Orientals. The walls and ceiling of the room, and the carpets, represented, in the colors of the most eminent Greek and Persian artists, scenes of the life and reign of the great Queen of Egypt, of whom Zenobia reckons herself a descendant. Cleopatra was all around, above, and beneath. Music at intervals, as the repast drew toward a close, streamed in from invisible performers, and added a last and crowning charm. The conversation was light and sportful, taking once or twice only, and accidentally, as it were, a political turn. These graceful Palmyrenes act a winning part in all the high courtesies of life; and nothing could be more perfect than their demeanor, free and frank, yet never forgetful of the presence of Zenobia, nor even of me, a representative in some manner of the majesty of Rome.
The moon, nearly at her full, was already shining bright in the heavens, when we left the tables, and walking first for a time upon the cool pavements of the porticos of the palace, then descended to the gardens, and separating in groups, moved away at will among their endless windings. Zenobia, as if desiring some private conference with her great teacher, left us in company with Longinus. It was my good and happy fortune to find myself in the society of Julia and Fausta, with whom I directed my steps toward the remoter and more quiet parts of the garden--for nearer the palace there were still to be heard the sounds of merriment, and of the instruments furnishing a soft and delicious entertainment for such as chose to remain longer in the palace. Of the rest of the company, some like ourselves wandered among the labyrinthian walks of this vast pleasure-ground, while others, already weary, or satisfied with enjoyment, returned early to their homes.
The evening, shall I say it, was worthy of the company now, abroad to enjoy it. A gentle breeze just swayed the huge leaves of the--to me--strange plants which overhung the paths, and came, as it here always seems to come, laden with a sweetness which in Rome it never has, unless added by the hand of art. Dian's face shone never before so fair and bright, and her light, coming to us at frequent turns in our walk, through the spray of numerous fountains, caused them to show like falling diamonds. A divine repose breathed over the whole scene, I am sure our souls were in harmony with it.
'Princess,' said I, 'the gardens of Nero can have presented no scenes more beautiful than these. He who designed these avenues, and groups of flowers and trees, these frequent statues and fountains, bowers and mimic temples, and made them bear to each other these perfect proportions and relations, had no less knowledge, methinks, of the true principles of taste, and of the very secrets of beauty, than the great Longinus himself. The beauty is so rare, that it affects the mind almost like greatness itself. In truth, in perfect beauty there is always that which overawes.'
'I cannot say,' replied Julia, 'that the learned Greek was the architect and designer of these various forms of beauty. The credit, I believe, is rather due to Periander, a native Athenian, a man, it is universally conceded, of the highest genius. Yet it is at the same time to be said, that the mind of Longinus presided over the whole. And he took not less delight in ordering the arrangements of these gardens, than he did in composing that great treatise, not long published, and which you must have seen before you left Rome. He is a man of universal powers. You have not failed to observe his grace, not less than his abilities, while we were at the tables. You have seen that he can play the part of one who would win the regards of two foolish girls, as well as that of first minister of a great kingdom, or that of the chief living representative and teacher of the philosophy of the immortal Plato.'
'For myself,' I replied, 'I could hardly withdraw myself from the simple admiration of his noble head and form, to attend, so as to judge of it, to what fell from his lips. It seems to me that if a sculptor of his own Greece sought for a model of the human figure, he could hope to find none so perfect as that of Longinus.'
'That makes it the foolisher and stranger,' said Fausta, 'that he should toil at his toilet as he so manifestly does. Why can he not rely, for his power over both men and women, upon his genius, and his natural graces. It might be well enough for the Stagyrite to deck his little person in fine clothes, and to cover his fingers with rings--for I believe there must be something in the outward appearance to strike the mere sensual eye, and please it, either natural or assumed, or else even philosophers might go unheeded. I doubt if upon my fingers there be more or more glowing rings than upon those of Longinus. To be sure, one must admit that his taste is exquisite.'
'In the manners and dress of Longinus,' said I, 'as well as in those of Aristotle, we behold, I think, simply the power of custom. They were both, in respect to such things, in a state of indifference--the true philosophical state. But what happened? Both became instructors and companions of princes, and the inmates of royal palaces. Their manners and costume were left, without a thought, I will dare to say, on their part, to conform themselves to what was around them. Would it not have been a more glaring piece of vanity, if in the palace of Philip, Aristotle had clothed himself in the garb of Diogenes--or if Longinus, in the presence of the great Zenobia, had appeared in the sordid attire of Timon?'
'I think so,' said Julia.
'Your explanation is a very probable one,' added Fausta, 'and had not occurred to me. It is true, the courts may have dressed them and not themselves, But never, I still must think, did a rich dress fall upon more willing shoulders than upon those of the Greek, always excepting, Julia, Paul of Antioch.'
'Ah, Fausta,' said Julia, 'you cannot, do what you will, shake my faith in Paul. If I allow him vain, and luxurious, and haughty, I can still separate the advocate from the cause. You would not condemn the doctrine of Aristotle, on the ground that he wore rings. Nor can I altogether, nor in part, that of Paul, because he rolls through the city in a gilded chariot, with the attendance of a prince. I may blame or despise him--but not therefore reject his teaching. That has a defence independent of him. Policy, and necessity of time and place, have compelled him to much which his reason disapproves. This he has given me to believe, and has conjured me on this, as on all subjects, to yield my mind only to evidence, apart from all personal considerations. But I did not mean to turn our conversation in this direction. Here, Piso, have we now arrived in our walk at my favorite retreat. This is my bower for meditation, and frequently for reading too. Let us take this seat. Observe how through these openings we catch some of the prominent points of the city. There is the obelisk of Cleopatra; there the tower of Antonine', there the Egyptian Pyramid; and there a column going up in honor of Aurelian; and in this direction, the whole outline of the palace.'
'Yet are we at the same time shut out from all the world,' said I. 'Your hours must fly swiftly here. But are your musings always solitary ones?' ' O no--I am not so craving as that of my own society: sometimes I am joined by my mother, and not seldom by my sweet Fausta here,' said she, at the same time affectionately drawing Fausta's arm within her own, and clasping her hand; 'we do not agree, indeed, upon all the subjects which we discuss, but we still agree in our love.'
'Indeed we do, and may the gods make it perpetual; may death only divide us!' said Fausta with fervor.
'And may the divinity who sits supreme above,' said Julia, 'grant that over that, not even death shall have power. If any thing makes existence valuable, it is love. If I should define my happiness, I should say it in one word, Love. Without Zenobia, what should I be? I cannot conceive of existence, deprived of her, or of her regard. Loving her, and Fausta, and Longinus, as I do--not to forget Livia and the dear Faustula--and beloved of all in return--and my happiness scarcely seems to admit of addition.'
'With what pain,' said I, 'does one contemplate the mere possibility that affections such as these are to last only for the few years which make up the sum of human life. Must I believe, must you believe, that all this fair scene is to end forever at death? That you, bound to each other by so many ties, are to be separated, and both of you to be divided from Zenobia, and all of us to fall into nothingness, silence, and darkness? Rather than that, would that the life we now enjoy might be immortal! Here are beautiful objects, among which one might be willing to live forever. I am never weary of the moon and her soft light, nor of the balmy air, nor of the bright greens of the herbage, nor of the forms of plain and mountain, nor of the human beings, infinite in the varieties of their character, who surround me wherever I go. Here now have I wandered far from my home, yet in what society and in what scenes do I find myself! The same heaven is above me, the same forms of vegetable life around me? and what is more, friends already dear as those I have left behind. In this very spot, were it but as an humble attendant upon the greatness of the Queen, could I be content to dwell.'
'Truly, I think you might,' cried Fausta; 'having chosen for yourself so elysian a spot, and filled it with such inhabitants, it is no great proof of a contented spirit that you should love to inhabit it. But how many such spots does the world present? --and how many such inhabitants? The question I think is, would you be ready to accept the common lot of man as an immortal one? I can easily believe that many, were they seated in these gardens, and waited on by attendant slaves, and their whole being made soft and tranquil, and exempt from care and fear, would say, 'Ensure me this, and I ask no more.' For myself, indeed, I must say it would not be so. I think not even the lot of Zenobia, enthroned as she is in the hearts of millions, nor yet thine, Julia, beloved not less than Zenobia, would satisfy me. I have now all that my utmost desires crave. Yet is there a part of me, I know not what it is, nor where it is, that is not full. I confess myself restless and unsatisfied. No object, no study, no pursuit, no friendship--forgive me, Julia,'--and she kissed her hand,--'no friendship even, satisfies and fills me.'
'I do not wonder,' said Julia.
'But how much unhappiness is there spread over the earth,' continued Fausta: 'I, and you, and Piso perhaps too, are in a state of dissatisfaction. And yet we are perched, as it were, upon the loftiest heights of existence. How must it be with those who are so far inferior to us as multitudes are in their means of happiness? From how many ills are we shielded, which rain down sharp-pointed, like the hail storms of winter, upon the undefended heads of the poor and low? They, Piso, would not, I think, pray that their lot might be immortal.'
'Indeed I think not,' said I. 'Yet, perhaps, their lot is not so much more miserable than yours, as the difference in outward condition might lead one to think. Remember, the slave and the poor do not feel as you would, suddenly reduced to their state. The Arab enjoys his sleep upon his tent floor as well as you, Princess, beneath a canopy of woven gold, and his frugal meal of date or pulse tastes as sweet, as to you do dainties fetched from Rome, or fished from the Indian seas: and eating and sleeping make up much of life. Then the hearts of the great are corroded by cares and solicitudes which never visit the humble. Still, I do not deny that their condition is not far less enviable than ours. The slave who may be lashed, and tormented, and killed at his master's pleasure, drinks from a cup of which we never so much as taste. But over the whole of life, and throughout every condition of it, there are scattered evils and sorrows which pierce every heart with pain. I look upon all conditions as in part evil. It is only by selecting circumstances, and excluding ills which are the lot of all, that I could ask to live forever, even in the gardens of Zenobia.'
'I do not think we differ much then,' said Fausta, 'in what we think of human life. I hold the highest lot to be unsatisfying. You admit all are so, but have shown me that there is a nearer approach to an equality of happiness than I had supposed, though evil weighs upon all. How the mind longs and struggles to penetrate the mysteries of its being! How imperfect and without aim does life seem! Every thing beside man seems to reach its utmost perfection. Man alone appears a thing incomplete and faulty.'
'And what,' said I, 'would make him appear to you a thing perfect and complete' What change should you suggest?'
'That which rather may be called an addition,' replied Fausta, 'and which, if I err not, all wise and good men desire, the assurance of immortality. Nothing is sweet; every cup is bitter; that which we are this moment drinking from, bitterest of all, without this. Of this I incessantly think and dream, and am still tossed in a sea of doubt.'
'You have read Plato?' said I. 'Yes, truly,' she replied; 'but I found little there to satisfy me, I have enjoyed too the frequent conversation of Longinus, and yet it is the same. Would that he were now here! The hour is serene, and the air which comes in so gently from the West, such as he loves.'
As Fausta uttered these words, our eyes at the same moment caught the forms of Zenobia and Longinus, as they emerged from a walk very near, but made dark by overhanging and embowering roses. We immediately advanced toward them, and begged them to join us.
'We are conversing,' said Julia, 'upon such things as you both love. Come and sit now with us, and let us know what you can say upon the same themes.'
'We will sit with you gladly,' said the Queen; 'at least for myself I may say it, for I am sure that with you I shall find some other subjects discussed beside perplexing affairs of state. When alone with Longinus--as but now--our topic is ever the same.'
'If the subject of our discourse, however, be ever the same,' said the Greek, 'we have this satisfaction in reflecting upon it, that it is one that in its nature is real and tangible. The well-being of a nation is not an undefined and shadowy topic, like so many of those which occupy the time and thoughts of even the wise. I too, however, shall gladly bear a part in whatever theme may engross the thoughts of Julia, Fausta, and Piso.'
With these words, we returned to the seats we had left, which were not within the arbor of Julia, but were the marble steps which led to it. There we placed ourselves, one above and one beside another, as happened--Zenobia sitting between Fausta and Julia, I at the feet of Julia, and Longinus on the same step with myself, and next to Fausta. I could hardly believe that Zenobia was now the same person before whom I had in the morning, with no little agitation, prostrated myself, after the manner of the Persian ceremonial. She seemed rather like a friend whom I both loved and revered. The majesty of the Queen was gone; there remained only the native dignity of beauty, and goodness, and intellect, which, though it inspires reverence, yet is there nothing slavish in the feeling. It differs in degree only from that sentiment which we entertain toward the gods; it raises rather than depresses.
'We were speaking,' said Julia, resuming the subject which had engaged us, 'of life and of man--how unsatisfactory life is, and how imperfect and unfinished, as it were, man; and we agreed, I believe, in the opinion, that there can be no true happiness, without a certain assurance of immortality, and this we are without.'
'I agree with you,' said Longinus, 'in all that you can have expressed concerning the unsatisfactoriness of life, regarded as a finite existence, and concerning the want of harmony there is between man and the other works of God, if he is mortal; and in this also, that without the assurance of immortality, there can, to the thinking mind, be no true felicity. I only wonder that on the last point there should exist in the mind of any one of you doubts so serious as to give you much disturbance. I cannot, indeed, feel so secure of a future and then unending existence, as I am sure that I live now. What I am now I know; concerning the future, I can only believe, and belief can never possess the certainty of knowledge. Still, of a future life I entertain no doubts that distress me. My belief in it is as clear and strong as I can well conceive belief in things invisible and unexperienced to be. It is such as makes me happy in any thought or prospect of death. Without it, and life would appear to me like nothing more to be esteemed than a short, and often troubled or terrific dream.'
'So I confess it seems to me,' said Fausta. 'How should I bless the gods, if upon my mind there could rest a conviction of immortality strong like yours! The very certainty with which you speak, seems, through the power of sympathy, to have scattered some of my doubts. But, alas! they will soon return.'
'In what you have now said,' replied Longinus, 'and in the feeling you have expressed on this point, do I found one of the strongest arguments for the immortality of the soul.'
'I do not comprehend you,' said Fausta.
'Do you not, Fausta,' asked Longinus, 'intensely desire a life after death?'
'I do indeed. I have just expressed it.'
'And do not you too, Zenobia, and Piso, and Julia?'
'Surely, and with intensity,' we answered; 'the question need scarce be asked.'
'I believe you,' resumed Longinus. 'You all earnestly desire an immortal life--you perpetually dwell upon the thought of it, and long for it. Is it not so with all who reflect at all upon themselves? Are there any such, have there ever been any, who have not been possessed by the same thoughts and desires, and who, having been greatly comforted and supported by them during life, have not at death relied upon them, and looked with some degree of confidence toward a coming forth again from death? Now I think it is far more reasonable to believe in another life, than in the delusiveness of these expectations. For I cannot suppose that this universal expectation will be disappointed, without believing in the wickedness, nay, the infinite malignity, of the Supreme Ruler, which my whole nature utterly refuses to do. For what more cruel, than to create this earnest and universal longing, and not gratify it? Does it not seem so?'
We all admitted it.
'This instinctive desire,' continued Longinus, 'I cannot but regard as being implanted by the Being who created us. It can proceed from no other. It is an instinct, that is, a suggestion or inspiration of God. If it could be shown to be a consequence of education, we might refer it for its origin to ingenious philosophers. But it exists where the light of philosophy has never shone. There have been none, of whom history has preserved even obscurest traditions, who have wanted this instinct. It is then the very inspiration of the Divinity, and will not be disappointed. I trust much to these tendencies of our nature. This is the best ground for our belief of a God. The arguments of the schools have never succeeded in establishing the truth, even to the conviction of a philosophic mind, much less a common one. Yet the truth is universally admitted. God, I think, has provided for so important an article of faith in the structure of our minds. He has not left it to chance or special Revelation. So, too, the determinations of the mind concerning virtue and vice, right and wrong, being for the most part so accordant throughout the whole race--these also I hold to be instinctive.'
'I can think of nothing,' said Fausta, 'to urge against your argument. It adds some strength, I cannot but confess, to what belief I had before. I trust you have yet more that you can impart. Do not fear that we shall be dull listeners.'
'I sit here a willing and patient learner,' said Zenobia, 'of any one who will pour new light into my mind. Go on, Longinus.'
'To such a school,' said he, 'how can I refuse to speak? Let me ask you then, if you have never been perplexed by the evils of life, such as either you have yourselves experienced, or such as you have witnessed?'
'I have, indeed,' said Fausta, 'and have deeply deplored them. But how are they connected with a future existence?'
'Thus,' replied Longinus. 'As in the last case, the benevolence of the Supreme God cannot be sustained without the admission of the reality of a future life. Nor only that, but it seems to me direct proof may be adduced from the existence and universality of these evils to establish the blackest malignity. So that to me, belief in a future existence is in proportion to the difficulty of admitting the idea of divine malignity, and it cannot therefore be much stronger than it is.'
'How can you make that clear to us?' said Fausta; 'I should truly rejoice if out of the evils which so darken the earth, any thing good or beautiful could be drawn.'
'As this dark mould,' rejoined the philosopher, 'sends upwards, and out of its very heart, this rare Persian rose, so does hope grow out of evil, and the darker the evil the brighter the hope, as from a richer and fouler soil comes the more vigorous plant and larger flower. Take a particular evil, and consider it. You remember the sad tale concerning the Christian Probus, which Piso, in recounting the incidents of his journey from Rome to Palmyra, related to us while seated at the tables?'
'Indeed, I did not hear it,' said Zenobia; 'so that Piso must, if he will, repeat it.'
'We shall willingly hear it again,' said Julia and Fausta.
And I then related it again.
'Now do you wonder,' resumed Longinus, when I had finished, 'that Probus, when, one after another, four children were ravished from his arms by death, and then, as if to crown his lot with evil, his wife followed them, and he was left alone in the world, bereaved of every object to which his heart was most fondly attached, do you wonder, I say, that he turned to the heavens and cursed the gods? And can you justify the gods so that they shall not be chargeable with blackest malignity, if there be no future and immortal state? What is it to bind so the heart of a parent to a child, to give that affection a force and a tenderness which belong to no other tie, so that anxieties for its life and welfare, and cares and sacrifices for its good, constitute the very existence of the parent, what is it to foster by so many contrivances this love, and then forever disappoint and blast it, but malignity? Yet this work is done every hour, and in almost every heart; if for children we lament not, yet we do for others as dear.'
Tears to the memory of Odenatus fell fast from the eyes of Zenobia.
'Are we not then,'--continued Longinus, without pausing--'are we not then presented with this alternative, either the Supreme God is a malignant being, whose pleasure it is to torment, or, there is an immortal state, where we shall meet again with those, who, for inscrutable purposes, have been torn from our arms here below? And who can hesitate in which to rest? The belief, therefore, in a future life ought to be in proportion to the difficulty of admitting the idea of divine malignity. And this idea is so repulsive--so impossible to be entertained for one moment--that the other cannot, it seems to me, rest upon a firmer foundation.'
'Every word you speak,' said Zenobia, 'yields pleasure and instruction. It delights me, even when thickest beset by the cares of state, to pause and contemplate for a moment the prospects of futurity. It diffuses a divine calm throughout the soul. You have given me new food for my thoughts.'
'I will add,' said Longinus, 'only one thing to what I have said, and that is, concerning the incompleteness of man, as a divine work, and which has been mentioned by Fausta. Is not this an argument for a future life? Other things and beings are finished and complete--man only is left, as it were, half made up. A tree grows and bears fruit, and the end of its creation is answered. A complete circle is run. It is the same with the animals. No one expects more from a lion or a horse than is found in both. But with man it is not so. In no period of history, and among no people, has it been satisfactorily determined what man is, or what are the limits of his capacity and being. He is full of contradictions, and of incomprehensible organization, if he is considered only in relation to this world. For while every other affection finds and rests in its appropriate object, which fully satisfies and fills it, the desire of unlimited improvement and of endless life--the strongest and best defined of any of the desires--this alone is answered by no corresponding object: which is not different from what it would be, if the gods should create a race like ours, having the same craving and necessity for food and drink, yet never provide for them the one nor the other, but leave them all to die of hunger. Unless there is a future life, we all die of a worse hunger. Unless there is a future life, man is a monster in creation--compared with other things, an abortion--and in himself, and compared with himself, an enigma--a riddle--which no human wit has ever solved, nor can ever hope to solve.'
'This seems unanswerable,' said Fausta; 'yet is it no objection to all such arguments, which we ourselves construct, that the thing they establish is too great and good almost to be believed, without some divine warrant? It does to me appear almost or quite presumptuous to think, that for me there is by the gods prepared a world of never-fading light, and a never-ending joy.'
'When,' replied the Greek, 'we look at the lower forms of man which fall under our observation, I confess that the objection which you urge strikes me with some force. But when I think that it is for beings like you to whom I speak, for whom another and fairer world is to be prepared, it loses again much of its force. And when I think of the great and good of other times, of Homer and Hesiod, of Phidias and Praxiteles, of Socrates and Plato, and of what the mind of man has in them, and in others as great and good, accomplished, the objection which you urge loses all its force. I see and feel that man has been made not altogether unworthy of a longer life and a happier lot than earth affords. And in regard to the ignorant, the low, and the almost or quite savage, we are to consider that the same powers and affections are in them as in us, and that their inferiority to us is not intrinsic and essential, but as it were accidental. The difference between the soul of Plato and yonder Ethiopian slave is not in any original faculty or power; the slave here equals the philosopher; but in this, that the faculties and powers of Plato were strengthened, and nurtured, and polished, by the hand of education, and the happy influences of a more civilized community, all which to the slave has been wanting. He is a diamond just as it comes from the mine; Plato like that one set in gold, which sparkles with the radiance of a star, Fausta, upon your finger. But, surely, the glory of the diamond is, that it is a diamond; not that Demetrius has polished and set it. Man has within him so much of the god, that I do not wonder he has been so often deified. The great and excellent among men, therefore, I think not unworthy of immortality, for what they are; the humble and the bad, for what they may so easily become, and might have been, under circumstances but slightly altered.'
'I cannot,' said Julia, as Longinus closed, 'deny strength and plausibility to your arguments, but I cannot admit that they satisfy me. After the most elaborate reasoning, I am still left in darkness. No power nor wit of man has ever wholly scattered the mists which rest upon life and death. I confess, with Socrates, that I want a promise or a revelation to enable me to take the voyage of life in a spirit of cheerfulness, and without the fear of fatal shipwreck. If your reasonings, Longinus, were only accompanied with authority more than that of man, if I could only believe that the Divinity inspired you, I could then rest contented and happy. One word authoritatively declaring man's immortality, a word which by infallible token I could know to be a word from the Supreme, would to me be worth infinitely more than all the conjectures, hopes, and reasonings of all the philosophers. I fully agree with you, that the instincts of our nature all point both to a God and to immortality. But the heart longs for something more sure and clear, at least my woman's heart does. It may be that it is the woman within me which prompts the feeling--but I wish to lean upon authority in this great matter. I wish to repose calmly in a divine assurance.'
'In that, Princess,' I could not help saying, 'I am a woman too. I have long since lost all that regard for the gods in which I was so carefully nourished. I despise the popular superstitions. Yet is there nothing which I have found as yet to supply their place. I have searched the writings of Plato, of Cicero, of Seneca, in vain. I find there, indeed, wisdom, and learning, and sagacity, almost more than human. But I find nothing which can be dignified by the name of religion. Their systems of morals are admirable, and sufficient perhaps to enable one to live a happy or fortunate life. But concerning the soul of man, and its destiny, they are dumb, or their words, if they utter any, are but the dark speeches of an oracle.'
'I am happy that I am not alone,' said Julia; 'and I cannot but think that many, very many, are with me. I am sure that what most persons, perhaps, who think and feel upon those subjects, want, is some divine promise or revelation. Common minds, Longinus, cannot appreciate the subtlety of your reasonings, much less those of the Phædo. And, besides, the cares and labors of life do not allow time to engage in such inquiries, even if we supposed all men to have capacity for them. Is it not necessary that truths relating to the soul and futurity should rest upon authority, if any or many beside philosophers are to embrace them? And surely, if the poor and ignorant are immortal, it is as needful for them, as for us, to know it. It is, I conceive, on this account, that the religion of the Christians has spread so rapidly. It meets our nature. It supplies authority. It professes to bring annunciations from Heaven of man's immortality.'
'It is for that reason,' replied Longinus, 'I cannot esteem it. The very term revelation offends. The right application of reason effects all, it seems to me, that what is called revelation can. It perfectly satisfies the philosopher, and as for common minds, instinct is an equally sufficient guide and light.'
'I cannot but judge you, Longinus,' said Julia, 'wanting in a true fellow-feeling for your kind, notwithstanding all you have said concerning the nature and powers of man. How is it that you can desire that mankind should remain any longer under the dominion of the same gross and pernicious errors that have for so many ages oppressed them! Only consider the horrors of an idolatrous religion in Egypt and Assyria, in Greece and in Rome--and do you not desire their extermination? --and what prospect of this can there be, but through the plain authoritative language of a revelation?'
'I certainly desire with you,' replied Longinus, 'the extermination of error, and the overthrow of horrible and corrupting superstitions; and of nothing am I more sure than that the reason of man, in unfolding and constantly improving ages, will effect it. A plain voice from Heaven, announcing important truth, might perhaps hasten the work. But this voice, as thought to be heard in Christianity, is not a plain voice, nor clearly known to be a voice from Heaven. Here is the Bishop of Antioch set upon by the Bishops of Alexandria and Cesarea, and many others, as I learn, who accuse him of wrongly receiving and falsely teaching the doctrines of Christ; and for two hundred years has there prevailed the like uncertainty about the essence of the religion.'
'I look not with much hope to Christianity,' said Fausta. 'Yet I must first inform myself more exactly concerning it, before I judge.'
'That is spoken like Fausta,' said Julia; 'and it is much for you to say who dislike so heartily that Paul, whom I am constantly wishing you to hear.'
'Whenever he shall lay aside a little of his pomp, I may be willing to listen,' replied Fausta; 'but I could ill brook a discourse upon immortality from one whose soul seems so wedded to time.'
'Well,' said Julia, 'but let us not be drawn away from our subject. I admit that there are disputes among the Christians, but, like the disputes among philosophers, they are about secondary matters. There is no dispute concerning the great and chiefly interesting part of the religion--its revelation of a future life Christians have never divided here, nor on another great point, that Christ, the founder of the religion, was a true messenger from God. The voice of Christianity on both these points is a clear one. Thus, I think, every one will judge, who, as I have done, will read the writings in which the religion is found. And I am persuaded it is because it is so plain a voice here, that it is bidding fair to supersede every other form of religion. And that it is a voice from God, is, it seems to me, made out with as much clearness as we could look for. That Christ, the author of this religion, was a messenger from God, was shown by his miracles. How could it be shown otherwise? I can conceive of no other way in which so satisfying proof could be given of the agency and authority of God. And certainly there is evidence enough, if history is to be believed, that he wrought many and stupendous miracles.'
'What is a miracle?' asked Longinus.
'It is that,' replied Julia, 'which being done or said, furnishes satisfactory proof of the present interposing power of God. A man who, by a word spoken, can heal sick persons, and raise to life dead ones, can be no other than a messenger of God!'
'Why not of some other superior being--perhaps a bad one?'
'The character, teaching, objects, acts of Christ, make it unlikely, if not impossible, that he should have been sent by any bad intelligence. And that he came not only from a good being, but from God, we may believe on his own word.'
'His goodness may have been all assumed. The whole may be a deception.'
'Men do not sacrifice their lives merely to deceive, to play a child's game before the world. Christ died to show his attachment to his cause, and with him innumerable others. Would they have done this merely to impose upon mankind? And for what purpose? --for that of teaching a religion inculcating the loftiest virtue! But I do not set myself forward as a champion of this new religion,' continued Julia, plainly disturbed lest she might have seemed too earnest. 'Would that you, Longinus, could be persuaded to search into its claims. If you would but read the books written by the founders of it, I am sure you would say this at least, that such books were never written before, nor such a character portrayed as that of Jesus Christ. You who profess yourself charmed with the poetry of the Jewish Scriptures, and the grandeur of the sentiments expressed in them, would not be less impressed by the gentler majesty, the mild, sweet dignity of the person and doctrine of Christ. And if the reasonings of Socrates and Plato have any power to convince you of the immortality of the soul, how must you be moved by the simple announcements of the truth by the Nazarene, and above all by his resurrection from the dead! Christianity boasts already powerful advocates, but I wish it could say that its character and claims had been examined by the great Longinus.'
The soft yet earnest, eloquent tones of Julia's voice fell upon pleased and willing ears. The countenance of the Greek glowed with a generous satisfaction, as he listened to the reasoning of his fair pupil, poured forth in that noble tongue it had been his task and his happiness to teach her. Evidently desirous, however, not to prolong the conversation, he addressed himself to the Queen.
'You are pleased,' said he, 'you must be, with the aptness of my scholar. Julia has not studied dialectics in vain. Before I can feel myself able to contend with her, I must study the books she has commended so--from which, I must acknowledge, I have been repelled by a prejudice, I believe, rather than any thing else, or more worthy--and then, perhaps, I may agree in opinion with her.'
'In truth,' said Zenobia, 'Julia is almost or quite a Christian. I knew not, daughter, that Paul had made such progress in his work. But all have my full consent to cherish such form of religious faith as most approves itself to their own minds. I find my highest satisfaction in Moses and the prophets. Happy shall I be if Julia find as much, or more, in Christ and his apostles. Sure am I, there is no beneficent power nor charm in the religions of Greece, or Rome, or Persia, or Egypt, to cause any of us to adhere to them, though our very infancy were instructed in their doctrines.'
'It is not, I assure you,' said Julia, 'to Paul of Antioch that I owe such faith in Christ as I have, but to the Christian books themselves; or if to any human authority besides, to St. Thomas, the old hermit of the mountain, to whom I would that every one should resort who would draw near to the purest living fountain of Christian knowledge.'
'I trust,' said I, 'that at some future time I may, with your guidance, or through your influence, gain admittance to this aged professor of the Christian faith. I confess myself now, since what I have heard, a seeker after Christian knowledge.'
'Gladly shall I take you there,' replied the princess, 'and gladly will St. Thomas receive you.'
We now at the same time rose from our seats. Zenobia, taking the hand of Fausta, walked toward the palace; Longinus, with folded arms, and as if absorbed by the thoughts which were passing through his mind, began to pace to and fro beneath the thick shadows of a group of orange trees. I was left with Julia.
'Princess,' said I, 'it is yet early, and the beauty of the evening makes it wrong to shut ourselves up from the sight of so fair a scene: shall we follow farther some of these inviting paths?'
'Nothing can be more pleasant,' said she; 'these are my favorite haunts, and I never am weary of them, and never did they seem to me to wear a more lovely aspect than now. Let me be your guide, and I will lead you by a winding way to Zenobia's Temple, as we call it, for the reason that it is her chosen retreat, as the arbor which we have now left is mine.'
So we began to walk toward the spot of which she spoke. We were for some time silent. At length the princess said, 'Roman, you have now seen Zenobia, both as a queen and a woman. Has fame done her more than justice?'
'Great as her reputation is in Rome,' I replied, 'fame has not, to my ear at least, brought any thing that more than distantly approaches a true and faithful picture of her. We have heard much indeed--and yet not enough--of her surpassing beauty, of the vigor of her understanding, of her vast acquirements in the Greek learning, of the wisdom and energy of her conduct as a sovereign queen, of her skill in the chase, of her bravery and martial bearing, when, at the head of her troops, she leads them to the charge. But of this union of feminine loveliness with so much of masculine power, of this womanly grace, of this winning condescension,--so that it loses all the air of condescension,--to those even much beneath her in every human accomplishment as well as in rank, of this I had heard nothing, and for this I was not prepared. When, in the morning, I first saw her seated in all the pride of oriental state, and found myself prostrate at her feet, it was only Zenobia that I saw, and I saw what I expected. But no sooner had she spoken, especially no sooner had she cast that look upon you, princess, when you had said a few words in reply to me, than I saw not Zenobia only, but the woman and the mother. A veil was suddenly lifted, and a new being stood before me. It seemed to me that moment, that I knew her better than I know myself. I am sure that I know her. Her countenance all living with emotion, changing and working with every thought of her mind and every feeling of her heart, reveals her with the truth of a magic mirror. She is not known at Rome.'
'I am sorry for it,' said Julia; 'if they only knew her, they could never do her harm. You, Piso, may perhaps do much for her. I perceive, already, that she highly regards you, and values your opinion. If you are willing to do us such service, if you feel interest enough in our fate, speak to her, I pray you, with plainness, all that you think. Withhold nothing. Fear not to utter what you may deem to be most unpalatable truths. She is candid and generous as she is ambitious. She will at least hear and weigh whatever you may advance. God grant, that truth may reach her mind, and reaching, sway it!'
'I can now think of no higher satisfaction,' I replied, 'than to do all I may, as a Roman, in your service. I love your nation; and as a Roman and a man, I desire its welfare and permanent glory. Its existence is necessary to Rome; its ruin or decay must be, viewed aright, but so much injury to her most vital interests. Strange, how strange, that Zenobia, formed by the gods to draw her happiness from sources so much nobler than any which ambition can supply, should turn from them, and seek for it in the same shallow pool with Alexander, and Aurelian, and the hireling soldier of fortune!'
'Strange indeed,' said Julia, 'that she who can enter with Longinus into the deepest mysteries of philosophy, and whose mind is stored with all the learning of the schools, should still love the pomp of power better than all. And Fausta is but her second self. Fausta worships Zenobia, and Zenobia is encouraged in her opinions by the kindred sentiments of that bright spirit. All the influence, Piso, which you can exert over Fausta will reach Zenobia.'
'It seems presumptuous, princess,' said I, 'to seek to draw the minds of two such beings as Zenobia and Fausta to our bent. Yet surely they are in the wrong.'
'It is something,' quickly added the princess, 'that Longinus is of our mind; but then again Zabdas and Gracchus are a host on the other part. And all the power and pride of Palmyra are with them too. But change Zenobia, and we change all. O how weary am I of ambition, and how sick of greatness! Willingly would I exchange all this for an Arab's tent, or a hermit's cell,' 'The gods grant that may never be,' I replied; 'but that you, princess, may yet live to sit upon the throne of Zenobia.'
'I say it with sincerity, Roman--that prayer finds no echo in my bosom, I have seen enough of power, and of the honors that wait upon it. And when I say this, having had before my eyes this beautiful vision of Zenobia reigning over subjects as a mother would reign over her family, dealing justly with all, and living but to make others happy--you must believe me. I seek and love a calmer, humbler lot. This, Piso, is the temple of Zenobia. Let us enter.'
We approached and entered. It was a small building, after the model of the temple of Vesta at Tibur, constructed of the most beautiful marbles, and adorned with statues. Within were the seats on which the Queen was accustomed to recline, and an ample table, covered with her favorite authors, and the materials of writing.
'It is here,' said Julia, 'that, seated with my mother, we listen to the eloquence of Longinus, while he unfolds the beauties of the Greek or Roman learning; or, together with him, read the most famous works of former ages. With Homer, Thucydides, and Sophocles for our companions, we have here passed precious hours and days, and have the while happily forgotten the heavy burden of a nation's cares. I have forgotten them; not so Zenobia. They are her life, and from all we have read would she ever draw somewhat that should be of service to her in the duties of her great office,' Returning to the surrounding portico, we stood and for a time enjoyed in silence the calm beauty of the scene.
As we stood thus,--Julia gazing upon the objects around us, or lost in thought, I must I say it? seeing scarce any thing but her, and thinking only of her--as we stood thus, shouts of merry laughter came to us, borne upon the breeze, and roused us from our reverie.
'These sounds,' said I,' cannot come from the palace; it is too far, unless these winding walks have deceived me.'
'They are the voices,' said Julia, 'I am almost sure, of Livia and Faustula, and the young Cæsars. They seem to be engaged in some sport near the palace. Shall we join them?'
'Let us do so,' said I.
So we moved toward that quarter of the gardens whence the sounds proceeded. A high wall at length separated us from those whom we sought. But reaching a gate, we passed through and entered upon a lawn covered as it seemed with children, slaves, and the various inmates of the palace. Here, mingled among the motley company, we at once perceived the Queen, and Longinus and Fausta, together with many of those whom we had sat with at the banquet. The centre of attraction, and the cause of the loud shouts of laughter which continually arose, was a small white elephant with which the young princes and princesses were amusing themselves. He had evidently been trained to the part he had to perform, for nothing could be more expert than the manner in which he went through his various tricks. Sometimes he chased them and pretended difficulty in overtaking them; then he would affect to stumble, and so fall and roll upon the ground; then springing quickly upon his feet, he would surprise some one or other lurking near him, and seizing him with his trunk would hold him fast, or first whirling him in the air, then seat him upon his back, and march gravely round the lawn, the rest following and shouting; then releasing his prisoner, he would lay himself upon the ground, while all together would fearlessly climb upon his back, till it was covered, when he would either suddenly shake his huge body, so that one after another they rolled off, or he would attempt to rise slowly upon his legs, in doing which, nearly all would slip from off his slanting back, and only two or three succeed in keeping their places. And other sportive tricks, more than it would be worth while for me to recount, did he perform for the amusement of his play-fellows. And beautiful was it to see the carefulness with which he trod and moved, lest any harm might come to those children. His especial favorite was the little flaxen-haired Faustula. He was never weary of caressing her, taking her on his trunk, and bearing her about, and when he set her down, would wait to see that she was fairly on her feet and safe, before he would return to his gambols. Her voice calling out, 'Sapor, Sapor,' was sure to bring him to her, when, what with words and signs, he soon comprehended what it was she wanted. I myself came in unwittingly for a share of the sport. For, as Faustula came bounding by me, I did as those are so apt to do who know little of children--I suddenly extended my arms and caught her. She, finding herself seized and in the arms of one she knew not, thought, as children will think, that she was already home a thousand leagues from her home, and screamed; whereupon at the instant, I felt myself taken round the legs by a force greater than that of a man, and which drew them together with such violence that instinctively I dropped the child, and at the same time cried out with pain. Julia, standing next me, incontinently slapped the trunk of the elephant--for it was that twisted round me--with her hand, at which, leaving me, he wound it lightly round the waist of the princess, and held her his close prisoner. Great laughter from the children and the slaves testified their joy at seeing their elders, equally with themselves, in the power of the elephant. Milo being of the number, and in his foolish exhilaration and sportive approbation of Sapor's feats having gone up to him and patted him on his side, the beast, receiving as an affront that plebeian salutation, quickly turned upon him, and taking him by one of his feet, held him in that displeasing manner---his head hanging down--and paraded leisurely round the green, Milo making the while hideous outcry, and the whole company, especially the slaves and menials, filling the air with screams of laughter. At length Vabalathus, thinking that Milo might be injured, called out to Sapor, who thereupon released him, and he, rising and adjusting his dress, was heard to affirm, that it had never happened so while he was in the service of Gallienus.
These things for the little Gallus.
Satisfied now with the amusements of the evening and the pleasures of the day, we parted from one another, filled with quite different sentiments from those which had possessed us in the morning. Do members of this great human family ever meet each other in social converse, and freely open their hearts, without a new and better strength being given to the bonds which hold in their embrace the peace and happiness of society? To love each other, I think we chiefly need but to know each other. Ignorance begets suspicion, suspicion dislike or hatred, and so we live as strangers and enemies, when knowledge would have led to intimacy and friendship. Farewell!
| {
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} |
6 | None | Many days have passed, my Curtius, since I last wrote, each bringing its own pleasures, and leaving its ineffaceable impressions upon the soul. But though all have been in many things delightful, none has equalled that day and evening at the palace of the Queen. I have now mingled largely with the best society of Palmyra. The doors of the noble and the rich have been opened to me with a liberal hospitality, As the friend of Gracchus and Fausta--and now I may add I believe without presumption--of Zenobia also, of Julia, and Longinus, I have been received with attentions, of which Aurelian himself might with reason have been proud. More and more do I love this people, more and more fervently do I beg of the Being or Beings who rule over the affairs of men, to interpose and defend them from any threatening danger. I grieve that the rumors still reaching us from Rome tend so much to confirm the belief that our emperor is making preparations for an eastern expedition. Yet I cannot bring myself to think that he aims at Zenobia. If it were so, would there be first no communication with the Queen? Is it like Aurelian to plan and move so secretly? And against a woman too? --and that woman Zenobia? I'll not believe it. Your letters would not be what they are, if there were any real purpose like that which is attributed to Aurelian. But time will make its revelations. Meanwhile, let me tell you where I now am, and what pleasures I am enjoying. This will be written under various dates.
I write to you from what is called the Queen's Mountain Palace, being her summer residence--occasionally--either to avoid the greater heats of the city or that she may divert herself with athletic sports of hunting, of which she is excessively fond, and in which she has few equals of her own or even of our sex. Roman women of the present day would be amazed, perhaps shocked, to be told what the sports and exercises are in which this great eastern Queen finds her pleasures. She is not more exalted above the women of Rome by genius, and the severer studies of the closet, than she is, in my judgment, by the manner and fashion of her recreations. Let not the dear Lucilia be offended. Were she here with me, her fair and generous mind would rest, I am sure, after due comparisons, in the very same conclusions. Fausta is in these respects too, as in others, but her second self. There is not a feat of horsemanship or archery, nor an enterprise in the chase, but she will dare all and do all that is dared or done by Zenobia; not in the spirit of limitation or even rivalry, but from the native impulses of a soul that reaches at all things great and difficult. And even Julia, that being who seems too ethereal for earth, and as if by some strange chance she were misplaced, being here, even Julia has been trained in the same school, and, as I shall show you, can join in the chase, and draw the bow, with scarcely less of skill and vigor--with no less courage--than either her mother or Fausta. Although I have now seen it, I still can hardly associate such excess of beauty--a beauty both of form and face so truly belonging to this soft, Syrian clime--with a strength and dexterity at every exercise that might put to shame many a Roman who wears both a beard and the manly gown. But this, I need not say, is not after Julia's heart. She loves more the gentler encounters of social intercourse, where wit, and sense, and the affections, have their full play, and the god-like that is within us asserts its supremacy.
But my purpose now is to tell you how and why it is I am here, and describe to you as well as I can this new Elysium: and how it is the happy spirits, whom the gods have permitted to dwell here, pass their hours.
I am here by the invitation of the Queen. A few days after that which we had so highly enjoyed at the palace, she expressed her desire that Gracchus, Fausta, and myself would accompany her, with others of her select friends, to her retreat among the hills, there to indulge in perfect repose, or engage in the rural sports of the place, according to our pleasure. I was not slow, neither were Gracchus and Fausta, to accept so agreeable an invitation. 'I feared,' said Fausta, 'lest the troubled state of affairs would prevent the Queen from taking her usual vacation, where she loves best to be. But to say the truth, Lucius, I do not think the prospect of a rupture with Rome does give her very serious thought. The vision of a trial of arms with so renowned a soldier as Aurelian, is, I doubt, not wholly, displeasing to her; there being especially so good reason to believe that what befell Heraclianus might befall Aurelian. Nay, do not look so grave. Rome is not fallen--yet.'
'Your tongue, Fausta, is lighter than your heart. Yet if Rome must fall, why truly I know not at whose feet it could fall so worthily as those of Zenobia and Fausta. But I trust its destiny is never to fall. Other kingdoms as great, or almost as great, I know you will say, have fallen, and Rome must in its turn. It seems, however, I must say, to possess a principle of vitality which never before belonged to any nation. Its very vastness too seems to protect it. I can as soon believe that shoals of sea-carp may overcome the whale, or an army of emmets the elephant or rhinoceros, as that one nation, or many banded together, can break down the power of Rome.'
'How very, very naturally and easily is that said. Who can doubt that you are a Roman, born upon the Coelian Hill! Pity but that we Palmyrenes could copy that high way you Romans have. Do you not think that strength and success lie much in confidence? Were every Roman such as you, I can believe you were then omnipotent. But then we have some like you. Here are Zenobia and I; you cannot deny that we have something of the Roman about us.'
'I confess it would be a drawn battle, at least, were you a nation of Zenobias. How Fausta is at the lance, I cannot yet tell.'
'That you shall see as soon as we are among the mountains. Is not this charming, now, in the Queen, to bring us all together again so soon, under her own roof? And such a place too, Lucius! We shall live there, indeed; each day will at least be doubled. For I suppose life is to be measured, not by hours, but sensations. Are you ready for the morning start? O, that Solon were here! what exquisite mirth should we have! Milo is something; but Solon were more.'
'Fausta, Fausta,' cried Gracchus, 'when will you be a woman?'
'Never, I trust,' replied Fausta; 'if I may then neither laugh, nor cry, nor vex a Roman, nor fight for our Queen. These are my vocations, and if I must renounce them, then I will be a man.'
'Either sex may be proud to gain you, my noble girl,' said Gracchus.
Early in the morning of the following day, all at the house of Gracchus gave note of preparation. We were to meet the Queen and her party a few miles from the walls of the city, at an appointed place, whence we were to make the rest of the journey in company. We were first at the place of meeting, which was a rising ground, shadowed by a few cedars, with their huge branching tops. We reined up our horses and stood with our faces toward the road, over which we had just passed, looking to catch the first view of the Queen. The sun was just rising above the horizon, and touching with its golden color the higher objects of the scene--the tall cedars--the gray crags, which here and there jutted out into the plain--the towers, and columns, and obelisks of the still slumbering city.
'How beautiful!' exclaimed Fausta: 'but look! that is more beautiful still--that moving troop of horse! See! --even at this distance you can distinguish the form and bearing of the Queen. How the slant beams of this ruddy sun make her dress and the harness of her gallant steed to sparkle! Is it not a fair sight, Lucius?'
It was beautiful indeed. The Queen was conspicuous above all, not more for her form and bearing, than for the more than imperial magnificence of her appointments. It is thus she is always seen by her people, dazzling them equally by her beauties and her state. As she drew nearer, I felt that I had never before seen aught on earth so glorious. The fiery Arabian that bore her knew, as well as I, who it was that sat upon him; and the pride of his carriage was visible in a thousand expressive movements. Julia was at her side, differing from her only as one sun differs from another. She, like Zenobia, seemed almost a part of the animal that bounded beneath her, so perfect was the art with which she rode.
'A fair morning to you all,' cried the Queen, accompanying the words with a glance that was reward enough for a life of service. 'The day smiles upon our enterprise. Fausta, if you will join me, Piso will take care of Julia; as for our Zabdas and Longinus, they are sad loiterers.'
Saying these things--scarcely checking her steed--and before the rest of the party had quite come up--we darted on, the Queen leading the way, and, as is her wont, almost at the top of her horse's speed.
'Zenobia,' said Julia, 'is in fine spirits this morning, as you may judge from her beaming countenance, and the rate at which she travels. But we can hardly converse while we are going so fast.'
'No bond has been signed,' said I, 'that we should ride like couriers. Suppose, princess, we slacken our pace.'
'That will we,' she replied, 'and leave it to the Queen to announce our approach. Here now, alas! are Zabdas and Longinus overtaking us. The Queen wonders at your delay,' said she, addressing them; 'put spurs to your horses, and you may easily overtake her.'
'Is it required?' asked the Egyptian, evidently willing to linger.
'Not so indeed,' answered Julia, 'but it would be gallant; the Queen, save Fausta, is alone. How can we answer it, if evil befall her? Her girth may break.'
At which alarming suggestion, taking it as merrily as it was given, the two counsellors quickened their pace, and bidding us good morning, soon, as we saw at the ascent of a little hill, overtook Zenobia.
For the rest of us, we were passing and repassing each other, mingling and separating all the remainder of the way. Our road lay through a rough and hilly country, but here and there sprinkled with bright spots of the richest beauty and highest cultivation, The valleys, whenever we descended into them, we found well watered and tilled, and peopled by an apparently happy peasantry. And as we saw them from first one eminence and then another, stretching away and winding among the hills, we agreed that they presented delicious retreats for those who, weary of the world, wished to taste, toward the close of life, the sweets of a repose which the world never knows. As we drew toward the end of our ride--a ride of quite twenty Roman miles--we found ourselves forsaken of all the rest of the company, owing either to our horses not being equal to the others, or rather, perhaps, to the frequent pauses which we made at all those points where the scenery presented any thing beautiful or uncommon.
Every thing now at last indicated that we were not far from the royal demesne. All around were marks of the hand and eye of taste having been there, and of the outlay of enormous wealth. It was not, however, till we had, for a mile and more, ridden through lawns and fields covered with grain and fruit, laid out in divisions of tillage or of wood, that, emerging from a dark grove, we came within sight of the palace. We could just discern, by the glittering of the sun upon the jewelry of their horses, that the last of the company were wheeling into the grounds in front of what seemed the principal part of the vast structure. That we might not be too much in the rear of all, we put our horses to their speed, which then, with the fleetness of wind, bore us to the outer gates of the palace. Passing these, we were in a moment in the midst of those who had preceded us, the grooms and slaves of the palace surrounding us, and taking charge of our horses. Zenobia was still standing in the great central portico, where she had dismounted, her face glowing with the excitement of the ride, and engaged in free discourse with, the group around her. Soon as Julia reined up her horse, and quicker than any other could approach, she sprang to her daughter's side, and assisted her to dismount, holding with a strong hand the while, the fiery and restless animal she rode.
'Welcome in safety, Julia,' said the Queen, 'and thanks, noble Piso, for your care of your charge. But perhaps we owe your safety more to the strength of your Arab's girth, than to any care of Piso.'
Julia's laugh rang merrily through the arches of the portico.
'Truly,' said she, 'I was glad to use any sudden conceit by which to gain a more solitary ride than I was like to have. It was my ambition to be Piso's companion, that I might enjoy the pleasure of pointing out to new eyes the beauties of the country. I trust I was rightly comprehended by our grave counsellors.'
'Assure yourself of it,' said Longinus; 'and though we could not but part from you with some unwillingness, yet seeing whom we were to join, we bore the loss with such philosophy as we were able to summon on the sudden.'
Zenobia now led the way to the banqueting hall, where tables loaded with meats, fruits, and wines, offered themselves most temptingly and seasonably, to those who had ridden, as I have said, twenty Roman miles.
This villa of the Queen, for its beauty and extent unrivalled in all the East, I would that I could set before you, so that you might form some conception of its greatness and variety. The palace stands at the northern extremity of a vast plain, just where the wild and mountainous region ends, and the more level and cultivated begins. To the North stretches a savage country, little inhabited, and filled with the wild animals which make the forests of Asia so terrible. This is the Queen's hunting-ground. It was here that, with Odenatus, she pursued the wild boar, the tiger, or the panther, with a daring and a skill that astonished the boldest huntsmen. It was in these forests, that the wretch Mæsonius, insolently throwing his javelin at the game, just as he saw his uncle was about to strike, incurred that just rebuke, which however his revengeful nature never forgave, and which was appeased only with the blood of the royal Palmyrene. Zenobia is never more herself than when she joins the chase mounted upon her fleet Arabian, and roused to all her power by the presence of a gallant company of the boldest spirits of Palmyra.
The southern view, and which my apartments overlook, presents a wide expanse of level ground, or gently undulating, offering a various prospect of cultivated fields, unbroken lawns, dense groves, of standing or flowing waters, of light bridges spanning them, of pavilions, arbors, statues, standing out in full view, or just visible through, the rich foliage or brilliant flowering plants of these sunny regions. The scene is closed by the low, waving outline of the country, through which we passed on the morning of our ride from Palmyra, over which there is spread a thin veil of purple haze, adding a new charm to whatever objects are dimly discerned through it. At one point only can we, when this vapor is by any cause diminished, catch a glimpse of the loftier buildings of the distant city. But the palace itself, though it be the work of man, and not of gods, is not less beautiful than all these aspects of nature. It is wholly built after the light and almost fantastic forms of the Persian architecture, which seem more suited to a residence of this kind than the heavier fashions of the Greek or Roman taste. Hadrian's villa is alone to be compared with it for vastness and magnificence, and that, by the side of this, seems a huge prison, so gay and pleasing are the thoughts and sensations which this dream-like combination of arch upon arch, of pinnacle, dome, and tower--all enriched with the most minute and costly work--inspires the mind.
Nothing has pleased me more than at times, when the sultry heats of the day forbid alike study and recreation, to choose for myself some remote and shaded spot, and lying along upon the flowery turf, soothed by the drowsy hum of the summer insects, gaze upon this gorgeous pile of oriental grandeur, and lazily drink in the draughts of a beauty, as I believe, no where else to be enjoyed. When at such hours Julia or Fausta is my companion, I need not say in how great degree the pleasure is heightened, nor what hues of a more rosy tint wrap all the objects of the scene. Fountains here, as every where in the Eastern world, are frequent, and of such size as to exert a sensible influence upon the heated atmosphere. Huge columns of the coldest water, drawn from the recesses of the mountains, are thrown into the air, and then falling and foaming over rocks rudely piled, to resemble some natural cascade, disappear, and are led by subterranean conduits to distant and lower parts of the ground. These fountains take many and fantastic forms. In the centre of the principal court of the palace, it is an enormous elephant of stone, who disgorges from his uplifted trunk a vast but graceful shower, sometimes charged with the most exquisite perfumes, and which are diffused by the air through every part of the palace. Around this fountain, reclining upon seats constructed to allow the most easy attitudes, or else in some of the apartments immediately opening upon it, it is our custom to pass the evening hours, either conversing with each other, or listening to some tale which he who thinks he can entertain the company is at liberty to relate, or gathering at once instruction and delight, as Longinus, either from his memory or a volume, imparts to us choice selections of the literature of Athens or Rome. So have I heard the Oedipus Tyrannus, and the Prometheus, as I never have heard them before.
At such times, it is beautiful to see the group of listeners gathering nearer and nearer, as the philosopher reads or recites, and catching every word and accent of that divine tongue, as it falls from his lips. Zenobia alone, of all who are there, ever presumes to interrupt the reader with either question or comment. To her voice Longinus instantly becomes a willing listener; and well may he: for never does she speak, at such moments, without adding a new charm to whatever theme she touches. Her mind, surprisingly clear, and deeply imbued with the best spirit of ancient learning, and poetically cast, becomes of right our teacher; and commands always the profound respect, if not always the assent, of the accomplished Greek. Not unfrequently, on such casual remark of the Queen, the reading is thereupon suspended, and discussion between her and the philosopher, or conversation upon topics suggested in which we all take part, ensues. But, however this may be, all moves on in a spirit the most liberal, frank, and free. No restraint is upon us but that which reverence for superior learning, or goodness, or beauty imposes. I must add, that on these occasions the great Zabdas is always seen to compose himself to his slumbers, from which he often starts, uttering loud shouts, as if at the head of his troops. Our bursts of laughter wake him not, but by the strange power of sleep seem to be heard by him as if they were responsive cries of the enemy, and only cause him to send forth louder shouts than ever, 'Down with the Egyptian dogs!' 'Let the Nile choke with their carcasses!' --'The Queen forever!' and then his voice dies away in inarticulate sounds.
But I should weary you indeed, were I to go on to tell you half the beauties and delights of this chosen spot, and cause you, perhaps, to be discontented with that quiet, modest house, upon the banks of the Tiber. I leave you therefore to fill up with your own colors the outline which I have now set before you, as I best could, and pass to other things.
Every day has seen its peculiar games and entertainments. Sometimes the Queen's slaves, trained to their respective feats, have wrestled, or fought, or run, for our amusement. At other times, we ourselves have been the performers. Upon the racecourse, fleet Arabians have contended for the prize, or they, who have esteemed themselves skilful, have tried for the mastery in two or four horse chariots. Elephants have been put to their strength, and dromedaries to their speed. But our chief pleasure has been derived from trials of skill and of strength with the lance and the arrow, and from the chase.
It was in using the lance, that Antiochus--a kinsman of the Queen, whom I believe I have not before mentioned, although I have many times met him--chiefly signalized himself. This person, half Syrian and half Roman, possessing the bad qualities of both and the good ones of neither, was made one of this party, rather, I suppose, because he could not be left out, than because he was wanted. He has few friends in Palmyra, but among wild and dissolute spirits like himself. He is famed for no quality either great or good. Violent passions and intemperate lusts are what he is chiefly noted for. But, except that pride and arrogance are writ upon the lines of his countenance, you would hardly guess that his light-tinted and beardless cheeks and soft blue eyes belonged to one of so dark and foul a soul. His frame and his strength are those of a giant; yet is he wholly destitute of grace. His limbs seem sometimes as if they were scarcely a part of him, such difficulty does he discover in marshalling them aright. Consciousness of this embarrasses him, and sends him for refuge to his pride, which darts looks of anger and bitter revenge upon all who offend or make light of him. His ambition is, and his hope, to succeed Zenobia. You may think this strange, considering the family of the Queen. But as for the sons of Zenobia, he calculates much, so it is reported, upon their weakness both of mind and body, as rendering them distasteful to the Palmyrenes, even if they should live; and as for Julia and her sisters, he has so high conceptions of his own superior merit, that he doubts not in case of the Queen's demise, that the people would by acclamation select him, in preference to them, as her successor; or in the last emergency, that it would be but to marry Julia, in order to secure the throne beyond any peradventure. These are the schemes which many do not scruple to impute to him. Whether credited or not by Zenobia, I cannot tell. But were they, I believe she would but smile at the poor lack-brain who entertains them. Intrenched as she is in the impregnable fortress of her people's heart, she might well despise the intrigues of a bolder and worthier spirit than Antiochus. For him she can spare neither words nor thoughts.
It was Fausta who a few days ago, as we rose from the tables, proposed that we should try our strength and skill in throwing the lance. 'I promised you, Lucius,' said she, 'that when here, you should be permitted to judge of my abilities in that art. Are all ready for the sport?'
All sprang from their seats, like persons weary of one occupation, and grateful for the proffer of another.
Zenobia led the way to the grounds, not far from the palace, appropriated to games of this kind, and to the various athletic sports. Not all the company entered the lists, but many seated themselves, or stood around, spectators of the strife. Slaves now appeared, bearing the lances, and preparing the ground for our exercise. The feat to be performed seemed to me not difficult so much as impossible. It was to throw the lance with such unerring aim and force, as to pass through an aperture in a shield of four-fold ox-hide, of a size but slightly larger than the beam of the lance, so as not so much as to graze the sides of the perforated place. The distance too of the point from which the lance was to be thrown, from the shield, was such as to require great strength of arm to overcome it.
The young Cæsars advanced first to the trial. 'Now,' whispered Fausta, 'behold the vigor of the royal arm. Were such alone our defence, well might Palmyra tremble.'
Herennianus, daintily handling and brandishing his lance, in the manner prescribed at the schools, where skill in all warlike arts is taught, and having drawn all eyes upon him, at length let it fly, when, notwithstanding so much preparatory flourish, it fell short of the staff upon which the shield was reared.
'Just from the tables,' said the prince, as he withdrew, angry at his so conspicuous failure; 'and how can one reach what he can scarcely see?'
'Our arm has not yet recovered from its late injury,' said Timolaus, as he selected his weapon; 'yet will we venture a throw.' His lance reached the mast, but dropped feebly at his foot. Vabalathus, saying nothing, and putting all his strength in requisition, drove his weapon into the staff, where it stood quivering a moment, and fell to the ground.
Carias, Seleucus, Otho, Gabrayas, noblemen of Palmyra, now successively tried their fortune, and all showed themselves well trained to the use of the weapon, by each fixing his lance in the body of the shield, and in the near neighborhood of the central hole.
Zabdas now suddenly springing from his seat, which he had taken among those who apparently declined to join in the sport, seized a lance from the hands of the slave who bore them, and hurling it with the force of a tempest, the weapon, hissing along the air, struck the butt near the centre; but the wood of which it was made, unused to such violence, shivered and crumbled under the blow. Without a word, and without an emotion, so far as the face was its index, the Egyptian returned to his seat. It seemed as if he had done the whole in his sleep. It is actual war alone that can rouse the energies of Zabdas.
Zenobia, who had stood leaning upon her lance, next advanced to the trial. Knowing her admirable skill at all manly exercises, I looked with certainty to see her surpass those who had already essayed their powers. Nor was I disappointed. With a wonderful grace she quickly threw herself into the appointed position, and with but a moment's preparation, and as if it cost her but a slight effort, sent her lance, with unerring aim and incredible swiftness, through the hole. Yet was not the feat a perfect one. For, in passing through the aperture, the weapon not having been driven with quite sufficient force, did not preserve its level, so that the end grazed the shield, and the lance then consequently taking an oblique direction, plunged downward and buried its head in the turf.
'Now, Fausta,' said the Queen, 'must you finish what I have but begun. Let us now see your weapon sweep on till its force shall be evenly spent.'
'When Zenobia fails,' said Fausta, 'there must be some evil influence abroad that shall cripple the powers of others yet more. However, let me try; for I have promised to prove to our Roman friend that the women, of Palmyra know the use of arms not less than the men.'
So saying, she chose her lance, and with little ceremony, and almost before our eyes could trace her movements, the weapon had flown, and passing through, as it seemed, the very centre of the perforated space, swept on till its force died away in the distance, and it fell gracefully to the ground.
A burst of applause arose from the surrounding groups.
'I knew,' said Zenobia, 'that I could trust the fame, of the women of Palmyra to you. At the harp, the needle, or the lance, our Fausta has no equal; unless,' turning herself round, 'in my own Julia. Now we will see what your arm can do.'
Standing near the lances, I selected one eminent for its smoothness and polish, and placed it in her hand.
With a form of so much less apparent vigor than either Zenobia or Fausta, so truly Syrian in a certain soft languor that spreads itself over her, whether at rest or in motion, it was amazing to see with what easy strength she held and balanced the heavy weapon. Every movement showed that there lay concealed within her ample power for this and every manly exercise, should she please to put it forth.
'At the schools,' said the princess, 'Fausta and I went on ever with equal steps. Her advantage lies in being at all times mistress of her power. My arm is often treacherous, through failure of the heart.'
It was not difficult to see the truth of what she said, in her varying color, and the slightly agitated lance.
But addressing herself to the sport, and with but one instant's pause, the lance flew toward the shield, and entering the opening, but not with a perfect direction, it passed not through, but hung there by the head.
'Princess,' said Zabdas, springing from his repose with more than wonted energy, 'that lance was chosen, as I saw, by a Roman. Try once more with one that I shall choose, and see what the issue will be.'
'Truly,' said Julia, 'I am ready to seize any plea under which to redeem my fame. But first give me yourself a lesson, will you not?'
The Egyptian was not deaf to the invitation, and once more essaying the feat, and with his whole soul bent to the work, the lance, quicker than sight, darted from his hand, and following in the wake of Fausta's, lighted farther than hers--being driven with more force--upon the lawn.
The princess now, with more of confidence in her air, again balanced and threw the lance which Zabdas had chosen--this time with success; for, passing through the shield, it fell side by side with Fausta's.
'Fortune still unites us,' said Julia; 'if for a time she leaves me a little in the rear, yet she soon repents of the wrong, and brings me up.' Saying which, she placed herself at Fausta's side.
'But come, our worthy cousin,' said the Queen, now turning and addressing Antiochus, who stood with folded arms, dully surveying the scene, 'will you not try a lance?'
'Tis hardly worth our while,' said he, 'for the gods seem to have delivered all the honor and power of the East into the hands of women.'
'Yet it may not be past redemption,' said Julia, 'and who more likely than Hercules to achieve so great a work? Pray begin.'
That mass of a man, hardly knowing whether the princess were jesting or in earnest--for to the usual cloud that rested upon his intellect, there was now added the stupidity arising from free indulgence at the tables--slowly moved toward the lances, and selecting the longest and heaviest, took his station at the proper place. Raising then his arm, which was like a weaver's beam, and throwing his enormous body into attitudes which showed that no child's play was going on, he let drive the lance, which, shooting with more force than exactness of aim, struck upon the outer rim of the shield, and then glancing sideways was near spearing a poor slave, whose pleasure it was, with others, to stand in the neighborhood of the butt, to pick up and return the weapons thrown, or withdraw them from the shield, where they might have fastened themselves.
Involuntary laughter broke forth upon this unwonted performance of the lance; upon which it was easy to see, by the mounting color of Antiochus, that his passions were inflamed. Especially--did we afterward suppose--was he enraged at the exclamation of one of the slaves near the shield, who was heard to say to his fellow: 'Now is the reign of women at an end.' Seizing, however, on the instant, another lance, he was known to exclaim, by a few who stood near him, but who did not take the meaning of his words: 'With a better mark, there may be a better aim.' Then resuming his position, he made at first, by a long and steady aim, as if he were going, with certainty now, to hit the shield; but, changing suddenly the direction of his lance, he launched it with fatal aim, and a giant's force, at the slave who had uttered those words. It went through him, as he had been but a sheet of papyrus, and then sung along the plain. The poor wretch gave one convulsive leap into the air, and dropped dead.
'Zenobia!' exclaimed Julia.
'Great Queen!' said Fausta.
'Shameful!' --'dastardly!' --'cowardly!' --broke from one and another of the company.
'That's the mark I never miss,' observed Antiochus; and at the same time regaled his nose from a box of perfume.
'Tis his own chattel,' said the Queen; 'he may do with it as he lists. He has trenched upon no law of the realm, but only upon those of breeding and humanity. Our presence, and that of this company, might, we think, have claimed a more gentle observance.'
'Dogs!' fiercely shouted Antiochus--who, as the Queen said these words, her eyes fastened indignantly upon him, had slunk sulkily to his seat--'dogs,' said he, aiming suddenly to brave the matter, 'off with yonder carrion! --it offends the Queen.'
'Would our cousin,' said Zenobia, 'win the hearts of Palmyra, this surely is a mistaken way. Come, let us to the palace. This spot is tainted. But that it may be sweetened as far as may be, slaves!' she cried, 'bring to the gates the chariot, and other remaining chattels of Antiochus!'
Antiochus, at these words, pale with the apprehensions of a cowardly spirit, rose and strode toward the palace, from which, in a few moments, he was seen on his way to the city.
'You may judge me needlessly harsh, Piso,' said the Queen, as we now sauntered toward the palace, 'but truly the condition of the slave is such, that seeing the laws protect him not, we must do something to enlist in his behalf the spirit of humanity. The breach of courtesy, however, was itself not to be forgiven.'
'It was a merciful fate of the slave,' said I, 'compared with what our Roman slaves suffer. To be lashed to death, or crucified, or burned, or flayed alive, or torn by dogs, or thrown as food for fishes, is something worse than this quick exit of the thrall of Antiochus. You of these softer climes are in your natures milder than we, and are more moved by scenes like this. What would you think, Queen, to see not one, but scores or hundreds of these miserable beings, upon bare suspicion of attempts against their master's life, condemned, by their absolute irresponsible possessors, to death in all its most revolting forms? Nay, even our Roman women, of highest rank, and gentlest nurture, stand by while their slaves are scourged, or themselves apply the lash. If under this torture they die, it is thought of but as of the death of vermin. War has made with us this sort of property of so cheap possession, that to destroy it is often a useful measure of economy. By a Roman, nothing is less regarded than life. And in truth, I see not how it can be otherwise.'
'But surely,' said Julia, 'you do not mean to defend this condition of life. It is not like the sentiments I have heard you express,' 'I defend it only thus,' I replied: 'so long as we have wars--and when will they cease? --there must be captives; and what can these be but slaves? To return them to their own country, were to war to no purpose. To colonize them were to strip war of its horrors. To make them freemen of our own soil, were to fill the land with foes and traitors. Then if there must be slaves, there must be masters and owners. And the absolute master of other human beings, responsible to no one, can be no other than a tyrant. If he has, as he must have, the power to punish at will, he will exercise it, and that cruelly. If he has the power to kill, as he must have, then will he kill and kill cruelly when his nature prompts. And this his nature will prompt, or if not his nature absolutely, yet his educated nature. Our children grow up within the sight and sound of all the horrors and sufferings of this state of things. They use their slaves--with which, almost in infancy, they are provided--according to their pleasure--as dogs, as horses; they lash, they scourge them, long before they have the strength to kill. What wonder if the boy, who, when a boy, used a slave as his beast of burden, or his footstool, when he grows to be a man, should use him as a mark to be shot at? The youth of Antiochus was reared in Rome. I presume to say that his earliest play-things were slaves, and the children of slaves. I am not surprised at his act. And such acts are too common in Rome for this to disturb me much. The education of Antiochus was continued and completed, I may venture also to say, at the circus. I think the result very natural. It cannot be very different, where slavery and the sports of the amphitheatre exist.'
'I perceive your meaning,' said Julia; 'Antiochus you affirm to be the natural product of the customs and institutions which now prevail. It is certainly so, and must continue so, until some new element shall be introduced into society, that shall ultimately reform its practices, by first exalting the sentiments and the character of the individual. Such an element do I detect----' 'In Christianity,' said Fausta; 'this is your panacea. May it prove all you desire; yet methinks it gives small promise, seeing it has already been at work more than two hundred years, and has accomplished no more.'
'A close observer,' replied Julia, 'sees much of the effect of Christianity beside that which appears upon the surface. If I err not greatly, a few years more will reveal what this religion has been doing these two centuries and more. Revolutions which are acted out in a day, have often been years or centuries in preparation. An eye that will see, may see the final issue, a long time foreshadowed in the tendencies and character of a preceding age.'
The princess uttered this with earnestness. I have reflected upon it. And if you, my Curtius, will look around upon the state of the empire, you will find many things to startle you. But of this another time.
Assembled in the evening in the court of the elephant, we were made to forget whatever had proved disagreeable during the day, while we listened to the 'Frogs,' read by Julia and Longinus.
The following day was appointed for the chase, and early in the morning I was waked by the braying of trumpets, and the baying of dogs. I found the Queen already mounted and equipped for the sport, surrounded by Zabdas, Longinus, and a few of the nobles of Palmyra. We were soon joined by Julia and Fausta. In order to insure our sport, a tiger, made fierce by being for some days deprived of food, had the preceding evening been let loose from the royal collection into the neighboring forests. These forests, abounding in game, commence immediately, as it were, in the rear of the palace. They present a boundless continuity of crag, mountain, and wooded plain, offering every variety of ground to those who seek the pleasures of the chase. The sun had not been long above the horizon when we sallied forth from the palace gates, and from the smooth and shaven fields of the royal demesne, plunged at once into the * * * * * It was a moment of inexpressible horror. At the same instant, our eyes caught the form of the famished tiger, just in the act to spring from the crag upon the unconscious Queen. But before we had time to alarm Zenobia--which would indeed have been useless--a shaft from an unerring arm arrested the monster midair, whose body then tumbled heavily at the feet of Zenobia's Arab. The horse, rearing with affright, had nearly dashed the Queen against the opposite rocks, but keeping her seat, she soon, by her powerful arm and complete horsemanship, reduced him to his obedience, though trembling like a terrified child through every part of his body. A thrust from my hunting spear quickly despatched the dying beast. We now gathered around the Queen.
* * * * * Hardly were we arrived at the lawn in front of the palace, when a cloud of dust was observed to rise in the direction of the road to Palmyra, as if caused by a body of horse in rapid movement. 'What may this mean?' said Zenobia: 'orders were strict, that our brief retirement should not be disturbed. This indicates an errand of some urgency.'
'Some embassy from abroad, perhaps,' said Julia, 'that cannot brook delay. It may be from your great brother at Rome.'
While we, in a sportive humor, indulged in various conjectures, an official of the palace announced the approach of a Roman herald, 'who craved permission to address the Queen of Palmyra.' He was ordered to advance.
In a few moments, upon a horse covered with dust and foam, appeared the Roman herald. Without one moment's hesitancy, he saw in Zenobia the Queen, and taking off his helmet, said, 'that Caius Petronius, and Cornelius Varro, ambassadors of Aurelian, were in waiting at the outer gates of the palace, and asked a brief audience of the Queen of Palmyra, upon affairs of deepest interest, both to Zenobia and the Emperor.'
'It is not our custom,' said Zenobia in reply, 'when seeking repose, as now, from the cares of state, to allow aught to break it. But we will not be selfish nor churlish. Bid the servants of your Emperor draw near, and we will hear them.'
I was not unwilling that the messengers of Aurelian should see Zenobia just as she was now. Sitting upon her noble Arabian, and leaning upon her hunting spear, her countenance glowing with a higher beauty than ever before, as it seemed to me--her head surmounted with a Parthian hunting-cap, from which drooped a single ostrich feather, springing from a diamond worth a nation's rental, her costume also Parthian, and revealing in the most perfect manner the just proportions of her form--I thought I had never seen even her, when she so filled and satisfied the eye and the mind--and, for that moment, I was almost a traitor to Aurelian. Had Julia filled her seat, I should have been quite so. As it was, I could worship her who sat her steed with no less grace, upon the left of the Queen, without being guilty of that crime. On Zenobia's right were Longinus and Zabdas, Gracchus, and the other noblemen of Palmyra. I and Fausta were near Julia. In this manner, just as we had come in from the chase, did we await the ambassadors of Aurelian.
Announced by trumpets, and followed by their train, they soon wheeled into the lawn, and advanced toward the Queen.
'Caius Petronius and Cornelius Varro,' said Zenobia, first addressing the ambassadors, and moving toward them a few paces, 'we bid you heartily welcome to Palmyra. If we receive you thus without form, you must take the blame partly to yourselves, who have sought us with such haste. We put by the customary observances, that we may cause you no delay. These whom you see are all friends or counsellors. Speak your errand without restraint.'
'We come,' replied Petronius, 'as you may surmises great Queen, upon no pleasing errand. Yet we cannot but persuade ourselves, that the Queen of Palmyra will listen to the proposals of Aurelian, and preserve the good understanding which has lasted so long between the West and the East. There have been brought already to your ears, if I have been rightly informed, rumors of dissatisfaction on the part of our Emperor, with the affairs of the East, and of plans of an eastern expedition. It is my business now to say, that these rumors have been well founded. I am further to say, that the object at which Aurelian has aimed, in the preparations he has made, is not Persia, but Palmyra.'
'He does us too much honor,' said Zenobia, her color rising, and her eye kindling; 'and what, may I ask, are specifically his demands, and the price of peace?'
'For a long series of years,' replied the ambassador, 'the wealth of Egypt and the East, as you are aware, flowed into the Roman treasury. That stream has been diverted to Palmyra. Egypt, and Syria, and Bithynia, and Mesopotamia, were dependants upon Rome, and Roman provinces. It is needless to say what they now are. The Queen of Palmyra was once but the Queen of Palmyra; she is now Queen of Egypt and of the East--Augusta of the Roman empire--her sons styled and arrayed as Cæsars. By whatever consent of former emperors these honors have been won or permitted, it is not, we are required to say, with the consent of Aurelian. By whatever service in behalf of Rome they may, in the judgment of some, be thought to be deserved, in the judgment of Aurelian the reward exceeds greatly the value of the service rendered. But while we would not be deemed insensible to those services, and while he honors the greatness and the genius of Zenobia, he would, he conceives, be unfaithful to the interests of those who have raised him to his high office, if he did not require that in the East, as in the West, the Roman empire should again be restored to the limits which bounded it in the reigns of the virtuous Antonines. This he holds essential to his own honor, and the glory of the Roman world.'
'You have delivered yourself, Caius Petronius,' replied the Queen, in a calm and firm voice, 'as it became a Roman to do, with plainness, and as I must believe, without reserve. So far I honor you. Now hear me, and as you hear, so report to him who sent you. Tell Aurelian that what I am, I have made myself; that the empire which hails me Queen has been moulded into what it is by Odenatus and Zenobia; it is no gift, but an inheritance--a conquest and a possession; it is held, not by favor, but by right of birth and power; and that when he will give away possessions or provinces which he claims as his or Rome's, for the asking, I will give away Egypt and the Mediterranean coast. Tell him that as I have lived a queen, so, the gods helping, I will die a queen,--that the last moment of my reign and my life shall be the same. If he is ambitious, let him be told that I am ambitious too--ambitious of wider and yet wider empire--of an unsullied fame, and of my people's love. Tell him I do not speak of gratitude on the part of Rome, but that posterity will say, that the Power which stood between Rome and Persia, and saved the empire in the East, which avenged the death of Valerian, and twice pursued the king of kings as far as the gates of Ctesiphon, deserved some fairer acknowledgment than the message you now bring, at the hands of a Roman emperor.'
'Let the Queen,' quickly rejoined Petronius, but evidently moved by what he had heard, 'let the Queen fully take me. Aurelian purposes not to invade the fair region where I now am, and where my eyes are rejoiced by this goodly show of city, plain and country. He hails you Queen of Palmyra! He does but ask again those appendages of your greatness, which have been torn from Rome, and were once members of her body.'
'Your emperor is gracious indeed!' replied the Queen, smiling; 'if he may hew off my limbs, he will spare the trunk! --and what were the trunk without the limbs?'
'And is this,' said Petronius, his voice significant of inward grief, 'that which I must carry back to Rome? Is there no hope of a better adjustment?'
'Will not the Queen of Palmyra delay for a few days her final answer?' added Varro: 'I see, happily, in her train, a noble Roman, from whom, as well as from us, she may obtain all needed knowledge of both the character and purposes of Aurelian. We are at liberty to wait her pleasure.'
'You have our thanks, Romans, for your courtesy, and we accept your offer; although in what I have said, I think I have spoken the sense of my people.'
'You have indeed, great Queen,' interrupted Zabdas with energy.
'Yet I owe it to my trusty counsellor, the great Longinus,' continued the Queen, 'and who now thinks not with me, to look farther into the reasons--which, because they are his, must be strong ones---by which he supports an opposite judgment.'
'Those reasons have now,' said the Greek, 'lost much or all of their force,'--Zabdas smiled triumphantly--'yet still I would advocate delay.'
'Let it be so then,' said the Queen; 'and in the meanwhile, let the ambassadors of Aurelian not refuse the hospitalities of the Eastern Queen. Our palace is yours, while it shall please you to remain.'
'For the night and the morning, we accept your offers; then, as strangers in this region, we would return to the city, to see better than we have yet done the objects which it presents. It seemed to us, on a hasty glance, surrounded by its luxuriant plains, like the habitation of gods. We would dwell there a space.'
'It shall be as you will. Let me now conduct you to the palace.'
So saying, Zenobia, putting spurs to her horse, led the way to the palace, followed by a long train of Romans and Palmyrenes. The generous hospitality of the tables closed the day and wore away the night.
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7 | None | You will be glad to learn, my Curtius, that the time has now come, when I may with reason look for news from Isaac, or for his return. It was his agreement to write of his progress, so soon as he should arrive at Ecbatana. But since he would consume but a very few days in the accomplishment of his task, if, the gods helping, he should be able to accomplish it at all, I may see him even before I hear from him, and, O day thrice happy! my brother perhaps with him. Yet am I not without solicitude, even though Calpurnius should return. For how shall I meet him? --as a Persian, or a Roman? --as a friend, or an enemy? As a brother, I can never cease to love him; as a public enemy of Rome, I may be obliged to condemn him.
You have indeed gratified me by what you have said concerning the public works in which the emperor is now engaged. Would that the erection of temples and palaces might draw away his thoughts from the East. The new wall, of so much wider sweep, with which he is now enclosing the city, is well worthy the greatness of his genius. Yet do we, my Curtius, perceive in this rebuilding and strengthening of the walls of Rome, no indication of our country's decline? Were Rome vigorous and sound, as once, in her limbs, what were the need of this new defence about the heart? It is to me a confession of weakness, rather than any evidence of greatness and strength. Aurelian achieves more for Rome by the strictness of his discipline, and his restoration of the ancient simplicity and severity among the troops, than he could by a triple wall about the metropolis. Rome will then already have fallen, when a Gothic army shall have penetrated so far as even to have seen her gates. The walls of Rome are her living and moving walls of flesh. Her old and crumbling ramparts of masonry, upon which we have so often climbed in sport, rolling down into the surrounding ditch huge masses, have ever been to me, when I have thought of them, pregnant signs of security and power.
The ambassadors, Petronius and Varro, early on the morning succeeding their interview with the Queen, departed for the city. They were soon followed by Zenobia and her train of counsellors and attendants. It had been before agreed that the princess, Fausta, and myself, should remain longer at the palace, for the purpose of visiting, as had been proposed, the aged Christian hermit, whose retreat is among the fastnesses of the neighboring mountains. I would rather have accompanied the Queen, seeing it was so certain that important interviews and discussions would take place, when they should be all returned once more to the city. I suppose this was expressed in my countenance, for the Queen, as she took her seat in the chariot, turned and said to me: 'We shall soon see you again in the city. A few hours in the mountains will be all that Julia will require; and sure I am that the wisdom of St. Thomas will more than repay you for what you may lose in Palmyra. Our topics will relate but to worldly aggrandizement--yours to more permanent interests.'
How great a pity that the love of glory has so fastened upon the heart of this wonderful woman; else might she live, and reign, and die the object of universal idolatry. But set as her heart is upon conquest and universal empire throughout the East, and of such marvellous power to subdue every intellect, even the strongest, to her will, I can see nothing before her but a short and brilliant career, ending in ruin, absolute and complete. Zenobia has not, or will not allow it to be seen that she has, any proper conception of the power of Rome. She judges of Rome by the feeble Valerian, and the unskilful Heraclianus, and by their standard measures such men as Aurelian, and Probus, and Carus. She may indeed gain a single battle, for her genius is vast, and her troops well disciplined and brave. But the loss of a battle would be to her the loss of empire, while to Rome it would be but as the sting of a summer insect. Yet this she does not or will not see. To triumph over Aurelian is, I believe, the vision that dazzles, deludes, and will destroy her.
No sooner had the Queen and her train departed, than, mounting our horses, we took our way, Julia, Fausta, and myself, through winding valleys and over rugged hills, toward the hermit's retreat. Reaching the base of what seemed an almost inaccessible crag, we found it necessary to leave our horses in the care of attendant slaves, and pursue the remainder of the way on foot. The hill which we now had to ascend was thickly grown over with every variety of tree and bush, with here and there a mountain stream falling from rock to rock, and forcing its way to the valley below. The sultry heat of the day compelled us frequently to pause, as we toiled up the side of the hill, seating ourselves, now beneath the dark shadows of a branching cedar or the long-lived terebinth, and now on the mossy banks of a descending brook. The mingled beauty and wildness of the scene, together with such companions, soon drove the Queen, Rome, and Palmyra, from my thoughts. I could not but wish that we might lose our way to the hermit's cave, that by such means our walk might be prolonged.
'Is it, I wonder,' said Fausta, 'the instruction of his religion which confines this Christian saint to these distant solitudes? What a singular faith it must be which should drive all who embrace it to the woods and rocks! What would become of our dear Palmyra, were it to be changed to a Christian city? The same event, I suppose, Julia, would change it to a desert.'
'I do not think Christianity prescribes this mode of life, though. I do not know but it may permit it,' replied the princess. 'But of this, the Hermit will inform us. He may have chosen this retreat on account of his extreme age, which permits him no longer to engage in the affairs of an active life.'
'I trust for the sake of Christianity it is so,' added Fausta; 'for I cannot conceive of a true religion inculcating, or even permitting inactivity. What would become of the world, if it could be proved that the gods required us to pass our days in retired contemplation?'
'Yet it cannot be denied,' said Julia, 'that the greatest benefactors of mankind have been those who have in solitude, and with patient labor, pursued truth till they have discovered it, and then revealed it to shed its light and heat upon the world.'
'For my part,' replied Fausta, 'I must think that they who have sowed and reaped, have been equal benefactors. The essential truths are instinctive and universal. As for the philosophers, they have, with few exceptions, been occupied as much about mere frivolities as any Palmyrene lady at her toilet. Still, I do not deny that the contemplative race is a useful one in its way. What I say is, that a religion which enjoined a solitary life as a duty, would be a very mischievous religion. And what is more, any such precept, fairly proved upon it, would annihilate all its claims to a divine origin. For certainly, if it were made a religious duty for one man to turn an idle, contemplative hermit, it would be equally the duty of every other, and then the arts of life by which we subsist would be forsaken. Any of the prevalent superstitions, if we may not call them religions, were better than this.'
'I agree with you entirely,' said Julia; 'but my acquaintance with the Christian writings is not such as to enable me to say with confidence that they contain no such permission or injunction. Indeed some of them I have not even read, and much I do not fully understand. But as I have seen and read enough to believe firmly that Christianity is a divine religion, my reason teaches me that it contains no precept such as we speak of.'
We had now, in the course of our walk, reached what we found to be a broad and level ledge, about half way to the summit of the hill. It was a spot remarkable for a sort of dark and solemn beauty, being set with huge branching trees, whose tops were woven into a roof, through which only here and there the rays of the fierce sun could find their way. The turf beneath, unincumbered with any smaller growth of tree or shrub, was sprinkled with flowers that love the shade. The upper limit of this level space was bounded by precipitous rocks, up which ascent seemed difficult or impossible, and the lower by similar ones, to descend which seemed equally difficult or impossible.
'If the abode of the Christian is hereabouts,' we said, 'it seems well chosen both for its security and the exceeding beauty of the various objects which greet the eye.'
'Soon as we shall have passed that tumbling rivulet,' said Julia, 'it will come into view.'
Upon a rude bridge of fallen trunks of trees, we passed the stream as it crossed our path, and which then shooting over the edge of the precipice, was lost among the rocks and woods below. A cloud of light spray fell upon us as we stood upon the bridge, and imparted a most refreshing coolness.
'Where you see,' said Julia, 'that dark entrance, beneath yonder low-browed rock, is the dwelling of the aged Christian.'
We moved on with slow and silent steps, our spirits partaking of the stillness and solitariness of the place. We reached the front of the grotto, without disturbing the meditations of the venerable man. A part of the rock which formed his dwelling served him for a seat, and another part projecting after the manner of a shelf, served him for a table, upon which lay unrolled a large volume. Bending over the book, his lean and shrivelled finger pointing to the words, and aiding his now dim and feeble eye, he seemed wholly wrapped in the truths he was contemplating, and heeded not our presence. We stood still for a moment, unwilling to break a repose so peaceful and profound. At length, raising his eyes from the page, they caught the form and face of the princess, who stood nearest to him. A quick and benignant smile lighted up his features; and rising slowly to his full height, he bade her welcome, with sweet and tremulous tones, to his humble roof.
'It is kind in you,' said he,'so soon again to ascend these rough solitudes, to visit a now unprofitable old, man; and more kind still to bring others with you. Voices from the world ring a sweet music in my ear--sweeter than any sound of bird or stream. Enter, friends, if it please you, and be rested, after the toil of your ascent.'
'I bring you here, father,' said Julia, 'according to my sometime promise, my friend and companion, the daughter of Gracchus, and with her a noble Roman, of the house of Piso, lately come hither from the capital of the world.'
'They are very, very welcome,' replied the saint, 'your presence breaks most gratefully the monotony of my life.'
'We almost doubted,' said I, 'venerable Father, whether it would please you to find beneath your roof those who receive not your belief, and what is much more, belong to a faith which has poured upon you and yours so full a flood of suffering and reproach. But your countenance assures us that we have erred.'
'You have, indeed,' replied the sage; 'as a Christian I see in you not pagans and unbelievers, not followers of Plato and Epicurus, not dwellers in Rome or Alexandria, but members of the great family of man, and as such I greet you, and already love you. The design of christianity is to unite and draw together, not divide and drive asunder. It teaches its disciples, indeed, to go out and convert the world, but if they cannot convert it, it still teaches them to love it. My days and my strength have been spent in preaching Christ to Jews and heathen, and many of those who have heard have believed. But more have not. These are not my brethren in Christ, but they are my brethren in God, and I love them as his.'
'These are noble sentiments,' said Fausta. 'Religion has, in almost all its forms, condemned utterly all who have not received it in the form in which it has been proposed. Rome, indeed, used to be mild and tolerant of every shape which the religious sentiment assumed. But since the appearance of christianity it has wholly changed its policy. I am afraid it formerly tolerated, only because it saw nothing to fear. Fearing christianity, it seeks to destroy it. That is scarcely generous of you, Lucius; nor very wise either--for surely truth can neither be created nor suppressed by applications of force. Such is not the doctrine of christianity, if I understand you right.'
'Lady, most certainly not,' he replied. 'Christianity is offered to mankind, not forced upon them. And this supposes in them the power and the right to sit in judgement upon its truth. But were not all free judgment destroyed, and all worthy reception of it therefore, if any penal consequences--greater or less, of one kind or another, present or future--followed upon its rejection? Rome has done wickedly, in her aim to suppress error and maintain truth by force. Is Rome a god to distinguish with certainty the one from the other? But alas! Rome is not alone to blame in this. Christians themselves are guilty of the same folly and crime. They interpret differently the sayings of Christ--as how should they not? --and the party which is stronger in numbers already begins to oppress, with hard usage and language, the weaker party, which presumes to entertain its own opinions. The Christians of Alexandria and Rome, fond of the ancient philosophy, and desirous to recommend the doctrines of Christ, by showing their near accordance with it, have, as many think, greatly adulterated the gospel, by mixing up with its truths the fantastic dreams of Plato. Others, among whom is our Paul of Antioch, deeming this injurious and erroneous, aim to restore the Christian doctrine to the simplicity that belongs to it in the original records, and which, for the most part, it still retains among the common people. But this is not willingly allowed. On the contrary, because Paul cannot see with their eyes and judge with their judgment, he is to be driven from his bishopric. Thus do the Christians imitate in their treatment of each other their common enemy, the Roman. They seem already ashamed of the gentleness of Christ, who would have every mind left in its own freedom to believe as its own powers enable it to believe. Our good Zenobia, though no Christian, is yet in this respect the truest Christian. All within her realm, thought is free as the air that plays among these leaves.'
'But is it not, said Fausta, 'a mark of imperfection in your religion, that it cannot control and bind to a perfect life its disciples? Methinks a divine religion should manifest its divinity in the superior goodness which it forms.'
'Is not that just?' I added.
'A divine religion,' he replied, 'may indeed be expected to show its heaven-derived power in creating a higher virtue than human systems. And this, I am sure, christianity does. I may safely challenge the world to show in human form the perfection which dwelt in Jesus, the founder of this religion. Yet his character was formed by the power of his own doctrines. Among his followers, if there have been none so perfect as he, there have been multitudes who have approached him, and have exhibited a virtue which was once thought to belong only to philosophers. The world has been accustomed to celebrate, with almost divine honors, Socrates, and chiefly because of the greatness of mind displayed by him when condemned to drink the cup of poison. I can tell you of thousands among the Christians, among common and unlearned Christians, who have met death, in forms many times more horrible than that in which the Greek encountered it, with equal calmness and serenity. This they have been enabled to do simply through the divine force of a few great truths, which they have implicitly believed. Beside this, consider the many usages of the world, which, while others hold them innocent, the Christians condemn them, and abstain from them. It is not to be denied that they are the reformers of the age. They are busy, sometimes with an indiscreet and violent zeal, in new modeling both the opinions and practices of the world. But what then? Are they to be condemned if a single fault may be charged upon, them? Must they be perfect, because their religion is divine? This might be so, if it were of the nature of religion to operate with an irresistible influence upon the mind, producing an involuntary and forced obedience. But in such an obedience there would be nothing like what we mean by virtue, but something quite inferior in the comparison. A religion, for the reason that it is divine, will, with the more certainty, make its appeals to a free nature. It will explain the nature and reveal the consequences of virtue and vice, but will leave the mind free to choose the one or the other. Christianity teaches, that in goodness, and faithfulness to the sense of duty, lies the chief good; in these there is a heaven of reward, not only now and on earth, but throughout an existence truly immortal. Is it not most evident that, with whatever authority this religion may propound its doctrines, men not being in a single power coerced, will not, though they may receive them, yield to them an equal observance? Hence, even among Christians, there must foe, perhaps ever, much imperfection.'
'Does not this appear to you, Fausta and Piso,' said Julia, as the old man paused, 'just and reasonable? Can it be an objection to this faith, that its disciples partake of the common weaknesses of humanity? Otherwise, religion would be a principle designed, not so much to improve and exalt our nature, as to alter it.
'We allow it readily to be both just and reasonable.'
'But it seemed to us,' said Fausta, 'as we ascended the mountain, and were conversing, to be with certainty a proof of imperfection in your religion--pardon my freedom, we are come as learners, and they who would learn, must, without restraint, express their doubts--that it recommended or permitted a recluse and inactive life. Have your days, Father, been passed in this deep solitude? and has your religion demanded it?'
'Your freedom pleases me,' replied the venerable man; 'and I wonder not at the question you propose. Not my religion, lady, but an enfeebled and decrepit frame chains me to this solitude. I have now outlasted a century, and my powers are wasted and gone. I can do little more than sit and ponder the truths of this life-giving book, and anticipate the renewed activity of that immortal being which it promises. The Christian converts, who dwell beneath those roofs which you see gleaming in the valley below, supply the few wants which I have. When their labor is done for the day, they sometimes come up, bringing with them baskets of fresh or dried fruits, which serve me, together with the few roots and berries which I myself can gather as I walk this level space, for my food. My thirst I quench at the brook which you have just passed. Upon this simple but wholesome nutriment, and breathing this dry mountain air, my days may yet be prolonged through many years. But I do not covet them, since nature makes me a prisoner. But I submit, because my faith teaches me to receive patiently whatever the Supreme Ruler appoints. It is not my religion that prescribes this manner of life, or permits it, but as the last refuge of an imbecility like mine. Christianity denounces selfishness, in all its forms, and what form of selfishness more gross than to spend the best of one's days in solitary musing and prayer, all to secure one's own salvation? The founder of this religion led an active and laborious life. He did good not only to himself by prayer and meditation: he went about doing it to others--seeking out objects whom he might benefit and bless. His life was one of active benevolence; and the record of that life is the religious code of his followers. No condemnation could be more severe than that which the Prophet of Nazareth would pronounce upon such a life as mine now is, were it a chosen, voluntary one. But it never has been voluntary. Till age dried up the sources of my strength, I toiled night and day in all countries and climates, in the face of every danger, in the service of mankind. For it is by serving others, that the law of Christ is fulfilled. Disinterested labor for others constituted the greatness of Jesus Christ. This constitutes true greatness in his followers. I perceive that what I say falls upon your ear as a new and strange doctrine. But it is the doctrine of christianity. It utterly condemns, therefore, a life of solitary devotion. It is a mischievous influence which is now spreading outward from the example of that Paul, who suffered so much under the persecution of the Emperor Decius and who then, flying to the solitudes of the Egyptian Thebais, has there, in the vigor of his days, buried himself in a cave of the earth, that he may serve God by forsaking man. His maxim seems to be, "The farther from man, the nearer to God"---the reverse of the Christian maxim, "The nearer man, the nearer God." A disciple of Jesus has truly said: "He who loves not his brother whom he hath seen, how shall he love God, whom he hath not seen?" This, it may be, Roman, is the first sentence you have ever heard from the Christian books.'
'I am obliged to confess that it is,' I replied. 'I have heretofore lived in an easy indifference toward all religions. The popular religion of my country I early learned to despise. I have perused the philosophers, and examined their systems, from Pythagoras to Seneca, and am now, what I have long been, a disciple of none but Pyrrho. My researches have taught me only how the more ingeniously to doubt. Wearied at length with a vain inquiry after truth that should satisfy and fill me, I suddenly abandoned the pursuit, with the resolve never to resume it. I was not even tempted to depart from this resolution when Christianity offered itself to my notice; for I confounded it with Judaism, and for that, as a Roman, I entertained too profound a contempt to bestow upon it a single thought. I must acknowledge that the reports which I heard, and which I sometimes read, of the marvellous constancy and serenity of the Christians, under accumulated sufferings and wrongs, interested my feelings in their behalf; and the thought often arose, "Must there not be truth to support such heroism?" But the world went on its way, and I with it, and the Christians were forgotten. To a Christian, on my voyage across the Mediterranean, I owe much, for my first knowledge of Christianity. To the Princess Julia I owe a larger debt still. And now from your lips, long accustomed to declare its truths, I have heard what makes me truly desirous to hear the whole of that which, in the glimpses I have been able to obtain, has afforded so real a satisfaction,' 'Were you to study the Christian books,' said the recluse, 'you would be chiefly struck perhaps with the plainness and simplicity of the doctrines there unfolded. You would say that much which you found there, relating to the right conduct of life, you had already found scattered through the books of the Greek and Roman moralists. You would be startled by no strange or appalling truth. You would turn over their leaves in vain in search of such dark and puzzling ingenuities as try the wits of those who resort to the pages of the Timæus. A child can understand the essential truths of Christ. And the value of Christianity consists not in this, that it puts forth a new, ingenious, and intricate system of philosophy, but that it adds to recognised and familiar truths divine authority. Some things are indeed new; and much is new, if that may be called so which, having been neglected as insignificant by other teachers, has by Christ been singled out and announced as primal and essential. But the peculiarity of Christianity lies in this, that its voice, whether heard in republishing an old and familiar doctrine, or announcing, a new one, is not the voice of man, but of God. It is a revelation. It is a word from the invisible, unapproachable Spirit of the universe. For this Socrates would have been willing to renounce all his wisdom. Is it not this which we need? We can theorize and conjecture without end, but cannot relieve ourselves of our doubts. They will assail every work of man. We wish to repose in a divine assurance. This we have in Christianity. It is a message from God. It puts an end to doubt and conjecture. Wise men of all ages have agreed in the belief of One God; but not being able to demonstrate his being and his unity, they have had no power to change the popular belief, which has ever tended to polytheism and idolatry, Christianity teaches this truth with the authority of God himself, and already has it become the faith of millions. Philosophers have long ago taught that the only safe and happy life is a virtuous life. Christianity repeats this great truth, and adds, that it is such a life alone that conducts to immortality. Philosophers have themselves believed in the doctrine of a future existence, and have died hoping to live again; and it cannot be denied that mankind generally have entertained an obscure expectation of a renewed being after death. The advantage of Christianity consists in this, that it assures us of the reality of a future life, on the word and authority of God himself. Jesus Christ taught, that all men come forth from death, wearing a new spiritual body, and thereafter never die; and to confirm his teaching, he himself being slain, rose from the dead, and showed himself to his followers alive, and while they were yet looking upon him, ascended to some other and higher world. Surely, Roman, though christianity announced nothing more than these great truths, yet seeing it puts them forth in the name, and with the authority of God, it is a vast accession to our knowledge.'
'Indeed it cannot be denied,' I answered. 'It would be a great happiness too to feel such an assurance, as he must who believes in your religion, of another life. Death would then lose every terror. We could approach the close of life as calmly and cheerfully, sometimes as gladly, as we now do the close of a day of weary travel or toil. It would be but to lie down and rest, and sleep, and rise again refreshed by the slumber for the labors and enjoyments of a life which should then be without termination, and yet unattended by fatigue. I can think of no greater felicity than to be able to perceive the truth of such a religion as yours.'
'This religion of the Christians,' said Fausta, 'seems to be full of reasonable and desirable truth--if it all be truth. But how is this great point to be determined? How are we to know whether the founder of this religion was in truth a person holding communication with God? The mind will necessarily demand a large amount of evidence, before it can believe so extraordinary a thing. I greatly fear, Julia, lest I may never be a Christian. What is the evidence, Father, with which you trust, to convince the mind of an inquirer? It must possess potency, for all the world seems flocking to the standard of Christ.'
'I think, indeed,' replied the saint, 'that it possesses potency. I believe its power to be irresistible. But do you ask in sincerity, daughter of Gracchus, what to do in order to believe in christianity?'
'I do, indeed,' answered Fausta. 'But know that my mind is one not easy of belief.'
'Christianity, lady, asks no forced or faint assent. It appeals to human reason, and it blames not the conscientious doubter or denier. When it requires you to examine, and constitutes you judge, it condemns no honest decision. The mind that approaches christianity must be free, and ought to be fearless. Hesitate not to reject that which evidence does not substantiate. But examine and weigh well the testimony. If then you would know whether christianity be true, it is first of all needful that you read and ponder the Christian books. These books prove themselves. The religion of Christ is felt to be true, as you read the writings in which it is recorded. Just as the works of nature prove to the contemplative mind the being of a God, so do the books of the Christians prove the truth of their religion. As you read them, as your mind embraces the teaching, and above all, the character of Christ, you involuntarily exclaim: "This must be true; the sun in the heavens does not more clearly point to a divine author, than do the contents of these books." You find them utterly unlike any other books--differing from them just in the same infinite and essential way that the works of God differ from the works of man.'
He paused, and we were for a few moments silent. At length Fausta said: 'This is all very new and strange, Father! Why, Julia, have you never urged me to read these books?'
'The princess,' resumed the hermit, 'has done wisely co leave you to the promptings of your own mind. The more every thing in religion is voluntary and free, the more worth attaches to it. Christ would not that any should be driven or urged to him; but that they should come. Nevertheless the way must be pointed out. I have now shown you one way. Let me tell you of another. The Christian books bear the names of the persons who profess to have written them, and who declare themselves to have lived and to have recorded events which happened in the province of Judea, in the reigns of Tiberius and Nero. Now it is by no means a difficult matter for a person, desirous to arrive at the truth, to institute such inquiries, as shall fully convince him that such persons lived then and there, and performed the actions ascribed to them. We are not so far removed from those times, but that by resorting to the places where the events of the Christian history took place, we can readily satisfy ourselves of their truth--if they be true--by inquiring of the descendants of those who were concerned in the very transactions recorded. This thousands and thousands have done, and they believe in the events--strange as they are--of the Christian history as implicitly as they do in the events of the Roman history, for the same period of time. Listen, my children, while I rehearse my own experience as a believer in Christ.
'My father, Cyprian, a native of Syria, attained, as I have attained, to an extreme old age. At the age of five score years and ten, he died within the walls of this quiet dwelling of nature's own hewing, and there at the root of that ancient cedar his bones repose. He was for twenty years a contemporary of St. John the evangelist--of that John, who was one of the companions of Jesus the founder of christianity, and who ere he died wrote a history of Jesus, of his acts and doctrine. From the very lips of this holy man, did the youthful but truth-loving and truth-seeking Cyprian receive his knowledge of christianity. He sat and listened while the aged apostle--the past rising before him with the distinctness of a picture--told of Jesus; of the mild majesty of his presence; of the power and sweetness of his discourse; of the love he bore toward all that lived; of his countenance radiant with joy when, in using the miraculous power intrusted to show descent from God, he gave health to the pining sick, and restored the dying and the dead to the arms of weeping friends. There was no point of the history which the apostle has recorded for the instruction of posterity, which Cyprian did not hear, with all its minuter circumstances, from his own mouth. Nay, he was himself a witness of the exercise of that same power of God which was committed without measure to Jesus, on the part of the apostle. He stood by--his spirit wrapt and wonderstruck--while at the name of Jesus the lame walked, the blind recovered their sight, and the sick leaped from their couches. When this great apostle was fallen asleep, my father, by the counsel of St. John, and that his faith might be yet farther confirmed, travelled over all the scenes of the Christian history. He visited the towns and cities of Judea, where Jesus had done his marvellous works. He conversed with the children of those who had been subjects of the healing power of the Messiah. He was with those who themselves had mingled among the multitudes who encompassed him, when Lazarus was summoned from the grave, and who clung to the cross when Jesus was upon it dying, and witnessed the sudden darkness, and felt the quaking of the earth. Finding, wherever he turned his steps in Judea, from Bethlehem to Nazareth, from the Jordan to the great sea, the whole land filled with those who, as either friends or enemies, had hung upon the steps of Jesus, and seen his miracles, what was he, to doubt whether such a person as Jesus had ever lived, or had ever done those wonderful works? He doubted not; he believed, even as he would have done had he himself been present as a disciple. In addition to this, he saw at the places where they were kept, the evangelic histories, in the writing of those who drew them up; and at Rome, at Corinth, at Philippi, at Ephesus, he handled with his own hands the letters of Paul, which he wrote to the Christians of those places; and in those places and others, did he dwell and converse with multitudes who had seen and heard the great apostle, and had witnessed the wonders he had wrought. I, the child of Cyprian's old age, heard from him all that I have now recounted to you. I sat at his feet, as he had sat at the evangelist's, and from him I heard the various experiences of his long, laborious, and troubled life. Could I help but believe what I heard? --and so could I help but be a Christian? My father was a man--and all Syria knows him to have been such an one--of a passionate love of truth. At any moment would he have cheerfully suffered torture and death, sooner than have swerved from the strictest allegiance to its very letter. Nevertheless, he would not that I should trust to him alone, but as the apostle had sent him forth, so he sent me forth, to read the evidences of the truth of this religion in the living monuments of Judea. I, too, wandered a pilgrim over the hills and plains of Galilee. I sat in the synagogue at Nazareth, I dwelt in Capernaum. I mused by the shore of the Galilean lake. I haunted the ruins of Jerusalem, and sought out the places where the Savior of men had passed the last hours of his life. Night after night I wept and prayed upon the Mount of Olives. Wherever I went, and among whomsoever I mingled, I found witnesses eloquent and loud, and without number, to all the principal facts and events of our sacred history. Ten thousand traditions of the life and acts of Christ and his apostles, all agreeing substantially with the written records, were passing from mouth to mouth, and descending from sire to son. The whole land, in all its length and breadth, was but one vast monument to the truth of Christianity. And for this purpose it was resorted to by the lovers of truth from all parts of the world. Did doubts arise in the mind of a dweller in Rome, or Carthage, or Britain, concerning the whole or any part of the Christian story, he addressed letters to well known inhabitants of the Jewish cities, or he visited them in person, and by a few plain words from another, or by the evidence of his own eyes and ears, every doubt was scattered. When I had stored my mind with knowledge from these original sources, I then betook myself to some of the living oracles of Christian wisdom, with the fame of whose learning and piety the world was filled. From the great Clement of Rome, from Dionysius at Alexandria, from Tertullian at Carthage, from that wonder of human genius, Origen, in his school at Cæsarea, I gathered together what more was needed to arm me for the Christian warfare; and I then went forth full of faith myself to plant its divine seeds in the hearts of whosoever would receive them. In this good work my days have been spent. I have lived and taught but to unfold to others the evidences which have made me a Christian. My children,'continued he, 'why should you not receive my words? why should I desire to deceive you? I am an old man, trembling upon the borders of the grave. Can I have any wish to injure you? Is it conceivable that, standing thus already as it were before the bar of God, I could pour false and idle tales into your ears? But if I have spoken truly, can you refuse to believe? But I must not urge. Use your freedom. Inquire for yourselves. Let the leisure and the wealth which are yours carry you to read with your own eyes that wide-spread volume which you will find among the mountains and valleys of the holy land. Princess, my strength is spent, or there is much more I could gladly add.'
'My friends,' said the princess, 'are, I am sure, grateful for what you have said, and they have heard.'
'Indeed we are,' said Fausta, 'and heartily do we thank you. One thing more would I ask. What think you of the prospects of the Christian faith? Are the common reports of its rapid ascendency to be heeded? Is it making its way, as we are told, even into the palaces of kings? I know, indeed, what happens in Palmyra; but elsewhere, holy father?'
As Fausta spoke these words, the aged man seemed wrapped in thought. His venerable head sank upon his breast; his beard swept the ground. At length, slowly raising his head, and with eyes lifted upward, he said, in deep and solemn tones: 'It cannot, it cannot be difficult to read the future. It must be so. I see it as if it were already come. The throne which is red with blood, and he who sits thereon, wielding a sword dropping blood, sinks--sinks--and disappears; and one all white, and he who sits thereon, having upon his frontlet these words, "Peace on earth and good will toward men," rises and fills its place. And I hear a movement as of a multitude which no man number, coming and worshipping around the throne. God of the whole earth, arise! --visit it with thy salvation! Hasten the coming of the universal kingdom of thy Son, when all shall know thee, and love to God and love to man possess and fill every soul.'
As the venerable man uttered this prayer, Julia looked steadfastly upon him, and a beauty more than of earth seemed to dwell upon her countenance.
'Father,' said Fausta, 'we are not now fair judges of truth. Your discourse has wrought so upon us, that we need reflection before we can tell what we ought to believe.'
'That is just,' said the saint; 'to determine right, we must think as well as feel. And that your minds may the sooner return to the proper state, let me set before you of such as my dwelling will afford.'
Saying this, he moved from the seat which till now he had retained, and closing the volume he had been reading, laid it away with care, saying as he did so, 'This, children, is the Christian's book; not containing all those writings which we deem to be of authority in describing our faith, but such as are most needful. It is from reading this, and noting as you read the inward marks of honesty, and observing how easy it were, even now, by visiting Judea, to convict its authors of error and falsehood, had they been guilty of either, that your minds will be best able to judge of the truth and worth of Christianity.'
'At another time, father,' said Fausta, 'it would give me great delight, and equally too, I am sure, our friend from Rome, if you would read to us portions of that volume, that we may know somewhat of its contents from your lips, accompanied too by such comments as you might deem useful to learners. It is thus we have often heard the Greek and Roman writers from the mouth of Longinus.'
'Whenever,' he replied, 'you shall be willing to ascend these steep and rugged paths, in pursuit of truth, I in my turn will stand prepared to teach. To behold such listeners before me, brings back the life of former days.'
He then, with short and interrupted steps, busied himself in bringing forth his humble fare. Bread and fruits, and olives, formed our light repast, together with ice-cold water, which Julia, seizing from his hand the hermit's pitcher, brought from a spring that gushed from a neighboring rock.
This being ended, and with it much various and agreeable conversation, in the course of which the Christian patriarch gave many striking anecdotes of his exposed and toilsome life, we rose, and bidding farewell, with promises to return again, betook ourselves to our horses, and mounting them, were soon at the gates of the palace.
I confess myself interested in the question of Christianity. The old religions are time-worn, and in effect dead. To the common people, when believed, they are as often injurious as useful--to others, they are the objects of open, undisguised contempt. Yet religion, in some form, the human mind must have. We feel the want of it as we do of food and drink. But, as in the case of food and drink, it must be something that we shall perceive to nourish and strengthen, not to debilitate and poison. In my searches through antiquity, I have found no system which I could rest in as complete and satisfying. They all fail in many vital points. They are frequently childish in their requisitions and their principles; their morality is faulty; their spirit narrow and exclusive; and more than all, they are without authority. The principles which are to guide, control, and exalt our nature, it seems to me, must proceed from the author of that nature. The claim of Christianity to be a religion provided for man by the Creator of man, is the feature in it which draws me toward it. This claim I shall investigate and scan, with all the ability and learning I can bring to the work. But whatever I or you may think of it, or ultimately determine, every eye must see with what giant steps it is striding onward--temples, religions, superstitions, and powers crumbling and dissolving at its approach. Farewell.
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8 | None | The words of that Christian recluse, my Curtins, still ring in my ear. I know not how it is, but there is a strange power in all that I have heard from any of that sect. You remember how I was struck by the manner, the countenance, and above all by the sentiments of Probus, the Christian whom I encountered on his way to Carthage. A still stronger feeling possesses me, when I hear the same things from the lips of Julia. It seems as if she herself, and the religion she discourses of, must proceed from the same author. She is certainly a divine work. And there is such an alliance between her and those truths, that I am ready almost to believe that for this reason alone they must have that very divine origin which is claimed for them. Is there any thing in our Roman superstitions, or philosophy even, that is at all kindred to the spirit of a perfect woman? --any thing suited to her nature? Has it ever seemed as if woman were in any respect the care of the gods? In this, Christianity differs from all former religions and philosophies. It is feminine. I do not mean by that, weak or effeminate. But in its gentleness, in the suavity of its tone, in the humanity of its doctrines, in the deep love it breathes toward all of human kind, in the high rank it assigns to the virtues which are peculiarly those of woman, in these things and many others, it is throughout for them as well as for us--almost more for them than for us. In this feature of it, so strange and new, I see marks of a wisdom beyond that of any human fabricator. A human inventor would scarcely have conceived such a system; and could he have conceived it, would not have dared to publish it. It would have been in his judgment to have wantonly forfeited the favor of the world. The author of Christianity, with a divine boldness, makes his perfect man, in the purity and beauty of his character, the counterpart of a perfect woman. The virtues upon which former teachers have chiefly dwelt, are by him almost unnoticed, and those soft and feminine ones, which others seem to have utterly forgotten, he has exalted to the highest place. So that, as I before said, Julia discoursing to me of Christianity is in herself, in the exact accordance between her mind and heart and that faith, the strongest argument I have yet found of its truth. I do not say that I am a believer. I am not. But I cannot say what the effect may be of a few more interviews with the hermit of the mountain, in company with the princess. His arguments, illustrated by her presence, will carry with them not a little force.
When, after our interview with the Christian, we had returned to the Queen's villa, we easily persuaded ourselves that the heat of the day was too great for us to set out, till toward the close of it, for the city. So we agreed, in the absence of the Queen and other guests, to pass the day after our own manner, and by ourselves. The princess proposed that we should confine ourselves to the cool retreats near the fountain of the Elephant, made also more agreeable to us than any other place by the delightful hours we had sat there listening to the melodious accents of the great Longinus. To this proposal we quickly and gladly assented. Our garments being then made to correspond to the excessive heats of the season, soothed by the noise of the falling waters, and fanned by slaves who waved to and fro huge leaves of the palm tree, cut into graceful forms, and set in gold or ivory, we resigned ourselves to that sleepy but yet delicious state which we reach only a few times in all our lives, when the senses are perfectly satisfied and filled, and merely to live is bliss enough. But our luxurious ease was slightly diversified with additions and changes no ways unwelcome. Ever and anon slaves entered, bearing trays laden with every rare and curious confection which the art of the East supplies, but especially with drinks cooled by snow brought from the mountains of India. These, in the most agreeable manner, recruited our strength when exhausted by fits of merriment, or when one had become weary of reading or reciting a story for the amusement of the others, and the others as weary, or more weary, by listening. It were in vain to attempt to recall for your and Lucilia's entertainment the many pleasant things which were both said and done on this day never to be forgotten. And besides, perhaps, were they set down in order and sent to Rome, the spicy flavor which gave life to them here might all exhale, and leave them flat and dull. Suffice it therefore to say, that in our judgment many witty and learned sayings were uttered--for the learning, that must rest upon our declaration--for the wit, the slaves will bear witness to it, as they did then, by their unrestrained bursts of laughter.
It was with no little reluctance that, as the last rays of the sun fell upon the highest jet of the fountain, we heard the princess declare that the latest hour had come, and we must fain prepare for the city. A little time sufficed for this, and we were soon upon our horses threading the defiles among the hills, or flying over the plains. A few hours brought us within the gates of the city. Leaving Julia at the palace of the Queen, we turned toward the house of Gracchus. Its lofty front soon rose before us. As we passed into the court-yard, the first sound that greeted me was Milo's blundering voice: 'Welcome, most noble Gallienus, welcome again to Palmyra!'
'I am not,' said I, 'quite an emperor yet, but notwithstanding, I am glad to be in Palmyra--more glad to be at the house of Gracchus--and glad most of all to see Gracchus himself at home, and well'--the noble Roman--as I shall call him--at that moment issuing from a door of the palace, and descending at a quick pace the steps, to assist Fausta from her horse.
'We are not,' said he, 'long separated; but to those who really love, the shortest separation is a long one, and the quickest return an occasion of joy.' Saying so, he embraced and kissed his beautiful daughter, and grasped cordially my hand.
'Come,' added he, 'enter and repose. Your ride has been a sharp one, as your horses declare, and the heat is great. Let us to the banqueting-hall, as the coolest, and there sit and rest.' So we were again soon within that graceful apartment, where I had first sat and tasted the hospitalities of Palmyra. The gods above were still at their feast, drinking or drunken. Below, we sat at the open windows, and with more temperance regaled ourselves with the cool air that came to us, richly laden with the fragrance of surrounding flowers, and with that social converse that is more inspiring than Falernian, or the soft Palmyrene. After talking of other things, Gracchus addressed me saying: 'But is it not now time, Lucius, that a letter at least came from Isaac? I have forborne to inquire, from time to time, as I would do nothing to add to your necessary anxiety. It surely now however is right to consider the steps next to be taken, if he shall have failed in his enterprise.'
'Isaac and Calpurnius,' I replied, 'are never absent from my thoughts, and I have already resolved--the gods willing and favoring--that when a period of sufficient length shall have elapsed, and the Jew does not appear, having either perished on the way or else in the capital of the Great King--myself to start, as I at first designed to do, upon this expedition, and either return with my brother, or else die also in the endeavor. Seek not, Fausta, as I perceive you are about to do, to turn me from my purpose. It will be--it ought to be--in vain. I can consent no longer to live thus in the very heart of life, while this cloud of uncertainty hangs over the fate of one so near to me. Though I should depute the service of his rescue to a thousand others, my own inactivity is insupportable, and reproaches me like a crime.'
'I was not, as you supposed, Lucius,' replied Fausta, 'about to draw you away from your purpose, but, on the contrary, to declare my approbation of it. Were I Lucius, my thoughts would be, I am sure, what yours now are; and to-morrow's sun would light me on the way to Ecbatana. Nay, father, I would not wait a day longer. Woman though I am, I am almost ready to offer myself a companion of our friend on this pious service.'
'I shall not,' said Gracchus, 'undertake to dissuade our friend from what seems now to be his settled purpose. Yet still, for our sakes, for the sake of the aged Portia, and all in Rome, I could wish--supposing Isaac should fail--that one more attempt might be made in the same way, ere so much is put at hazard. It needs no great penetration to see how highly prized by Persia must be the possession of such a trophy of her prowess as the head of the ancient house of Piso--with what jealousy his every movement would be watched, and what danger must wait upon any attempt at his deliverance. Moreover, while a mere hireling might, if detected, have one chance among a thousand of pardon and escape, even that were wanting to you. Another Piso would be either another footstool of the Persian despot, while life should last, or else he would swing upon a Persian gibbet, and so would perish the last of a noble name.'
'I cannot deny that reason is on your side,' I said, in reply to this strong case of Gracchus, 'but feeling is on mine, and the contest is never an equal one. Feeling is, perhaps, the essence of reason, of which no account need or can be given, and ought to prevail. But however this may be, I feel that I am right, and so I must act.'
'But let us now think of nothing else,' said Fausta, 'than that before another day is ended, we shall get intelligence of Isaac. Have you, Lucius, inquired, since your return, of Demetrius?'
'Milo is now absent on that very errand,' I replied, 'and here he is, giving no signs of success.'
Milo at the same moment entered the hall, and stated that Demetrius was himself absent from the city, but was every moment expected, and it was known that he had been seeking anxiously--the preceding day--for me. While Milo was yet speaking, a messenger was announced, inquiring for me, and before I could reach the extremity of the apartment, Demetrius himself entered the room in haste, brandishing in his hand a letter, which he knew well to be from Isaac.
''Tis his own hand,' said he, 'The form of his letters is not to be mistaken. Not even the hand of Demetrius can cut with more grace the Greek character. Observe, Roman, the fashion of his touch. Isaac would have guided a rare hand at the graving tool. But these Jews shun the nicer arts. They are a strange people.'
'Quickly,' said I, interrupting the voluble Greek, 'as you love the gods, deliver to me the letter! By and by we will discourse of these things'--and seizing the epistle, I ran with it to another apartment, first to devour it myself.
I cannot tell you, dear friends, with what eagerness I drank in the contents of the letter, and with what ecstasy of joy I leaped and shouted at the news it brought. In one word, my brother lives, and it is possible that before this epistle to you shall be finished, he himself will sit at my side. But to put you in possession of the whole case, I shall transcribe for you the chief parts of Isaac's careful and minute account, preserving for your amusement much of what in no way whatever relates to the affair in hand, and is useful only as it will present a sort of picture of one of this strange tribe. As soon as I had filled myself with its transporting contents, I hastened to the hall where I had left Fausta and Gracchus, to whom--Demetrius having in the mean time taken his departure--I quickly communicated its intelligence, and received their hearty congratulations, and then read it to them very much as I now transcribe it for you. You will now acknowledge my obligations to this kind-hearted Jew, and will devoutly bless the gods for my accidental encounter with him on board the Mediterranean trader. Here now is the letter itself.
ISAAC, _the Son of Isaac of Rome, to the most noble_ L. MANLIUS Piso, _at Palmyra_: That I am alive, Roman, after the perils of my journey, and the worse perils of this Pagan city, can be ascribed to nothing else than the protecting arm of the God of our nation. It is new evidence to me, that somewhat is yet to be achieved by my ministry, for the good of my country. That I am here in this remote and benighted region, that I should have adventured hither in the service of a Roman to save one Roman life, when, were the power mine, I would cut off every Roman life, from the babe at the breast to the silver head, and lay waste the kingdom of the great Mother of Iniquity with fire and sword, is to me a thing so wonderful, that I refer it all to the pleasure of that Power, who orders events according to a plan and wisdom impenetrable by us. Think not, Roman, that I have journeyed so far for the sake of thy two talents of gold--though that is considerable. And the mention of this draws my mind to a matter, overlooked in the stipulations entered into between thee and me, at my dwelling in Palmyra. Singular, that so weighty a part of that transaction should have been taken no note of! Now I must trust it wholly to thee, Piso, and feel that I may safely do so. In case of my death, the double of the recompense agreed upon was to be paid, in accordance with directions left. But what was to be done in case of thy death? Why, most thoughtful Isaac--most prudent of men--for this thou didst make no provision! And yet may not Piso die; as well as Isaac? Has a Roman more lives than a Jew? Nay, how know I but thou art now dead, and no one living to do me justice? See to this, excellent Roman. Thou wouldst not have me go unrequited for all this hazard and toil. Let thy heirs be bound, by sure and legal instruments, to make good to me all thou hast bound thyself to pay. Do this, and thy gods and my God prosper thee! Forget it not. Let it be done as soon as these words are read. Demetrius will show thee one who will draw up a writing in agreement with both the Palmyrene and Roman Law. Unheard of heedlessness! But this I thought not about till I took my pen to write.
What was I saying? --that I came not for thy gold--that is, not for that solely or chiefly. For what, and why, then? Because, as I have hinted, I felt myself driven by an invisible power to this enterprise. I wait with, patience to know what its issue is to be.
Now let me inform thee of my journey and my doings. But first, in one brief word, let me relieve thy impatience by saying, I think thy brother is to be rescued! No more of this at present, but all in order. When I parted from thee that night, I had hardly formed my plan, though my mind, quick in all its workings, did suddenly conceive one way in which it appeared possible to me to compass the desired object. Perhaps you will deem it a piece of rashness rather than of courage so quickly to undertake your affair, I should call it so too, did I not also catch dimly in the depth of the Heavens the form of the finger of God. This thou wilt not and canst not understand. It is beyond thee. Is it not so? But, Roman, I trust the day is to come when by my mouth, if not by another's, thou shalt hear enough to understand that truth is to be found no where but in Moses. Avoid Probus. I fear me he is already in Palmyra. There is more cunning in him than is good. With that deep face and serene air he deceives many. All I say is, shun him. To be a Roman unbeliever is better than to be a Christian heretic. But to my journey.
The morning after I parted from thee saw me issuing at an early hour from the Persian Gate, and with my single Ethiopian slave bearing toward the desert, I took with me but a light bale of merchandise, that I might not burden my good dromedary. Than mine, there is not a fleeter in the whole East. One nearly as good, and at a huge price, did I purchase for my slave. ' T was too suddenly bought to be cheaply bought. But I was not cozened. It proved a rare animal. I think there lives not the man in Palmyra or Damascus who could blind Isaac. I determined to travel at the greatest speed we and our beasts could bear, so we avoided as far as we could the heats of day, and rode by night. The first day being through the peopled regions of the Queen's dominions, and through a cultivated country, we travelled at our ease; and not unfrequently at such places as I saw promised well, did we stop, and while our good beasts regaled themselves upon the rich herbage or richer grain, trafficked. In this surely I erred not. For losing, as I have done by this distant and unwonted route, the trade of Ctesiphon, 't was just, was it not, that to the extent possible, without great obstruction thrown in the way of your affairs, I should repair the evil of that loss? Truth to speak, it was only because my eye foresaw some such profitings on the way, that I made myself contented with but two gold talents of Jerusalem. Two days were passed thus, and on the third we entered upon a barren region--barren as where the prophet found no food but such as birds from Heaven brought him. But why speak of this to thee? O, that thou wouldst but once only once, sit at the feet of that man of God, Simon Ben Gorah! Solomon was not more wise. His words are arrows with two heads from a golden bow. His reasons weigh as the mountains of Lebanon. They break and crush all on whom they fall. Would, Roman, they might sometime fall on thee! The third day we were on this barren region, and the next fairly upon the desert. Now did we reap the benefit of our good beasts. The heat was like that of the furnace of Nebuchadnezzar, out of which the three children, Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego came, through the power of God, unscorched. And moreover, they were soon put to an unwonted and unlooked for burden, and in such a manner as, to thy wonder, I shall relate.
It was a day the air of which was like the air of that furnace--burning--burning hot. Death was written upon the whole face of the visible earth. Where leaves had been, there were none now, or they crumbled into ashes as the hand touched them. The atmosphere, when moved by the wind, brought not, as it is used to do, a greater coolness, but a fiercer heat. It was full of flickering waves that danced up and down with a quivering motion, and dazzled and blinded the eye that looked upon them. And the sand was not like that which for the most part is met with on that desert stretching from the Mediterranean to Palmyra, and of which thou hast had some experience--heavy, and hard, and seamed with cracks--but fine, and light, and raised into clouds by every breath of wind, and driven into the skin like points of needles. When the wind, as frequently it did, blew with violence, we could only stop and bury our faces in our garments, our poor beasts crying out with pain. It was on such a day, having, because there was no place of rest, been obliged to endure all the noonday heat, that, when the sun was at the highest and we looked eagerly every way for even a dry and leafless bush that we might crouch down beneath its shade, we saw at a distance before us the tall trunk of a cedar, bleached to ivory, and twinkling like a pharos under the hot rays. We slowly approached it, Hadad, my Ethiopian, knowing it as one of the pillars of the desert.
'There it has stood and shone a thousand years,' said he; 'and but for such marks, who could cross these seas of sand, where your foot-mark is lost, as soon as made?' After a few moments' pause, he again exclaimed: 'And by the beard of holy Abraham! a living human being sits at the root--or else mayhap my eyes deceive me, and I see only the twisted roots of the tree.'
''T is too far for my eyes to discern aught but the blasted trunk. No living creature can dwell here. ' T is the region of death only.'
A blast of the desert struck us at the moment, and well nigh buried us in its rushing whirlwind of sand. We stood still, closed our eyes, and buried our faces in the folds of our garments.
'Horrible and out of nature!' I cried--'the sun blazing without a cloud as big as a locust to dim his ray, and yet these gusts, like the raging of a tempest. The winds surely rise. Providence be our guide out of this valley of fire and death!'
'There is no providence here,' said the slave, 'nor any where; else why these savage and dreary deserts, which must be crossed, and yet we die in doing it.'
'Hold thy peace, blasphemer!' I could not but rejoin, 'and take heed lest thy impious tongue draw down a whirlwind of God to the destruction of us both.'
'The curse of Arimanes'--began the irritated slave--when suddenly he paused, and cried out in another tone: 'Look! look! Isaac, and see now for thyself: I am no Jew, if there sit not a woman at the root of yonder tree,' I looked, and now that we had drawn nearer, and the wind had subsided for an instant, I plainly beheld the form of a woman, bent over as if in the act of holding and defending an infant. I believed it a delusion of Satan.
'It is awful,' said I; 'but let us hasten; if it be a reality, our coming must be as the descent of angels.'
I pressed on my weary animal, and in a few moments we stood before what seemed indeed a human being, of flesh and bone--and what was more wonderful still, a woman. Yet she stirred not, nor gave other sign of life.
'Is the breath of life yet in you?' I cried out--not doubting, however, that whoever it was, death had already released her from her misery--and at the same time laid my hand upon her shoulder. At which she started, and lifting up her head, the very ghastliness of death stamped upon every feature, she shrieked: 'I drown! I drown! Hassan, save me!' and her head fell again upon her knees.
'Poor fool,' said I, 'thou art upon the sands of the desert, and thou dreamest: awake! --awake! --and here is water for thee--real water.'
At which she waked indeed, with a convulsive start, and while with one hand she held fast her child--for a child was indeed laid away among the folds of her garments--with the other she madly grasped the small cup I held out to her, and tearing aside the covering from the face of the infant, she forced open its mouth, and poured in some of the water we gave her, watching its effect. Soon as the little one gave signs of life, she drank the remainder at a draught, crying out, 'More! more!' Our water, of which we had as yet good store, though hot as the wind itself, quickly restored both mother and child.
'And now tell me, miserable woman, what direful chance has brought and left thee here? --but hasten--speak quickly as thou canst--and dost thou look for any one to come to thy relief?'
'Robbers of the desert,' said she, 'have either murdered or carried into slavery my husband, and destroyed and scattered the caravan of which we made a part. I am alone in the desert; and I know of no relief but such as you can give. Leave us not, if you are men, to perish in these burning sands!'
'Fear not that I will leave you,' said I: 'what I can spare, shall freely be thine. But time is precious, for we are yet but midway the desert, and the signs of the heavens portend wind and whirlwind: hasten then and mount the dromedary of my slave, while I upon mine-bear as stronger than thou--the child.'
'Isaac,' here muttered Hadad, in an undertone, 'art thou mad? Is thy reason wholly gone? It is scarcely to be hoped that we alone may cross in safety what remains of the desert, beset as we are by these sweeping gusts, and wilt thou oppress our fainting beasts with this new burden?'
'Thou accursed of God! wouldst thou leave these here to perish? I believed not before that out of hell there could be so black a soul. Bring down thy dromedary. One word of hesitancy, and thy own carcass shall bleach upon the sands.'
I knew well who I was dealing with--that I was safe from immediate violence, though not from ultimate revenge.
Hadad then drew up his beast, which kneeling received the woman, while I took in my arms the child. We then set forward at an increased pace, to reach before light, if possible, the 'place of springs,' where a small green spot, watered by fountains which never fail, blesses these inhospitable plains.
Not a cloud was to be seen in all the compass of the heavens, yet the winds raged. The blueness of the sky was gone, and the whole inflamed dome above us was rather of the color of molten brass, the sun being but its brightest and hottest spot. At a distance we saw clouds of sand whirled aloft, and driven fiercely over the boundless plain, any one of which, it seemed to us, if it should cross our path, would bury us under its moving mass. We pressed on, trembling and silent through apprehension. The blood in my veins seemed hotter than the sand, or the sun that beat upon my face. Roman, thou canst form no conception of the horrors of this day. But for my faith, I should have utterly failed. What couldst thou have done? --nay, or the Christian Probus? But I will not taunt thee. I will rather hope. The wind became more and more violent. The sand was driven before it like chaff. Sometimes the tempest immediately around us would abate, but it only served to fill us with new apprehensions, by revealing to us the tossings of this great deep, in the distance. At one of these moments, as I was taking occasion to speak a word of comfort to the half dead mother, and cherish the little one whom I bore, a sound as of the roar of ocean caught my ear--more awful than aught I had yet heard--and at the same time a shriek and a shout from Hadad, 'God of Israel, save us! The sand! the sand!'
I looked in the direction of the sound, and there in the south it looked--God, how terrible to behold! --as if the whole plain were risen up, and were about to fall upon us.
''T is vain to fly!' I cried aloud to Hadad, who was urging his animal to its utmost speed. 'Let us perish together. Besides, observe the heaviest and thickest of the cloud is in advance of us.'
The mother of the child cried out, as Hadad insanely hastened on, for her offspring, to whom I answered: 'Trust the young Ishmael to me--fear me not--cleave to the dromedary.'
Hardly were the words spoken, when the whirlwind struck us. We were dashed to the earth as we had been weeds. My senses were for a time lost in the confusion and horror of the scene. I only knew that I had been torn from my dromedary--borne along and buried by the sand--and that the young child was still in my arms. In the first moment of consciousness, I found myself struggling to free myself from the sand which was heaped around and over me. In this, after a time, I succeeded, and in restoring to animation the poor child, choked and blinded, yet--wonderful indeed! --not dead. I then looked around for Hadad and the woman, but they were no where to be seen. I shouted aloud, but there was no answer. The sand had now fallen--the wind had died away--and no sound met my ear, but the distant rumbling of the retreating storm. Not far from me, my own dromedary stood, partly buried in sand, and vainly endeavoring to extricate himself. With my aid, this was quickly effected. I was soon upon his back. But I knew not which way to turn. My dependence was upon Hadad, familiar with the route. The sun however had declined sensibly toward the west--I knew that my general direction was toward the east and north, so that with some certainty as to the true path, I sorrowfully recommenced my journey. Have I not thy pity, Roman? Has a worse case ever come to thy ear? I will not distress thee by reciting my sufferings all the way to the 'place of springs,' which by the next morning, plodding on wearily through the night, I safely reached.
There one of the first objects that greeted me, was Hadad and the mother of my Ishmael. I approached them unobserved, as they sat on the border of a spring. In the midst of other travellers, some of whom I saw were comforting the wailing Hagar--and, without a word, dropped the young child into the lap of its mother. Who shall describe the transports of her joy? ' T was worth, Piso, the journey and all its hazards.
How refreshing it was to lie here on the cool soil, beneath the shade of the grateful palm, enjoying every moment of existence, and repairing the injuries the journey had inflicted upon ourselves and our beasts! Two days we passed in this manner. While here, Hadad related what befel him after our separation. Owing to his urging on his animal in that mad way, at the time I called out to him, instead of stopping or retreating, he was farther within the heart of the cloud than I, and was more rudely handled.
'Soon as the blast fell upon us,' said he, 'that instant was my reason gone. I knew nothing for I cannot tell how long. But when I came to myself, and found that I was not in the place of the wicked--whereat I rejoiced and was amazed--I discovered, on looking round, that my good dromedary, whom I could ill spare, was dead and buried, and your Hagar, whom I could have so well spared, alive and weeping for her lost boy. I made her, with difficulty, comprehend that time was precious, and that strength would be impaired by weeping and wailing. Knowing at once in what direction to travel--after searching in vain for thee--we set out upon a journey, which, on foot, beneath a burning sun, and without water, there was small hope of accomplishing. I looked with certainty to die in the desert. But Oromasdes was my protector. See, Isaac, the advantage of a little of many faiths. We had not travelled far among the hillocks, or hills rather, of sand which we found piled up in our way, and completely altering the face of the plain, before, to our amazement and our joy, we discovered a camel, without rider or burden, coming toward us. I secured him without difficulty. At a little distance, we soon saw another; and by and by we found that we were passing over the graves of a caravan, the whole or chief part of which had been overwhelmed by the storm. Here was a body partly out of the sand, there the head or leg of a dromedary or camel. Ruin and death seemed to have finished their work. But it was not quite so. For presently on reaching the summit of a wave of sand, we discerned a remnant mounted upon the beasts that had been saved, making in the same direction, and probably to the same point, as ourselves. We joined them, and partaking of their water, were recruited, and so reached this place alive. It is now from here,' he added, 'a safe and easy road to Ecbatana.'
So we found it. But confess now, noble Piso, if in thy judgment it would have been exorbitant if I had required of thee three talents of Jerusalem instead of two? For what wouldst thou cross that molten sea, and be buried under its fiery waves! It is none other than a miracle that I am here alive in Ecbatana. And for thee I fear that miracle would not have been wrought. Hadst thou been in my place, the sands of the desert were now thy dwelling-place. Yet have I again to tempt those horrors. Being here, I must return. The dromedary of my slave Hadad was worth a hundred aurelians. A better or a fleeter never yet was in the stables of Zenobia. And dost thou know, Roman, how curious the Queen is in horses and dromedaries? There cannot a rare one of either kind enter the walls of Palmyra, but he is straightway bought up for the service of Zenobia. The swiftest in the East are hers. ' T was my purpose, returning, to have drawn upon Hadad's beast the notice of the Queen. Doubtless I should have sold it to her, and two hundred aurelians is the very least I should have asked or taken for her. To no other than Zenobia would I have parted with her for less than three hundred. But alas! her bones are on the desert. But why, you ask, should I have so favored Zenobia? It is no wonder you ask. And in answer, I tell thee perhaps a secret. Zenobia is a Jewess! Receive it or not, as thou wilt--she is a Jewess--and her heart is tender toward our tribe. I do not say, mark me, that she is one by descent, nor that she is so much as even a proselyte of the Gate, but that she believes in some sort Moses and the prophets and reads our sacred books. These things I know well from those who have been near her. But who ever heard that she has been seen to read the books of the Christians! Probus will not dare to assert it. ' T is not more public that Longinus himself is inclined to our faith--by my head, I doubt not that he is more than inclined--than 'tis that Zenobia is. If our Messiah should first of all gird on the sword of Palmyra, what Jew, whose sight is better than a mole's, would be surprised? My father--may his sleep be sweet! --whose beard came lower than his girdle, and whose wisdom was famous throughout the East, built much upon what he knew of the Queen, and her great minister, and used to say, 'That another Barchochab would arise in Palmyra, whom it would require more than, another Hadrian to hinder in his way to empire; and that if horses again swam in blood, as once at Bither, 'twould be in Roman blood.' Who am I, to deny truth and likelihood to the words of one in whom dwelt the wisdom of Solomon and the meekness of Moses, the faith of Abraham, the valor of Gideon, and the patience of Job? I rather maintain their truth. And in the features of the present time, I read change and revolution--war, and uproar, and ruin--the falling of kingdoms that have outlasted centuries, and the uprising of others that shall last for other centuries. I see the Queen of the East at battle with the Emperor of Rome, and through her victories deliverance wrought out for Israel, and the throne of Judah once more erected within the walls of Jerusalem! Now dost thou, Piso, understand, I suppose, not one word of all this. How shouldst thou? But I trust thou wilt. Surely now you will say, 'What is all this to the purpose?' Not much to any present purpose, I confess freely; and I should not marvel greatly if thou wert to throw this letter down and trample it in the dust--as Rome has done by Judea--but that thou lookest to hear of thy brother. Well, now I will tell thee of him.
When we drew near to the capital of the Great King, wishing to enrage Hadad, I asked, 'What mud-walled village is it that we see yonder over the plain?' Thou shouldst have seen the scowl of his eye--answer he gave none. I spit upon such a city--I cast out my shoe upon it! I who have dwelt at Rome, Carthage, Antioch, and Palmyra, may be allowed to despise a place like this. There are but two things that impress the beholder--the Palace of Sapor, and the Temple of Mithras, near it. These truly would be noted even in Palmyra. Not that in the building any rule or order of art is observed, but that the congregation of strange and fantastic trickery--some whereof, it cannot be gainsaid, is of rare beauty--is so vast that one is pleased with it as he is with the remembrance of the wonderful combinations of a dream.
Soon as we entered the gates of the city, I turned to the woman whom we brought from the desert, and who rode the camel with Hadad, and said to her: 'First of all, Hagar, we take thee to those who are of thy kindred, or to thy friends, and well may they bless the good Providence of God that they see thee. ' T was a foul deed of thy husband, after the manner of the patriarch to leave thee and thy little one to perish on the burning sands of the desert.'
'Good Jew,' she replied, 'my name is not Hagar, nor did my husband leave me willingly. I tell thee we were set upon by robbers, and Hassan, my poor husband, was either killed, or carried away no one can tell whither.'
'No matter--names are of little moment. To me, thou art Hagar, and thy little one here is Ishmael--and if thou wilt, Ishmael shall be mine. I will take him and rear him as mine--he shall be rich--and thou shalt be rich, and dwell where thou wilt.' The child, Roman, had wound itself all around my heart. He was of three years or more, and, feature for feature, answered to the youngest of my own, long since lost, and now in Abraham's bosom. But it was not to be as I wished. All the mother rushed into the face of the woman.
'Good Jew,' she cried, 'the God of Heaven will reward thee for thy mercy shown to us; but hadst thou saved my life a thousand times, I could not pay thee with my child. I am poor, and have nought to give thee but my thanks.'
'I will see thee again,' said I to the widow of Hassan, as we set her down in the street where her kinsfolk dwelt, 'if thou wilt allow me. Receive thy child.'
The child smiled as I kissed him and gave him again to his mother. It was the smile of Joseph. I could at that moment almost myself have become a robber of the desert, and taken what the others had left.
We here parted, and Hadad and myself bent our way to the house of Levi, a merchant well known to Hadad, and who, he assured me, would gladly receive us. His shop, as we entered it, seemed well stored with the richest goods, but the building of which it made a part promised not very ample lodgings. But the hospitable welcome of the aged Levi promised better.
'Welcome every true son of Israel,' said he, as we drew near where in a remoter part of the large apartment he sat busy at his books of account. 'Make yourselves at home beneath the roof of Levi. Follow me and find more private quarters.'
So, leaving Hadad and the camels to the care of those whom our host summoned, I followed him as desired to another part of the dwelling. It now seemed spacious enough. After winding about among narrow and dark passages, we at length came to large and well-furnished rooms, apparently quite remote from the shop, and far removed from the street. Here we seated ourselves, and I unfolded to Levi the nature of my business. He listened, wondered, smiled, shook his head, and made a thousand contrary movements and signs. When I had done, he comforted and instructed me after this manner.
'Something like a fool's errand. Yet the pay is good--that cannot be doubted. It had been better, I think, for thee to have followed thy trade in Palmyra or Ctesiphon. Yet perhaps this may turn out well. The promised sum is large. Who can tell? 'Tis worth a risk. Yet if, in taking the risk, one loses his head, it were a mad enterprise. Verily, I can say nothing but that time will disclose it, and the event prove it. A thing is not seen all at once, and the eye cannot at once reach every part of a ball. Wait with patience, and God shall show it.'
I saw that nothing was to be got from this prophet. Yet perhaps he knew facts. So I asked him of Hormisdas and Sapor, and if he knew aught of the Roman Piso, held a strict prisoner in Ecbatana.
'A prisoner, say you?' he replied, beginning at the end of my question; 'how can a Persian Satrap be called a prisoner? He dwells in the palace of Hormisdas, and when seen abroad, rides upon a horse whose harness is jewelled like the prince's, and his dress moreover is of the richest stuffs, and altogether Persian. 'Tis forgotten by most that he is any other than a native Persian.'
'Is he ever seen to ride alone?' I asked.
'Why the question? I know not. Who should know who rides alone and who in company? When I have seen him, it has always been in the train of others.'
'I thought as much. Doubtless he goes abroad well guarded. His companions, Levi, I doubt are little better than jailers?'
Levi opened his eyes, but it was to no purpose; they can see no other thing clearly, save a Persian coin.
I found, upon further inquiry, that it was even as I had supposed and had heard. Calpurnius lives in the palace of Hormisdas, and is his chosen companion and friend, but is allowed by Sapor no liberty of movement, and wherever he goes is attended by persons appointed to guard him. Nor have the many years that he has been here caused this vigilance in any degree to relax. All outward honor is shown him, except by the king, who, had he not, in the time of Valerian, passed his word to the prince his son, and fully surrendered Piso into his hands, would, it is believed, even now use him as he did the unhappy emperor. But he is safe in the keeping of the prince. And the guard about him, it is my present suspicion, is as much to defend him against any sudden freak of the king or his satellites, as it is to prevent his escape. The least that could happen to any Roman falling into Sapor's power would be to be flayed alive. My safety will lie in my being known only as a Jew, not as a dweller in Rome.
And now, Roman, thou desirest to know in what manner I mean to accomplish the deliverance of thy brother. It is thus. Commend the cunning of it. My Ethiopian slave is then--I must tell thee to thine amazement--no Ethiopian and no slave! He is one of my own tribe whom I have many times employed in difficult affairs, and having often conferred upon him the most essential favors, have bound him to my will. Him I am to leave here, being first cleansed of the deep dye with which by my art--and what art is it I am not familiar with? --I have stained his skin to the darkest hue of the African, and then in his place, and retained to the same hue, am I to take thy brother, and so with security and in broad day walk through the gates of Ecbatana. Is it to be thought of that I should fail? All will rest with Calpurnius. If, in the first place, he shall be willing to return, and then, in the next place, shall consent to submit to this momentary and only apparent degradation, the issue is as certain to be happy, as the means shall be tried. My head never set with a sense of more security upon my shoulders, than now, while planning and putting into execution this Carthaginian plot.
It was first of all necessary that I should become acquainted with the city, with the situation and structure of the palace of Hormisdas, and make myself known in the streets as one of those way-side merchants whom all abuse, yet whom all are glad to trade with. So, with my slave bending under the burden of those articles of use or luxury which I thought would be most attractive, we set forth into the midst of the busy streets, seeking a market for our commodities. Several days were passed in this manner, returning each night to lodge in the house of the rich and foolish, but hospitable Levi.
While thus employed, I frequently saw Calpurnius in company with the prince or other nobles, either riding in state through the streets of the city, or else setting out upon excursions of pleasure beyond the walls. But my chief object was to observe well the palace of the prince, and learn the particular part of it inhabited by the Roman, and how and where it was his custom to pass his time. This it was not difficult to do. The palace of the prince I found to occupy a square of the city not far from that of the king his father. It is of vast extent, but of a desolate aspect, from the fewness of its inhabitants and the jealousy with which the prince and all his movements are watched by the wicked and now superannuated Sapor. Every day I diligently paced the streets upon which it stands. I at first went without Hadad, that I might observe with the more leisure. I at length discovered the apartments used by Calpurnius, and learned that it was his custom, when not absent from the palace upon some enterprise of pleasure, to refresh himself by breathing the air, and pacing to and fro upon a gallery of light Persian architecture, which borders immediately upon one of the four streets that bounds the palace. This gallery was not so high above the street but what the voice could easily reach those who were walking there, and that without greatly increasing its natural tone. From pillar to pillar there ran along a low lattice-work of fanciful device, upon which it was the usage of Calpurnius, and those who were with him, often to lean and idly watch the movements of the passengers below. Here, I found, must be my place of audience. Here I must draw his attention, and make myself known to him. For an opportunity to do this, I saw at once I might be obliged to wait long, for scarce ever was Calpurnius there, but Hormisdas, or some one of the nobles, was with him; or if he was alone, yet the street was so thronged that it must be difficult to obtain a hearing.
Having learned these things, I then came forth, with Hadad bearing my merchandise, I myself going before him as owner and crier. Many times did I pass and repass the gallery of Calpurnius to no purpose--he either not being there, or attended closely by others, or wrapped in thought so that my cries could not arouse him. It was clear to me that I must make some bold attempt. He was one day standing at the lattice-work already named, alone, and looking at the passers by. Seeing him there as I entered the street, I made directly toward the spot, crying in the loudest tone my goods; and notwithstanding the numbers who were on their way along the street, I addressed myself boldly to him, purposely mistaking him for Hormisdas. 'Prince,' said I, 'buy a little, if it please you, of a poor Jew, who has lately traversed the desert to serve you. I have in these panniers wonders from all parts of the world. There is not a city famous for its art in any rare and curious work, that is not represented here. Kings, queens, and princes, have not disdained to purchase of me. The great Sapor at Ctesiphon has of me procured some of his largest diamonds. I have sold to Claudius, and Zenobia, and half the nobility of Palmyra. Dost thou see, prince, the glory of this assortment of diamonds? Look! How would they become thy finger, thy hunting cap, or thy sandals?'
Thy brother listened to me with unmoved countenance and folded arms, receiving passively whatever I was pleased to say. When I paused, he said, in a tone of sadness, though of affected pleasantry: 'Jew, I am the worst subject for thee in all Ecbatana. I am a man without wants. I do nothing but live, and I have nothing to do to live.'
'Now,' I replied, 'is it time for me to die, having seen the chief wonder of the world--a man without wants.'
'There is a greater yet,' said he smiling; 'thou must live on.'
'And what is that?'
'A woman.'
'Thou hast me. But I can easily compound with life. I have many wants, yet I love it. I was but a day or two since buried alive under the burning sands of the desert, and lost there a dromedary worth--if a farthing--four hundred aurelians, for which thou mayest have him. Yet I love to live, and take the chances of the world as they turn up. Here now have I all the way consoled myself with the thought of what I might sell to the great Prince Hormisdas, and thou seest my reward. Still I cry my goods with the same zeal. But surely thou wantest something? I have jewels from Rome--of the latest fashion.'
'I want nothing from Rome.'
Seeing no one was near, and lowering my voice, I said, 'Thou wantest nothing from Rome? What wouldst thou give, Roman, for news from Rome?'
'News from Rome? Not an obolus. How knowest thou me to be a Roman? But now, I was the prince Hormisdas.'
'I have seen thee many times, and know thee well, as the Roman Piso. I have news for thee.'
'The prince approaches!' said Piso, in a hurried manner. 'Begone, but come again at the hour of dusk, and I shall be alone, and will have thee admitted within the gates of the palace.'
The fates ordering it so, I was obliged to depart, and trust again to the future for such chances of renewing my conversation with him as it might have to offer. Here let me tell thee, Lucius Piso, that not having seen thy brother, thou hast never seen a man. He is one with every mark of the noblest manhood. His air is that of a born prince of the highest bearing, yet free and unrestrained. The beauty of his countenance is beyond that of any other I have ever seen, yet is it a manly beauty. A line of dark short hair covers his upper lip. His eyes are large and dark, yet soft in their general expression. He seems of a melancholy and thoughtful temper, and sometimes in his words there is an inexpressible bitterness. Yet it has appeared to me, that his nature is gentle, and that the other character is one accidental or assumed. If I should compare him with any one for beauty, it would be, Roman, not with thee--though I see him and thee to be of the same stock--but with the princess Julia. Were her beauty only made masculine, she would then be Calpurnius; or were his made feminine, he would then be Julia. But this fancy might not strike others. His features and air are not so much Roman as oriental--thine are purely Roman. It may be that costume alone imparts this Eastern aspect to the countenance and the form--for his dress is wholly that of a Persian.
As I passed into the dwelling of my host, entering it as at first by the way of the shop, its owner was holding a conversation of business with some of his customers. How does money seem native to the palm of some men! They have but to open it, and straight it is lined with gold. If they blunder, it is into more wealth. With wit scarce sufficient to make it clear to another that they are properly men, do they manage to make themselves the very chief of all, by reason of the riches they heap up--which ever have claimed and received, and ever will, the homage of the world. Levi is of this sort. The meanness of his understanding words cannot express--or no words but his own. He was talking after this manner, as I entered, to one who seemed to hold him in utmost reverence: 'The thing is so--the thing is so. If 't were otherwise 'tis most clear it would not be the same. Ha! The price may change. Who can say? The world is full of change. But it cannot be less, and leave a gain to the seller--unless indeed, circumstances altering, the profit should still be the same. But who can understand the future? An hour is more than I can comprehend. He that deals well with the present, is it not he, Holy Abraham! who best secures the passing time? It cannot be denied!'
As the oracle ended, the Persian bowed low, saying: 'The wisdom of it is clearer than the light. I shall so report to the prince.' Seeing me, he, in his friendly way, inquired after my success, shaking his head at what he is pleased to regard my mad enterprise. 'Better not meddle nor make in such matters. With thy pack upon thy back, and exercising diligence, thou wouldst become rich here in the streets of Ecbatana. And for what else shouldst thou care? 'Tis only money that remains the same in the midst of change. All agree in the value they place upon this, while they agree in nothing else. Who can remember a difference here? Leave thy project, Isaac, which thou must have undertaken half for love, and I will make thee a great man in Ecbatana.' Little does he know of Isaac, and thou I believe as little.
No sooner had the god of these idolaters gone down to his rest, and the friendly twilight come, than I set forth for the palace of Hormisdas. Upon coming beneath the gallery, I waited not long before thy brother appeared, and pointed out the way in which, through a low and private entrance at a remote spot, I might reach an apartment where I should find him. Following his directions, and accompanied by Hadad, I was received, at the specified place, by a slave of the palace, who conducted me to Piso's presence. It was in one of his more private apartments, but still sumptuously set out with every article of Persian luxury, in which I found myself once more in company with thy brother, and where I ordered Hadad to display for his entertainment the most curious and costly of the contents of his pack.
'I marvel chiefly, Roman,' I began by saying, 'at the ease with which I obtain an entrance into the palace, and into thine own apartment. I had thought this to have been attended with both difficulty and danger.'
'It is not without danger,' he replied; 'thou mayst lose thy head for this adventure. But this risk I suppose thee to have weighed. Every one in Ecbatana knows Sapor and me--with what jealousy I am guarded--and that the king will not flinch to keep his word, and take off any head that meddles. But fear not. The king is old and weak, and though cruel as ever, forgets me as every thing else. Besides, it is found that I am so good a Persian, that all strictness in the watch has long since ceased. Half Ecbatana believe me more a Persian than a Roman--and in truth they are right.'
'Thou hast not, Roman, forgotten thy country! Surely thou hast not, though suffering captivity, ceased to love and long for thy native land. The Jew never forgets his. He lives indeed in every corner and hole of the earth, but ever in the hope--'tis this that keeps his life--either himself or through his children to dwell once more within the walls of Jerusalem, or among the hills and valleys of Judea.'
'Where we are not loved nor remembered, we cannot love,' he bitterly replied. 'I loved Rome once, more than I loved parent or kindred. The greatness and glory of Rome were to me infinitely more than my own. For her--in my beardless youth--I was ready to lay down my life at any moment. Nay, when the trial came, and the good Valerian set forth to redeem the East from the encroaching power of Persia, I was not found wanting, but abandoned a home, than which there was not a prouder nor happier within the walls of Rome, to take my chance with the emperor and my noble father. The issue thou knowest. How has Rome remembered me, and the brave legions that with me fell into the hands of these fierce barbarians? Even as Gallienus the son seemed to rejoice in the captivity of his parent, so has Rome the mother seemed to rejoice in the captivity of her children. Not an arm has she lifted, not a finger has she moved, to lighten the chains of our bondage, or rescue us from this thraldom. Rome is no longer my country.'
'Consider, Roman,' I replied, 'in extenuation of thy country's fault, who it was that succeeded the good Valerian--then the brief reign of virtuous Claudius, who died ere a single purpose had time to ripen--and the hard task that has tied the hands of Aurelian on the borders of Gaul and Germany. Have patience.'
'Dost thou not blush, old man,' he said, 'with that long gray beard of thine, and thy back bent with years, to stand there the apologist of crime? If ingratitude and heartlessness are to be defended, and numbered among the virtues, the reign of Arimanes has indeed begun. Such is not the lesson, Jew, thy sacred books have taught thee. But a truce with this! Thy last words this morning were, that thou hadst news for me. For Roman news I care not, nor will hear. If thou canst tell me aught of family and friends, say on--although--O gods, that it should be so! --even they seem to share the guilt of all. How many messengers have I bribed with gold, more than thou hast ever seen, Jew, to bear my letters to Rome, and never a word has been returned of good or evil. Canst thou tell me any thing of Portia my mother? or of Lucius Piso my brother? Live they?'
'Do I not know them well?' I replied: 'who that dwells in Rome knows not the noble Portia? She lives yet; and long may she live, the friend of all! To Jew, and even to Nazarene, she is good, even as to her own. Never did age, or want, or helplessness, ask of her in vain. Years have not stopped the fountains of her tears, nor chilled a single affection of her heart. And dost thou think that while she remembers the outcast Jew, and the despised Nazarene, she forgets her own offspring? Where is thy heart, Roman, to suppose it? Have I not heard her, many a time, when I have been to solicit alms for some poor unfortunate of my tribe, run back upon the line of years, and speak of the wars of Valerian, of the day when she parted from her great husband, and her two sons, and of that dark day too when the news came that they were all fast in the clutch of that foul barbarian, Sapor---and stood a silent and astonished witness of a love, such as I never saw in any other, and which seemed so great as to be a necessary seed of death to her frail and shattered frame? Of thee especially have I heard her descant as mothers will, and tell one after another of all thy beauties, nay and of the virtues which bound her to thee so, and of her trust so long cherished, that thou, more than either of her other sons, wouldst live to sustain, and even bear up higher, the name of Piso.'
'My noble mother! was it so indeed?'
'How should it be otherwise? Is it any thing that thou hast not heard from her? Was she to tempt herself the horrors of a Persian journey? Was she, in her age, to seek thee over the sands of Asia? or thy brother? Especially when it was held in Rome not more certain that Valerian was dead, than that thy father and thou wert also. The same messengers related both events. No other news ever came from Ctesiphon. Was not one event as likely as the other? Did not both rest upon the same authority? In the same commemorative acts of the Senate were thy name, thy father's, thy brother's, and the emperor's, with others who were also believed to have perished. Was Portia alone, of all Rome, to give the lie to universal fame? As for thy messengers, art thou so foolish as to believe that one ever crossed the desert, or escaped the meshes set for him by the jealous and malignant Sapor?'
'It is enough, Jew--say no more.'
'But I have much more to say, or else be false to those who sent me.'
'Sent thee? who sent thee? Speak! do Portia then, and Lucius, know that I live? And art thou here a messenger from them?'
'It is even so.'
Thy brother was greatly moved. At first he made as though he would have embraced me, but turned and paced with quick and agitated steps the room.
I then related to him how we had in Rome first heard through that soldier a rumor of his being yet alive--but at the same time, that he had renounced his country and become a Persian Satrap. I told him of thy faith in him and of Portia's that he would never prove a recreant to his country--of thy instant journey to Palmyra, with purpose to cross the desert thyself and risk all the dangers of Ecbatana to accomplish his deliverance, and of the counsel of Gracchus, which caused thee to make me a substitute.
'Lucius then,' he at length said, approaching me, 'is in Palmyra? Is it so?'
'It is,' I said. 'At least I left him there. He was to remain there, and learn the issue of my attempt. If I perished, or failed in the endeavor to obtain thy freedom, then was it his purpose himself to try--unless in the mean time he should learn through me, or otherwise, that thou wert too wedded to Persia and to Persian customs, to consent to change them for Rome and Roman ways.'
'Jew, thou seest that now I hesitate. Thou hast roused all the son, the brother, and something of the Roman within me. I am drawn many ways. To Rome I will never return. Toward her, a resentment burns deep within, which I know will close only with life itself. But toward Palmyra, my heart yearns 'Twas Zenobia alone of all the world that ever moved for the rescue of Valerian: 'twas she alone of all the world, who pitied our sorrows, and though she could not heal, avenged them. Her image has been a dear source of consolation in this long captivity. I have eagerly sought for all that could be obtained concerning her character, her acts, her policy, and the state of her affairs. And often have I thought to slip my bonds and throw myself at her feet, to serve with her, if need should be, either against Rome or Persia. But habit has prevailed, and the generous friendship of Hormisdas, to keep me here. And why should I change this not unpleasing certainty for the doubtful future that must await me in Palmyra? Here I am in the very lap of luxury. I am, as I have said to thee, a man without wants. All countries, and climates, and seas, and arts, minister to my pleasure. The learning of ancient and of modern times, you see there piled upon shelves, to entertain my leisure, or task my hours of study. I am without care--without the necessity of toil--with a palace, its slaves, and, I may add, its prince, at my command. And beyond all this present reality, there is the prospect of every thing else that Persia contains, upon the death of Sapor, which, in the course of nature, cannot be far off, if violence do not anticipate that hour. Yet what thou now tellest me, renews my desire of change. Lucius is in Palmyra--perhaps he would dwell there. 'Tis the home, I learn, of many noble Romans. Who can say that Portia might not come and complete our happiness?'
And saying these things, he began to muse. He again paced with folded arms the long apartment. I saw that he was still distracted by doubts. I knew of but one thing more to say, by which to work upon his passionate nature. I resolved to say it, though I know not what thou wilt think of it, nor what the event may be. There was, thou knowest, ere I left Palmyra, rumor of war between Palmyra and Rome. Barely to name this, it seemed to me, would be on the instant to fix his wavering mind. I could not withstand the temptation. But, Piso once in Palmyra, and sure I am I shall be forgiven. I began again thus.
'Gracchus too, Roman; dost thou not remember the family of Gracchus? He also is in Palmyra.'
'Ay, I remember him well. A man of true nobility--now one of the Queen's chief advisers, and head of the Senate. He had a daughter too, who, her mother dying young, was committed to the care of Portia, and was as a sister. Does she live? --and dwells she in Palmyra?'
'She lives, and beneath her father's roof. Fame speaks loudly of her beauty and her wit, and more loudly still of her young wisdom, and influence with the Queen. Her spirit is the counterpart of Zenobia's. She is, notwithstanding her long Roman nurture, a Palmyrene of the truest stamp. And ever since there have been these rumors of a war with Rome'-- 'What sayst thou? What is that? War with Rome? Did I hear aright?'
'Verily thou didst. 'Twas the current report when I left Palmyra. It came both by the way of Antioch and Alexandria. Nothing was talked of else. Ever since, I say--' 'Why hast thou not said this before? How shall I believe thee?'
'I said it not before, simply because I thought not of it. How was I to know what thou most desiredst to hear? I can give thee no other ground of belief than common rumor. If my own opinion will weigh aught, I may add, that for myself I have not a doubt that the report springs from truth. When at Rome, it was commonly spoken of, and by those too whom I knew to be near the emperor, that Aurelian felt himself aggrieved and insulted, that a woman should hold under her dominion territories that once belonged to Rome, and who had wrested them from Rome by defeat of Roman generals--and had sworn to restore the empire in the East as well as West, to its ancient bounds. At Palmyra too I found those who were of deep intelligence in the politics of the times, who felt sure of nothing more than that, what with the pride of Zenobia and the ambition of Aurelian, war was inevitable. I tell thee these things as they fell upon my ear. Before this, as I think, it is most likely that war may have broken out between the two nations.'
'Thou hast now spoken, Jew,' said Calpurnius. 'Hadst thou said these things at first, thou hadst spared me much tormenting doubt. My mind is now bent and determined upon flight. This it will not be difficult, I think, to accomplish. But what is thy plan? --for I suppose, coming upon this errand, thou hast one well digested. But remember now, as I have already warned thee, that thy head will answer for any failure: detection will be death.'
'Death is little to a Jew, who in dying dies for his country. And such would be my death. Whether I live or die, 'tis for Jerusalem. Thy brother rewards me largely for this journey, and these dangers I encounter; and if I perish, the double of the whole sum agreed upon is to be paid according to certain directions left with him. I would rather live; but I shall not shrink from death. But, Piso, detection shall not ensue. I have not lived to this age, to writhe upon a Persian spear, or grin from over a Persian gateway. What I have devised is this. Thou seest my slave Hadad?'
'I see him--an Ethiopian.'
'So he seems to thee. But his skin is white as thine. By an art, known only to me, it has been changed to this ebon hue.'
'What follows?'
'This. Thou art to take his place, thy skin being first made to resemble his, while he is cleansed, and remains in Ecbatana. We then, thou bearing my packages of merchandise, take our way, quietly and in broad day-light, through the gates of Ecbatana. How sayst thou?'
'The invention is perfect. I cannot fear the result.
'So soon then as I shall have made some few preparations, for which to-morrow will suffice, I shall be ready for the desert.'
I heard these words with joy. I now called to Hadad to open his cases of jewels, from which I took a seal, having upon it the head of Zenobia, and offered it to Calpurnius. He seized it with eagerness, having never before seen even so much as a drawing of the Great Queen. I then drew forth thine own ring and gave him, with that locket containing the hair of Portia, and thy letter. He received them with emotion; and as I engaged myself in re-packing my goods, my quick ear caught tears falling upon the sheet as he read.
I then returned to the house of Levi.
Thus have I accomplished, successfully so far, my errand. I write these things to thee, because a caravan leaves Ecbatana in the morning, and may reach Palmyra before ourselves; though it is quite possible that we may overtake and join it. But we may also be delayed for many days. So that it is right, in that case, thou shouldst hear.
* * * * * In these words, my Curtius, you have, for the most part, the letter of Isaac. I have omitted many things which at another time you shall see. They are such as relate chiefly to himself and his faith--abounding in cautions against that heretic Probus, who haunts his imagination as if he were the very genius of evil.
How can I believe it, that within a few hours I may embrace a brother, separated so long, and so long numbered with the dead? Yet how mixed the pleasure! He returns a brother, but not a Roman. Nay, 'tis the expectation of war with Rome, that has gained him. I am perplexed and sad, at the same time that I leap for joy. Fausta cannot conceal her satisfaction--yet she pities me. Gracchus tells us to moderate our feelings and expectations, as the full cup is often spilled. No more now--except this--that you fail not at once to send this letter to Portia. Farewell!
| {
"id": "8938"
} |
9 | None | Several days have elapsed since I last wrote, yet Calpurnius is not arrived. I am filled with apprehensions. I fear lest he may have thought too lightly of the difficulties of an escape, and of the strictness with which he is watched; for while he seems to have held it an easy matter to elude the vigilance of his keepers, common opinion at Ecbatana appears to have judged very differently. Yet, after all, I cannot but rely with much confidence upon the discretion and the cunning of Isaac. I must now relate what has happened in the mean time.
It was the morning after Isaac's letter had been received and read, that Milo presented himself, with a countenance and manner indicative of some inward disturbance.
'And what,' I asked, 'may be the matter?'
'Enough is the matter, both for yourself and me,' he replied. 'Here now has been a wretch of an Arab, a fellow of no appearance, a mere camel-driver, desiring to see you. I told him flatly that you were not to be seen by scum such as he. I advised him to be gone, before he might have to complain of a broken head. And what do you suppose was the burden of his errand? Why truly to ask of the most noble Piso concerning his wife and child! I begged him to consider whether, supposing you did know aught concerning them, you would deign to communicate with a sun-baked beggar of the desert like him. Whereupon he raised a lance longer than a mast, and would have run me through, but for the expertness with which I seized and wrested it from him, and then broke it over his head. 'Twas the same scowling knave whose camels choked the street the first day we entered the city, and who sent his curse after us. Hassan is his name. His eye left a mark on me that's not out yet. A hyena's is nothing to it.'
Thus did he run on. I could have speared him as willingly as Hassan. It was plain that the husband of the woman found in the desert by Isaac, hearing a rumor of intelligence received by me, had been to obtain such information as possibly I might possess of his wife and child. Upon asking my slave where the camel-driver now was, he replied that, 'Truly he did not know; he had been driven from the court-yard with blows, and it was a mercy that his life was left to him. He had been taught how again to curse Romans.'
It was in vain that I assured him once and again that he was no longer in the service of an emperor, and that it was unnecessary to treat me with quite so much deference; his only regret was that the robber had got off so easily. As the only reparation in my power for such stupidity and inhumanity, I ordered Milo instantly to set forth in search of Hassan, in the quarter of the city which the Arabs chiefly frequent, and finding him, to bring him to the house of Gracchus, for I had news for him. This was little relished by Milo, and I could see, by the change of his countenance, that his cowardly soul was ill-inclined to an encounter with the insulted Arab, in the remote parts of the city, and unaccompanied by any of the slaves of the palace. Nevertheless, he started upon his errand--but, as I afterward learned, bribed Hannibal to act as life-guard.
Thinking that I might possibly fall in with him myself, and desirous, moreover, of an occupation that should cause me to forget Calpurnius and my anxieties for a season, I went forth also, taking the paths that first offered themselves. A sort of instinct drew me, as it almost always does, to one of the principal streets of the city, denominated, from the size and beauty of the trees which adorn it, the Street of Palms. This is an avenue which traverses the city in its whole length; and at equal distances from its centre, and also running its whole length, there shoots up a double row of palms, which, far above the roofs of the highest buildings, spread out their broad and massy tufts of leaves, and perfectly protect the throngs below from the rays of the blazing sun. Thus a deep shadow is cast upon the floor of the street, while at the same time, it is unencumbered by the low branches, which on every other kind of tree stretch out in all directions, and obstruct the view, taking away a greater beauty and advantage than they give. This palm is not the date-bearing species, but of another sort, attaining a loftier growth, and adorned with a larger leaf. A pity truly it is, that Rome cannot crown itself with this princely diadem; but even though the bitter blasts from the Appennines did not prevent, a want of taste for what is beautiful would. The Roman is a coarse form of humanity, Curtius, compared with either the Greek or the Palmyrene. Romans will best conquer the world, or defend it; but its adorning should be left to others. Their hands are rude, and they but spoil what they touch. Since the days of Cicero, and the death of the Republic, what has Rome done to advance any cause, save that of slavery and licentiousness? A moral Hercules is needed to sweep it clean of corruptions, which it is amazing have not ere this drawn down the thunder of the gods. Julia would say that Christ is that Hercules. May it be so!
Along the street which I had thus entered I slowly sauntered, observing the people who thronged it, and the shops with their varieties which lined it. I could easily gather from the conversation which now and then fell upon my ear--sometimes as I mingled with those who were observing a fine piece of sculpture or a new picture exposed for sale, or examining the articles which some hawker with much vociferation thrust upon the attention of those who were passing along, or waiting at a fountain, while slaves in attendance served round in vessels of glass, water cooled with snow and flavored with the juice of fruits peculiar to the East--that the arrival of the ambassadors had caused a great excitement among the people, and had turned all thoughts into one channel. Frequently were they gathered together in groups, around some of the larger trees, or at the corners of the streets, or at the entrance of some conspicuous shop, to listen to the news which one had to tell, or to arguments upon the all-engrossing theme with which another sought to bring over those who would listen, to one or another side of the great question. But I must confess that--save in a very few instances--the question was no question at all, and had but one side. Those whom I heard, and who were listened to by any numbers, and with any patience, were zealous patriots, inveighing bitterly against the ambition and tyranny of Rome, and prognosticating national degradation, and ruin, and slavery, if once the policy of concession to her demands was adopted.
'Palmyra,' they said, 'with Zenobia and Longinus at her head, the deserts around her, and Persia to back her, might fearlessly stand against Rome and the world. Empire began in the East: it had only wandered for a while to the West--losing its way. The East was its native seat, and there it would return. Why should not Palmyra be what Assyria and Persia once were? What kingdom of the world, and what age, could ever boast a general like Zabdas, a minister like Longinus, a queen like the great Zenobia?' At such flights, the air would resound with the plaudits of the listening crowd, who would then disperse and pursue their affairs, or presently gather around some new declaimer.
I was greatly moved on several of these occasions, to make a few statements in reply to some of the orators, and which might possibly have let a little light upon minds willing to know the truth; but I doubted whether even the proverbially good-natured and courteous Palmyrenes might not take umbrage at it. As I turned from one of these little knots of politicians, I encountered Otho, a nobleman of Palmyra and one of the Queen's council. 'I was just asking myself,' said I, saluting him, 'whether the temper of your people, even and forbearing as it is, would allow a Roman in their own city to harangue them, who should not so much advocate a side, as aim to impart truth.'
'Genuine Palmyrenes,' he answered, 'would listen with patience and civility. But, in a crowded street, one can never answer for his audience. You see here not only Palmyrenes, but strangers from all parts of the East--people from our conquered provinces and dependences, who feel politically with the Palmyrene, but yet have not the manners of the Palmyrene. There is an Armenian, there a Saracen, there an Arab, there a Cappadocian, there a Jew, and there an Egyptian--politically perhaps with us, but otherwise a part of us not more than the Ethiopian or Scythian. The Senate of Palmyra would hear all you might say--or the Queen's council--but not the street, I fear. Nay, one of these idle boys, but whose patriotism is ever boiling over, might in his zeal and his ignorance do that which should bring disgrace upon our good city. I should rather pray you to forbear. But if you will extend your walk to the Portico which I have just left, you will there find a more select crowd than jostles us where we stand, and perhaps ears ready to hear you. All that you may say to divert the heart of the nation from this mad enterprise, I shall be most grateful for. But any words which you may speak, or which a present god might utter, would avail no more against the reigning frenzy, than would a palm leaf against a whirlwind of the desert.'
As he uttered these words, with a voice somewhat elevated, several had gathered about us, listening with eagerness to what the noble and respected Otho had to say. They heard him attentively, shook their heads, and turned away--some saying: 'He is a good man, but timid.' Others scrupled not to impute to him a 'Roman leaning.' When he had ended, seeing that a number had pressed around, he hastily wished me a happy day, and moved down the street I bent my way toward the Portico, ruminating the while upon the fates of empire.
I soon reached that magnificent structure, with its endless lines of columns. More than the usual crowd of talkers, idlers, strangers, buyers and sellers, thronged its ample pavements. One portion of it seems to be appropriated, at least abandoned, to those who have aught that is rare and beautiful to dispose of. Before one column stands a Jew with antiquities raked from the ruins of Babylon or Thebes--displaying their coins, their mutilated statuary, or half legible inscriptions. At another, you see a Greek with some masterpiece of Zeuxis--nobody less--which he swears is genuine, and to his oaths adds a parchment containing its history, with names of men in Athens, Antioch and Alexandria, who attest it all. At the foot of another, sits a dealer in manuscripts, remarkable either as being the complete works of distinguished authors, or for the perfection of the art of the copyist, or for their great antiquity. Here were Manetho and Sanchoniathon to be had perfect and complete! Not far from these stood others, who offered sculptures, ancient and modern--vases of every beautiful form, from those of Egypt and Etruria, to the freshly-wrought ones of our own Demetrius--and jewelry of the most rare and costly kinds. There is scarce an article of taste, or valuable of any sort whatever, but may be found here, brought from all parts of the world. In Persian, Indian, and Chinese rarities--which in Rome are rarities indeed--I have dealt largely, and shall return with much to show you.
When, with some toil, I had won a passage through this busy mart, I mingled with a different crowd. I passed from buyers and sellers among those who were, like myself, brought there merely for the purpose of seeing others, of passing the time, and observing the beautiful effects of this interminable Portico, with its moving and changing crowds robed in a thousand varieties of the richest costume. It was indeed a spectacle of beauty, such as I never had seen before nor elsewhere. I chose out point after point, and stood a silent and rapt observer of the scene. Of the view from one of these points, I have purchased a painting, done with exquisite skill, which I shall send to you, and which will set before you almost the living reality.
To this part of the Portico those resort who wish to hear the opinions of the day upon subjects of politics or literature, or philosophy, or to disseminate their own. He who cherishes a darling theory upon any branch of knowledge, and would promulgate it, let him come here, and he will find hearers at least. As I walked along, I was attracted by a voice declaiming with much earnestness to a crowd of hearers, and who seemed as I drew near to listen with attention, some being seated upon low blocks of marble arranged among the columns of the Portico for this purpose, others leaning against the columns themselves, and others standing on the outside of the circle. The philosopher--for such I perceived him at once to be--was evidently a Greek. He was arrayed in a fashionable garb, with a robe much like our toga thrown over his shoulders, and which he made great use of in his gesticulations. A heavy chain of gold was wound around his neck, and then crossing several times his breast, hung down in artificially-arranged festoons. A general air of effeminacy produced in the hearer at once a state of mind not very favorably disposed to receive his opinions. The first words I caught were these: 'In this manner,' said he, 'did that wonderful genius interpret the universe. 'Tis not credible that any but children and slaves should judge differently. Was there once nothing? Then were there nothing now. But there is something now, We see it. The world is. Then it has always been. It is an eternal Being. It is infinite. Ha! can you escape me now? Say, can there be two infinites? Then where are your gods? The fabled creator or creators--be they many or one--of the universe? Vanished, I fancy, at the touch of my intellectual wand, into thin air. Congratulate yourselves upon your freedom. The Egyptians had gods, and you know what they were. The Greeks had gods, and you know what they were. Those nations grovelled and writhed under their partly childish, partly terrific, and partly disgusting superstitions. Happy that the reality of divine natures can, so easily as I have now done it, be disproved! The superincumbent gloom is dispersed. Light has broken through. And so too, touching the immortality of the soul. Immortality of the soul! Did any one of you ever see a soul? I should like to have that question answered:'--he swung defyingly his robe and paused--'did any one ever see a soul! Yes, and that it was immortal, too! You see a body, and therefore you believe in it. You see that it is mortal and therefore you believe in its mortality. You do not see the soul--therefore you believe in one? Is that your reasoning? How plain the argument is! When the god or gods--suppose their being--shall send down and impart to me the astounding fact that I am not one, as I seem, but two--am not mortal, as I seem, but immortal--do not melt into dust at death, but rise in spirit--then will I believe such things, not otherwise. Have we knowledge of any other existences--elemental existences--than corporeal atoms? None. These constitute the human being. Death is their separation, and that separation means the end of the being they once did constitute. But it may all be summed up in a word. When you can see and touch your own soul, as you do see and touch your body, believe in it. Deny and reject this principle, and the world will continue to suffer from its belief in gorgons, demons, spectres, gods, and monsters; in Tartarean regions and torments of damned spirits. Adopt it, and life flows undisturbed by visionary fears, and death comes as a long and welcome sleep, upon which no terrors and no dreams intrude.'
Such was the doctrine, and such nearly the language of the follower of Epicurus. You will easily judge how far he misrepresented the opinions of that philosopher. As I turned away from this mischievous dealer in Cimmerian darkness, I inquired of one who stood near me who this great man might be.
'What,' said he, in reply, 'do you not know Critias the Epicurean? You must be a stranger in Palmyra. Do you not see, by the quality of his audience, that he leads away with him all the fine spirits of the city? Observe how the greater number of these who hang upon his lips resemble, in their dress and air, the philosopher.'
'I see it is so. It seems as if all the profligates and young rakes of Palmyra--of the nobler sort--were assembled here to receive some new lessons in the art of self-destruction.'
'Many a philosopher of old would, I believe,' he rejoined, 'have prayed that his system might perish with himself, could he have looked forward into futurity, and known how it would be interpreted and set forth by his followers. The temperate and virtuous Epicurus little thought that his name and doctrine would in after times be the rallying point for the licentious and dissolute. His philosophy was crude enough, and mischievous I grant in its principles and tendencies. But it was promulgated, I am sure, with honest intentions, and he himself was not aware of its extreme liability to misapprehension and perversion. How would his ears tingle at what we have now heard!'
'And would after all deserve it,' I replied. 'For he, it seems to me, is too ignorant of human nature, to venture upon the office of teacher of mankind, who believes that the reality of a superintending providence can be denied with safety to the world. A glance at history, and the slightest penetration into human character, would have shown him, that atheism, in any of its forms, is incompatible with the existence of a social state.'
'What you say is very true,' replied the Palmyrene; 'I defend only the intentions and personal character of Epicurus, not his real fitness for his office. This Critias, were it not for the odiousness of any interference with men's opinions, I should like to see driven from our city back to his native Athens, Listen now as he lays down the method of a happy life. See how these young idlers drink in the nectarean stream. But enough. I leave them in their own stye. Farewell! Pray invite the philosopher to visit you at Rome, We can spare him.'
Saying this, he turned upon his heel and went his way. I also passed on. Continuing my walk up the Portico, I perceived at a little distance another dark mass of persons, apparently listening with profound attention to one who was addressing them. Hoping to hear some one discoursing upon the condition of the country and its prospects, I joined the circle. But I was disappointed. The orator was a follower of Plato, and a teacher of his philosophy. His aim seemed to be to darken the minds of his hearers by unintelligible refinements, at least such I thought the effect must be. He clothed his thoughts--if thoughts there really were any--in such a many-colored cloud of poetic diction, that the mind, while it was undoubtedly excited, received not a single clear idea, but was left in a pleasing, half-bewildered state, with visions of beautiful divine truth floating before it, which it in vain attempted to arrest, and convert to reality. All was obscure, shadowy, impalpable. Yet was he heard with every testimony of reverence, on the part of his audience. They evidently thought him original and profound, in proportion as he was incomprehensible. I could not help calling to mind the remark of the Palmyrene who had just parted from me. It is difficult to believe that Plato himself labored to be obscure, though some affirm it. I would rather believe that his great mind, always searching after truth at the greatest heights and lowest depths, often but partially seized it, being defeated by its very vastness; yet, ambitious to reveal it to mankind, he hesitated not to exhibit it in the form and with the completeness he best could. It was necessary, therefore, that what he but half knew himself, should be imperfectly and darkly stated, and dimly comprehended by others. For this reason, his writings are obscure--obscure, not because of truths for their vastness beyond the reach of our minds, but because they abound in conceptions but half formed--in inconsequential reasonings--in logic overlaid and buried beneath a poetic phraseology. They will always be obscure, in spite of the labors of the commentators; or, a commentary can make them plain only by substituting the sense of the critic for the no-sense of the original. But Plato did not aim at darkness. And could his spirit have listened to the jargon which I had just heard proclaimed as Platonism, consisting of common-place thoughts, laboriously tortured and involved, till their true semblance was lost, and instead of them a wordy mist--glowing indeed oftentimes with rainbow colors--was presented to the mind of the hearer for him to feed upon, he would at the moment have as heartily despised, as he had formerly gloried in, the name and office of philosopher.
I waited not to learn the results at which this great master of wisdom would arrive, but quickly turned away, and advanced still farther toward the upper termination of the Portico. The numbers of those who frequented this vast pile diminished sensibly at this part of it. Nevertheless, many were still like myself wandering listlessly around. Quite at the extremity of the building I observed however a larger collection than I had noticed before; and, as it appeared to me, deeply absorbed by what they heard. I cared not to make one of them, having had enough of philosophy for the day. But as I stood not far from them, idly watching the labors of the workmen who were carrying up the column of Aurelian--noting how one laid the stone which another brought, and how another bore along and up the dizzy ladders the mortar which others tempered, and how the larger masses of marble were raised to their places by machines worked by elephants, and how all went on in exact order--while I stood thus, the voice of the speaker frequently fell upon my ear, and at last, by its peculiarity, and especially by the unwonted 4 earnestness of the tone, drew me away to a position nearer the listening crowd. By the words which I now distinctly caught, I discovered that it was a Christian who was speaking. I joined the outer circle of hearers, but the preacher--for so the Christians term those who declare their doctrines in public--was concealed from me by a column. I could hear him distinctly, and I could see the faces, with their expressions, of those whom he addressed. The greater part manifested the deepest interest and sympathy with him who addressed them, but upon the countenances of some sat scorn and contempt--ridicule, doubt, and disbelief. As the voice fell upon my ear, in this my nearer position, I was startled. 'Surely,' I said, 'I have heard it before, and yet as surely I never before heard a Christian preach.' The thought of Probus flashed across my mind; and suddenly changing my place--and by passing round the assembly, coming in front of the preacher--I at once recognised the pale and melancholy features of the afflicted Christian. I was surprised and delighted. He had convinced me, at the few interviews I had had with him, that he was no common man, and I had determined to obtain from him, if I should ever meet him again, all necessary knowledge of the Christian institutions and doctrine. Although I had learned much, in the mean time, from both Julia and the Hermit, still there was much left which I felt I could obtain, probably in a more exact mariner, from Probus. I was rejoiced to see him. He was evidently drawing to the close of his address. The words which I first caught, were nearly these: 'Thus have I declared to you, Palmyrenes, Romans, and whoever are here? how Christianity seeks the happiness of man, by securing his virtue. Its object is your greater well-being through the truths it publishes and enforces. It comes to your understandings, not to darken and confound them by words without meaning, but to shed light upon them by a revelation of those few sublime doctrines of which I have now discoursed to you. Has the Greek, the Roman, or the Persian philosophy, furnished your minds with truths like these? Has life a great object, or death an issue of certainty and joy, under either of those systems of faith? Systems of faith! I blush to term them so. I am a Roman, the son of a priest of the temple of Jupiter. Shall I reveal to you the greater and the lesser mysteries of that worship? I see by most expressive signs that it cannot be needful. Why then, if ye yourselves know and despise the popular worship, why will you not consider the claims of Jesus of Nazareth?'
'I despise it not,' cried a voice from the throng, 'I honor it.'
'In every nation,' continued the preacher, 'and among all worshippers, are there those whom God will accept The sincere offering of the heart will never be refused. Socrates, toiling and dying in the cause of truth--though that truth, in the light of the Gospel, were error--is beloved of God. But if God has in these latter days announced new truth, if he has sent a special messenger to teach it, or if it be asserted by persons of intelligence and apparent honesty that he has, ought not every sincere lover of truth and of God, or the gods, to inquire diligently whether it be so or not? Socrates would have done so. Search, men of Palmyra, into the certainty of these things. These many years has the word of Christ been preached in your streets, yet how few followers can as yet be counted of him who came to bless you! Sleep no longer. Close not the ear against the parent voice of the Gospel Fear not that the religion of Jesus comes to reign over aught but your hearts. It asks no dominion over your temporal affairs. It cares not for thrones, nor the sword, nor princely revenues, nor seats of honor. It would serve you, not rule over you. And the ministers of Christ are your servants in spiritual things, seeking not yours, but you.'
'Paul! Paul of Antioch!' shouted several voices at once.
'I defend not Paul of Antioch,' cried Probus, no ways disconcerted. 'Judge Christianity, I pray you, not by me, nor by Paul, but by itself. Because a fool lectures upon the philosophy of Plato, you do not therefore condemn Plato for a fool. Because a disciple of Zeno lives luxuriously, you do not for that take up a judgment against the philosopher himself. Paul of Samosata, not in his doctrine, but in his life, is an alien, a foreigner, an adversary, and no friend or servant of Jesus. Listen, citizens of Palmyra, while I read to you what the founder of Christianity himself says touching this matter!' and he drew from beneath his robe a small parchment roll, and turning to the part he sought, read in a loud voice words of Jesus such as these: 'He that is greatest among you shall be your servant. Whosoever shall exalt himself shall be abased, and he that shall humble himself shall be exalted.' 'This is the doctrine of Christ. According to Jesus, "he among his disciples is greatest, who performs for others the most essential service."' He then turned to another part of the book, and read a long, and as it struck me beautiful passage, in which the author of Christianity was represented as stooping and washing the feet of his disciples, to enforce in a more lively way his doctrine of humility and philanthropy. When he had finished it, a deep silence had fallen upon those who listened. It was broken by the voice of Probus once more saying in low and sorrowful tones: 'I confess--with grief and shame I confess--that pride, and arrogance, and the lust of power, are already among the ministers of Jesus. They are sundering themselves from their master, and thrusting a sword into the life of his Gospel. And if this faith of Christ should ever--as a prophetic eye sees it so sure to do--fill the throne of the world, and sit in Cæsar's place, may the God who gave it appear for it, that it perish not through the encumbering weight of earthly glory. Through tribulation and persecution it has held on its way without swerving. Prosperity begins already to weaken and defile----' What more Probus would have added, I know not; for at this point an unusual disturbance arose in the streets. Trumpets sent forth their long peal, and a troop of out-riders, as accompanying some great personage, rode rapidly along, followed by the crowd of idle lookers-on. And immediately a chariot appeared, with a single individual seated in it, who seemed to take great pleasure in his own state. No sooner had the pageant arrived over against that part of the Portico where we stood, than one and another of Probus's hearers exclaimed: 'Ha! Paul! Paul of Antioch! Behold a Christian servant!' And the whole throng turned away in confusion to watch the spectacle.
'An unhappy commentary upon the doctrine,' said a Palmyrene to me, as he turned sneeringly away.
'What say you to this?' asked another, of Probus himself, as he descended from his rostrum, and stood gazing with the rest, but with a burning cheek and downcast eye.
'I say,' he replied, 'what I have said before, that yonder bishop, however christianized his head may be is a misbeliever in his heart. He is a true anti-Christ.'
'I am disposed to trust you,' rejoined the other. 'I have heard you not without emotion. We have had among us many who have declared the doctrine of Christ. But I have heeded them not, It is different with me now. I am desirous to know what this doctrine of Christ is. I have been impressed by what you recited from the writings of Jesus. How, Christian, shall I apply myself, and where, to learn more than I know now?'
'If thou wilt learn of so humble a teacher as I am,--who yet know somewhat of what Christianity really is--come and hear me at the place of Christian worship in the street that runs behind the great Persian Inn. There, this evening when the sun is down, shall I preach again the truth in Christ.'
'I shall not fail to be there,' said the other, and moved away.
'Nor shall I, Probus,' said I, heartily saluting him.
'Noble Piso!' he cried, his countenance suddenly growing bright as the sun, 'I am glad to meet you at length. And have you too heard a Christian preach? A senator of Rome?'
'I have; and I shall gladly hear more. I am not, however, a Christian, Probus; I profess to be but a seeker after truth, if perhaps it may be found in your faith, having failed to discover it among dead or living philosophers. I shall hear you to-night.'
After many mutual inquiries concerning each other's welfare, we separated.
Upon returning to the house of Gracchus, and finding myself again in the company of Fausta and her father, I said: 'I go to-night to hear a Christian, the Christian Probus, discourse concerning the Christian doctrine. Will you accompany me, Fausta?'
'Not now, Lucius,' she replied; 'my head and heart are too full of the interests and cares of Zenobia, to allow me to think of aught else. No other reason, I assure you, prevents. I have no fears of the opinions of others to hinder me. When our public affairs are once more in a settled state, I shall not be slow to learn more of the religion of which you speak. Julia's attachment to it, of itself, has almost made a convert of me already, so full of sympathy in all things is a true affection. But the heart is a poor logician. It darts to its object, overleaping all reasons, and may as well rest in error as truth. Whatever the purity of Julia and the honesty and vigor of Zenobia accept and worship, I believe I should, without further investigation, though they were the fooleries and gods of Egypt, Did you succeed in your search of the Arab?'
'No: but perhaps Milo has. To tell the truth, I was soon diverted from that object, first by the excitement I found prevailing among the people on the affairs of the kingdom, and afterward by the spectacles of the Portico, and the preaching of Probus, whom I encountered there.'
In the evening, soon as the sun was set, I wound my way to the Christians' place of worship.
It was in a part of the city remote and obscure, indicating very plainly that whatever Christianity may be destined to accomplish in this city, it has done little as yet. Indeed, I do not perceive what principle of strength or power it possesses, sufficient to force its way through the world, and into the hearts of men. It allows not the use of the sword; it resorts not to the civil arm; it is devoid of all that should win upon the senses of the multitude, being, beyond all other forms of faith, remarkable for its simplicity, for its spiritual and intellectual character. Moreover, it is stern and uncompromising in its morality, requiring the strictest purity of life, and making virtue to consist not in the outward act, but in the secret motive which prompts the act. It is at open and unintermitting war with all the vain and vicious inclinations of the heart. It insists upon an undivided sovereignty over the whole character and life of the individual. And in return for such surrender, it bestows no other reward than an inward consciousness of right action, and of the approbation of God, with the hope of immortality. It seems thus to have man's whole nature, and all the institutions of the world, especially of other existing religions, to contend with. If it prevail against such odds, and with such means as it alone employs, it surely will carry along with it its own demonstration of its divinity. But how it shall have power to achieve such conquests, I now cannot see nor conjecture.
Arriving at the place designated by Probus, I found a low building of stone, which seemed to have been diverted from former uses of a different kind, to serve its present purpose as a temple of religious worship. Passing through a door, of height scarce sufficient to admit a person of ordinary stature, I reached a vestibule, from which by a descent of a few steps I entered a large circular apartment, low but not inelegant, with a vaulted ceiling supported by chaste Ionic columns. The assembly was already seated, but the worship not begun. The service consisted of prayers to God, offered in the name of Christ; of reading a portion of the sacred books of the Christians, of preaching, of music sung to religious words, and voluntary offerings of money or other gifts for the poor.
I cannot doubt that you are repelled, my Curtius, by this account of a worship of such simplicity as to amount almost to poverty. But I must tell you that never have I been so overwhelmed by emotions of the noblest kind, as when sitting in the midst of these despised Nazarenes, and joining in their devotions; for to sit neuter in such a scene, it was not in my nature to do, nor would it have been in yours, much as you affect to despise this 'superstitious race.' This was indeed worship. It was a true communion of the creature with the Creator. Never before had I heard a prayer. How different from the loud and declamatory harangues of our priests! the full and rich tones of the voice of Probus, expressive of deepest reverence of the Being he addressed, and of profoundest humility on the part of the worshipper, seeming too as if uttered in no part by the usual organs of speech, but as if pronounced by the very heart itself, fell upon the charmed ear like notes from another world. There was a new and strange union, both in the manner of the Christian and in the sentiments he expressed, of an awe such as I never before witnessed in man towards the gods, and a familiarity and child-like confidence, that made me feel as if the God to whom he prayed was a father and a friend, in a much higher sense than we are accustomed to regard the Creator of the universe. It was a child soliciting mercies from a kind and considerate parent--conscious of much frailty and ill desert, but relying too with a perfect trust, both upon the equity and benignity of the God of his faith. I received an impression also from the quiet and breathless silence of the apartment, from the low and but just audible voice of the preacher, of the near neighborhood of gods and men, of the universal presence of the infinite spirit of the Deity, which certainly I had never received before. I could hardly divest myself of the feeling that the God addressed was in truth in the midst of the temple; and I found my eye turning to the ceiling, as if there must be some visible manifestation of his presence. I wish you could have been there. I am sure that after witnessing such devotions, contempt or ridicule would be the last emotions you would ever entertain toward this people. Neither could you any longer apply to them the terms fanatic, enthusiast, or superstitious. You would have seen a calmness, a sobriety, a decency, so remarkable; you would have heard sentiments so rational, so instructive, so exalted, that you would have felt your prejudices breaking away and disappearing without any volition or act of your own. Nay, against your will they would have fallen. And nothing would have been left but the naked question--not is this faith beautiful and worthy--but is this religion true or false?
When the worship had been begun by prayer to God in the name of Christ, then one of the officiating priests opened the book of the Christians, the Gospels, and read from the Greek, in which they are written--changing it into the Palmyrene dialect as he read--diverse passages, some relating to the life of Jesus, and others which were extracts of letters written by apostles of his to individuals or churches, to which I listened with attention and pleasure. When this was over, Probus rose, standing upon a low platform like the rostrums from which our lawyers plead, and first reading a sentence from the sayings of Paul, an apostle of Jesus, of which this was the substance, 'Jesus came into the world, bringing life and immortality to light,' he delivered, with a most winning and persuasive beauty, a discourse, or oration, the purpose of which was to show, that Jesus was sent into the world to bring to light or make plain the true character and end of the life on earth, and also the reality and true nature of a future existence. In doing this, he exposed--but in a manner so full of the most earnest humanity that no one could be offended--the errors of many of the philosophers concerning a happy life, and compared with the greatest force their requisitions with those of the gospel, 'as he termed his religion; showing what unworthy and inadequate conceptions had prevailed as to what constitutes a man truly great, and good, and happy. Then he went on to show, that it was such a life only as he had described that could make a being like man worthy of immortality; that although Jesus had proved the reality of a future and immortal existence, yet he had, with even more importunity, and earnestness, and frequency, laid down his precepts touching a virtuous life on earth. He finally went into the Christian argument in proof of a future existence, and exhorted those who heard him, and who desired to inhabit the Christian's heaven, to live the life which Christ had brought to light, and himself had exemplified on earth, laboring to impress their minds with the fact, that it was a superior goodness which made Jesus what he was, and that it must be by a similar goodness that his followers could fit themselves for the immortality he had revealed. All this was with frequent reference to existing opinions and practices, and with large illustrations drawn from ancient and modern religious history.
What struck me most, after having listened to the discourse of Probus to the end, was the practical aim and character of the religion he preached. It was no fanciful speculation nor airy dream. It was not a plaything of the imagination he had been holding up to our contemplation, but a series of truths and doctrines bearing with eminent directness, and with a perfect adaptation, upon human life, the effect and issue of which, widely and cordially received, must be to give birth to a condition of humanity not now any where to be found on the earth. I was startled by no confounding and overwhelming mysteries; neither my faith nor my reason was burdened or offended; but I was shown, as by a light from heaven, how truly the path which leads to the possession and enjoyment of a future existence coincides with that which conducts to the best happiness of earth. It was a religion addressed to the reason and the affections; and evidence enough was afforded in the representations given of its more important truths, that it was furnished with ample power to convince and exalt the reason, to satisfy and fill the affections. No sooner shall I have returned to the leisure of my home, to my study and my books, than I shall seriously undertake an examination of the Christian argument. It surely becomes those who fill the place in the social state which I do, to make up an intelligent judgment upon a question like this, so that I may stand prepared to defend it, and urge it upon my countrymen, if I am convinced of its truth and of its advantage to my country, or assail and oppose it, if I shall determine it to be what it is so frequently termed, a pernicious and hateful superstition.
When the discourse was ended, of the power and various beauty of which I cannot pretend properly to acquaint you, another prayer longer and more general was offered, to parts of which there were responses by the hearers. Then, as a regular part of the service, voluntary offerings and gifts were made by those present for the poor. More than once, as a part of the worship, hymns were sung to some plain and simple air, in which all the assembly joined. Sometimes, to the services which I witnessed, Probus informed me there is added a further ceremony, called the 'Lord's supper,' being a social service, during which bread and wine are partaken of, in memory of Jesus Christ. This was the occasion, in former times, of heavy charges against the Christians of rioting and intemperance, and even of more serious crimes. But Probus assures me that the last were even then groundless, and that now nothing can be more blameless than this simple spiritual repast.
The worship being ended, and Probus having descended from his seat, I accosted him, giving him what I am certain were very sincere thanks for the information I had obtained from his oration, concerning the primary articles of the Christian faith.
'It has been,' said he in reply, 'with utmost satisfaction, that I beheld a person of your rank and intelligence among my hearers. The change of the popular belief throughout the Roman empire, which must come, will be a less tumultuous one, in proportion as we can obtain even so much as a hearing from those who sit at the head of society in rank and intelligence. Let me make a sincere convert of a Roman emperor, and in a few years the temples of Paganism would lie even with the ground. Believe me, Christianity has penetrated deeper and farther, than you in the seats of power dream of. While you are satisfied with things as they are, and are content to live on and enjoy the leisure and honors the gods crown you with, the classes below you, less absorbed by the things of the world--because perhaps having fewer of them,--give their thoughts to religion and the prospects which it holds out of a happier existence after the present. Having little here, they are less tied to the world than others, and more solicitous concerning the more and the better, of which Christianity speaks.'
'I am not insensible,' I replied, 'to the truth of what you say. The cruelties, moreover, exercised by the emperors toward the Christians, the countless examples of those who have died in torments for the truth of this religion, have drawn largely and deeply upon the sympathy of the general heart, and disposed it favorably toward belief. In Rome, surrounded by ancient associations, embosomed in a family remarkable for its attachment to the ancient order of things; friends of power, of letters, and philosophy, I hardly was conscious of the existence of such a thing as Christianity. The name was never heard where I moved. Portia, my noble mother, with a heart beating warm for every thing human, instinctively religious beyond any whom I have ever seen or known, of the Christian or any other faith, living but to increase the happiness of all around her, was yet--shall I say it? --a bigot to the institutions of her country. The government and the religion under which all the Pisos had lived and flourished, which had protected the rights and nursed the virtues of her great husband and his family, were good enough for her, for her children, and for all. Her ear was closed against the sound of Christianity, as naturally as an adder's against all sound. She could not, and never did hear it. From her I received my principles and first impressions. Not even the history, nor so much as a word of the sufferings, of the Christians ever fell on my ear. I grew up in all things a Piso; the true child of my mother, in all save her divine virtues. And it was not till a few years since, when I broke loose from domestic and Roman life, and travelled to Greece and Egypt, and now to the East, that I became practically aware of the existence of such a people as the Christians; and my own is, I suppose, but a specimen of the history of my order. I now perceive, that while we have slept, truth has been advancing its posts, till the very citadel of the world is about to be scaled. The leaven of Christianity is cast into the lump, and will work its necessary end. It now, I apprehend, will matter but little what part the noble and the learned shall take, or even the men in power. The people have taken theirs, and the rest must follow, at least submit. Do I over-estimate the inroads of the religion upon the mind and heart of the world?'
'I am persuaded you do not,' replied the Christian. Give me, as I said before, one Roman emperor for a convert, and I will insure the immediate and final triumph of Christianity. But in the mean time, another Nero, another Domitian, another Decius, may arise, and the bloody acts of other persecutions stain the annals of our guilty empire.'
'The gods forbid!' said I; yet who shall say it may not be! Much as I honor Aurelian for his many virtues, I feel not sure that in the right hands he might not be roused to as dark deeds as any before him--darker they would be--inasmuch as his nature for sternness and severity has not, I think, been equalled. If the mild and just Valerian could be so wrought upon by the malignant Macrianus, what security have we in the case of Aurelian? He is naturally superstitious.' ' O that in Aurelian,' said the Christian, 'were lodged the woman's heart of Zenobia! --we then could trust to-morrow as well as enjoy to-day. Here no laws seal the lips of the Christian: he may tell his tale to as many as choose to hear. I learn, since my arrival, that the Princess Julia is favorably inclined toward the Christian cause. Dost thou know what the truth may be?'
'It is certain that she admires greatly the character and the doctrine of Christ, and I should think, believes; but she does not as yet openly confess herself a follower of the Nazarene. She is perhaps as much a Christian as Zenobia is a Jewess.'
'I may well rejoice in that,' replied the Christian, 'yes, and do.'
The lights of the apartment were now extinguished, and we parted.
If I am ever again in Rome, my Curtius, it shall be my care to bring to your acquaintance and Lucilia's, the Christian Probus. Farewell!
Note.
Some readers may be pleased to be able to compare together the representations of Piso and those of Pollio.
"Et quidem peregrina, nomine Zenobia, de qua jam multa dicta sunt, quæ se de Cleopatrarum. Ptolemæorumque gente jactaret, post Odenatum maritum imperiali sagulo perfuso per humeros habitu, donis ornata, diademate etiam accepto, nomine filiorum Herenniani et Timolai diutius quam fæmineus sexus patiebatur, imperavit. Si quidem Gallieno adhuc regente Remp. regale mulier superba munus obtinuit; et Claudio bellis Gotthicis occupato, vix denique ab Aureliano victa et triumphata, concessit in jura Rom." "Vixit (Zenobia) regali pompa, more magis Persico. Adorata est more regum Persarum. Convivata est imperatorum, more Rom. Ad conciones galeata processit, cum limbo purpureo, gemmis dependentibus per ultimam fimbriam media etiam cyclade veluti fibula muliebri astricta, brachio sæpe nudo. Fuit vultu subaquilo fusci coloris, oculis supra modum [Footnote: Ingentibus.] vigentibus, nigris, spiritus divini, venustatis incredibilis; tantus candor in dentibus, ut margaritas eam plerique putarent habere, non dentes. Vox clara et virilis; severitas, ubi necessitas postulabat, tyrannorum; bonorum principum clementia, ubi pietas requirebat. Larga prudenter, conservatrix thesaurorum ultra fæmineum modum. Usa vehiculo carpentario, raro pilento, equo sæpius. Fertur autem vel tria, vel quatuor milliaria frequenter eam peditibus ambulasse. Nata est Hispanoram Cupiditate; bibit sæpe cum ducibus, quum esset alias sobria; bibit etiam cum Persis atque Armeniis, ut eos vinceret. Usa est vasis aureis gemmatis ad convivia, quibus et Cleopatra usa est. In ministerio Eunuchos, gravioris ætatis habuit, puellas nimis raras. Filios Latine loqui jusserat, adeo ut Græce vel difficile vel raro loquerentur. Ipsa Latini sermonis non usquequaque ignara, sed loqueretur pudore cobibita; loquebatur et Egyptiacè ad perfectum modum. Historiæ Alexandrinæ atque Orientalis ita perita ut eam epitomasse hicatur: Latinam autem Græce legerat." "Ducta est igitur per triumphum ea specie ut nihil pompabilius populo Rom. vederetur, jam primum ornata gemmis ingentibus, ita at ornamentorum onere laboraret. Fertur enim mulier fortissima sæpissime restitisse, quum diceret se gemmorum onera ferre non posse. Vincti erant preterea pedes auro, manus etiam catenis aureis; nec collo aureum vinculum deerat, quod scurra Persicus præferebat. Huic ab Aureliano vivere concessum est. Ferturque vixisse cum liberis, matronæ jam more Romanæ, data sibi possessione in Tiburti quæ hodieque Zenobia dicitur, non longe ab Adriani palatio, atque ab eo loco cui nomen est Conche." --Hist. Aug. Lugd. Batav. 1661, p. 787.
"Ille (Odenatus) plane cum uxore Zenobia non solum Orientem quem jam in pristinum reformaverat statum, sed omnes omnino totius orbis partes reformasset, vir acer in bellis, et, quantum plerique scriptores loquuntur, venatu memorabili semper inclytus, qui a prima ætate capiendis leonibus et pardis, cervis, cæterisque sylvestribus animalibus, sudorem officii virilis impendit, quique semper in sylvis ac montibus vixit, perferens calorem, pluvias, et omnia mala que in se continent venatoriæ voluptates; quibus duratis, solem ac pulverem in bellis Persicis tulit. Non aliter etiam conjuge assueta, quæ multorum sententia fortior marito fuisse perhibetur; mulierum omnium nobilissima, Orientalium fæminarum et (ut Cornelius Capitolinus asserit) speciocissima." ---Ib. p. 771 Also what Aurelian himself says in a letter to the Roman Senate, preserved by Pollio.
"Audio, P. C. mihi objici quod non virile munus impleverim, Zenobiam triumphando. Næ illi qui me reprehendunt satis laudarant, si scirent qualis ilia est mulier, quam prudens in consiliis, quam constans in dispositionibus, quam erga milites gravis, quam larga quum necessitas postulet, quam tristis quum severitas poscat. Possum dicere _illius_esse quod Odenatus Persos vicit, ac Sapore fugato Ctesiphontem usque pervenit. Possum asserere, tanto apud Orientalis et Egyptiorum populos timori mulierem fuisse, ut se non Arabes, non Sarraceni, non Armeni commoverent. Nec ego illi vitam conservassem nisi eam scissem multum Rom. Repub. profuisse, quurn sibi, vel liberis suis Orientis servaret imperium," etc.
Zenobia; or, The Fall of Palmyra.
In Letters of L. Manlius Piso, from Palmyra, to His Friend Marcus Curtius at Rome.
By William Ware Zenobia.
Vol. II
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"id": "8938"
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10 | None | As I returned from the worship of the Christians to the house of Gracchus, my thoughts wandered from the subjects which had just occupied my mind to the condition of the country, and the prospect now growing more and more portentous of an immediate rupture with Rome. On my way I passed through streets of more than Roman magnificence, exhibiting all the signs of wealth, taste, refinement, and luxury. The happy, light-hearted populace were moving through them, enjoying at their leisure the calm beauty of the evening, or hastening to or from some place of festivity. The earnest tone of conversation, the loud laugh, the witty retort, the merry jest, fell upon my ear from one and another as I passed along. From the windows of the palaces of the merchants and nobles, the rays of innumerable lights streamed across my path, giving to the streets almost the brilliancy of day; and the sound of music, either of martial instruments, or of the harp accompanied by the voice, at every turn arrested my attention, and made me pause to listen.
A deep melancholy came over me. It seemed to me that the days of this people were numbered, and that the gods intending their ruin had first made them mad. Their gayety appeared to me no other than madness. They were like the gladiators of our circuses, who, doomed to death, pass the last-days of life in a delirium of forced and frantic joy. Many of the inhabitants I could not but suppose utterly insensible to the dangers which impend--or ignorant of them; but more I believe are cheerful, and even gay, through a mad contempt of them. They look back upon their long and uninterrupted prosperity--they call to mind their late glorious achievements under Odenatus and their Queen--they think of the wide extent of their empire--they remember that Longinus is their minister, and Zenobia still their Queen--and give their fears to the winds. A contest with Rome they approach as they would the games of the amphitheatre.
The situation of their city, defended as it is by the wide-stretching deserts, is indeed enough of itself to inspire the people with a belief that it is impregnable. It requires an effort, I am aware, to admit the likelihood of an army from the far west first overcoming the dangers of the desert, and then levelling the walls of the city, which seem more like ramparts of Nature's making so massy are they, than any work of man. And the Palmyrenes have certainly also some excuse in the wretched management of our generals, ever since the expedition of Valerian, and in the brilliancy of their own achievements, for thinking well of themselves, and anticipating, without much apprehension for the issue, a war with us. But these and the like apologies, however they may serve for the common people, surely are of no force in their application to the intelligent, and such as fill the high places of the kingdom. They know that although upon some mere question of honor or of boundary, it might be very proper and politic to fight a single battle rather than tamely submit to an encroachment, it is quite another thing when the only aim of the war is to see which is the stronger of the two--which is to be master. This last, what is it but madness? the madness of pride and ambition in the Queen--in the people the madness of a love and a devotion to her, unparalleled since the world began. A blindness as of death has seized them all.
Thinking of these things, and full of saddest forebodings as to the fate of this most interesting and polished people, I reached the gate of the palace of Gracchus. The inmates, Gracchus and Fausta, I learned from Milo, were at the palace of the Queen, whither I was instructed by them to resort at the request of Zenobia herself. The chariot of my host soon bore me there. It was with pleasure that I greeted this unexpected good fortune. I had not even seen the Queen since the day passed at her villa, and I was not a little desirous, before the ambassadors should receive their final answer, to have one more opportunity of conversing with her.
The moment I entered the apartment where the Queen was with her guests, I perceived that all state was laid aside, and that we were to enjoy each other with the same social ease as when in the country, or as on that first evening in the gardens of the palace. There was on this occasion no prostration, and no slave crouched at her feet; and all the various Persian ceremonial, in which this proud woman so delights, was dispensed with. The room in which we met was large, and opening on two of its sides upon those lofty Corinthian porticos, which add so greatly to the magnificence of this palace. Light was so disposed as to shed a soft and moon-like radiance, which, without dazzling, perfectly revealed every person and object, even to the minutest beauties of the paintings upon the walls, and of the statuary that offered to the eye the master-pieces of ancient and modern sculpture. The company was scattered; some being seated together in conversation, others observing the works of art, others pacing the marble floors of the porticos, their forms crossing and recrossing the ample arched door-ways which opened upon them.
'We feared,' said the Queen, advancing toward me as I entered, 'that we were not to be so happy as to see you. My other friends have already passed a precious hour with me. But every sacrifice to the affections, be it ever so slight, is a virtue, and therefore you are still an object of praise, rather than of censure.'
I said in reply that an affair of consequence had detained me, or I should have been earlier at the house of Gracchus, so as to have accompanied Fausta.
Fausta, who had been sitting with the Queen, now came forward, Julia leaning on her arm, and said, 'And what do you imagine to be the affair of consequence that has deprived us of Piso's company?'
'I cannot tell, indeed,' replied Zenobia.
'Julia at least,' said Fausta, 'will applaud him, when she hears that he has just come from an assembly of Christians. May I ask, Lucius, what new truth you have learned with which to enlighten us? But your countenance tells me I must not jest. There--let me smooth that brow and make my peace. But in seriousness, I hope your Mediterranean friend rewarded you for the hour you have given him, and deprived us of?'
'I wish,' I could not but reply, 'that but one out of every thousand hours of my life had been as well rewarded, and it would not have been so worthless. The Princess may believe me when I say that not even the Bishop of Antioch could have done better justice to the Christian argument. I have heard this evening a Christian of the name of Probus, whose history I related--and which you may remember--at the tables, within a few days after my arrival in Palmyra. He is in opinion a follower of Paul, so I am informed, though not--you Julia will be glad to learn it--in his manner of life. What the differences are which separate the Christians from one another in their belief, I know not. I only know that truth cannot take a more winning shape than that in which it came from the lips of Probus, and it was largely supported by the words of the founder of the religion. I think you may justly congratulate your city and your subjects,' I continued addressing Zenobia, 'upon the labors and teaching of a man like Probus. The sentiments which he utters are such as must tend to the strength of any government which relies for its support, in any sense, upon the social and personal virtues of the people. In implanting the virtues of justice, temperance, and piety, and in binding each heart to every other, by the bonds of a love which this religion makes itself almost to consist in, it does all that either philosophy or religion can do for the harmony and order of society, the safety of governments, and the peace of the world.'
'You speak with the earnestness of a deep persuasion, Roman,' replied the Queen, 'and I shall not forget the name and office of the person whom you have now named to me. I hear with pleasure of the arrival of any teacher of truth in my kingdom. I have derived so much myself from the influences of letters and philosophy, that it is no far-off conclusion for me to arrive at, that my people must be proportionally benefited by an easy access to the same life-giving fountains. Whatever helps to quicken thought, and create or confirm habits of reflection, is so much direct service to the cause of humanity. I truly believe that there is no obstacle but ignorance, to prevent the world from attaining a felicity and a virtue, such as we now hardly dream of--ignorance respecting the first principles of philosophy and religion. Knowledge is not less essential to the increase and elevation of virtue, than it is to the further advances of truth, and the detection of error. Prove the truth, and mankind will always prefer it to falsehood. So too, demonstrate wherein goodness consists, and the road that leads to it, and mankind will prefer it to vice. Vice is a mistake, as well as a fault; I do not say as often. I fear that the Christian teachers are occupying themselves and their disciples too much about mere speculative and fanciful distinctions, while they give too little heed to that which alone is of any consequence, virtue. In this, Longinus,' turning towards the philosopher, who had now joined us, 'I think they affect to imitate the commentators and living expositors of the great Plato. I have heard from Paul of Samosata accounts of differences among Christians, where the points were quite too subtle for my understanding to appreciate. They reminded me of the refinements of some of the young adventurers from Athens, who occasionally have resorted here for the purpose of elucidating the doctrines of your great master--pseudo-philosophers and tyros, I perceive you are waiting to term them. Is it so that you denominate Polemo the Athenian, who as I learn is now here with the benevolent design of enlightening my people?'
'He is a man,' replied Longinus, 'hardly worthy to be named in this connection and this presence at all. I have neither met him nor heard him, nor do I desire to do so. It is through the mischievous intermeddling of such as he that the honorable name and office of philosopher are brought into contempt. It requires more intellect than ever enlightens the soul of Polemo, to comprehend the lofty truth of Plato. I trust that when it has been my pleasure to unfold the sense of that great teacher, it has not been found to be either unprofitable, or unintelligible?'
Zenobia smiled and said, 'I must confess that at times, as I have ever frankly stated, my mind has been a little tasked. There has been but an approach to a perfect idea. But I do not say that a perfect conception has not been presented. So that when this has happened, Longinus being the teacher, and Zenobia and Julia the pupils, I cannot doubt that when the task is entrusted to less cultivated minds--the task both of teaching and learning--it must frequently end in what it might be rash to term light or knowledge.'
'I grieve, O Queen,' replied Longinus, smiling in his turn, 'that both you and the Princess should have possessed so little affinity for the soul-purifying and elevating doctrines of the immortal Plato--that you, Queen, should have even preferred the dark annals of Egyptian and Assyrian history and politics, and the Greek learning; and you, Princess, should have fixed your affections upon this, not new-found philosophy, but new-invented religion, of the Christians. I still anticipate the happiness to lead you both into the groves of the academy, and detain you there, where and where only are seats that well become you.'
'But is it not,' I ventured here to suggest, 'some objection to the philosophy of Plato as the guide of life, that it requires minds of the very highest order to receive it? Philosophy, methinks, should be something of such potency, yet at the same time of such simplicity, that it should not so much require a lofty and elevated intellect to admit it, as tend, being received readily and easily by minds of a humbler order, to raise them up to itself. Now this, so far as I understand it, is the character of the Christian philosophy--for philosophy I must think it deservedly called. It is admitted into the mind with ease. But once being there, its operation is continually to exalt and refine it--leading it upwards forever to some higher point than it has hitherto arrived at. I do not deny an elevating power to your philosophy when once an inmate of the soul--I only assert the difficulty of receiving it on the part of the common mind.'
'And the common mind has nothing to do,' replied the Greek, 'with Plato or his wisdom. They are for minds of a higher order. Why should the man who makes my sandals and my cloak be at the same time a philosopher? Would he be the happier? In my opinion, it would but increase his discontent. Every stitch that he set would be accompanied by the reflection, "What a poor employment is this for a soul like mine, imbued with the best wisdom of Greece," and if this did not make him miserable at his task, it would make him contemptible when he should forsake it to do the work of some Polemo--who, it may safely be presumed, has made some such exchange of occupation. No. Philosophy is not for the many, but the few. Parts there are of it which may descend and become a common inheritance. Other parts there are, and it is of these I speak, which may not.'
'Therein,' I rejoined, 'I discern its inferiority to Christianity, which appeals to all and is suited to all, to lowest as well as highest, to highest as well as lowest.'
'But I remember to have been told,' said the Greek in reply, 'that Christian teachers too have their mysteries--their doctrines for the common people, and their refinements for the initiated.'
'I have heard not of it,' I answered; 'if it be so I should lament it. It would detract from its value greatly in my judgment.'
'Where your information fails, Piso, mine perhaps may serve,' said Julia, as I paused at fault. 'It is indeed true, as has been hinted by Longinus, that some of the Christian doctors, through their weak and mistaken ambition to assimilate their faith the nearest possible to the Greek philosophy, have magnified the points in which the least resemblance could be traced between them; and through the force of a lively imagination have discovered resemblances which exist only in their fancies. These they make their boast of, as showing that if Platonism be to be esteemed for its most striking peculiarities, the very same, or ones nearly corresponding, exist also in Christianity. Thus they hope to recommend their faith to the lovers of philosophy. Many have by these means been drawn over to it, and have not afterward altered any of their modes of life, and scarce any of their opinions; still wearing the philosopher's robe and teaching their former doctrines, slightly modified by a tincture of Christianity. However the motive for such accommodation may be justified, it has already resulted and must do so more and more to the corruption and injury of Christianity. This religion, or philosophy, whichever it should be called, ought however,' continued the Princess, addressing particularly the Greek, 'certainly to be judged on its own merits, and not by the conduct or opinions of injudicious, weak, or dishonest advocates. You are not willing that Plato should be judged by the criticisms of a Polemo, but insist that the student should go to the pages of the philosopher himself, or else to some living expositor worthy of him. So the Christian may say of christianity. I have been a reader of the Christian records, and I can say, that such secret and mysterious doctrines as you allude to, are not to be found there. Moreover, I can refer you, for the same opinion, to Paul of Antioch--I wish he were here--who, however he may depart from the simplicity of the Christian life, maintains the simplicity of its doctrine.'
'You have well shown, my fair pupil,' replied the philosopher, 'that the imputation upon Christianity, of a secret and interior doctrine for the initiated alone, is unjust, but therein have you deprived it of the very feature that would commend it to the studious and inquisitive. It may present itself as a useful moral guide to the common mind, but scarcely can it hope to obtain that enthusiastic homage of souls imbued with the love of letters, and of a refined speculation, which binds in such true-hearted devotion every follower of Plato to the doctrine of his divine master.'
At this moment Zabdas and Otho entered the apartment, and drawing near to our group to salute the Queen, our conversation was broken off. I took occasion, while this ceremony was going through, to turn aside and survey the various beauty and magnificence of the room, with its rare works of art. In this I was joined by Longinus, who, with a taste and a power which I have seen in no other, descanted upon the more remarkable of the pictures and statues, not in the manner of a lecturer, but with a fine perception and observance of that nice line which separates the learned philosopher from the polite man of the world. He was both at once. He never veiled his learning or his genius, and yet never, by the display of either, jarred the sensibilities of the most refined and cultivated taste.
When we had in this way passed through the apartment, and were standing looking toward where Zenobia sat engaged in earnest conversation with Gracchus and Zabdas, Longinus said, 'Do you observe the restlessness of the Queen, and that flush upon her cheek? She is thinking of to-morrow and of the departure of the ambassadors. And so too is it with every other here. We speak of other things, but the mind dwells but upon one. I trust the Queen will not lose this fair occasion to gather once more the opinions of those who most love and honor her. Piso, you have seen something of the attachment of this people to their Queen. But you know not the one half of the truth. There is not a living man in Palmyra, save only Antiochus, who would not lay down his life for Zenobia. I except not myself. This attachment is founded in part upon great and admirable qualities. But it is to be fully explained only when I name the fascinations of a manner and a beauty such as poets have feigned in former ages, but which never have been realized till now. I acknowledge it,--we are slaves yoked to her car, and ask no higher felicity or glory.'
'I wonder not,' said I; 'though a Roman, I have hardly myself escaped the common fate; you need not be surprised to see me drawn, by-and-by, within the charmed circle, and binding upon my own neck the silken chains and the golden yoke. But see, the Queen asks our audience.'
We accordingly moved toward the seat which Zenobia now occupied, surrounded by her friends, some being seated and others standing without order around her.
'Good friends,' she said, 'I believe one thought fills every mind present here. Is it not better that we give it utterance? I need the sympathy and the counsel of those who love me. But I ask not only for the opinions of those who agree with me, but as sincerely for those of such as may differ from me. You know me well in this, that I refuse not to hearken to reasons, the strongest that can be devised, although they oppose my own settled judgment. Upon an occasion like this it would ill become the head of a great empire to shut out the slenderest ray of light that from any quarter might be directed upon the questions which so deeply interest and agitate us. I believe that the great heart of my people goes with me in the resolution I have taken, and am supported in by my council; but I am well aware, that minds not inferior to any in strength, and hearts that beat not less warmly toward their country and toward me than any others, are opposed to that resolution, and anticipate nought but disaster and ruin from a conflict with the masters of the world. Let us freely open our minds each to other, and let no one fear to offend me, but by withholding his full and free opinion.'
'We who know our Queen so well,' said Gracchus, 'hardly need these assurances. Were I as bitterly opposed to the measures proposed as I am decidedly in favor of them, I should none the less fearlessly and frankly declare the reasons of my dissent. I am sure that every one here experiences the freedom you enjoin. But who will need to use it? For are we not of one mind? I see indeed one or two who oppose the general sentiment. But for the rest, one spirit animates all, and what is more, to the farthest limits of the kingdom am I persuaded the same spirit spreads, and possesses and fills every soul. The attempt of Aurelian to control us in our affairs, to dictate to us concerning the limits of our empire so far removed, is felt to be a wanton freak of despotic power, which, if it be not withstood in its first encroachment, may proceed to other acts less tolerable still, and which may leave us scarcely our name as a distinct people--and that covered with shame. Although a Roman by descent, I advocate not Roman intolerance. I can see and denounce injustice in Aurelian as well as in another. Palmyra is my country and Zenobia my Queen, and when I seek not their honor, may my own fall blasted and ruined. I stand ready to pledge for them in this emergency, what every other man of Palmyra holds it his privilege to offer, my property and my life, and if I have any possession dearer than these, I am ready to bring and lay it upon the same altar.'
The eyes of Zenobia filled at the generous enthusiasm of her faithful counsellor--and, for Fausta, it was only a look and sign of the Queen that held her to her seat.
Longinus then, as seemed to be his place, entered at length into the merits of the question. He did not hesitate to say that at the first outbreak of these difficulties he had been in favor of such concessions to the pride of Rome as would perhaps have appeased her and cast no indignity upon Palmyra. He did not scruple to add that he had deeply disapproved and honestly censured that rash act of the young princes in assuming the garb and state of Cæsars. He would rather leave to Rome her own titles and empire, and stand here upon a new and independent footing. It was a mad and useless affront, deeply wounding to the pride of Aurelian, and the more rankling as it was of the nature of a personal as well as national affront. He withheld not blame too from that towering ambition which, as he said, coveted the world because the gods had indeed imparted a genius capable to rule the world. He had exerted all his powers to moderate and restrain it, by infusing a love of other than warlike pursuits. 'But,' said he, 'the gods weave the texture of our souls, not ourselves; and the web is too intensely wove and drenched in too deep a dye for us to undo or greatly change. The eagle cannot be tamed down to the softness of a dove, and no art of the husbandman can send into the gnarled and knotted oak the juices that shall smooth and melt its stiffness into the yielding pliancy of the willow. I wage no war with the work of the gods. Besides, the demands of Rome have now grown to such a size that they swallow up our very existence as a free and sovereign state. They leave us but this single city and province out of an empire that now stretches from the Nile to the Bosphorus--an empire obtained by what cost of blood and treasure I need not say, any more than by what consummate skill in that art which boasts the loftiest minds of all ages.' He went on to say, that Palmyra owed a duty not only to herself in this matter, but to the whole East, and even to the world. For what part of the civilized world had not been trampled into dust by the despotism of almighty Rome? It was needful to the well-being of nations that some power should boldly stand forth and check an insolence that suffered no city nor kingdom to rest in peace. No single people ought to obtain universal empire. A powerful nation was the more observant of the eternal principles of honor and justice for being watched by another, its equal. Individual character needs such supervision, and national as much. Palmyra was now an imposing object in the eye of the whole world. It was the second power. All he wished was, that for the sake of the world's peace, it should retain this position. He deprecated conquest. However another might aspire to victory over Aurelian, to new additions from the Roman territory, he had no such aspirations. On the other hand, he should deplore any success beyond the maintenance of a just and honorable independence. This was our right, he said, by inheritance, and as much also by conquest, and for this he was ready, with the noble Gracchus, to offer to his sovereign his properties, his powers, and his life. 'If my poor life,' he closed with saying, 'could prolong by a single year the reign of one who, with virtues so eminent and a genius so vast, fills the throne of this fair kingdom, I would lay it at her feet with joy, and think it a service well done for our own and the world's happiness.'
No sooner had Longinus ended, than Otho, a man of whom I have more than once spoken to you, begged to say a few words.
'My opinions are well known,' he began with saying, 'and it may be needless that I should again, and especially here, declare them, seeing that they will jar so rudely with those entertained by you, my friends around me. But sure I am, that no one has advocated the cause and the sentiments which Zenobia cherishes so fondly, with a truer, deeper affection for her, with a sincerer love of her glory, than I rise to oppose them with--' 'We know it, we know it, Otho,' interrupted the Queen. 'Thanks, noble Queen, for the fresh assurance of it. It is because I love, that I resist you. It is because I glory in your reign, in your renown, in your virtues, that I oppose an enterprise that I see with a prophet's vision will tarnish them all. Were I your enemy, I could not do better than to repeat the arguments that have just fallen from the lips of the head of our councils, set off with every trick of eloquence that would send them with a yet more resistless power into the minds not only of those who are assembled here, but of those, your subjects, wherever over these large dominions they are scattered. To press this war is to undermine the foundations of the fairest kingdom the sun shines upon, and unseat the most beloved ruler that ever swayed a sceptre over the hearts of a devoted people. It can have no other issue. And this is not, O noble Queen, to throw discredit upon former achievements, or to express a doubt of powers which have received the homage of the world. It is only with open eyes to acknowledge what all but the blind must see and confess, the overwhelming superiority in power of every kind of the other party. With a feeble man upon the Roman throne, and I grant that upon the outskirts of her empire a brave and determined opposition might obtain great advantages, and conquer or re-conquer provinces and cities, and bring disgrace upon Roman generals. But this must be a transitory glory--the mere shooting of an evening star--ending in deeper gloom. For what is Rome? Is it the commander of a legion, or the resident governor of a dependent kingdom, or even Cæsar himself? And have you dealt with Rome when you have dealt with Balista, or Heraclianus, or Probus? Alas! no. Rome still stands omnipotent and secure. The lion has been but chafed, and is still a lion, with more than his former fury; one hair has been drawn; his teeth, his limbs, his massy weight, his untouched energies, remain. Rome has been asleep for thirteen long years. Any empire but Rome--which is immortal--would have slept the sleep of death under the dastardly, besotted Gallienus. But Rome has but slumbered, and has now awaked with renovated powers, under the auspices of a man whose name alone has carried terror and dismay to the farthest tribes of the German forests. Against Aurelian, with all the world at his back! and what can any resistance of ours avail? We may gain a single victory--to that, genius and courage are equal, and we possess them in more than even Roman measure--but that very victory may be our undoing, or it will but embitter the temper of the enemy, call forth a new display of unexhausted and inexhaustible resources, while our very good success itself will have nearly annihilated our armies; and what can happen then but ruin, absolute and complete? Roman magnanimity may spare our city and our name. But it is more likely that Roman vengeance may blot them both out from the map of the world, and leave us nought but the fame of our Queen, and the crumbling ruins of this once flourishing city, by which to be remembered by posterity.
'These are not the counsels of fear--of a tame and cowardly spirit. I may rebut that imputation without vanity, by referring to the siege of Ctesiphon and the reduction of Egypt. The generous Zabdas will do me justice--nay, you all will--why am I apprehensive? Bear with me a moment more'--'Say on, say on, noble Otho,' said the Queen, and many other voices at the same time. --'The great Longinus has said,' continued he, 'that it is needful that there be one empire at least in the world to stand between Rome and universal dominion. I believe it. And that Palmyra may be, or continue to be, that kingdom, I counsel peace--I counsel delay--temporary concession--negotiation--any thing but war. A Roman emperor lives not forever; and let us once ward off the jealousy of Aurelian, by yielding to some of his demands, and resigning pretensions which are nothing in reality, but exist as names and shadows only, and long years of peace and prosperity may again arise, when our now infant kingdom may shoot up into the strong bone and muscle of a more vigorous manhood, and with reason assert rights, which now it seems but madness, essential madness, to do. Listen, great Queen! to the counsels of a time-worn soldier, whose whole soul is bound up in most true-hearted devotion to your greatness and glory. I quarrel not with your ambition, or your love of warlike fame. I would only direct them to fields where they may pluck fresh laurels, and divert them from those where waits--pardon me, my royal mistress! --inevitable shame.'
Soon as Otho had given a single sign of pause, Zabdas, like a war-horse, sprang upon his feet. 'Were not the words,' said he, 'which we have just heard, the words of Otho, I would cry out treason! treason! --But Otho--is Otho. What nation would ever, O Queen, outgrow its infancy, were a policy like this, now descanted upon, to guide its counsels? The general who risks nothing can win nothing. And the nation that should wait till absolutely sure of victory before unsheathing the sword would never draw it, or only in some poor skirmish, where victory would be as disgraceful as defeat. Besides, although such a nation were to rise by such victories, if victories those may be called won by a thousand over an hundred, who would not blush to own himself a citizen of it? Greatness lies not in pounds weight of flesh, but in skill, courage, warlike genius, energy, and an indomitable will. A great heart will scatter a multitude. The love of freedom, in a few brave spirits, overthrows kingdoms. It was not, if I rightly remember, numbers by which the Persian hosts were beaten upon the plains of Greece. It was there something like three hundred to a million--the million weighed more than the three hundred, yet the three hundred were the heavier. The arm of one Spartan fell like a tempest upon the degenerate Persians, crushing its thousands at a single sweep. It was a great heart and a trusting spirit that made it weigh so against mere human flesh. Are we to wait till Palmyra be as multitudinous as Rome, ere we risk a battle? Perhaps Rome will grow as fast as Palmyra--and how long must we then wait? I care not, though Aurelian bring half Europe at his back, there sits a throned spirit--whether of earth or not, I cannot tell, but as I think more than half divine--who will drive him back shattered and bleeding, the jest and ridicule of the observing world. She who, by the force of pure intellect, has out of this speck in the desert made a large empire, who has humbled Persia, and entered her capital in triumph, has defeated three Roman armies, and wrested more provinces than time will allow me to number, from the firm grasp of the self-styled mistress of the world, this more than Semiramis is to be daunted forsooth, because a Roman soldier of fortune sends his hirelings here and asks of her the surrender of three fourths of her kingdom--she is to kneel and cry him mercy--and humbly lay at his royal feet the laurels won by so much precious blood and treasure. May the sands of the desert bury Palmyra and her Queen, sooner than one humiliating word shall pass those lips, or one act of concession blast a fame to this hour spotless as the snows of Ararat, and bright as the Persian God. Shame upon the man who, after the lessons of the past, wants faith in his sovereign. Great Queen, believe me, the nation is with you. Palmyra, as one man, will pour out treasure to the last and least dust of gold, and blood to the last drop, that you may still sit secure upon that throne, and stretch your sceptre over a yet wider and undishonored empire.'
'Let not the Queen,' resumed Otho, as Zabdas ceased, 'let not the Queen doubt my faith'--'I doubt it not, good Otho,' she replied; 'heed not the sharp words of the impetuous Zabdas; in his zeal for the art he only loves and for his Queen, he has thrust his lance hither and thither at all adventures, but as in the sports of the field he means no injury.'
'Zabdas intends no wrong, I am well assured,' rejoined Otho. 'I would only add a word, to show upon what I ground my doubt of good success, should Aurelian muster all his strength. It cannot be thought that I have lost my faith in the military genius and prowess of either Zenobia or Zabdas, with both of whom, side by side, I have fought so many times, and by their conduct mounted up to victory. Neither do I doubt the courage of our native Palmyrenes, nor their devotion to the interests of their country. They will war to the death. But should a second army be to be raised, should the chosen troops of the city and its neighboring territories be once cut off, upon whom are we then to rely? Where are the auxiliaries whom we can trust? What reliance can be placed upon Arabs, the Armenians, the Saracens, the Cappadocians, the Syrians? Is our empire so old, and so well moulded into one mass, so single in interest and affection, that these scattered tribes--formerly hostile to each other and to us, many, most of them at different times subject to Rome--may be depended upon as our own people? Have we legions already drawn from their numbers, disciplined, and accustomed to our modes of warfare? Truly, this war with Rome seems to be approached much as if it were but some passing show of arms, some holiday pastime. But the gods grant that none of my forebodings turn true!'
The words of the sober-minded and honest Otho found no echo in the bosoms of those who heard him, and he ceased, when I believe he would willingly have gone on to a closer and sharper opposition. Others followed him, each one present eagerly pressing forward to utter, were it but one word, to show his loyalty, and his zeal in the service of his Queen.
When all, or nearly all, had in this manner manifested their attachment and declared their opinions, the Queen turned to me, saying, that as I had there heard so much of what I could not approve, and perhaps had power to disprove, it was right that if I wished I should also express my opinions; nay, it would be esteemed as a favor by herself, and she was sure also by all her friends, if I would freely impart any knowledge I might possess, by which any error might be corrected, or false impressions dissipated.
Being thus invited, I not unwillingly entered into the questions that had been agitated, and with earnestness and sincerity, and with all the power I could bring to bear, labored to expose the imminent hazard to the very existence of the kingdom, which was run by this rash encounter with the countless hosts of Rome. I revealed a true picture of the resources of our country, and sketched, as I could so well do in their proper colors, the character of the fierce Aurelian; and, in a word, did all that a Roman could do for Rome, and a Palmyrene for Palmyra. I remembered what Otho had told me of the courtesy and willingness with which any company of genuine Palmyrenes would listen to me, and shrank not from any statement however harsh and grating to their national vanity, but which seemed to me to convey the wholesome truth. It appeared to me indeed too late to work any change in minds so pledged already to an adopted opinion, but I resolved to leave nothing untried to turn them from a bent that must end in irretrievable ruin. I was encouraged too, and urged on to more than a common effort, by the imploring countenance of the Princess Julia, who, in that expressive manner, begged me to use all frankness and boldness in my communications. Otho had, it is true, with great power and unshrinking fidelity, advocated the cause of peace, and laid bare the true motives to the war, but still it appeared to me that much might be said by a Roman and a stranger, that would carry with it more weight than as coming from a citizen, however loved and respected. To you, my friend, I need enter into no detail; you will easily imagine what it was, as a Roman, I should urge upon such an occasion, and in such a presence. I shall always remember with satisfaction, I am sure, whatever the issue of this difference may be, my efforts to preserve peace between two nations, whose best interests must be advanced not by enmity and war, but by the closest alliance of friendly intercourse.
I was heard with attention and respect, and afterwards with sincerity thanked, not only by the opposers of the present measures, but by their advocates also; they were glad to know the worst that could be said against the cause they had espoused. A brief silence ensued as I ended, and the eyes of all were instinctively turned upon Zenobia, the ruling spirit--the maker of the kingdom--its soul--its head--and bright, peerless crown.
'It was my wish,' said Zenobia, answering the general expectation, 'before the final decision of the senate and the council, to receive from my friends, in social confidence, a full expression of their feelings, their opinions, their hopes, and their fears, concerning the present posture of our affairs. My wish has been gratified, and I truly thank you all, and not least those my friends--as a philosopher, should I not term them my best friends? --who, with a generous trust in me and in you who are on my part, have not shrunk from the duty, always a hard one, of exposing the errors and the faults of those they love. After such exposure--and which at more length and with more specification will, I trust, be repeated in the hearing of the senate and the council--it cannot be said that I blindly rushed upon danger and ruin, if these await us, or weakly blundered upon a wider renown, if that, as I doubt not, is to be the event of the impending contest. I would neither gain nor lose, but as the effect of a wise calculation and a careful choice of means. Withhold not now your confidence, which before you have never refused me. Believe that now, as ever before, I discern with a clear eye the path which is to conduct us to a yet higher pitch of glory. I have long anticipated the emergency that has arisen. I was not so ignorant of the history and character of the Roman people, as to suppose that they would suffer an empire like this, founded and governed by a woman, to divide long with them the homage of the world. With the death of the ignoble son of Valerian, I believed would close our undisputed reign over most of these eastern provinces. Had Claudius lived, good as he was, he was too Roman in his mould not to have done what Aurelian now attempts. I prepared then for the crisis which has come not till now. I am ready now. My armies are in complete discipline; the city itself so fortified with every art and muniment of war as safely to defy any power that any nation may array before its walls. But were this not so; did the embassy of Aurelian take us by surprise and unprepared; should a people that respects itself, and would win or keep the good opinion of mankind, tamely submit to requisitions like these? Are we to dismember our country at the behest of a stranger, of a foreigner, and a Roman? Do you feel that without a struggle first for freedom and independence, you could sink down into a mean tributary of all-ingulfing Rome, and lose the name of Palmyrene? I see by the most expressive of all language, that you would rather die. Happy are you, my friends, that this is not your case; you are ready for the enemy; you shall not lose your name or your renown; and you shall not die. I and my brave soldiers will at a distance breast the coming storm; your ears shall not so much as hear its thunder; and at the worst, by the sacrifice of our lives, your and your country's life shall be preserved.
'I am advised to avert this evil by negotiation, by delay. Does any one believe that delay on our part will change the time-engendered character of Rome? If I cease to oppose, will Rome cease to be ambitious? Will fair words turn aside the fierce spirit of Aurelian from his settled purpose? Will he--so truly painted by the Roman Piso--who looks to build an undying name, by bringing back the empire to the bounds that compassed it under the great Antonines, let slip the glory for a few cities now in hand, and others promised? or for the purple robe humbly pulled from our young Cæsars' shoulders? Believe it not. The storm that threatens might be so warded off perhaps for a day--a month--a year--a reign--but after that it would come, and, in all reasonable calculation, with tenfold fury. I would rather meet the danger at its first menace, and thereby keep our good name,--which otherwise should we not sully or lose? --and find it less too than a few years more would make it.
'I am charged with pride and ambition. The charge is true, and I glory in its truth. Who ever achieved any thing great in letters, arts, or arms, who was not ambitious? Cæsar was not more ambitious than Cicero. It was but in another way. All greatness is born of ambition. Let the ambition be a noble one, and who shall blame it? I confess I did once aspire to be Queen not only of Palmyra, but of the East. That I am. I now aspire to remain so. Is it not an honorable ambition? Does it not become a descendant of the Ptolemys and of Cleopatra? I am applauded by you all for what I have already done. You would not it should have been less. But why pause here? Is so much ambition praiseworthy, and more criminal? Is it fixed in nature that the limits of this empire should be Egypt on the one hand, the Hellespont and the Euxine on the other? Were not Suez and Armenia more natural limits? Or hath empire no natural limit, but is broad as the genius that can devise, and the power that can win? Rome has the West. Let Palmyra possess the East Not that nature prescribes this and no more. The gods prospering, and I swear not that the Mediterranean shall hem me in upon the West, or Persia on the East. Longinus is right--I would that the world were mine. I feel within the will and the power to bless it, were it so.
'Are not my people happy? I look upon the past and the present, upon my nearer and remoter subjects, and ask nor fear the answer--whom have I wronged? what province have I oppressed? what city pillaged? what region drained with taxes? whose life have I unjustly taken, or estates coveted or robbed? whose honor have I wantonly assailed? whose rights, though of the weakest and poorest, have I trenched upon? I dwell where I would ever dwell, in the hearts of my people. It is writ in your faces, that I reign not more over you than within you. The foundation of my throne is not more power than love. Suppose now, my ambition add another province to our realm? Is it an evil? The kingdoms already bound to us by the joint acts of ourself and the late royal Odenatus, we found discordant and at war. They are now united and at peace. One harmonious whole has grown out of hostile and sundered parts. At my hands they receive a common justice and equal benefits. The channels of their commerce have I opened, and dug them deep and sure. Prosperity and plenty are in all their borders. The streets of our capital bear testimony to the distant and various industry which here seeks its market. This is no vain boasting--receive it not so, good friends: it is but truth. He who traduces himself, sins with him who traduces another. He who is unjust to himself, or less than just, breaks a law as well as he who hurts his neighbor. I tell you what I am and what I have done, that your trust for the future may not rest upon ignorant grounds. If I am more than just to myself, rebuke me. If I have overstepped the modesty that became me, I am open to your censure, and will bear it. But I have spoken, that you may know your Queen--not only by her acts, but by her admitted principles. I tell you then that I am ambitious--that I crave dominion, and while I live will reign. Sprung from a line of kings, a throne is my natural seat. I love it. But I strive too--you can bear me witness that I do--that it shall be, while I sit upon it, an honored, unpolluted seat. If I can, I will hang a yet brighter glory round it.
'And as to pride--what if my woman's nature, that nature the gods implanted and I have received from royal ancestors, loves the pomp and show of power? What if the pride which dwells in all high natures gratifies itself in me by planting its feet upon an Indian princess, as its only fitting footstool, who'--Suddenly at this point of her discourse the Queen broke off, and advancing from where she stood--she had risen from her seat in the ardor of her address--greeted with native courtesy and grace the Roman ambassadors, who, in company with others of their train, we now saw to enter the apartments.
The company, upon this, again resolved itself into many separate groups, and returned to such private topics as each one liked, Zenobia devoting herself to Varro and Petronius.
By and by, at the striking up of music, we moved to another apartment, the banqueting hall--the same Egyptian room in which I had before partaken the hospitalities of the Eastern Queen, where tables, set out with the most lavish magnificence, and bending beneath the most tempting burdens, awaited our approach. A flood of light was poured from the ceiling, and reflected back again from the jewelled wine cups and embossed gold of Demetrius.
But I cannot pretend to describe this sumptuous feast. I will only say, that the Queen, seated between the Roman ambassadors, gave the evening to them. And what with the frequent cups in which she pledged them, and the fascinating charms of her beauty and her conversation, I fear there was but little of the Roman in them when they rose to depart. In this more peaceful way has Zenobia won provinces and cities, as well as at the head of her armies. Farewell.
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11 | None | From my late letters to Portia, and which without doubt you have before this read, you have learned with certainty, what I am sure the eye of Lucilia must before have clearly discerned, my love of the Princess Julia. I have there related all that it can import my friends to know. The greatest event of my life--the issues of which, whether they are to crown me with a felicity the gods might envy, or plunge me in afflictions divine compassions could not assuage--I have there described with that careful concern for your fullest information, touching all that befalls me, by which you will bear me testimony I have been actuated during my residence in this Eastern capital.
You will not be surprised to learn that my passion is opposed by the Queen. It was in the same apartment of the palace where I first saw this wonderful woman, that at a late interview with her, at her command, I was enjoined to think no more of an alliance with her house.
I was, as you may easily imagine, not a little disturbed in anticipation of an interview with such a person, on such an occasion. Fausta assured me that I might rely upon the Queen's generosity, and could look to receive only the most courteous reception, whatever her decision might be on my suit. 'I fear greatly for your success,' said she, 'but pray the gods both for your and the Princess' sake my fears may not come true. Julia lives in her affections--she cannot like me become part of the world abroad, and doubly live in its various action. She loves Zenobia indeed with the truest affection, but she has given her heart to you, Lucius, and disappointment here would feed upon her very life. She ought not to be denied. She cannot bear it. Yet Zenobia, devoured by ambition, and holding so little sympathy with human hearts in their mutual loves--all the world to them--may deny her, nor ever half conceive the misery she will inflict upon a being she loves and even reveres. Press your cause, Lucius, with a manly boldness. The gods succeed you.'
The Queen received me graciously, but with a fixed and almost severe countenance. She expressed herself obliged to me for the early knowledge of what otherwise she had not so much as suspected. 'Living myself,' said she 'far above any dependence upon love for my happiness, I am not prone to see the affection in others. The love which fastens upon objects because they are worthy, I can understand and honor. But that mad and blind passion, which loves only because it will love, which can render no reason for its existence but a hot and capricious fancy, I have had no experience of in my own heart, and where I see it I have no feeling for it but one of disapprobation or contempt. If it be but the beauty of Julia which has bewitched thy fancy, Roman, amuse thyself with a brief tour of pleasure, either to Antioch or Alexandria, and other objects will greet thee, and soon drive her from thy thoughts.'
I assured her that my regard was not of this kind; that indeed her transcendent beauty had first won me, but that other qualities retained me; that the bond which held me was as much friendship as love, and I might say as much reverence as friendship.
'The greater the pity, Roman,' rejoined the Queen in a voice somewhat stern, but yet melancholy, 'the greater the pity. In truth, I had hoped thine was but the love of the painted image, and might without pain be transferred to another, painted but as well. Yet, had I reflected upon the sentiments I have heard from thee, I might have judged thee nobler. But, Piso, this must not be. Were I to look only to myself and Julia, I might well be pleased with a tie that bound us to one whom I have so weighty reasons to respect and honor. But to do this I have no right. I am not my own, but the State's. Julia is no daughter of mine, but the property of Palmyra. Marriage is one of the chief bonds of nations, as of families. Were it not a crime in me, with selfish regard to my own or my daughter's pleasure, to bestow her upon a private citizen of whatever worth, when, espousing her to some foreign prince, a province or a kingdom may be won or saved?'
'But,' I ventured to remark, 'are the hearts of princes and princesses to be bartered away for power or territory? are the affections to be bought and sold? Is the question of happiness to be no question in their case?'
'By no means the principal one. It is not necessarily a sacrifice, but if necessary the sacrifice must be made. The world envies the lot of those who sit upon thrones. But the seat is not without its thorns. It seems all summer with them. But upon whom burst more storms, or charged with redder fury? They seem to the unreflecting mind to be the only independent--while they are the slaves of all. The prosperous citizen may link himself and his children when and with whom he likes, and none may gainsay him. He has but to look to himself and his merest whim. The royal family must go and ask his leave. My children are more his than mine. And if it be his pleasure and preference that my daughters ally themselves to an Indian or a Roman prince, his will is done, not mine--his is the gain, mine the loss. And were it just that, when by joining hands though not hearts two nations could be knit together in amity, the royal house should refuse the sacrifice? Roman, I live for Palmyra. I have asked of the gods my children, not for my own pleasure, but for Palmyra's sake. I should give the lie to my whole life, to every sentiment I have harbored since that day I gave myself to the royal Odenatus, were I now to bestow upon a private citizen her, through whom we have so long looked to ally ourselves by a new and stronger bond to some neighboring kingdom. Julia, Roman--you have seen her, you know her, you can appreciate her more than human qualities--Julia is the destined bride of Hormisdas. By her, on Sapor's death, do we hope to bind together by chains never to be afterward sundered, Persia and Palmyra, who, then leagued by interest and affection, may as one kingdom stand up with the more hope against the overwhelming force of Rome. Were I justified to forego this advantage for any private reason? Can you doubt, were I not constrained to act otherwise, whether I should prefer some nobleman of Palmyra, or thee, that so I might ever dwell within the charmed influence of one, from whom to part will be like the pang of death?'
'But the princess,'--I again urged.
'That is scarcely a question,' she rejoined. 'She may be a sacrifice; but it will be upon her country's altar. How many of our brave soldiers, how many of our great officers, with devoted patriotism throw away their lives for their country. You will not say that this is done for the paltry recompense, which at best scarce shields the body from the icy winds of winter, or the scorching rays of summer. And shall not a daughter of the royal house stand ready to encounter the hardships of a throne, the dangers of a Persian court, and the terrors of a royal husband, especially when by doing so, fierce and bloody wars may be staid, and nations brought into closer unity? I know but little of Hormisdas; report speaks well of him. But were it much less that I know, and were report yet less favorable, it were not enough to turn me from my purpose. Palmyra married to Persia, through Julia married to Hormisdas, is that upon which I and my people dwell.'
'Better a thousand times,' I then said, 'to be born to the lot of the humblest peasant--a slave's is no worse.'
'Upon love's calendar,' said the Queen, 'so it is. But have I not freely admitted, Roman, the dependency, nay slavery, of a royal house? It would grieve my mother's heart, I need scarce assure thee, were Julia unhappy. But grief to me might bring joy to two kingdoms.'
I then could not but urge the claims of my own family, and that by a more powerful and honored one she could not ally herself to Rome; and might not national interest be as well promoted by such a bond, as by one with the remoter East? I was the friend too of Aurelian, much in his confidence and regard.
Zenobia paused, and was for a few moments buried in thought. A faint smile for the first time played over her features as she said in reply, 'I wish for your sake and Julia's it could be so. But it is too late. Rome is resolved upon the ruin of Palmyra--she cannot be turned aside. Aurelian for worlds would not lose the glory of subduing the East. The greater need of haste in seeking a union with Persia. Were Sapor dead to-day, to-morrow an embassy should start for Ecbatana. But think not, Piso, I harbor ill will toward you, or hold your offer in contempt. A Queen of the East might not disdain to join herself to a family, whose ancestors were like yours. That Piso who was once the rival, and in power--not indeed in virtue--the equal of the great Germanicus, and looked, not without show of reason, to the seat of Tiberius; and he who so many years and with such honor reigned over the city its unequalled governor; and thou the descendant and companion of princes--an alliance with such might well be an object of ambition with even crowned heads. And it may well be, seeing the steps by which many an emperor of Rome has climbed upon his precarious seat, that the coming years may behold thee in the place which Aurelian fills, and, were I to pleasure thee in thy request, Julia empress of the world! The vision dazzles! But it cannot be. It would be sad recreancy to my most sacred duty were I, falling in love with a dream, to forsake a great reality.'
'I may not then--' I began.
'No, Piso, you may not even hope. I have reasoned with you because I honor you. But think not that I hesitate or waver. Julia can never be yours. She is the daughter of the state, and to a state must be espoused. Seek not therefore any more to deepen the place which you hold in her affections. Canst thou not be a friend, and leave the lover out? Friendship is a sentiment worthy godlike natures, and is the true sweetener of the cup of life. Love is at best but a bitter sweet; and when sweetest, it is the friendship mingled with it that makes it so. Love, too, wastes away with years. Friendship is eternal. It rests upon qualities that are a part of the soul. The witchery of the outward image helps not to make it, nor being lost as it is with age, can dissolve it. Friendship agrees too with ambition, while love is its most dreaded rival. Need I point to Antony? If, Piso, thou wouldst live the worthy heir of thy great name; if thou wouldst build for thyself a throne in the esteem of mankind, admit friendship, but bar out love. And I trust to hear that thou art great in Rome, greater even than thine ancestor Galba's adopted son. Aim at even the highest, and the arrow, if it reach it not, will hit the nearer. When thou art Cæsar, send me an embassy. Then perhaps--' She closed with that radiant smile that subdues all to her will, her manner at the same time giving me to understand that the conversation was ended, her own sentence being left playfully unfinished.
I urged not many things which you may well suppose it came into my mind to do, for I neither wished, nor did I feel as if I had a right, at an hour of so much public inquietude, to say aught to add to the burden already weighing upon her. Besides, it occurred to me, that when within so short a time great public changes may take place, and the relations of parties be so essentially altered, it was not worth while to give utterance to sentiments, which the lapse of a brief period might show to have been unnecessary and unwise. I may also add that the presence of this great woman is so imposing; she seems, in the very nature and form the gods have given her, to move so far above the rest of her kind, that I found it impossible both to say much of what I had intended to say, and to express what I did say with the ease and propriety which are common to me on ordinary or other extraordinary occasions. They are few, I believe, who possess themselves fully in her presence. Even Longinus confesses a constraint.
'It is even as I apprehended,' said Fausta, as I communicated to her the result of my interview with the Queen. 'I know her heart to have been set upon a foreign alliance by marriage with Julia, and that she has been looking forward with impatience to the time when her daughters should be of an age to add in this way new strength to the kingdom. I rather hoped than had faith, that she would listen to your proposals. I thought that perhaps the earnestness of the princess, with the Queen's strong affection for her, together with the weight of your family and name, might prevail. But then I have asked myself, if it were reasonable to indulge such a hope. The Queen is right in stating as she did her dependence, in some sort, upon the people. It is they, as well as she, who are looking forward to this Persian marriage. I know not what discontents would break out were Hormisdas postponed to Piso--Persia to Rome. My position, Lucius, I think a sadder one than Zenobia's. I love Julia as dearly as Zenobia, and you a great deal more than Zenobia does, and would fain see you happy; and yet I love Palmyra I dare not say how much--nor that, if by such an act good might come to my country, I could almost wish that Julia should live in Persia.'
I have within me a better ground of hope than is guessed either by the Queen or Fausta, but yet can name it not. I mention this to you, and pass to other things.
* * * * * The city has to-day been greatly moved, owing to the expected audience of our ambassadors before the council, and their final answer. The streets are thronged with multitudes not engaged in the active affairs of traffic, but standing in larger or smaller crowds talking, and hearing or telling news, as it arrives from the palace or from abroad.
* * * * * The die is cast The ambassadors are dismissed. The decision of the council has been confirmed by the senate, and Varro and Petronius have with their train departed from the city. War therefore is begun. For it was the distinct language of the embassy, that no other terms need be proposed, nor would be accepted, beside those offered by them. None others have been offered on the part of Palmyra. And the ambassadors have been delayed rather to avoid the charge of unreasonable precipitancy, than in the belief that the public mind would incline to or permit any reply more moderate than that which they have borne back to the emperor.
It is understood that Aurelian, with an army perfectly equipped, stands waiting, ready to start for Asia on the arrival of the ambassadors or their couriers. From your last letters I gather as much. How, again I ask--as I have often asked both myself and the principal persons here--how is it possible there should be but one issue to this contest? Yet from language which I heard in the senate, as well as in the private apartments of the Queen, there is a mad confidence, that after a battle or two on the outskirts of the kingdom, in which they shall conquer as always heretofore, an advantageous peace will end the contest. In the senate, scarce a voice was raised for concession; its mere mention was enough to bring down the most bitter charges of a want of patriotism, a Roman leaning, a sordid regard to the interests of commerce over those of honor, a poor and low-minded spirit. Such as had courage to lift up a warning voice were soon silenced by the universal clamor of the opposite party; and although the war was opposed by some of the ablest men in the kingdom, men inferior to none of those who have come more especially within my notice, and whom I have named to you, yet it is termed a unanimous decision, and so will be reported at Rome.
The simple truth is however that, with the exception of these very few, there is no independent judgment in Palmyra, on great national questions. The Queen is all in all. She is queen, council and senate. Here are the forms of a republican deliberation, with the reality of a despotic will. Not that Zenobia is a despotic prince, in any bad sense of the term, but being of so exalted a character, ruling with such equity and wisdom; moreover having created the kingdom by her own unrivalled energies and genius, it has become the habit of the people to defer to her in all things; their confidence and love are so deep and fervent, that they have no will nor power now, I believe, to oppose her in any measure she might propose. The city and country of Palmyra proper are her property in as real a sense as my five hundred slaves, on my Tiburtine farm, are mine. Nor is it very much otherwise with many of the nearer allied provinces. The same enthusiasm pervades them. Her watchfulness over their interests, her impartiality, her personal oversight of them by means of the frequent passages she makes among them, have all contributed to knit them to her by the closest ties. With the more remote portions of the empire it is very different, and it would require the operation of but slight causes to divide from their allegiance Egypt, Armenia, and the provinces of Asia Minor.
How is not this rashness, this folly, to be deplored! Could the early counsels of Longinus have been but heeded, all had been well. But he is now as much devoted to the will and interests of Zenobia as any in the kingdom, and lends all the energies of his great mind to the promotion of her cause. He said truly, that he like others is but a slave yoked to her car. His opinion now is, that no concessions would avail to preserve the independent existence of Palmyra. The question lies between war and a voluntary descent to the condition of a Roman province. Nothing less than that will satisfy the ambition and the pride of Rome. The first step may be such as that proposed by Varro--the lopping off of the late conquered provinces, leaving Zenobia the city, the circumjacent territory, and Syria. But a second step would soon follow the first, and the foot of Aurelian would plant itself upon the neck of Zenobia herself. This he felt assured of, both from observation upon the Roman character and history, upon the personal character of Aurelian, and from private advices from Rome. He is now accordingly the moving spirit of the enterprise, going with all his heart and mind into every measure of the Queen.
I am just returned from a singular adventure. My hand trembles as I write. I had laid down my pen and gone forth upon my Arab, accompanied by Milo, to refresh and invigorate my frame after our late carousal--shall I term it? --at the palace. I took my way, as I often do, to the Long Portico, that I might again look upon its faultless beauty and watch the changing crowds. Turning from that, I then amused my vacant mind by posting myself where I could overlook, as if I were indeed the builder or superintendent, the laborers upon the column of Aurelian. I became at length particularly interested in the efforts of a huge elephant, who was employed in dragging up to the foundations of the column, so that they might he fastened to machines to be then hoisted to their place, enormous blocks of marble. He was a noble animal, and, as it seemed to me, of far more than common size and strength. Yet did not his utmost endeavors appear to satisfy the demands of those who drove him, and who plied without mercy the barbed scourges which they bore. His temper at length gave way. He was chained to a mass of rock, which it was evidently beyond his power to move. It required the united strength of two at least. But this was nothing to his inhuman masters. They ceased not to urge him with cries and blows. One of them at length, transported by that insane fury which seizes the vulgar when their will is not done by the brute creation, laid hold upon a long lance, terminated with a sharp iron goad, long as my sword, and rushing upon the beast, drove it into his hinder part. At that very moment the chariot of the Queen, containing Zenobia herself, Julia, and the other princesses, came suddenly against the column, on its way to the palace. I made every possible sign to the charioteer to turn and fly. But it was too late. The infuriated monster snapped the chains that held him to the stone, at a single bound, as the iron entered him, and trampling to death one of his drivers, dashed forward to wreak his vengeance upon the first object that should come in his way. That, to the universal terror and distraction of the now scattered and flying crowds, was the chariot of the Queen. Her mounted guards, at the first onset of the maddened animal, putting their horses to their speed, by quick leaps escaped. The horses attached to the chariot, springing forward to do the same, urged by the lash of the charioteer, were met by the elephant with straightened trunk and tail, who, in the twinkling of an eye, wreathed his proboscis round the neck of the first he encountered, and wrenching him from his harness, whirled him aloft and dashed him to the ground. This I saw was the moment to save the life of the Queen, if it was indeed to be saved. Snatching from a flying soldier his long spear, and knowing well the temper of my horse, I ran upon the monster as he disengaged his trunk from the crushed and dying Arabian for a new assault, and drove it with unerring aim into his eye, and through that opening on into the brain. He fell as if a bolt from heaven had struck him. The terrified and struggling horses of the chariot were secured by the now returning crowds, and the Queen and the princesses relieved from the peril which was so imminent, and had blanched with terror every cheek but Zenobia's. She had stood the while, I was told--there being no exertion which she could make--watching with eager and intense gaze my movements, upon which she felt that their safety, perhaps their lives, depended.
It all passed in a moment. Soon as I drew out my spear from the dying animal, the air was rent with the shouts of the surrounding populace. Surely, at that moment I was the greatest, at least the most fortunate, man in Palmyra. These approving shouts, but still more the few words uttered by Zenobia and Julia, were more than recompense enough for the small service I had performed; especially, however, the invitation of the Queen: 'But come, noble Piso, leave not the work half done; we need now a protector for the remainder of the way. Ascend, if you will do us such pleasure, and join us to the palace.'
I needed no repeated urging, but taking the offered seat--whereupon new acclamations went up from the now augmented throngs--I was driven, as I conceived, in a sort of triumph to the palace, where passing an hour, which it seems to me held more than all the rest of my life, I have now returned to my apartment, and relate what has happened for your entertainment. You will not wonder that for many reasons my hand trembles, and my letters are not formed with their accustomed exactness.
Again I am interrupted. What can be the meaning of the noise and running to and fro which I hear? Some one with a quick, light foot approaches.
It is now night. The palace is asleep, but I take again my pen to tell you of the accomplishment of the dear object for which I have wandered to this distant spot. Calpurnius is arrived!
The quick, light foot by which I was disturbed was Fausta's. I knew it, and sprang to the door. She met me with her bright and glowing countenance bursting with expression. 'Calpurnius!' said she, 'your brother! is here'--and seizing my hand drew me to the apartment where he sat by the side of Gracchus; Isaac, with his inseparable pack, standing near.
I need not, as I cannot, describe our meeting. It was the meeting of brothers--yet of strangers--and a confusion of wonder, curiosity, vague expectation, and doubt, possessed the soul of each. I trust and believe, that notwithstanding the different political bias which sways each, the ancient ties which bound us together as brothers will again unite us. The countenance of Calpurnius, though dark and almost stern in its general expression, yet unbends and relaxes frequently and suddenly, in a manner that impresses you forcibly with an inward humanity as the presiding though often concealed quality of his nature. I can trace faintly the features which have been stamped upon my memory--and the form too--chiefly by the recollected scene of that bright morning, when he with our elder brother and venerable parent gave me each a last embrace, as they started for the tents of Valerian. A warmer climate has deepened the olive of his complexion, and at the same time added brilliancy to an eye by nature soft as a woman's. His Persian dress increases greatly the effect of his rare beauty, yet I heartily wish it off, as it contributes more I believe than the lapse of so many years to separate us. He will not seem and feel as a brother till he returns to the costume of his native land. How great this power of mere dress is upon our affections and our regard, you can yourself bear witness, when those who parted from you to travel in foreign countries have returned metamorphosed into Greeks, Egyptians, or Persians, according to the fashions that have struck their foolish fancies. The assumed and foreign air chills the untravelled heart as it greets them. They are no longer the same. However the reason may strive to overcome what seems the mere prejudice of a wayward nature, we strive in vain--nature will be uppermost--and many, many times have I seen the former friend-ships break away and perish.
I could not but be alive to the general justness of the comparison instituted by Isaac, between Calpurnius and Julia. There are many points of resemblance. The very same likeness in kind that we so often observe between a brother and sister--such as we have often remarked in our nephew and niece, Drusus and Lavinia--whose dress being changed, and they are changed.
No sooner had I greeted and welcomed my brother, than I turned to Isaac and saluted him, I am persuaded, with scarcely less cordiality.
'I sincerely bless the gods,' said I, 'that you have escaped the perils of two such passages through the desert, and are safe in Palmyra. May every wish of your heart, concerning your beloved Jerusalem, be accomplished. In the keeping of Demetrius will you find not only the single talent agreed upon in case you returned, but the two which were to be paid had you perished. One such tempest upon the desert, escaped, is more and worse than death itself met softly upon one's bed.'
'Now, Jehovah be praised,' ejaculated Isaac, 'who himself has moved thy heart to this grace! Israel will feel this bounty through every limb, it will be to her as the oil of life.'
'And my debt,' said Calpurnius, 'is greater yet, and should in reason be more largely paid. Through the hands of Demetrius I will discharge it.'
'We are all bound to you,' said Fausta, 'more than words can tell or money pay.'
'You owe more than you are perhaps aware of to the rhetoric of Isaac,' added Calpurnius. 'Had it not been for the faithful zeal and cunning of your messenger in his arguments not less than his contrivances, I had hardly now been sitting within the walls of Palmyra.'
'But then again, noble Roman,' said Isaac, 'to be honest, I ought to say what I said not--for it had not then occurred--in my letter to thy brother, how by my indiscretion I had nearly brought upon myself the wrath, even unto death, of a foul Persian mob, and so sealed thy fate together with my own. Ye have heard doubtless of Manes the Persian, who deems himself some great one, and sent of God? It was noised abroad ere I left Palmyra, that for failing in a much boasted attempt to work a cure by miracle upon the Prince Hormisdas, he had been strangled by order of Sapor. Had he done so, his love of death-doing had at length fallen upon a proper object, a true child of Satan. But as I can testify, his end was not such, and is not yet. He still walks the earth, poisoning the air he breathes, and deluding the souls of men. Him I encountered one day, the very day I had despatched thy letter, in the streets of Ecbatana, dogged at the heels by his twelve ragged apostles, dragging along their thin and bloodless limbs, that seemed each step ready to give way beneath the weight, little as it was, they had to bear. Their master, puffed up with the pride of a reformer, as forsooth he holds himself, stalked by at their head, drawing the admiration of the besotted people by his great show of sanctity, and the wise saws which every now and then he let drop for the edification of such as heard. Some of these sayings fell upon my ear, and who was I, to hear them and not speak? Ye may know that this false prophet has made it his aim to bring into one the Magian and Christian superstitions, so that by such incongruous and deadly mixture he might feed the disciples of those two widely sundered religions, retaining, as he foolishly hoped, enough of the faith of each to satisfy all who should receive the compound. In doing this he hath cast dirt upon the religion of the Jew, blasphemously teaching that our sacred books are the work of the author of evil, while those of Christ are by the author of good. With more zeal, it must be confessed, than wisdom, seeing where I was and why I was there, I resisted this father of lies, and withstood him to his face. 'Who art thou, bold blasphemer,' I said, 'that takest away the Godhead, breaking into twain that which is infinite and indivisible? Who art thou to tread into the dust the faith of Abraham, and Moses, and the prophets, imputing their words, uttered by the spirit of Jehovah, to the great enemy of mankind? I wonder, people of Ecbatana, that the thunders of God sleep, and strike him not to the earth as a rebel--nay, that the earth cleaveth not beneath him and swalloweth him not up, as once before the rebels Korah, Dathan, and Abiram;' and much more in the same mad way, till while I was yet speaking, those lean and hungry followers of his set upon me with violence, crying out against me as a Jew, and stirring up the people, who were nothing unwilling, but fell upon me, and throwing me down, dragged me to a gate of the city, and casting me out as I had been a dead dog, returned themselves like dogs to their vomit--that accursed dish of Manichean garbage. I believed myself for a long while surely dead; and in my half conscious state took shame to myself, as I was bound to do, for meddling in the affairs of Pagan misbelievers--putting thy safety at risk. Through the compassion of an Arab woman dwelling without the walls, I was restored and healed--for whose sake I shall ever bless the Ishmaelite. I doubt not, Roman, while I lay at the hut of that good woman, thou thoughtest me a false man?'
'I could not but think so,' said Calpurnius, 'and after the strong desire of escape which you had at length kindled, I assure you I heaped curses upon you in no stinted measure.'
'But all has ended well and so all is well,' said Fausta, 'and it was perhaps too much to expect, Isaac, that you should stand quietly by and hear the religion of your fathers traduced. You are well rewarded for what you did and suffered, by the light in which your tribe will now regard you, as an almost-martyr, and owing to no want of will, or endeavor on your part, that almost did not end in quite. Hannibal, good Isaac, will now see to your entertainment.'
'One word if it please you,' said Isaac, 'before I depart. The gentile despises the Jew. He charges upon him usury and extortion. He accuses him of avarice. He believes him to subsist upon the very life blood of whomsoever he can draw into his meshes. I have known those who have firm faith that the Jew feeds but upon the flesh and blood of Pagan and Christian infants, whom, by necromantic power, he beguiles from their homes. He is held as the common enemy of man, a universal robber, whom all are bound to hate and oppress. Reward me now with your belief, better than even the two gold talents I have earned, that all are not such. This is the charity, and all that I would beg; and I beg it of you, for that I love you all, and would have your esteem. Believe that in the Jew there is a heart of flesh as well as in a dog. Believe that some noble ambition visits his mind as well as yours. Credit it not--it is against nature--that any tribe of man is what you make the Jew. Look upon me, and behold the emblem of my tribe. What do you see? A man bent with years and toil; this ragged tunic his richest garb; his face worn with the storms of all climates; a wanderer over the earth; my home--Piso, thou hast seen it--a single room, with my good dromedary's furniture for my bed at night, and my seat by day; this pack my only apparent wealth. Yet here have I now received two gold talents of Jerusalem! --what most would say were wealth enough, and this is not the tythe of that which I possess. What then? Is it for that I love obscurity, slavery, and a beggar's raiment, that I live and labor thus, when my wealth would raise me to a prince's state? Or is it that I love to sit and count my hoarded gains? Good friends, for such you are, believe it not. You have found me faithful and true to my engagements; believe my word also. You have heard of Jerusalem, once the chief city of the East, where stood the great temple of our faith, and which was the very heart of our nation, and you know how it was beleaguered by the Romans, and its very foundations rooted up, and her inhabitants driven abroad as outcasts, to wander over the face of the earth, with every where a country, but no where a home. And does the Jew, think you, sit down quietly under these wrongs? Trajan's reign may answer that. Is there no patriotism yet alive in the bosom of a Jew? Will every other toil and die for his country and not the Jew? Believe me again, the prayers which go up morning, noon and night, for the restoration of Jerusalem, are not fewer than those which go up for Rome or Palmyra. And their deeds are not less; for every prayer there are two acts. It is for Jerusalem! that you behold me thus in rags, and yet rich. It is for her glory that I am the servant of all and the scorn of all, that I am now pinched by the winters of Byzantium, now scorched by the heats of Asia, and buried beneath the sands of the desert. All that I have and am is for Jerusalem. And in telling you of myself, I have told you of my tribe. What we do and are is not for ourselves, but for oar country. Friends, the hour of our redemption draweth nigh. The Messiah treads in the steps of Zenobia! and when the East shall behold the disasters of Aurelian--as it will--it will behold the restoration of that empire, which is destined in the lapse of ages to gather to itself the glory and dominion of the whole earth.'
Saying these words, during which he seemed no longer Isaac the Jew, but the very Prince of the Captivity himself, he turned and took his departure.
Long and earnest conversation now ensued, in which we received from Calpurnius the most exact accounts of his whole manner of life during his captivity; of his early sufferings and disgraces, and his late honors and elevation; and gave in return similar details concerning the history of our family and of Rome, during the same period of time. I will not pretend to set down the narrative of Calpurnius. It was delivered with a grace which I can by no means transfer to these pages. I trust you may one day hear it from his own lips. Neither can I tell you how beautiful it was to see Fausta hanging upon his words, with a devotion that made her insensible to all else--her varying color and changing expression showing how deeply she sympathized with the narrator. When he had ended, and we had become weary of the excitement of this first interview, Fausta proposed that we should separate to meet again at supper. To this we agreed.
According to the proposal of Fausta, we were again, soon as evening had come, assembled around the table of the princely Gracchus.
When we had partaken of the luxuries of the feast, and various lighter discourse had caused the time to pass by in an agreeable manner, I said thus, turning to my brother: 'I would, Calpurnius, that the temper of one's mind could as easily be changed as one's garments. You now seem to me, having put off your Persian robes, far more like Piso than before. Your dress, though but in part Roman and part Palmyrene, still brings you nearer. Were it wholly Roman it were better. Is nothing of the Persian really put off, and nothing of the Roman put on, by this change?'
'Whatever of the Persian there was about me,' replied Calpurnius, 'I am free to say I have laid aside with my Persian attire. I was a Persian not by choice and preference, I need scarcely assure you, but by a sort of necessity, just as it was with my costume. I could not procure Roman clothes if I would. I could not help too putting off the Roman--seeing how I was dealt by--and putting on the Persian. Yet I part with whatever of the Persian has cleaved to me without reluctance--would it were so that I could again assume the Roman--but that can never be. But Isaac has already told you all.'
'Isaac has indeed informed me in his letter from Ecbatana, that you had renounced your country, and that it was the expectation of war with Rome that alone had power to draw you from your captivity. But I have not believed that you would stand by that determination. The days of republican patriotism I know are passed, but even now under the empire our country has claims and her children owe her duties.'
'The figure is a common one,' Calpurnius answered, 'by which our country is termed a parent, and we her children. Allow it just. Do I owe obedience to an unjust or tyrannical parent? to one who has abandoned me in helplessness or exposed me in infancy? Are not the natural ties then sundered?'
'I think not,' I replied; 'no provocation nor injury can justify a parricidal blow. Our parent is our creator--in some sense a God to us. The tie that binds us to him is like no other tie; to do it violence, is not only a wrong, but an impiety.'
'I cannot think so,' he rejoined. 'A parent is our creator, not so much for our good as his own pleasure. In the case of the gods this is reversed: they have given us being for our advantage, not theirs. We lie under obligation to a parent then, only as he fulfils the proper duties of one. When he ceases to be virtuous, the child must cease to respect. When he ceases to be just, or careful, or kind, the child must cease to love. And from whomsoever else then the child receives the treatment, becoming a parent, that person is to him the true parent. It is idle to be governed by names rather than things; it is more, it is mischievous and injurious.'
'I still am of opinion,' I replied, 'that nature has ordained what I have asserted to be an everlasting and universal truth, by the instincts which she has implanted. All men, of all tribes, have united in expressions of horror against him who does violence to his parents. And have not the poets truly painted, when they have set before us the parricide, forever after the guilty act, pursued by the Furies, and delivered over to their judicial torments?'
'All instincts,' he replied, 'are not to be defended: some animals devour their own young as soon as born. Vice is instinctive. If it be instinctive to honor, and love, and obey a vicious parent, to be unresisting under the most galling oppression, then I say, the sooner reason usurps the place of instinct the safer for mankind. No error can be more gross or hurtful, than to respect vice because of the person in whom it is embodied, even though that person be a parent. Vice is vice, injustice is injustice, wrong is wrong, wheresoever they are found; and are to be detested and withstood. But I might admit that I am in an error here; and still maintain my cause by denying the justice of the figure by which our country is made our parent, and our obligations to her made to rest on the same ground. It is mere fancy, it is a nullity, unless it be true, as I think it is, that it has been the source of great mischiefs to the world, in which case it cannot be termed a nullity, but something positively pernicious. What age of the world can be named when an insane devotion to one's country has not been the mother of war upon war, evil upon evil, beyond the power of memory to recount? Patriotism, standing for this instinctive slavery of the will, has cursed as much as it has blessed mankind. Men have not reasoned, they have only felt: they have not inquired, is the cause of my country just--but is it her cause? That has ever been the cry in Rome. "Our country! our country! --right or wrong--our country!" It is a maxim good for conquest and despotism; bad, for peace and justice. It has made Rome mistress of the world, and at the same time the scourge of the world, and trodden down into their own blood-stained soil the people of many a clime, who had else dwelt in freedom. I am no Roman in this sense, and ought never to have been. Admit that I am not justified in raising my hand against the life of a parent--though if I could defend myself against violence no otherwise, I should raise that hand--I will never allow that I am to approve and second with my best blood all the acts of my country; but when she errs am bound, on the other hand, to blame, and if need be oppose. Why not? What is this country? Men like myself. Who enact the decrees by which I am to be thus bound? Senators, no more profoundly wise perhaps, and no more irreproachably virtuous, than myself. And do I owe their judgments, which I esteem false, a dearer allegiance than I do to my own, which I esteem right and true? Never: such patriotism is a degradation and a vice. Rome, Lucius, I think to have dealt by me and the miserable men who, with me, fell into the hands of Sapor, after the manner of a selfish, cold-hearted, unnatural parent, and I renounce her, and all allegiance to her. I am from this hour a Palmyrene, Zenobia is my mother, Palmyra my country.'
'But,' I could not but still urge, 'should no distinction be made between your country and her emperor? Is the country to rest under the imputation which is justly perhaps cast upon him? That were hardly right. To renounce Gallienus, were he now emperor, were a defensible act: But why Rome or Aurelian?'
'I freely grant, that had a just emperor been put upon the throne, a man with human feelings, the people, had he projected our rescue or revenge, would have gone with him. But how is their conduct to be defended during the long reign of the son of Valerian? Was such a people as the people of Rome to conform their minds and acts to a monster like him? Was that the part of a great nation? Is it credible that the senate and the people together, had no power to compel Gallienus to the performance of his duties to his own father, and the brave legions who fell with him? Alas! they too wanted the will.' ' O not so, Calpurnius,' I rejoined; 'Gallienus wished the death or captivity of his father, that he might reign. To release him was the last act that wretch could have been urged to do. And could he then have been made to interpose for the others? He might have been assassinated, but all the power of Rome could not have compelled him to a war, the issue of which might have been, by the rescue of Valerian, to lose him his throne.'
'Then he should have been assassinated. Rome owed herself a greater duty than allegiance to a beast in human form.'
'But, Galpurnius, you now enjoy your liberty. Why consider so curiously whence it comes? Besides, you have, while in Persia, dwelt in comfort, and at last even in magnificence. The Prince himself has been your companion and friend.'
'What was it,' he replied, 'what was it, when I reflected upon myself, but so much deeper degradation, to find that in spite of myself I was every day sinking deeper and deeper in Persian effeminacy? What was it but the worst wretchedness of all to feel as I did, that I, a Roman and a Piso, was losing my nature as I had lost my country? If any thing served to turn my blood into one hot current of bitterness and revenge, it was this. It will never cool till I find myself, sword in hand, under the banners of Zenobia. Urge me no more: it were as hopeful an endeavor to stem the current of the Euphrates, as to turn me from my purpose. I have reasoned with you because you are a brother, not because you are a Roman.'
'And I,' I replied, 'can still love you, because you are a brother, nor less because you are also a Palmyrene. I greet you as the head of our house, the elder heir of an illustrious name. I still will hope, that when these troubles cease, Rome may claim you as her own.'
'No emperor,' he answered, 'unless he were a Piso, I fear, would permit a renegade of such rank ever to dwell within the walls of Rome. Let me rather hope, that when this war is ended, Portia may exchange Rome for Palmyra, and that here, upon this fair and neutral ground, the Pisos may once more dwell beneath the same roof.'
'May it be so,' said Gracchus; 'and let not the heats of political opposition change the kindly current of your blood, nor inflame it. You, Lucius Piso, are to remember the provocations of Calpurnius, and are to feel that there was a nobleness in that sensibility to a declension into Persian effeminacy that, to say the least, reflects quite as much honor upon the name of Piso, and even Roman, as any loyalty to an emperor like Gallienus, or that senate filled with his creatures. And you, Calpurnius Piso, are to allow for that instinctive veneration for every thing Roman which grows up with the Roman, and even in spite of his better reason ripens into a bigotry that deserves the name of a crime rather than a virtue, and are to consider, that while in you the growth of this false sentiment has been checked by causes, in respect to which you were the sport of fortune, so in Lucius it has been quickened by other causes over which he also was powerless. But to utter my belief, Lucius I think is now more than half Palmyrene, and I trust yet, if committed as he has been to the further tuition of our patriot Fausta, will be not only in part, but altogether of our side.'
'In the mean time, let us rejoice,' said Fausta, 'that the noble Calpurnius joins our cause. If we may judge by the eye, the soft life of a Persian Satrap has not quite exhausted the native Roman vigor.'
'I have never intermitted,' replied Calpurnius, 'martial exercises: especially have I studied the whole art of horsemanship, so far as the chase and military discipline can teach it. It is in her cavalry, as I learn, that Zenobia places her strength: I shall there, I trust, do her good service.'
'In the morning,' said Fausta, 'it shall be my office to bring you before our Queen.'
'And now, Fausta,' said Gracchus,'bring your harp, and let music perfect the harmony which reason and philosophy have already so well begun; music--which for its power over our souls, may rather be held an influence of the gods, a divine breathing, than any thing of mortal birth.'
'I fear,' said Fausta, as she touched the instrument--the Greek and not the Jewish harp--'I shall still further task your philosophy; for I can sing nothing else than the war-song, which is already heard all through the streets of Palmyra, and whose author, it is said, is no less than our chief spirit, Longinus. Lucius, you must close your ears.'
'Never, while your voice sounds, though bloody treason were the only burden.'
'You are a gentle Roman.'
Then after a brief but fiery prelude, which of itself struck by her fingers was enough to send life into stones, she broke forth into a strain, abrupt and impassioned, of wild Pindaric energy, that seemed the very war-cry of a people striking and dying for liberty. Her voice, inspired by a soul too large for mortal form, rang like a trumpet through the apartment, and seemed to startle the gods themselves at their feast. As the hymn moved on to its perfect close, and the voice of Fausta swelled with the waxing theme, Calpurnius seemed like one entranced; unconsciously he had left his seat, and there, in the midst of the room, stood before the divine girl converted to a statue. As she ceased, the eyes of Calpurnius fell quickly upon me, with an expression which I instantly interpreted, and should have instantly returned, but that we were all alike roused out of ourselves by the loud shouts of a multitude without the palace, who apparently had been drawn together by the far-reaching tones of Fausta's voice, and who, as soon as the last strings of the harp were touched, testified their delight by reiterated and enthusiastic cries.
'When Zabdas and Zenobia fail,' said Calpurnius, 'you, daughter of Gracchus, may lead the armies of your country by your harp and voice; they would inspire not less than the fame of Cæsar or Aurelian.'
'But be it known to you. Piso,' said Gracchus, 'that this slight girl can wield a lance or a sword, while centaur-like she grows to the animal she rides, as well as sweep these idle strings.'
'I will learn of her in either art,' replied my brother. 'As I acknowledge no instinct which is to bind me to an unjust parent, but will give honor only where there is virtue, so on the field of war I will enlist under any leader in whom I behold the genius of a warrior, be that leader man or woman, boy or girl.'
'I shall be satisfied,' said Fausta, 'to become your teacher in music, that is, if you can learn through the force of example alone. Take now another lesson. Zenobia shall teach you the art of war.'
With these words she again passed her fingers over her harp, and after strains of melting sweetness, prolonged till our souls were wholly subdued to the sway of the gentler emotions, she sang in words of Sappho, the praise of love and peace, twin-sisters. And then as we urged, or named to her, Greek or Roman airs which we wished to hear, did she sing and play till every sense was satisfied and filled.
It needs not so much sagacity as I possess to perceive the effect upon my brother of the beauty and powers of Fausta. He speaks with difficulty when he addresses her, and while arguing or conversing with me or Gracchus, his eye seeks her countenance, and then falls as it encounters hers, as if he had committed some crime. Fausta, I am sure, is not insensible to the many rare and striking qualities of Calpurnius: but her affections can be given only where there is a soul of very uncommon elevation. Whether Calpurnius is throughout that, which he seems to be, and whether he is worthy the love of a being like Fausta, I know not yet, though I am strong in faith that it is so. In the mean time, a mutual affection is springing up and growing upon the thin soil of the fancy, and may reach a quick and rank luxuriance before it shall be discovered that there is nothing more substantial beneath. But why indulge a single doubt? only, I suppose, because I would rather Rome should fall than that any harm come to the heart of Fausta.
* * * * * It was a little after the noon of this day that the ambassadors, Petronius and Varro, passed from out the gates of Palmyra, bearing with them a virtual declaration of war.
The greatest excitement prevails. The streets are already filled with sights and sounds admonitory of the scenes which are soon to be disclosed. There is the utmost enthusiasm in every quarter, and upon every face you behold the confidence and pride of those who, accustomed to conquest, are about to extend their dominion over new territories, and to whom war is a game of pleasure rather than a dark hazard, that may end in utter desolation and ruin. Intrenched within these massy walls, the people of this gay capital cannot realise war. Its sounds have ever been afar off, beyond the wide sweep of the deserts; and will be now, so they judge--and they are scarcely turned for a moment, or by the least remove, from their accustomed cares or pleasures.
| {
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12 | None | I lament to hear of the disturbance among your slaves, and of the severity with which you have thought it necessary to proceed against them. You will bear me witness that I have often warned you that the cruelty with which Tiro exercised his authority would lead to difficulties, if not to violence and murder. I am not surprised to learn his fate: I am indeed very free to say that I rejoice at it. I rejoice not that you are troubled in your affairs, but that such an inhuman overseer as Tiro, a man wholly unworthy the kindness and indulgence with which you have treated him, should at length be overtaken by a just retribution. That the poison took effect upon his wife and children I sincerely regret, and wish that some other mode of destruction had been chosen, whose effects could have been safely directed and limited, for I do not believe that the least ill-will existed toward Claudia and her little ones. But rest satisfied, I beseech you, with the punishments already inflicted: enough have been scourged, put to the torture, and crucified: let the rest escape. Remember your disposition, now indulgent, now tyrannical, and lay a restraint upon your passions if you would save yourself from lasting regrets. It is some proof that you are looking to yourself more than formerly, that so many have been imprisoned to wait a further deliberation, and that you are willing first to ask my opinion. Be assured that further crucifixions would serve only to exasperate those who survive, and totally alienate them from you, so that your own life instead of being the more safe, would be much less so. They will be driven to despair, and say that they may as well terminate their wretched lives in one way as another, and so end all at once by an assault upon yourself and Lucilia, which, while it destroyed you, and so glutted their revenge, could do no more than destroy them--a fate which they dread now--but which at all times, owing to their miseries, they dread much less than we suppose, and so are more willing than we imagine to take the lives of their masters or governors, not caring for death themselves. A well-timed lenity would now be an act of policy as well as of virtue. Those whom you have reprieved, being pardoned, will be bound to you by a sort of gratitude--those of them at least who put a value upon their lives--and now that Tiro is fairly out of the way, and his scourgings at an end, they will all value their lives at a higher rate than before.
But let me especially intercede for Laco and Cælia, with their children. It was they, who, when I have been at your farm, have chiefly attended upon me; they have done me many acts of kindness beyond the mere duties of their office, and have ever manifested dispositions so gentle, and so much above their condition, that I feel sure they cannot be guilty of taking any part in the crime. They have been always too happy, to put their all at risk by such an attempt. Be assured they are innocent; and they are too good to be sacrificed merely for the effect. There are others, wretches in all respects, who will serve for this, if enough have not already suffered.
When will sentiments of justice assert their supremacy in the human mind? When will our laws and institutions recognise the rights inherent in every man, as man, and compel their observance? When I reflect that I myself possess, upon one only of my estates, five hundred slaves, over whom I wield despotic power, and that each one of these differs not from myself except in the position into which fortune and our laws have cast him, I look with a sort of horror upon myself, the laws, and my country which enacts and maintains them. But if we cannot at once new-model our institutions and laws, we can do something. By a strict justice, and by merciful treatment, we can mitigate the evils of their lot who are within our own power. We can exercise the authority and temper of fathers, and lay aside in a greater degree than we do, the air and manner of tyrant. When upon the fields of every farm, as I ride through our interior, I hear the lash of the task-master, and behold the cross rearing aloft its victim to poison the air with foetid exhalations and strike terror into all who toil within their reach, I hate my country and my nature, and long for some power to reveal itself, I care not of what kind nor in what quarter, capable to reform a state of society, rotten as this is to its very heart.
You yourself, advocate as you are for the existing order of things, would be agitated alternately by horror and compassion, were I to relate to you the scenes described to me by Milo, as having a thousand times been witnessed by him when in the service of Gallienus. To torture and destroy his slaves, by the most ingenious devices of cruelty, was his daily pastime. They were purchased for this very end. When I see you again, I will give you instances with which I could not soil these pages. Antiochus, were he in Rome, would be a monster of the same stamp. But all this is, as I have often mentioned, a necessary accompaniment of such power as the laws confer upon the owner.
And now, that war has actually broken out between Palmyra and Rome, you will wish to know what part I intend to take. Your letters imply, that in such an event you would expect my immediate return. But this pleasure must, for the present at least, he deferred. I am too deeply interested in too many here, to allow me to forsake them in a time of so much anxiety, and as I think of peril too. Zenobia's full consent I have already obtained: indeed, she is now desirous that I should remain. The services that I have accidentally rendered her have increased the regard with which she treats me. I confess too that I am less unwilling to remain than I was, out of a rooted disapprobation of the violent course of Aurelian. I cannot, as Calpurnius has done, renounce my country; but I can blame our emperor. His purposes are without a color of justice: nor are they only unjust and iniquitous, they are impolitic. I can enter fully into and defend the feelings and arguments of Palmyra in this direction. Her cause is in the main a just one. She has done somewhat indeed to provoke a sensitive and jealous mind; but nothing to warrant the step which Aurelian is taking. And when I counsel peace, and by concessions too, I do it not because I hold it right that such concessions should be made, but because I deem it frantic on the part of Zenobia to encounter the combined power of Rome, under such a soldier as Aurelian. My sympathies are accordingly enlisted in behalf of this people as a people; my heart is closely bound to both the house of Gracchus and Zenobia; and therefore I cannot leave them. I shall not bear arms against my country; I think I would sooner die; but in any case of extremity I shall not wear a sword in vain, if by using it I can save the life or honor of persons dear to me. I am firm in the belief, that no such extremity will ever present itself; but should it come, I am ready for it. I cannot but hope that a battle, one or more, upon the outskirts of the empire, will satisfy the pride of Aurelian, and convince the Queen, that to contend for empire with him, and Rome at his back, is vain, and that negotiation will therefore end what passion has begun. I shall expect no other issue than this. Then, having done all here, I shall return to Italy, if the Queen relents not, to pass an unhappy life upon the Tiburtine farm.
Preparations of every kind for the approaching contest are going forward with activity. The camp of the Queen is forming without the walls upon a wide and beautiful plain, stretching towards the south. One army will be formed here chiefly consisting of cavalry, in which lies the strength of the Queen, and another in the vicinity of Antioch, where a junction will be effected, and whence the whole will move either toward the Bosphorus or Egypt, according to the route which, it shall I be learned, Aurelian intends to pursue.
During these few days that have elapsed since the departure of the ambassadors, the stir and confusion incident to such a time have continually increased. In the streets, I meet scarce any who are not engaged in some service connected with the army. Troops of soldiers are forming, exercising at their arms, and passing from the city as they are severally equipped to join the camp. The shops of the armorers resound with the blows of an innumerable body of artisans manufacturing or repairing those brilliant suits of steel for which the cavalry of Zenobia are distinguished. Immense repositories of all the various weapons of our modern warfare, prepared by the Queen against seasons of emergency, furnish forth arms of the most perfect workmanship and metal to all who offer themselves for the expedition. Without the walls in every direction, the eye beholds clouds of dust raised by different bodies of the Queen's forces, as they pour in from their various encampments to one central point. Trains of sumptuary elephants and camels, making a part of every legion as it comes up, and stretching their long lines from the verge of the plain to the very walls, contribute a fresh beauty and interest to the scene.
Within the camp, whatever the tumult and confusion may be without, every thing is conducted with the most admirable order, and with the observance of a discipline as exact, if not as severe, as that of Vespasian, or Aurelian himself. Here are to be seen the commanders of the chief divisions of the army inspecting the arms and equipments of each individual soldier, and not with less diligence inquiring into the mettle and points of the horse he rides. Every horse, pronounced in any way defective, is rejected from the service and another procured. The Queen's stable has been exhausted in providing in this manner substitutes for such as have been set aside as unworthy.
Zenobia herself is the most active and laborious of all. She is in every place, seeing with her own eyes that every arrangement and provision ordered to be made is completed, and that in the most perfect manner. All the duties of a general are performed by her, with a freedom, a power, and a boldness, that fills one with astonishment who is acquainted with those opposite qualities which render her, as a woman, the most lovely and fascinating of her sex. She is seen sometimes driving rapidly through the streets in an open chariot, of the antique form; but more frequently on horseback, with a small body of attendants, who have quite enough to do to keep pace with her, so as to catch from her the orders which she rapidly issues, and then execute them in every part of the camp and city. She inspires all who behold her with her own spirit. In every soldier and leader you behold something of the same alertness and impetuosity of movement which are so remarkable in her. She is the universal model; and the confidence in the resources of her genius is universal and boundless. 'Let our courage and conduct,' they say, 'be only in some good proportion to our Queen's, and we may defy Rome and the world.' As the idea of naught but conquest ever crosses their minds, the animation--even gayety that prevails in the camp and throughout the ranks is scarcely to be believed, as it is, I doubt not, unparalleled in the history of war. Were she a goddess, and omnipotent, the trust in her could not be more unwavering.
I have just encountered Calpurnius returning from the palace of the Queen, whither he has been to offer his services during the war, in any capacity in which it might please her to employ him.
'What was your reception?' said I. 'Such as Fausta had assured me of. She gives me a hearty welcome to her camp, and assigns me a legion of horse. And, in addition, one more charge dearer and yet more anxious a thousand-fold.'
'May I know it?' said I, but readily surmising the nature of it.
'It is,' he replied with visible emotion, 'Fausta herself.'
'It is fixed then that she accompanies the Queen?'
'She entreats, and the Queen consents.'
'Would that she could be turned from this purpose, but I suppose the united power of the East could not do it. To be near Zenobia, and if evil should befall her to share it, or to throw herself as a shield between the Queen and death, is what she pants for more than for renown, though it should be double that of Semiramis.'
'Lucius, have you urged every reason, and used all the power you possess over her, to dissuade her?'
'I have done all I have dared to do. The decisions of some minds, you know, with the motives which sway them, we too much revere to oppose to them our own. Girl though Fausta be, yet when I see by the lofty expression of her countenance, her firm and steadfast eye, that she has taken her part, I have no assurance sufficient to question the rectitude of her determination, or essay to change it. I have more faith in her in myself.'
'Yet it must never be,' said my brother with earnestness; 'she could never support the fatigues of such a campaign, and it must not be permitted that she should encounter the dangers and horrors of actual combat. I have learned that at the palace which, while it has dismissed the most painful apprehensions of one sort, has filled me with others more tolerable, but yet intolerable. How, Lucius? has it happened that your heart, soft in most of its parts, on one side has been adamant?'
'The way of the heart,' I said, 'like the way of Providence, is mysterious. I know not. Perhaps it was that I knew her longer in Rome and more closely than you, and the sentiment always uppermost toward her has been that of a brother's love. Hers toward me has never been other than the free, unrestrained affection of a sister. But you have not seen the Princess?'
'I have not.'
'That will complete the explanation. The Queen rejects me; but I do not despair. But to return to Fausta. As no force could withhold her from the army, I thank the gods that in you she will find a companion and defender, and that to you the Queen has committed her. Fail her not, Calpurnius, in the hour of need. You do not know, for your eye has but taken in her outward form, what a jewel, richer than Eastern monarch ever knew, is entrusted to your care. Keep it as you would your own life, nay, your life will be well given for its safety. Forgive me, if in this I seem to charge you as an elder. Remember that you I do not know, Fausta I do. Of you I scarcely know more than that you are a Piso, and that the very soul of honor ought to dwell within you. The Queen's ready confidence in you, lays you under obligations heavy as injunctions from the gods to fidelity. If, as you journey on toward Antioch, the opportunities of the way throw you together, and your heart is won by your nearer knowledge of her sweet qualities as well as great ones, as your eye has already been, ask not, seek not, for hers, but after a close questioning of yourself whether you are worthy of her. Of your life and the true lineaments of your soul, you know every thing, she knows nothing; but she is more free and unsuspicious than a child, and without looking further than the show and color of honesty and truth, will surrender up her heart where her fancy leads, trusting to find according to her faith, and to receive all that she gives. Brother though you be, I here invoke the curses of the gods upon your head, if the faintest purpose of dishonest or deceptive dealing have place within you.'
'Your words,' said Calpurnius in reply--a wholesome and natural expression of indignation spreading over his countenance, which inspired more confidence than any thing he could say--'your words, Lucius, are earnest and something sharp. But I bear them without complaint, for the sake of the cause in which you have used them. I blame you not. It is true, I am a stranger both to yourself and Fausta, and it were monstrous to ask confidence before time has proved me. Leave it all to time. My conduct under this trust shall be my trial. Not till our return from Antioch will I aim at more than the happiness to be her companion and guard. The noble Otho will be near us, to whom you may commit us both.'
'Brother,' I rejoined, 'I doubt you not; but where our treasure is great, we are tormented by imaginary fears, and we guard it by a thousand superfluous cares, What I have said has implied the existence of doubts and apprehensions, but in sober truth they were forced into existence. My nature from the first has been full of trust in you; but this very promptness to confide, my anxious fears converted to a fault, and urged suspicion as a duty. Your countenance and your words have now inspired me with an assurance, not, I am certain, to be ever shaken, in your virtues. It shall be my joy to impart the same to Gracchus. Fausta shall be left free to the workings of her own mind and heart.'
I should not have been justified, it seems to me, in saying less than this, though I said it with apprehensions, many and grave, of a breach between us, which perhaps time might never heal. It has ended in a deep and settled conviction that the character of Calpurnius is what it at first appears to be. Persian duplicity has made no lodgment within him, of that I am sure. And where you feel sure of sincerity, almost any other fault may be borne.
The army has taken up its march, and the city is deprived of its best and bravest spirits--Zenobia and Fausta, those kindred souls, are gone. How desolate is this vast palace! The loss of Gracchus and Fausta seems the loss of all. A hundred attendant slaves leave it still empty.
A period of the most active preparation has been closed to-day, by the departure of as well appointed an army as ever issued from the Prætorian camps. It was a spectacle as beautiful as my eyes ever beheld--and as sad. Let me set before you the events of the day.
As I descended to the apartment where we take together our morning meal, and which we were now for the last time to partake in each other's company, I found Fausta already there, and surveying with sparkling eyes and a flushed cheek a suit of the most brilliant armor, which having been made by the Queen's workmen, and by her order, had just now been brought and delivered to her.
'I asked the honor,' said the person with whom she was conversing, 'to bring it myself, who have made it with the same care as the Queen's, of the same materials, and after the same fashion. So it was her order to do. It will set, lady, believe me, as easy as a riding dress, though it be all of the most impenetrable steel. The polish too is such, that neither arrow nor javelin need be feared, they can but touch and glance. Hercules could not indent this surface. Let me reveal to you diverse secret and perfect springs and clasps, the use of which you should be well acquainted with. Yet it differs not so much from that in which you have performed your exercises, but you will readily comprehend the manner of its adjustment.'
He then went through with his demonstrations, and departed.
'This is beautiful indeed!' I said, as I surveyed and handled parts of the armor; 'the eye can hardly bear it when the rays of the sun fall upon it. But I wish it was fairly back again in the shop of the armored' 'That would he,' said Fausta, 'only to condemn me to an older and worse one; and if you should wish that away too, it would be only to send me into the ranks defenceless. Surely that you would not do?'
'The gods forbid! I only mean that I would rather these walls, Fausta, should be your defence. You were not made, whatever you may think, to brave the dangers of the desert and the horrors of a war. Do you remember at the amphitheatre you hid your eyes from the cruel sights of the arena? I doubt not your courage; but it is not after your heart.'
'From the useless barbarities of the circus I might indeed turn away my eyes, and yet I think with perfect consistency strike my lance into the heart of a man who came against my country or my Queen, nor even blench. But do not suppose that it is with any light or childish joy that I resolve to follow in the steps of Zenobia to the field of slaughter. I would far rather sit here in the midst of security and peace, making mimic war on my embroidery, or tuning my voice and harp, with Gracchus and you to listen and applaud. But there is that within me that forbids my stay. I am urged from within by a voice which seems as the voice of a god, to do according to my strength, for what may be the last struggle of our country against the encroachments and ambition of Rome. You may deem it little that a woman can do?'
'I confess I am of opinion that many a substitute could do Palmyra a better service than even the arm of Fausta. A woman may do much and bravely, but a man may do more.'
'Therein, Lucius, am I persuaded you err. If it were only that, in the language of Zahdas, I added so many pounds weight of bone and flesh, by adding myself to the Queen's troops, I would stay at home, There are heavier arms than mine, for mine are slight, and sturdier limbs, for mine in spite of the sports of the field are still a woman's. But you know nothing of Palmyra if you know not this, that her victories have been won, not by the arm, but by the presence of Zenobia; to be led to the onset by a woman, and that woman Zenobia--it is this that has infused a spirit and an enthusiasm into our soldiery that has rendered them irresistible. Were it a thousand against ten thousand, not a native Palmyrene would shrink from the trial, with Zenobia at their head. I am not Zenobia, Lucius, but what she can do for an army, I can do for a legion. Mark the sensation, when this morning Zenobia presents herself to the army, and even when Fausta wheels into the ranks, and acknowledge that I have uttered a truth.'
'There must be truth in what you say, for were I in your train I can feel how far I should follow you, and when forsake you. But what you say only fills me with new apprehensions, and renders me the more anxious to detain you. What but certain death awaits you if you are to lead the way?'
'And why should I not die, as well as another? And is it of more consequence that Fausta, the daughter of Gracchus, should die upon a bed of down, and beneath silken canopies, than that the common soldier should, who falls at her side? How could I die hotter than at the head of a legion, whom, as I fell, I saw sweeping on like a tempest to emulate and revenge my death?'
'But Gracchus--has he another Fausta, or another child?'
Her eyes were bent to the ground, and for a few moments she was buried in thought. They were filled with tears as she raised them and said, 'You may well suppose, Lucius, having witnessed, as you have, what the love is which I bear Gracchus, and how his life is bound up in mine, that this has been my heaviest thought. But it has not prevailed with me to change my purpose, and ought not to do so. Could I look into futurity, and know that while I fell upon the plains of Antioch, or on the sands of the desert, he returned to these walls to wear out, childless and in solitude, the remnant of his days, my weakness I believe would yield, and I should prefer my parent to my country. But the future is all dark. And it may as well be, that either we shall both fall, or both return; or that he may fall and I survive. It is unworthy of me, is it not then, to consider too curiously such chances? The only thing certain and of certain advantage is this--I can do my country, as I deem it, a signal service by joining her forces in this hour of peril. To this I cleave, and leave the rest to the disposal of the gods. But come, urge me no more, Lucius; my mind is finally resolved, and it but serves to darken the remaining hours. See, Gracchus and Calpurnius are come--let us to the tables.'
This last meal was eaten in silence, save the few required words of courtesy.
Soon as it was over, Fausta, springing from her seat, disappeared, hastening to her apartments. She returned in a few moments, her dress changed and prepared for her armor.
'Now, Lucius,' she exclaimed, 'your hour of duty has come, which is to fit upon me this queenly apparel. Show your dexterity, and prove that you too have seen the wars, by the grace with which you shall do your service.'
'These pieces differ not greatly,' I said, 'from those which I have worn in Gaul and Germany, and were they to be fastened on my own limbs, or a comrade's, the task were an easy one. I fear lest I may use too rough a hand in binding on this heavy iron.'
'O, never fear--there, that is well. The Queen's armorer has said truly; this is easy as a robe of silk. Now these clasps--are they not well made? will they not catch?'
'The clasps are perfect, Fausta, but my eye is dim. Here--clasp them yourself;' and I turned away.
'Lucius, Lucius, are you a Roman, with eyes so melting? Julia were a better hand-maid. But one thing remains, and that must be done by no other hand than yours--crown me now with this helmet.'
I took it from her and placed it upon her head, saying, as I did it, 'The gods shield you from danger, dear Fausta, and when you have either triumphed or suffered defeat, return you again to this happy roof! Now for my services allow me this reward'--and for the first time since she was a girl I kissed her forehead.
She was now a beautiful vision to behold as ever lighted upon the earth. Her armor revealed with exactness the perfection of her form, and to her uncommon beauty added its own, being of the most brilliant steel, and frequently studded with jewels of dazzling lustre. Her sex was revealed only by her hair, which, parting over her forehead, fell towards either eye, and then was drawn up and buried in her helmet. The ease with which she moved showed how well she had accustomed herself, by frequent exercises, to the cumbrous load she bore. I could hardly believe, as she paced the apartment, issuing her final orders to her slaves and attendants who pressed around, that I was looking upon a woman reared in all the luxury of the East. Much as I had been accustomed to the sight of Zenobia, performing the part of an emperor, I found it difficult to persuade myself, that when I looked upon Fausta, changing so completely her sex, it was any thing more than an illusion.
Gracchus and Calpurnius now joined us, each, like Fausta, arrayed in the armor of the Queen's cavalry.
'Fausta,' said Gracchus hastily, 'the hour is come that we were at the camp; our horses wait us in the court-yard--let us mount. Farewell, Lucius Piso,' continued he, as we moved toward the rear of the palace; 'would you were to make one of our company; but as that cannot be, I bequeath to you my place, my honors, and my house. Be ready to receive us with large hospitality and a philosophical composure, when we return loaded with the laurels of victory and the spoils of your countrymen. It is fortunate, that as we lose you, we have Calpurnius, who seems of the true warrior breed. Never, Lucius, has my eye lighted upon a nobler pair than this. Observe them. The Queen, careful of our Fausta, has given her in special charge to your brother. I thank her. By his greater activity and my more prudent counsel, I trust to bring her again to Palmyra with a fame not less than Zenobia's.
'I can spare the fame,' I replied, 'so I see her once more in Palmyra, herself unharmed and her country at peace.'
'Palmyra would no longer be itself without her,' rejoined the father.
We were now in the court-yard, where we found the horses fully caparisoned, awaiting their riders. Fausta's was her favorite Arab, of a jet black color and of a fierce and fiery temper, hardly to be managed by the Saracen, whose sole office it was to attend upon him; while in the hands of Fausta, though still spirited almost to wildness, he was yet docile and obedient. Soon as she was mounted, although before it had been difficult to hold him, he became quiet and calm.
'See the power of woman,' said Gracchus; 'were Antiochus here, he would look upon this as but another proof that the gods are abandoning Palmyra to the sway of women.'
'It is,' said Fausta, 'simply the power of gentleness. My Saracen operates through fear, and I through love. My hand laid softly upon his neck gains more a thousand fold than the lash laid hardly upon his back.'
Mounting my horse, which Milo stood holding for me, we then sallied out of the court-yard gate toward the camp.
The city itself was all pouring forth upon the plains in its vicinity. The crowds choked the streets as they passed out, so that our progress was slow. Arriving at length, we turned toward the pavilion of the Queen, pitched over against the centre of the army. There we stood, joined by others, awaiting her arrival; for she had not yet left the palace. We had not stood long, before the braying of trumpets and other warlike instruments announced her approach. We turned, and looking toward the gate of the city, through which we had but now passed, saw Zenobia, having on either side Longinus and Zabdas, and preceded and followed by a select troop of horse, advancing at her usual speed toward the pavilion. She was mounted upon her far-famed white Numidian, for power an elephant, for endurance a dromedary, for fleetness a very Nicoean, and who had been her companion in all the battles by which she had gained her renown and her empire.
Calpurnius was beside himself: he had not before seen her when assuming all her state. 'Did eye ever look upon aught so like a celestial apparition? It is a descent from other regions; I can swear 'tis no mortal--still less a woman. Fausta, this puts to shame your eulogies, swollen as I termed them.'
I did not wonder at his amazement, for I myself shared it, though I had seen her so often. The object that approached us truly seemed rather a moving blaze of light than an armed woman, which the eye and the reason declared it to be, with such gorgeous magnificence was she arrayed. The whole art of the armorer had been exhausted in her appointments. The caparison of her steed, sheathed with burnished gold, and thick studded with precious stones of every various hue, reflected an almost intolerable splendor as the rays of a hot morning sun fell upon it. She too herself, being clothed in armor of polished steel, whose own fiery brightness was doubled by the diamonds--that was the only jewel she wore--sown with profusion all over its more prominent parts, could he gazed upon scarcely with more ease than the sun himself, whose beams were given back from it with undiminished glory. In her right hand she held the long slender lance of the cavalry; over her shoulders hung a quiver well loaded with arrows, while at her side depended a heavy Damascus blade. Her head was surmounted by a steel helmet, which left her face wholly uncovered, and showed her forehead, like Fausta's shaded by the dark hair, which, while it was the only circumstance that revealed the woman, added to the effect of a countenance unequalled for a marvellous union of feminine beauty, queenly dignity, and masculine power. Sometimes it has been her usage, upon such occasions, to appear with arms bare and gloved hands; they were now cased, like the rest of the body, in plates of steel.
'Calpurnius,' said Fausta, 'saw you ever in Persia such horsemanship? See now, as she draws nearer, with what grace and power she moves. Blame you the enthusiasm of this people?'
'I more than share it,' he replied; 'it is reward enough for my long captivity, at last to follow such a leader. Many a time, as Zenobia has in years past visited my dreams, and I almost fancied myself in her train, I little thought that the happiness I now experience was to become a reality. But hark! how the shout of welcome goes up from this innumerable host.'
No sooner was the Queen arrived where we stood, and the whole extended lines became aware of her presence, than the air was filled with the clang of trumpets and the enthusiastic cries of the soldiery, who waved aloft their arms and made a thousand expressive signs of most joyful greeting. When this hearty salutation, commencing at the centre, had died away along the wings, stretching one way to the walls of the city, and the other toward the desert, Zenobia rode up nearer the lines, and being there surrounded by the ranks which were in front, and by a crowd of the great officers of the army, spoke to them in accordance with her custom. Stretching out her hand, as if she would ask the attention of the multitude, a deep silence ensued, and in a voice clear and strong, she thus addressed them: 'Men and soldiers of Palmyra! Is this the last time that you are to gather together in this glittering array, and go forth as lords of the whole East? Conquerors in so many wars, are you now about to make an offering of yourselves and your homes to the emperor of Rome? Am I, who have twice led you to the gates of Ctesiphon, now to be your leader to the footstool of Aurelian? Are you thinking of any thing but victory? Is there one in all these ranks who doubts whether the same fate that once befel Probus shall now befal Aurelian? If there be, let him stand forth! Let him go and intrench himself within the walls of Palmyra. We want him not. (The soldiers brandished and clashed their arms.) Victory, soldiers, belongs to those who believe. Believe that you can do so, and we will return with a Roman army captive at our chariot wheels. Who should put trust in themselves, if not the men and soldiers of Palmyra? Whose memory is long enough to reach backward to a defeat? What was the reign of Odenatus but an unbroken triumph? Are you now, for the first time, to fly or fall before an enemy? And who the enemy? Forget it not--Rome! and Aurelian! the greatest empire and the greatest soldier of the world. Never before was so large a prize within your reach. Never before fought you on a stage with the whole world for spectators. Forget not too that defeat will be not only defeat, but ruin! The loss of a battle will be not only so many dead and wounded, but the loss of empire! For Rome resolves upon our subjugation. We must conquer or we must perish, and forever lose our city, our throne, and our name. Are you ready to write yourselves subjects and slaves of Rome! --citizens of a Roman province? and forfeit the proud name of Palmyrene?' (Loud and indignant cries rose from the surrounding ranks.) 'If not, you have only to remember the plains of Egypt and of Persia; and the spirit that burned within your bosoms then will save you now, and bring you back to these walls, your brows bound about with the garlands of victory. Soldiers! strike your tents! and away to the desert!'
Shouts long and loud, mingled with the clash of arms, followed these few words of the Queen. Her own name was heard above all. "Long live the great Zenobia!" ran along the ranks from the centre to the extremes, and from the extremes back again to the centre. It seemed as if, when her name had once been uttered, they could not cease--through the operation of some charm--to repeat it again and again, coupled too with a thousand phrases of loyalty and affection.
The Queen, as she ended, turned toward the Pavilion, where dismounting she entered, and together with her, her counsellors, the great officers of the army and empire, her family, and friends. Here was passed an hour in the interchange of the words and signs of affection between those who were about to depart upon this uncertain enterprise, and those who were to remain. The Queen would fain inspire all with her light, bold, and confident spirit, but it could not prevail to banish the fears and sorrows that filled many hearts. Julia's eyes never moved from her mother's face, or only to rest on Fausta's, whose hand she held clasped in her own. Zenobia often turned towards her with a look, in which the melting tenderness of the mother contended but too successfully with the calm dignity of the Queen, and bore testimony to the strong affection working at the heart. She would then, saying a word or two, turn away again, and mingle with those who made less demand upon her sympathies. Livia was there too, and the flaxen-haired Faustula--Livia, gay even, through excess of life--Faustula sad and almost terrified at the scene, and clinging to Julia as to her haven of safety. The Cæsars were also there, insignificant as always, but the youngest, Vabalathus, armed for the war; the others are not to be drawn away from the luxuries and pleasures of the city. Antiochus, sullen and silent, was of the number too, stalking with folded arms apart from the company, or else arm in arm with one of his own color, and seeming to be there rather because he feared to be absent, than because he derived any pleasure from the scene. It was with an effort, and with reluctance, that he came forward from his hiding places, and with supreme awkwardness, yet with an air of haughtiness and pride, paid his court to the Queen.
As he retreated from his audience, the Queen's eye sought me, and approaching me she said, 'Piso, I am not prone to suspicion, and fear is a stranger to my heart: but I am told to distrust Antiochus. I have been warned to observe him. I cannot now do it, for I depart while he remains in Palmyra. It has been thrown out that he has designs of a treasonable nature, and that the Princess Julia is connected with them. He is an object too contemptible to deserve my thought, and I have not been willing so much as to name the circumstance to any of the council. He may prove an amusing and interesting subject for your speculation while we are gone.'
This was said in a partly serious, partly trifling vein. I answered her, saying, 'that I could not but fear lest there might be more foundation for the warnings that had been given her than she was disposed to allow. He was indeed insignificant and contemptible in character, but he was malignant and restless. Many an insect, otherwise every way despicable, is yet armed with a deadly sting. A swarm may conquer even the monarch of the forest. Antiochus, mean as he is, may yet inflict a secret and fatal wound; and he is not alone; there are those who affect him. I believe you have imposed no task which as a Roman I may not innocently perform. Rest assured that if watchfulness of mine may avert the shadow of an evil from your head, it shall not be wanting. I would that you yourself could look more seriously upon this information, but I perceive you to be utterly incredulous.'
'It is so indeed,' she replied. 'It were better for me perhaps were it otherwise. Had I heeded the rumors which reached me of the base Mæonius, Odenatus had now perhaps been alive and at my side. But it is against the grain of my nature. I can neither doubt nor fear.'
Sounds from without now indicated that the camp was broken up, and the army in motion. The moment of separation had come. The Queen hastily approached her daughters, and impressing a mother's kisses upon them turned quickly away, and springing upon her horse was soon lost to sight as she made her way through the ranks, to assume her place at their head. Fausta lingered long in the embraces of Julia, who, to part with her, seemed as if about to lose as much more as she had just lost in Zenobia.
'These our friends being now gone, let us,' said the Princess, 'who remain, ascend together the walls of the city, and from the towers of the gate observe the progress of the army so long as it shall remain in sight.'
Saying this, we returned to the city, and from the highest part of the walls watched the departing glories of the most magnificent military array I had ever beheld. It was long after noon before the last of the train of loaded elephants sank below the horizon. I have seen larger armies upon the Danube, and in Gaul: but never have I seen one that in all its appointments presented so imposing a spectacle. This was partly owing to the greater proportion of cavalry, and to the admixture of the long lines of elephants with their burdens, their towers and litters; but more perhaps to the perfectness with which each individual, be he on horse or foot, be he servant, slave or master, is furnished, respecting both arms, armor, and apparel. Julia beheld it, if with sorrow, with pride also.
'Between an army like this,' she said, 'so appointed, and so led and inflamed, and another like that of Rome coming up under a leader like Aurelian, how sharp and deadly must be the encounter! What a multitude of this and that living host, now glorious in the blaze of arms, and burning with desires of conquest, will fall and perish, pierced by weapons, or crushed by elephants, nor ever hear the shout of victory! A horrid death, winding up a feverish dream. And of that number how likely to be Fausta and Zenobia!'
'Why, sister,' said Faustula, whom I held, and in pointing out to whom the most remarkable objects of the strange scene I had been occupied, 'why does our mother love to go away and kill the Romans? I am sure she would not like to kill you,'--looking up in my face,--'and are not you a Roman? She will not let me hurt even a little fly or ant, but tells me they feel as much to be killed, as if Sapor were to put his great foot on me and tread me into the sand.'
'But the Romans,' said Julia, 'are coming to take away our city from us, and perhaps do us a great deal of harm, and must they not be hindered?'
'But,' replied Faustula, 'would they do it if Zenobia asked them not to do it? Did you ever know any body who could help doing as she asked them? I wish Aurelian could only have come here and heard her speak, and seen her smile, and I know he would not have wanted to hurt her. If I were a Queen, I would never fight.'
'I do not believe you would,' said I; 'you do not seem as if you could hurt any body or any thing.'
'And now is not Zenobia better than I? I think perhaps she is only going to frighten the Romans, and then coming home again.' ' O no--do not think so,' said Livia; 'has not Zenobia fought a great many battles before this? If she did not fight battles, we should have no city to live in.'
'If it is so good to fight battles, why does she prevent me from quarrelling, or even speaking unkindly? I think she ought to teach me to fight. I do not believe that men or women ought to fight any more than children; and I dare say if they first saw and talked with one another before they fought, as I am told to do, they never would do it. I find that if I talk and tell what I think, then I do not want to quarrel. --See! is that Zenobia? How bright she shines! I wish she would come back.'
'Wait a little while, and she will come again,' said Livia, 'and bring Aurelian perhaps with her. Should you not like to see Aurelian?'
'No, I am sure I should not. I do not want to see any one that does not love Zenobia.'
So the little child ran on, often uttering truths, too obviously truths for mankind to be governed by them, yet containing the best philosophy of life. Truth and happiness are both within easy reach. We miss them because they are so near. We look over them, and grasp at distant and more imposing objects, wrapped in the false charms which distance lends.
During the absence of the Queen and Fausta, we have, in agreement with the promise we made, repeated our visit more than once to the retreat of the Christian Hermit; from whom I have drawn almost all that remains to be known, concerning the truths of his religion. Both Julia and Livia have been my companions. Of the conversations at these visits, I shall hope at some future time to furnish you with full accounts.
In the meanwhile, Farewell.
| {
"id": "8938"
} |
13 | None | These few days having passed in the manner I have described, our impatience has been relieved by news from the West. We learn that Aurelian, having appointed Illyricum as the central point for assembling his forces, has, marching thence through Thrace, and giving battle on the way to the Goths, at length reached Byzantium, whence crossing the Bosphorus, it is his purpose to subdue the Asiatic provinces, and afterwards advance toward Palmyra. The army of the Queen, judging by the last accounts received by her messengers, must now have reached the neighborhood of Antioch, and there already perhaps have encountered the forces of the Emperor.
The citizens begin at length to put on the appearance of those who feel that something of value is at stake. The Portico is forsaken, or frequented only by such as hope to hear news by going there. The streets are become silent and solitary. I myself partake of the general gloom. I am often at the palace and at the house of Longinus. The dwelling, or rather should I not term it the spacious palace of the minister, affords me delightful hours of relaxation and instruction, as I sit and converse with its accomplished lord, or wander among the compartments of his vast library, or feast the senses and imagination upon the choice specimens of sculpture and painting, both ancient and modern, which adorn the walls, the ceilings, the stair-ways, and, indeed, every part of the extensive interior. Here I succeed in forgetting the world and all its useless troubles, and am fairly transported into those regions of the fancy, where the airs are always soft and the skies serene, where want is unknown, and solicitations to vice come not, where men are just and true and kind, and women the goddesses we make them in our dreams, and the whole of existence is a calm summer's day, without storm of the inward or outward world. And when upon these delicious moments the philosopher himself breaks in, the dream is not dissolved, but stands rather converted to an absolute reality, for it then shines with the actual presence of a god. It is with unwillingness that I acknowledge my real state, and consent to return to this living world of anxieties and apprehensions in which I now dwell.
* * * * * I am just returned from the palace and the Princess Julia. While there seated in conversation with her, Longinus, and Livia, a courier was suddenly announced from Zenobia. He entered, we stamped upon his features, and delivered letters into the hands of Longinus. Alas! Alas! for Palmyra. The intelligence is of disaster and defeat! The countenance of the Greek grew pale as he read. He placed the despatches in silence in the hands of Julia, having finished them, and hastily withdrew.
The sum of the news is this. A battle has been fought before Antioch, and the forces of the Queen completely routed. It appears that upon the approach of Aurelian, the several provinces of Asia Minor, which by negotiation and conquest had by Zenobia been connected with her kingdom, immediately returned to their former allegiance. The cities opened their gates and admitted the armies of the conqueror. Tyana alone of all the Queen's dominions in that quarter opposed the progress of the Emperor, and this strong-hold was soon by treachery delivered into his power. Thence he pressed on without pause to Antioch, where he found the Queen awaiting him. A battle immediately ensued. At first, the Queen's forces obtained decided advantages, and victory seemed ready to declare for her as always before, when the gods decreed otherwise, and the day was lost--but lost, in the indignant language of the Queen, 'not in fair and honorable fight, but through the baseness of a stratagem rather to have been expected from a Carthaginian than the great Aurelian.'
'Our troops,' she writes, 'had driven the enemy from, his ground at every point. Notwithstanding the presence of Aurelian, and the prodigies of valor by which he distinguished himself anew, and animated his soldiers, our cavalry, led by the incomparable Zabdas, bore him and his legions backwards, till apparently discomfited by the violence of the onset, the Roman horse gave way and fled in all directions. The shout of victory arose from our ranks, which now broke, and in the disorder of a flushed and conquering army, scattered in hot pursuit of the flying foe. Now, when too late, we saw the treachery of the enemy. Our horse, heavy-armed as you know, were led on by the retreating Romans into a broken and marshy ground, where their movements were in every way impeded, and thousands were suddenly fixed immovable in the deep morass. At this moment, the enemy, by preconcerted signals, with inconceivable rapidity, being light-armed, formed; and, returning upon our now scattered forces, made horrible slaughter of all who had pushed farthest from the main body of the army. Dismay seized our soldiers, the panic spread, increased by the belief that a fresh army had come up and was entering the field, and our whole duty centered in forming and covering our retreat. This, chiefly through the conduct of Calpurnius Piso, was safely effected; the Romans being kept at bay while we drew together, and then under cover of the approaching night fell back to a new and strong position.
'I attempt not, Longinus, to make that better which is bad. I reveal the whole truth, not softening nor withholding a single feature of it, that your mind may be possessed of the exact state of our affairs, and know how to form its judgments. Make that which I write public, to the extent and in the manner that shall seem best to you.
'After mature deliberation, we have determined to retreat further yet, and take up our position under the walls of Emesa. Here, I trust in the gods, we shall redeem that which we have lost.'
In a letter to Julia the Queen says, 'Fausta has escaped the dangers of the battle; selfishly perhaps dividing her from Piso, she has shared my tent and my fortunes, and has proved herself worthy of every confidence that has been reposed in her. She is my inseparable companion in the tent, in the field, and on the road, by night and by day. Give not way to despondency, dear Julia. Fortune, which has so long smiled upon me, is not now about to forsake me. There is no day so long and bright that clouds do not sail by and cast their little shadows. But the sun is behind them. Our army is still great and in good heart. The soldiers receive me, whenever I appear, with their customary acclamations. Fausta shares this enthusiasm. Wait without anxiety or fear for news from Emesa.'
When we had perused and re-perused the despatches of the Queen, and were brooding in no little despondency over their contents, Longinus re-entering said to me, 'And what, Piso, may I ask, is your judgment of the course which Aurelian will now pursue? I see not that I can offend in asking, or you in answering. I have heretofore inclined to the belief that Rome, having atoned her injured honor by a battle, would then prefer to convert Palmyra into a useful ally, by the proposal of terms which she could accept; terms which would leave her an independent existence as formerly, in friendly alliance with, though in no sense subject to Rome. But neither preceding the battle at Antioch, nor since, does it appear that terms have been so much as proposed or discussed. I can hardly believe that Aurelian, even if victory should continue to sit upon his eagles, would desire to drive the Queen to extremities, and convert this whole people into a united and infuriated enemy. If he be willing to do this, he little understands the best interests of Rome, and proves only this, that though he may be a good soldier, he is a bad sovereign, and really betrays his country while achieving the most brilliant victories.'
'I am obliged to say,' I replied, 'that I have wavered in my judgment. Sometimes, when I have thought of policy, of the past services of Palmyra, and of Persia, I have deemed it hardly possible that Aurelian should have had any other purpose in this expedition than to negotiate with Zenobia, under the advantages of an armed force; that at the most and worst, a single battle would suffice, and the differences which exist be then easily adjusted. But then, when again I have thought of the character of Aurelian, I have doubted these conclusions, and believed that conquest alone will satisfy him; and that he will never turn back till he can call Palmyra a Roman province. From what has now transpired at Antioch, and especially from what has not transpired, I am strengthened in this last opinion. One or the other must fall. I believe it has come to this.'
'One or the other may fall at Emesa,' said Liviay 'but no power can ever force the walls of Palmyra.'
'I am ready to believe with you, Princess,' said Longinus, 'but I trust never to see a Roman army before them. Yet if your last judgment of Aurelian be the true one, Piso, it may happen. We are not a power to pour forth the hordes of Rome or Germany. We have valor, but not numbers.'
'Ought not,' said Julia, 'every provision to be made, even though there be but the remotest possibility of the city sustaining a siege?'
'The most fruitful imagination,' replied Longinus, 'could hardly suggest a single addition to what is already done, to render Palmyra impregnable. And long before the food now within the walls could be exhausted, any army, save one of Arabs of the desert, lying before them, must itself perish. But these things the council and senate will maturely weigh.'
Longinus departed.
At the same moment that he left the apartment, that Indian slave whom I have often seen sitting at the feet of the Queen entered where we were, and addressing a few words to the Princess Julia again retreated. I could not but remark again, what I had remarked before, her graceful beauty, and especially the symmetry of her form and elasticity of her step. There was now also an expression in the countenance which, notwithstanding its dark beauty, I liked not, as I had often before liked it not, when I had seen her in the presence of Zenobia.
'Princess,' said I, 'is the slave who has just departed sincere in her attachment to Zenobia?'
'I cannot doubt it,' she replied; 'at least I have observed nothing to cause me to doubt it. Thinking herself injured and degraded by Zenobia, she may perhaps feel toward her as the captive feels toward the conqueror. But if this be so, the lip breathes it not. To the Queen she is, as far as the eye may judge, fondly attached, and faithful to the trusts reposed in her.'
'But why,' I asked, 'thinks she herself injured and degraded? Is she not what she seems to be, a slave?'
'She is a slave by the chances of fortune and war, not by descent or purchase. She was of the household of Sapor, when his tents, wives, and slaves fell into the hands of Odenatus, and by him, as we learned, had been taken in his wars with an Indian nation. In her own country she was a princess, and were she now there, were queen. Zenobia's pride is gratified by using her for the purposes she does, nor has it availed to intercede in her behalf. Yet has it always seemed as if a strong attachment drew the fair slave to our mother, and sure I am that Zenobia greatly esteems her, and, save in one respect, maintains and holds her rather as an equal than inferior. We all love her. Others beside yourself have questioned her truth, but we have heeded them not. Upon what, may I ask, have you founded a doubt of her sincerity?'
'I can scarcely say,' I rejoined, 'that I have ground to doubt her sincerity. Indeed, I know nothing of her but what you have now rehearsed, except that, a few days since, as I retired from the palace, I observed her near the eastern gate in earnest conversation with Antiochus. Soon as her eye caught me, although at a great distance, she hastily withdrew into the palace, while Antiochus turned toward the neighboring street.'
Julia smiled. 'Ah,' said she, 'our cousin Antiochus, were he to lose all hope of me, would hasten to throw himself at the feet of the beautiful Sindarina. When at the palace, his eyes can hardly be drawn from her face. I have been told he exalts her above her great mistress. Were Antiochus king, I can hardly doubt that Sindarina were queen. His visit to the palace must have been to her alone. Livia, have you received him since the departure of Zenobia?'
Her sister had not seen him. I said no more. But never have I read aright the human countenance, if in her there be not hidden designs of evil. I knew not before this interview her history. This supplies a motive for a treacherous turn, if by it her freedom or her fortune might be achieved. I have mentioned my suspicions to Longinus, but he sees nothing in them.
* * * * * The intelligence thus received from Antioch has effectually sobered the giddy citizens of Palmyra. They are now of opinion that war really exists, and that they are a party concerned. The merchants, who are the princes of the place, perceiving their traffic to decline or cease, begin to interest themselves in the affairs of the state. So long as wealth flowed in as ever, and the traders from India and Persia saw no obstruction in the state of things to a safe transaction of their various businesses and transportation of their valuable commodities, the merchants left the state to take care of itself, and whatever opinions they held, expressed them only in their own circles, thinking but of accumulation by day, and of ostentatious expenditure by night. I have often heard, that their general voice, had it been raised, would have been hostile to the policy that has prevailed. But it was not raised; and now, when too late, and these mercenary and selfish beings are driven to some action by the loss of their accustomed gains, a large and violent party is forming among them, who loudly condemn the conduct of the Queen and her ministers, and advocate immediate submission to whatever terms Aurelian may impose. This party however, powerful though it maybe through wealth, is weak in numbers. The people are opposed to them, and go enthusiastically with the Queen, and do not scruple to exult in the distresses of the merchants. Their present impotence is but a just retribution upon them for their criminal apathy during the early stages of the difficulty. Then had they taken a part as they ought to have done in the public deliberations, the rupture which has ensued might, it is quite likely, have been prevented. Their voice would have been a loud and strong, one, and would have been heard. They deserve to lose their liberties, who will not spare time from selfish pursuits to guard them. Where a government is popular, even to no greater extent than this, it behooves every individual, if he values the power delegated to him and would retain it, to use it, otherwise it is by degrees and insensibly lost; and once absorbed into the hands of the few, it is not easily, if at all, to be recovered.
Nothing can exceed the activity displayed on all hands in every preparation which the emergency demands. New levies of men are making, and a camp again forming to reinforce the Queen, at Emesa, or in its neighborhood, if she should not be compelled to retire upon Palmyra. In the mean time, we wait with beating hearts for the next arrival of couriers.
* * * * * After an anxious suspense of several days all my worst apprehensions are realized. Messengers have arrived, announcing the defeat of Zenobia before the walls of Emesa, and with them fugitives from the conquered army are pouring in. Every hour now do we expect the approach of the Queen, with the remnant of her forces. Our intelligence is in the hand of Zenobia herself. She has written thus to her minister.
'Septimia Zenobia to Dionysius Longinus. I am again defeated. Our cavalry were at first victorious, as before at Antioch. The Roman horse were routed. But the infantry of Aurelian, in number greatly superior to ours, falling upon our ranks when deprived of the support of the cavalry, obtained an easy victory; while their horse, rallying and increased by reinforcements from Antioch, drove us in turn at all points, penetrating even to our camp, and completed the disaster of the day. I have now no power with which to cope with Aurelian. It remains but to retreat upon Palmyra, there placing our reliance upon the strength of our walls, and upon our Armenian, Saracen, and Persian allies. I do not despair, although the favor of the gods seems withdrawn. Farewell.'
The city is in the utmost consternation. All power seems paralysed. The citizens stand together in knots at the corners of the streets, like persons struck dumb, and without command of either their bodies or then minds. The first feeling was, and it was freely expressed, 'To contend further is hopeless. The army is destroyed; another cannot now be recruited; and if it could, before it were effected, Aurelian would be at the gates with his countless legions, and the city necessarily surrender. We must now make the best terms we can, and receive passively conditions which we can no longer oppose.'
But soon other sentiments took the place of these, and being urged by those who entertained them, with zeal, they have prevailed.
'Why,' they have urged, 'should we yield before that becomes the only alternative? At present we are secure within the walls of our city, which may well defy all the power of a besieging army. Those most skilled in such matters, and who have visited the places in the world deemed most impregnable, assert that the defences of Palmyra are perfect, and surpassed by none; and that any army, whether a Roman or any others must perish before it would be possible either to force our gates or reduce us by hunger. Besides, what could we expect by submitting to the conqueror, but national extinction? Our city would be pillaged; our principal citizens murdered; perhaps a general slaughter made of the inhabitants, without regard to age or sex. The mercies of Rome have ever been cruel; and Aurelian we know to be famed for the severity of his temper. No commander of modern times has instituted so terrible a discipline in his army, and Rome itself has felt the might of his iron hand; it is always on his sword. What can strangers, foreigners, enemies, and rebels, as he regards us, expect? And are the people of Palmyra ready to abandon their Queen? to whom we owe all this great prosperity, this wide renown, this extended empire? But for Zenobia we were now what we were so many ages, a petty trading village, a community of money-makers, hucksters and barterers, without arts, without science, without fame, destitute of all that adorns and elevates a people. Zenobia has raised us to empire; it is Zenobia who has made us the conquerors of Persia, and the rival of Rome. Shame on those who will desert her! Shame on those who will distrust a genius that has hitherto shone with greater lustre in proportion to the difficulties that have opposed it! Who can doubt that by lending her all our energies and means, she will yet triumph? Shame and death to the enemies of the Queen and the State!'
Sentiments like these are now every where heard, and the courage and enthusiasm of the people are rising again. Those who are for war and resistance are always the popular party. There is an instinctive love of liberty and power, and a horror at the thought of losing them, that come to the aid of the weak, and often cause them to resist, under circumstances absolutely desperate. Palmyra is not weak, but to one who contemplates both parties, and compares their relative strength, it is little short of madness to hope to hold out with ultimate success against the power of Rome. But such is the determination of the great body of the people. And the Queen, when she shall approach with her broken and diminished, and defeated army, will meet the welcome of a conqueror. Never before in the history of the world, was there so true-hearted a devotion of a whole people to the glory, interests, and happiness of One--and never was such devotion so deserved.
The Princess Julia possesses herself like one armed for such adversities, not by nature, but by reflection and philosophy. She was designed for scenes of calmness and peace: but she has made herself equal to times of difficulty, tumult and danger. She shrinks not from the duties which her station now imposes upon her; but seems like one who possesses resolution enough to reign with the vigor and power of Zenobia. Her two brothers, who have remained in the city, Herennianus and Timolaus, leave all affairs of state to her and the council; they preferring the base pleasures of sensuality, in which they wallow day and night in company with Antiochus and his crew. If a deep depression is sometimes seen to rest upon her spirit, it comes rather when she thinks of her mother, than of herself. She experiences already, through her lively sympathies, the grief that will rage in the soul of Zenobia, should fortune deprive her of her crown.
'Zenobia,' she has said to me, 'Zenobia cannot descend from a throne, without suffering such as common souls cannot conceive. A goddess driven from heaven and the company of the gods could not endure more. To possess and to exercise power is to her heaven, to be despoiled of it, Tartarus and death. She was born for a throne, though not on one; and how she graces it, you and the world have seen. She will display fortitude under adversity and defeat, I am sure, and to the common eye, the same soul, vigorous with all its energies, will appear to preside over her. But the prospect or expectation of a fall from her high place will rack with torments such as no mortal can hope to assuage. To witness her grief, without the power to relieve--I cannot bear to think of it!'
In Livia there is more of the mother. She is proud, imperious, and ambitious, in a greater measure even than Zenobia. Young as she is, she believes herself of a different nature from others; she born to rule, others to serve. It is not the idea of her country and its renown that fills and sways her, but of a throne and its attendant glories. So she could reign a Queen, with a Queen's state and homage, it would matter little to her whether it were in Persia or Palmyra. Yet with those who are her equals is she free, and even sportive, light of heart, and overflowing with excess of life. Her eye burns with the bright lustre of a star, and her step is that of the mistress of a world. She is not terrified at the prospect before her, for her confident and buoyant spirit looks down all opposition, and predicts a safe egress from the surrounding peril, and an ascent, through this very calamity itself, to a position more illustrious still.
'Julia,' said she, on one occasion of late, while I sat a listener, 'supposing that the people of Palmyra should set aside our renowned brothers, and again prefer a woman's sway, would not you renounce your elder right in favor of me? I do not think you would care to be a Queen?'
'That is true,' replied Julia, 'I should not care to be a Queen; and yet, I believe I should reign, that you might not. Though I covet not the exercise of power, I believe I should use it more wisely than you would, who do.'
'I am sure,' said Livia, 'I feel within me that very superiority to others, which constitutes the royal character, and would fit me eminently to reign. He cannot be a proper slave who has not the soul of a slave. Neither can he reign well who has not the soul of a monarch. I am suited to a throne, just as others are by the providence of the gods suited to uphold the throne, and be the slaves of it.'
'Were you Queen, Livia, it would be for your own sake; to enjoy the pleasures which as you imagine accompany that state, and exercise over others the powers with which you were clothed, and receive the homage of dependent subjects. Your own magnificence and luxurious state would be your principal thought. Is that being suited to a throne?'
'But,' said Livia, 'I should not be guilty of intentional wrong toward any. So long as my people obeyed my laws and supported my government, there would be no causes of difficulty. But surely, if there were resistance, and any either insulted or opposed my authority, it would be a proper occasion for violent measures. For there must be some to govern as well as others to obey. All cannot rule. Government is founded in necessity. Kings and queens are of nature's making. It would be right then to use utmost severity toward such as ceased to obey, as the slave his master. How could the master obtain the service of the slave, if there were not reposed in him power to punish? Shall the master of millions have less?'
'Dear Livia, your principles are suited only to some Persian despotism. You very soberly imagine, unless you jest, that governments exist for the sake of those who govern--that kings and queens are the objects for which governments are instituted,' 'Truly, it is very much so. Otherwise what would the king or queen of an empire be but a poor official, maintained in a sort of state by the people, and paid by them for the discharge of a certain set of duties which must be performed by some one; but who possesses, in fact, no will nor power of his own; rather the servant of the people than their master?'
'I think,' replied Julia, 'you have given a very just definition of the imperial office. A king, queen, or emperor, is indeed the servant of the people. He exists not for his own pleasure or glory, but for their good. Else he is a tyrant, a despot--not a sovereign.'
'It is then,' said Livia, 'only a tyrant or a despot that I would consent to be. Not in any bad meaning of the terms; for you know, Julia, that I could not be cruel nor unjust. But unless I could reign, as one independent of my people, and irresponsible to them not in name only, but in reality above them; receiving the homage due to the queenly character and office--would not reign at all. To sit upon a throne, a mere painted puppet, shaken by the breath of every conceited or discontented citizen, a butt for every shaft to fly at, a mere hireling, a slave in a queen's robe, the mouthpiece for others to speak by and proclaim their laws, with no will nor power of my own--no, no! It is not such that Zenobia is.'
'She is more than that indeed,' replied Julia; 'she is in some sense a despot; her will is sovereign in the state; she is an absolute prince in fact; but it is through the force of her own character and virtues, not by the consent and expressed allowance of her subjects. Her genius, her goodness, her justice, and her services, have united to confer upon her this dangerous pre-eminence. But who else, with power such as hers, would reign as she has reigned? An absolute will, guided by perfect wisdom and goodness, constitutes I indeed believe the simplest and best form of human government. It is a copy of that of the universe, under the providence of the gods. But an absolute will, moved only or chiefly by the selfish love of regal state and homage, or by a very defective wisdom and goodness, is on the other hand the very worst form of human government. You would make an unequalled queen, Livia, if to act the queen were all; if you were but to sit and receive the worship of the slaves, your subjects. As you sit now, Lean almost believe you Queen of the East! Juno's air was not more imperial, nor the beauty of Venus more enslaving. Piso will not dissent from what I began with, or now end with.'
'I think you have delivered a true doctrine,' I replied; 'but which few who have once tasted of power will admit. Liberty would be in great danger were Livia queen. Her subjects would be too willing to forget their rights, through a voluntary homage to her queenly character and state. Their chains would however be none the less chains, that they were voluntarily assumed. That indeed is the most dangerous slavery which men impose upon themselves, for it does not bear the name of slavery, but some other; yet as it is real, the character of the slave is silently and unconsciously formed, and then unconsciously transmitted.'
'I perceive,' said Livia, 'if what you philosophers urge be true, that I am rather meant by nature for a Persian or a Roman throne than any other. I would be absolute, though it were over but a village. A divided and imperfect power I would not accept, though it were over the world. But the gods grant it long ere any one be called in Palmyra to fill the place of Zenobia!'
'Happy were it for mankind,' said Julia, 'could she live and reign forever.'
Thus do all differences cease and run into harmony at the name of Zenobia.
* * * * * Every hour do we look for the arrival of the army.
* * * * * As I sit writing at my open window, overlooking the street and spacious courts of the Temple of Justice, I am conscious of an unusual disturbance--the people at a distance are running in one direction--the clamor approaches--and now I hear the cries of the multitudes, 'The Queen! the Queen!'
I fly to the walls.
* * * * * I resume my pen. The alarm was a true one. Upon gaining the streets, I found the populace all pouring toward the Gate of the Desert, in which direction, it was affirmed, the Queen was making her approach. Upon reaching it, and ascending one of its lofty towers, I beheld from the verge of the horizon to within a mile of the walls, the whole plain filled with the scattered forces of Zenobia, a cloud of dust resting over the whole, and marking out the extent of ground they covered. As the advanced detachments drew near, how different a spectacle did they present from that bright morning, when glittering in steel, and full of the fire of expected victory, they proudly took their way toward the places from which they now were returning, a conquered, spoiled, and dispirited remnant, covered with the dust of a long march, and wearily dragging their limbs beneath the rays of a burning sun. Yet was there order and military discipline preserved, even under circumstances so depressing, and which usually are an excuse for their total relaxation. It was the silent, dismal march of a funeral train, rather than the hurried flight of a routed and discomfited army. There was the stiff and formal military array, but the life and spirit of an elated and proud soldiery were gone. They moved with method to the sound of clanging instruments, and the long, shrill blast of the trumpet, but they moved as mourners, They seemed as if they came to bury their Queen.
Yet the scene changed to a brighter aspect, as the army drew nearer and nearer to the walls, and the city throwing open her gates, the populace burst forth, and with loud and prolonged shouts, welcomed them home. These shouts sent new life into the hearts of the desponding ranks, and with brightened faces and a changed air they waved their arms and banners, and returned shout for shout. As they passed through the gates to the ample quarters provided within the walls, a thousand phrases of hearty greeting were showered down upon them, from those who lined the walls, the towers, and the way-side, which seemed, from the effects produced in those on whom they fell, a more quickening restorative than could have been any medicine or food that had ministered only to the body.
The impatience of the multitude to behold and receive the Queen was hardly to be restrained from breaking forth in some violent way. They were ready to rush upon the great avenue, bearing aside the troops, that they might the sooner greet her. When, at length, the centre of the army approached, and the armed chariot appeared in which Zenobia sat, the enthusiasm of the people knew no bounds. They broke through all restraint, and with cries that filled the heavens, pressed toward her--the soldiers catching the frenzy and joining them--and quickly detaching the horses from her carriage, themselves drew her into the city just as if she had returned victor with Aurelian in her train. There was no language of devotion and loyalty that did not meet her ear, nor any sign of affection that could be made from any distance, from the plains, the walls, the gates, the higher buildings of the city, the roofs of which were thronged, that did not meet her eye. It was a testimony of love so spontaneous and universal, a demonstration of confidence and unshaken attachment so hearty and sincere, that Zenobia was more than moved by it, she was subdued--and she who, by her people, had never before been seen to weep, bent her head and buried her face in her hands.
With what an agony of expectation, while this scene was passing, did I await the appearance of Fausta, and Gracchus, and Calpurnius--if, indeed, I were destined ever to see them again. I waited long, and with pain, but the gods be praised, not in vain, nor to meet with disappointment only. Not far in the rear of Zenobia, at the head of a squadron of cavalry, rode, as my eye distinctly informed me, those whom I sought. No sooner did they in turn approach the gates, than almost the same welcome that had been lavished upon Zenobia, was repeated for Fausta, Gracchus, and Calpurnius. The names of Calpurnius and Fausta--of Calpurnius, as he who had saved the army at Antioch, of Fausta as the intrepid and fast friend of the Queen, were especially heard from a thousand lips, joined with every title of honor. My voice was not wanting in the loud acclaim. It reached the ears of Fausta, who, starting and looking upward, caught my eye just as she passed beneath the arch of the gateway. I then descended from my tower of observation, and joined the crowds who thronged the close ranks, as they filed along the streets of the city. I pressed upon the steps of my friends, never being able to keep my eyes from the forms of those I loved so well, whom I had so feared to lose, and so rejoiced to behold returned alive and unhurt.
All day the army has continued pouring into the city, and beside the army greater crowds still of the inhabitants of the suburbs, who, knowing that before another day shall end, the Romans may encamp before the walls, are scattering in all directions--multitudes taking refuge in the city, but greater numbers still, mounted upon elephants, camels, dromedaries and horses, flying into the country to the north. The whole region as far as the eye can reach, seems in commotion, as if society were dissolved, and breaking up from its foundations. The noble and the rich, whose means are ample, gather together their valuables, and with their children and friends seek the nearest parts of Mesopotamia, where they will remain in safety till the siege shall be raised. The poor, and such as cannot reach the Euphrates, flock into the city, bringing with them what little of provisions or money they may possess, and are quartered upon the inhabitants, or take up a temporary abode in the open squares, or in the courts and porticos of palaces and temples--the softness and serenity of the climate rendering even so much as the shelter of a tent superfluous. But by this vast influx the population of the city cannot be less than doubled, and I should tremble for the means of subsistence for so large a multitude, did I not know the inexhaustible magazines of grain, laid up by the prudent foresight of the Queen, in anticipation of the possible occurrence of the emergency which has now arrived. A long time--longer than he himself would be able to subsist his army--must Aurelian lie before Palmyra ere he can hope to reduce it by famine. What impression his engines may be able to make upon the walls, remains to be seen. Periander pronounces the city impregnable. My own judgment, formed upon a comparison of it with the cities most famous in the world for the strength of their defences, would agree with his.
Following on in the wake of the squadron to which Fausta was attached, I wished to reach the camp at the same time with herself and Gracchus and my brother, but owing to the press in the streets, arising from the causes just specified, I was soon separated from, and lost sight of it. Desirous however to meet them, I urged my way along with much labor till I reached the quarter of the city assigned to the troops, where I found the tents and the open ground already occupied. I sought in vain for Fausta. While I waited, hoping still to see her, I stood leaning upon a pile of shields, which the soldiers, throwing off their arms, had just made, and watching them as they were, some disencumbering themselves of their armor, others unclasping the harness of their horses, others arranging their weapons into regular forms, and others, having gone through their first tasks, were stretching themselves at rest beneath the shadow of their tents, or of some branching tree. Near me sat a soldier, who, apparently too fatigued to rid himself of his heavy armor, had thrown himself upon the ground, and was just taking off his helmet, and wiping the dust and sweat from his face, while a little boy, observing his wants, ran to a neighboring fountain, and filling a vessel with water, returned and held it to him, saying, 'Drink, soldier this will make you stronger than your armor.'
'You little traitor,' said the soldier,' art not ashamed to bring drink to me, who have helped to betray the city? Beware, or a sharp sword will cut you in two.'
'I thought,' replied the child, nothing daunted, 'that you were a soldier of Palmyra, who had been to fight the Romans. But whoever you may be, I am sure you need the water.'
'But,' rejoined the soldier, swallowing at long draughts as if it had been nectar, the cooling drink, 'do I deserve water, or any of these cowards here, who have been beaten by the Romans, and so broken the heart of our good Queen, and possibly lost her her throne? Answer me that.'
'You have done what you could, I know,' replied the boy, 'because you are a Palmyrene, and who can do more? I carry round the streets of the city in this palm-leaf basket, date cakes, which I sell to those who love them. But does my mother blame me because I do not always come home with an empty basket? I sell what I can. Should I be punished for doing what I cannot?'
'Get you gone, you rogue,' replied the soldier; 'you talk like a Christian boy, and they have a new way of returning good for evil. But here, if you have cakes in your basket, give me one and I will give you a penny all the way from Antioch. See! there is the head of Aurelian on it. Take care he don't eat you up--or at least your cakes. But hark you, little boy, do you see yonder that old man with a bald head, leaning against his shield? go to him with your cakes.'
The boy ran off.
'Friend,' said I, addressing him, 'your march has not lost you your spirits; you can jest yet.'
'Truly I can. If the power to do that were gone, then were all lost. A good jest in a time of misfortune is food and drink. It is strength to the arm, digestion to the stomach, courage to the heart. It is better than wisdom or wine. A prosperous man may afford to be melancholy, but if the miserable are so, they are worse than dead--but it is sure to kill them. Near me I had a comrade whose wit it was alone that kept life in me upon the desert. All the way from Emesa, had it not been for the tears of laughter, those of sorrow and shame would have killed me.'
'But in the words of the little cake urchin, you did what you could. The fates were opposed to you.'
'If all had done as much and as well as some, we would have had the fates in our own keeping. Had it not been for that artifice of the Romans at Antioch, we, had now been rather in Rome than here, and it was a woman--or girl rather, as I am told--the daughter of Gracchus, who first detected the cheat, and strove to save the army, but it was too late.'
'Were you near her?'
'Was I not? Not the great Zabdas himself put more mettle into the troops than did that fiery spirit and her black horse. And beyond a doubt, she would have perished through an insane daring, had not the Queen in time called her from the field, and afterward kept her within her sight and reach. Her companion, a Roman turned Palmyrene as I heard, was like one palsied when she was gone, till when, he had been the very Mars of the field. As it was, he was the true hero of the day. He brought to my mind Odenatus, 'Twas so he looked that day we entered Ctesiphon I could wish, and hope too, that he might share the throne of Zenobia, but that all the world knows what a man-hater she is. But were you not there?'
'No. It could not be. I remained in the city.'
'Ten thousand more of such men as you--and we would not have fallen back upon Emesa, nor left Antioch without the head of Aurelian. But alas for it, the men of Palmyra are men of silk, and love their pleasures too well to be free. I should call them women, but for Zenobia and the daughter of Gracchus.'
'Do not take me for one of them. I am a Roman--and could not fight against my country.'
'A Roman! and what makes you here? Suppose I were to run you through with this spear?'
'Give me another and you are welcome to try.'
'Am I so? Then will I not do it. Give a man his will and he no longer cares for it. Besides, having escaped with hazard from the clutches of one Roman, I will not encounter another. Dost thou know that demon Aurelian? Half who fell, fell by his hand. His sword made no more of a man in steel armor, than mine would of a naked slave. Many a tall Palmyrene did he split to the saddle, falling both ways. The ranks broke and fled wherever he appeared. Death could not keep pace with him. The Roman Piso--of our side--sought him over the field, to try his fortune with him, but the gods protected him, and he found him not: otherwise his body were now food for hyenas. No arm of mortal mould can cope with his, Mine is not despicable: there is not its match in Palmyra: but I would not encounter Aurelian unless I were in love with death.'
'It is as you say, I well know. He is reputed in our army to have killed more with his single arm in battle, than any known in Roman history. Our camp resounds with songs which celebrate his deeds of blood. His slain are counted by thousands, nothing less.'
'The gods blast him, ere he be seen before the walls of Palmyra; our chance were better against double the number of legions under another general. The general makes the soldier. The Roman infantry are so many Aurelians. Yet to-morrow's sun will see him here. I am free to say, I tremble for Palmyra. A war ill begun, will, if auguries are aught, end worse. Last night the sky was full of angry flashes, both white and red. While the army slept over-wrought upon the desert, and the silence of death was around, the watches heard sounds as of the raging of a battle, distinct and clear, dying away in groans as of a host perishing under the sword and battle-axe. These horrid sounds at length settled over the sleeping men, till it seemed as if they proceeded from them. The sentinels--at first struck dumb with terror and amazement--called out to one another to know what it should mean, but they could only confirm to each other what had been heard, and together ask the protection of the gods. But what strikes deeper yet, is what you have heard, that the Queen's far-famed Numidian, just as we came in sight of the walls of the city, stumbled, and where he stumbled, fell and died. What these things forebode, if not disaster and ruin, 'tis hard to say. I need no one to read them to me.'
Saying thus, he rose and began to divest himself of the remainder of his heavy armor, saying, as he did it--'It was this heavy armor that lost us the day at Antioch--lighter, and we could have escaped the meshes. Now let me lie and sleep.'
Returning, hardly had I arrived at the house of Gracchus, when it was announced in loud shouts by the slaves of the palace, that Gracchus himself, Fausta and Calpurnius were approaching. I hastened to the portico overlooking the court-yard, and was there just in season to assist Fausta to dismount. It was a joyful moment I need scarce assure you. Fausta returns wholly unhurt. Gracchus is wounded upon his left, and Calpurnius upon his right arm--but will not long suffer from the injury.
It was an unspeakable joy, once more to hear the cheerful voice of Gracchus resounding in the walls of his own dwelling, and to see Fausta, eased of her unnatural load of iron, again moving in her accustomed sphere in that graceful costume, partly Roman and partly Persian, and which now hides and now betrays the form, so as to reveal its beauty in the most perfect manner. A deep sadness, deeper than ever, sits upon her countenance, whenever her own thoughts occupy her. But surrounded by her friends, her native spirit, too elastic to be subdued, breaks forth, and she seems her former self again.
Our evening meal was sad, but not silent.
Gracchus instructed me, by giving a minute narrative of the march to Antioch--of the two battles--and the retreat. Calpurnius related with equal exactness the part which he took, and the services which Fausta, by her penetrating observation, had been able to render to the army. They united in bestowing the highest encomiums upon Zenobia, who herself planned the battle, and disposed the forces, and with such consummate judgment, that Zabdas himself found nothing to disapprove or alter.
'The day was clearly ours,' said Fausta, 'but for the artifice of Aurelian--allowable, I know, by all the rules of war--by which we were led on blindfold to our ruin. But flushed as we were by the early and complete success of the day, is it to be severely condemned that our brave men followed up their advantages with too much confidence, and broke from that close order, in which till then, they had fought; and by doing so, lost the command of themselves and their own strength? O, the dulness of our spirits, that we did not sooner detect the rank insincerity of that sudden, unexpected retreat of the Roman horse!'
'The gods rather be praised,' said Gracchus, 'that your watchful eye detected so soon, what was too well concerted and acted to be perceived at all, and that as the fruit of it we sit here alive, and Zenobia holds her throne, and so many of our brave soldiers are now locked in sleep beneath their quiet tents.'
'That, I think,' said Calpurnius, 'is rather the sentiment that should possess us. You will hardly believe, Lucius, that it was owing to the military genius of your ancient playmate, that we escaped the certain destruction that had been prepared for us?'
'I can believe any thing good in that quarter, and upon slighter testimony. I have already heard from the lips of a soldier of your legion, that which you have now related. Part of the praise was by him bestowed upon one Piso, a Roman turned Palmyrene as he termed him, who, he reported, fought at the side of the daughter of Gracchus.'
'He could not have said too much of that same Piso,' said Gracchus. 'Palmyra owes him a large debt of gratitude, which I am sure she will not be slow to pay. But let us think rather of the future than of the past, which, however we may have conducted, speaks only of disaster.'
I thank you for your assurances concerning Laco and Coelia. Your conscience will never reproach you for this lenity.
| {
"id": "8938"
} |
14 | None | The last days of this so lately favored empire draw near--at least such is my judgment. After a brief day of glory, its light will set in a long night of utter darkness and ruin.
Close upon the rear guard of the Queen's forces followed the light troops of Aurelian, and early this morning it was proclaimed that the armies of Rome were in sight, and fast approaching the city. These armies were considered too numerous to hazard another battle, therefore the gates were shut, and we are now beleaguered by a power too mighty to contend with, and which the Arabs, the climate, and want, must be trusted to subdue. The circumjacent plains are filled with the legions of Rome. Exhausted, by the march across the desert, they have but pitched their tents, and now repose.
The Queen displays more than ever her accustomed activity and energy. She examines in person every part of the vast extent of wall, and every engine planted upon them for their defence. By her frequent presence in every part of the city she inspires her soldiers with the same spirit which possesses herself; and for herself, to behold her careering through the streets of the city, reviewing, and often addressing, the different divisions of the army, and issuing her commands, she seems rather like one who is now Queen of the East, and is soon to be of the world, than one whose dominion is already narrowed down to the compass of a single city, and may shortly be deprived even of that. The lofty dignity of her air has assumed a more imposing greatness still. The imperial magnificence of her state is noways diminished, but rather increased, so that by a sort of delusion of the senses, she seems more a Queen than ever. By her native vigor and goodness, and by the addition of a most consummate art, by which she manages as she will a people whom she perfectly comprehends, she is at this moment more deeply intrenched within the affections of her subjects, and more completely the object of their idolatrous homage than ever before. Yet in her secret soul there is a deep depression, and a loss of confidence in her cause, which amounts not yet to a loss of hope, but approaches it. This is seen by those who can observe her in her more quiet hours, when the glare of public action and station is off, and her mind is left to its own workings. But, like those who play at dice, she has staked all--her kingdom, her crown--her life perhaps--upon a single throw, and having wound herself up to the desperate act, all the entreaty or argument of the whole earth could not move her to unclasp the hand that wields the fatal box. She will abide the throw.
There are still those who use both intreaty and argument to persuade her even at this late hour to make the best terms she may with Rome. Otho, though perfectly loyal and true, ceases not to press upon her, both in public and in private, those considerations which may have any weight with her to induce a change of measures. But it has thus far been to no purpose. Others there are who, as the danger increases, become more and more restless, and scruple not to let their voice be heard in loud complaint and discontent, but they are too few in proportion to the whole, to make them objects of apprehension. It will however be strange if, as the siege is prolonged, they do not receive such accessions of strength as to render them dangerous.
The Emperor has commenced his attacks upon the city in a manner that shows him unacquainted with its strength. The battle has raged fiercely all day, with great loss we infer to the Romans, with none we know to the Palmyrenes.
Early on the morning of the second day it was evident that a general assault was to be made. The Roman army completely surrounded the city, at the same signal approached, and under cover of their shields, attempted both to undermine and scale the walls. But their attempts were met with such vigor, and with such advantage of action by the besieged, that although repeated many times during the day, they have resulted in only loss and death to the assailants. It is incredible the variety and ingenuity of the contrivances by which the Queen's forces beat off and rendered ineffectual all the successive movements of the enemy, in their attempts to surmount the walls. Not only from every part of them were showers of arrows discharged from the bows of experienced archers, but from engines also, by which they were driven to a much greater distance, and with great increase of force.
This soon rendered every attack of this nature useless and worse, and their efforts were then concentrated upon the several gates, which simultaneously were attempted to be broken in, fired, or undermined. But here again, as often as these attempts were renewed, were they defeated, and great destruction made of those engaged in them. The troops approached as is usual, covered completely, or buried rather, beneath their shields. They were suffered to form directly under the walls, and actually commence their work of destruction, when suddenly from the towers of the gates, and through channels constructed for the purpose in every part of the masonry, torrents of liquid fire were poured upon the iron roof, beneath which the soldiers worked. This at first they endured. The melted substances ran off from the polished surface of the shields, and the stones which were dashed upon them from engines, after rattling and bounding over their heads, rolled harmless to the ground. But there was in reserve a foe which they could not encounter. When it was found that the fiery streams flowed down the slanting sides of the shell, penetrating scarcely at all through the crevices of the well-joined shields, it was suggested by the ingenious Periander, that there should first be thrown down a quantity of pitch in a half melted state, by which the whole surface of the roof should be completely covered, and which should then, by a fresh discharge of fire, be set in a blaze, the effect of which must be to heat the shields to such a degree, that they could neither be held, nor the heat beneath endured by the miners. This was immediately resorted to at all the gates, and the success was complete. For no sooner was the cold pitch set on fire and constantly fed by fresh quantities from above, than the heat became insupportable to those below, who suddenly letting go their hold, and breaking away from their compacted form, in hope to escape from the stifling heat, the burning substance then poured in upon them, and vast numbers perished miserably upon the spot, or ran burning, and howling with pain, toward the camp. The slaughter made was very great, and terrible to behold.
Nevertheless, the next day the same attempts were renewed, in the hope, we supposed, that the Queen's missiles might be expended, but were defeated again in the same manner and with like success.
These things being so, and Aurelian being apparently convinced that the city cannot be taken by storm, the enemy are now employed in surrounding it with a double ditch and rampart, as defences both against us and our allies, between which the army is to be safely encamped; an immense labor, to which I believe a Roman army is alone equal. While this has been doing, the Palmyrenes have made frequent sallies from the gates, greatly interrupting the progress of the work, and inflicting severe losses. These attacks have usually been made at night, when the soldiers have been wearied by the exhausting toil of the day, and only a small proportion of the whole have been in a condition to ward off the blows.
* * * * * The Roman works are at length completed. Every lofty palm tree, every cedar, every terebinth, has disappeared from the surrounding plains, to be converted into battering rams, or wrought into immense towers, fire and constantly fed by fresh quantities from above, than the heat became insupportable to those below, who suddenly letting go their hold, and breaking away from their compacted form, in hope to escape from the stifling heat, the burning substance then poured in upon them, and vast numbers perished miserably upon the spot, or ran burning, and howling with pain, toward the camp. The slaughter made was very great, and terrible to behold.
Nevertheless, the next day the same attempts were renewed, in the hope, we supposed, that the Queen's missiles might be expended, but were defeated again in the same manner and with like success.
These things being so, and Aurelian being apparently convinced that the city cannot be taken by storm, the enemy are now employed in surrounding it with a double ditch and rampart, as defences both against us and our allies, between which the army is to be safely encamped; an immense labor, to which I believe a Roman army is alone equal. While this has been doing, the Palmyrenes have made frequent sallies from the gates, greatly interrupting the progress of the work, and inflicting severe losses. These attacks have usually been made at night, when the soldiers have been wearied by the exhausting toil of the day, and only a small proportion of the whole have been in a condition to ward off the blows.
The Roman works are at length completed. Every lofty palm tree, every cedar, every terebinth, has disappeared from the surrounding plains, to be converted into battering rams, or wrought into immense towers, fired, if possible, by means of well-barbed arrows and javelins, to which were attached sacs and balls of inflammable and explosive substances. These fastening themselves upon every part of the tower could not fail to set fire to them while yet at some distance, and in extinguishing which the water and other means provided for that purpose would be nearly or quite exhausted, before they had reached the walls. Then as they came within easier reach, the engines were to belch forth those rivers of oil, fire, and burning pitch, which he was sure no structure, unless of solid iron, could withstand.
These directions were carefully observed, and their success at every point such as Periander had predicted. At the Gate of the Desert the most formidable preparations were made, under the inspection of the Emperor himself, who, at a distance, could plainly be discerned directing the work and encouraging the soldiers. Two towers of enormous size were here constructed, and driven toward the walls. Upon both, as they came within the play of the engines, were showered the fiery javelins and arrows, which it required all the activity of the occupants to ward off, or extinguish where they had succeeded in fastening themselves. One was soon in flames. The other, owing either to its being of a better construction, or to a less vigorous discharge of fire on the part of the defenders of the wall, not only escaped the more distant storm of blazing missiles, but succeeded in quenching the floods of burning pitch and oil, which, as it drew nearer and nearer, were poured upon it in fiery streams. On it moved, propelled by its invisible and protected power, and had now reached the wall; the bridge was in the very act of being thrown and grappled to the ramparts; Aurelian was seen pressing forward the legions, who, as soon as it should be fastened, were to pour up its flights of steps and out upon the walls; when, to the horror of all, not less of the besiegers than of the besieged, its foundations upon one side--being laid over the moat--suddenly gave way, and the towering and enormous mass, with all its living burden, fell thundering to the plain. A shout, as of a delivered and conquering army, went up from the walls, while upon the legions below, such as had not been crushed by the tumbling ruin, and who endeavored to save themselves by flight, a sudden storm of stones, rocks, burning pitch, and missiles of a thousand kinds was directed, that left few to escape to tell the tale of death to their comrades. Aurelian, in his fury, or his desire to aid the fallen, approaching too near the walls, was himself struck by a well-directed shaft, wounded, and borne from the field.
At the other gates, where similar assaults had been made, the same success attended the Palmyrenes. The towers were in each instance set on fire and destroyed.
The city has greatly exulted at the issue of these repeated contests. Every sound and sign of triumph has been made upon the walls. Banners have been waved to and fro, trumpets have been blown, and in bold defiance of their power, parties of horse have sallied out from the gates, and after careering in sight of the enemy, have returned again within the walls. The enemy are evidently dispirited, and already weary of the work they have undertaken.
The Queen and her ministers are confident of success, so far as active resistance of the attacks upon the walls is concerned--and perhaps with reason. For not even the walls of Rome, as they are now re-building, can be of greater strength than these; and never were the defences of a besieged city so complete at all points. But with equal reason are they despondent in the prospect of Aurelian's reducing them by want. If he shall succeed in procuring supplies for his army, and if he shall defeat the allies of the Queen, who are now every day looked for, captivity and ruin are sure. But the Queen and the citizens entertain themselves with the hope, that Aurelian's fiery temper will never endure the slow and almost disgraceful process of starving them into a surrender, and that finding his army constantly diminishing through the effects of such extraordinary exertions in a climate like this, he will at length propose such terms as they without dishonor can accept.
Many days have passed in inactivity on both sides; except that nothing can exceed the strictness with which all approaches to the city are watched, and the possibility of supplies reaching it cut off.
That which has been expected has come to pass. The Emperor has offered terms of surrender to the Queen; but such terms, and so expressed, that their acceptance was not so much as debated. The Queen was in council with her advisers, when it was announced that a herald from the Roman camp was seen approaching the walls. The gates were ordered to be opened, and the messenger admitted. He was conducted to the presence of the Queen, surrounded by her ministers.
'I come,' said he, as he advanced toward Zenobia, 'bearing a letter from the Emperor of Rome to the Queen of Palmyra. Here it is.'
'I receive it gladly,' replied the Queen, 'and hope that it may open a way to an honorable composition of the difficulties which now divide us. Nichomachus, break the seals and read its contents.'
The secretary took the epistle from the hands of the herald, and opening, read that which follows: 'Aurelian, Emperor of Rome and Conqueror of the East, to Zenobia and her companions in arms.
'You ought of your own accord long since to have done, what now by this letter I enjoin and command. And what I now enjoin and command is this, an immediate surrender of the city; but with assurance of life to yourself and your friends; you, O Queen, with your friends, to pass your days where the senate, in its sovereign will, shall please to appoint. The rights of every citizen shall be respected, upon condition that all precious stones, silver, gold, silk, horses and camels be delivered into the hands of the Romans.'
As the secretary finished these words the Queen broke forth,---- 'What think you, good friends?' --her mounting color and curled lip showing the storm that raged within--'What think you? Is it a man or a god who has written thus? Can it be a mortal who speaks in such terms to another? By the soul of Odenatus, but I think it must be the God of War himself. Slave, what sayest thou?'
'I am but the chosen bearer,' the herald replied, 'of what I took from the hands of the Emperor. But between him and the god just named there is, as I deem, but small difference.'
'That's well said,' replied the Queen; 'there's something of the old Roman in thee. Friends,' she continued, turning to her counsellors, 'what answer shall we send to this lordly command? What is your advice?'
'Mine is,' said Zabdas, 'that the Queen set her foot upon the accursed scroll, and that yonder wretch that bore it be pitched headlong from the highest tower upon the walls, and let the wind from his rotting carcass bear back our only answer.'
'Nay, nay, brave Zabdas,' said the Queen, the fury of her general having the effect to restore her own self-possession, 'thou wouldst not counsel so. War then doubles its wo and guilt, when cruelty and injustice bear sway. Otho, what sayest thou?'
'Answer it in its own vein! You smile, Queen, as if incredulous. But I repeat--answer it in its own vein! I confess an inward disappointment and an inward change. I hoped much from terms which a wise man might at this point propose, and soil neither his own nor his country's honor. But Aurelian--I now see--is not such a one. He is but the spoiled child of fortune. He has grown too quickly great to grow well. Wisdom has had no time to ripen.'
Others concurring, Zenobia seized a pen and wrote that which I transcribe.
'Zenobia, Queen of the East? to Aurelian Augustus.
'No one before you ever thought to make a letter serve instead of a battle. But let me tell you, whatever is won in war, is won by bravery, not by letters. You ask me to surrender--as if ignorant that Cleopatra chose rather to die, than, surrendering, to live in the enjoyment of every honor. Our Persian allies will not fail me. I look for them every hour. The Saracens are with me--the Armenians are with me. The Syrian robbers have already done you no little damage. What then can you expect, when these allied armies are upon you? You will lay aside I think a little of that presumption with which you now command me to surrender, as if you were already conqueror of the whole world.'
* * * * * The letter being written and approved by those who were present, it was placed by Nichomachus in the hands of the herald.
* * * * * No one can marvel, my Curtius, that a letter in the terms of Aurelian's should be rejected, nor that it should provoke such an answer as Zenobia's. It has served merely to exasperate passions which were already enough excited. It was entirely in the power of the Emperor to have terminated the contest, by the proposal of conditions which Palmyra would have gladly accepted, and by which Rome would have been more profited and honored than it can be by the reduction and ruin of a city and kingdom like this. But it is too true, that Aurelian is rather a soldier than an Emperor. A victory got by blood is sweeter far to him, I fear, than tenfold wider conquests won by peaceful negotiations.
The effect of the taunting and scornful answer of the Queen has been immediately visible in the increased activity and stir in the camp of Aurelian. Preparations are going on for renewed assaults upon the walls upon a much larger scale than before.
* * * * * On the evening of the day on which the letter of Aurelian was received and answered, I resorted, according to my custom during the siege, to a part of the walls not far from the house of Gracchus, whence an extended view is had of the Roman works and camp. Fausta, as often before, accompanied me. She delights thus at the close of these weary, melancholy days, to walk forth, breathe the reviving air, observe the condition of the city, and from the towers upon the walls, watch the movements and labors of the enemy. The night was without moon or stars. Low and heavy clouds hung, but did not move, over our heads. The air was still, nay, rather dead, so deep was its repose.
'How oppressive is this gloom,' said Fausta, as we came forth upon the ramparts, and took our seat where the eye could wander unobstructed over the plain, 'and yet how gaily illuminated is this darkness by yonder belt of moving lights. It seems like the gorgeous preparation for a funeral. Above us and behind it is silent and dark. These show like the torches of the approaching mourners. The gods grant there be no omen in this.'
'I know not,' I replied. 'It may be so. To-day has, I confess it, destroyed the last hope in my mind that there might come a happy termination to this unwise and unnecessary contest. It can end now only in the utter defeat and ruin of one of the parties--and which that shall be I cannot doubt. Listen, Fausta, to the confused murmur that comes from the camp of the Roman army, bearing witness to its numbers; and to those sounds of the hammer, the axe, and the saw, plied by ten thousand arms, bearing witness to the activity and exhaustless resources of the enemy, and you cannot but feel, that at last--it may be long first--but that at last, Palmyra must give way. From what has been observed to-day, there is not a doubt that Aurelian has provided, by means of regular caravans to Antioch, for a constant supply of whatever his army requires. Reinforcements too, both of horse and foot, are seen daily arriving, in such numbers as more than to make good those who have been lost under the walls, or by the excessive heats of the climate.'
'I hear so,' said Fausta, 'but I will not despair. If I have one absorbing love, it is for Palmyra. It is the land of my birth, of my affections. I cannot tell you with what pride I have watched its growth, and its daily advancement in arts and letters, and have dwelt in fancy upon that future, when it should rival Rome, and surpass the traditionary glories of Babylon and Nineveh. O Lucius! to see now a black pall descending--these swollen clouds are an emblem of it--and settling upon the prospect and veiling it forever in death and ruin--I cannot believe it. It cannot have come to this. It is treason to give way to such fears. Where Zenobia is, final ruin cannot come.'
'It ought not, I wish it could not,' I replied, 'but my fears are that it will, and my fears now are convictions. Where now, my dear Fausta, are the so certainly expected reliefs from Armenia, from Persia? --Fausta, Palmyra must fall.'
'Lucius Piso, Palmyra shall not fall--I say it--and every Palmyrene says it--and what all say, is decreed. If we are true in our loyalty and zeal, the Romans will be wearied out. Lucius, could I but reach the tent of Aurelian, my single arm should rid Palmyra of her foe, and achieve her freedom.'
'No, Fausta, you could not do it.'
'Indeed I would and could. I would consent to draw infamy upon my head as a woman, if by putting off my sex and my nature too, I could by such an act give life to a dying nation, and what is as much, preserve Zenobia her throne.'
'Think not in that vein, Fausta. I would not that your mind should be injured even by the thought.'
'I do not feel it to be an injury,' she rejoined; 'it would be a sacrifice for my country, and the dearer, in that I should lose my good name in making it. I should be sure of one thing, that I should do it in no respect for my own glory. But let us talk no more of it. I often end, Lucius, when thinking of our calamities, and of a fatal termination of these contests to us, with dwelling upon one bright vision. Misfortune to us will bring you nearer to Julia.'
'The gods forbid that my happiness should be bought at such a price!'
'It will only come as an accidental consequence, and cannot disturb you. If Palmyra falls, the pride of Zenobia will no longer separate you.'
'But,' I replied, 'the prospect is not all so bright. Captive princes are by the usages of Rome often sacrificed, and Aurelian, if sometimes generous, is often cruel. Fears would possess me in the event of a capitulation or conquest, which I cannot endure to entertain.' ' O Lucius, you rate Aurelian too low, if you believe he could revenge himself upon a woman--and such a woman as Zenobia. I cannot believe it possible. No. If Palmyra falls it will give you Julia, and it will be some consolation even in the fall of a kingdom, that it brings happiness to two, whom friendship binds closer to me than any others.'
As Fausta said these words, we became conscious of the presence of a person at no great distance from us, leaning against the parapet of the wall, the upper part of the form just discernible.
'Who stands yonder?' said Fausta. 'It has not the form of a sentinel; besides, the sentinel paces by us to and fro without pausing. It may be Calpurnius, His legion is in this quarter. Let us move toward him.'
'No. He moves himself and comes toward us. How dark the night! I can make nothing of the form.'
The figure passed us, and unchallenged by the sentinel whom it met. After a brief absence it returned, and stopping as it came before us-- 'Fausta!' said a voice--once heard, not to be mistaken.
'Zenobia!' said Fausta, and forgetting dignity, embraced her as a friend.
'What makes you here?' inquired Fausta;--'are there none in Palmyra to do your bidding, but you must be abroad at such an hour and such a place?'
''Tis not so fearful quite,' replied the Queen, 'as a battle-field, and there you trust me.'
'Never, willingly.'
'Then you do not love my honor?' said the Queen, taking Fausta's hand as she spoke.
'I love your safety better--no--no--what have I said--not better than your honor--and yet to what end is honor, if we lose the life in which it resides? I sometimes think we purchase human glory too dearly, at the sacrifice of quiet, peace, and security.'
'But you do not think so long. What is a life of indulgence and sloth? Life is worthy only in what it achieves. Should I have done better to have sat over my embroidery, in the midst of my slaves, all my days, than to have spent them in building up a kingdom?' ' O no--no--you have done right. Slaves can embroider: Zenobia cannot. This hand was made for other weapon than the needle.'
'I am weary,' said the Queen; 'let us sit;'--and saying so, she placed herself upon the low stone block, upon which we had been sitting, and drawing Fausta near her, she threw her left arm round her, retaining the hand she held clasped in her own.
'I am weary,' she continued, 'for I have walked nearly the circuit of the walls. You asked what makes me here. No night passes but I visit these towers and battlements. If the governor of the ship sleeps, the men at the watch sleep. Besides, I love Palmyra too well to sleep while others wait and watch. I would do my share. How beautiful is this! --the city girded by these strange fires! its ears filled with this busy music! Piso, it seems hard to believe an enemy, and such an enemy, is there, and that these sights and sounds are all of death!'
'Would it were not so, noble Queen! Would it were not yet too late to move in the cause of peace. If even at the risk of life I--' 'Forbear, Piso,' quickly rejoined the Queen; 'it is to no purpose. You have my thanks, but your Emperor has closed the door of peace forever. It is now war unto death. He may prove victor: it is quite possible: but I draw not back--no word of supplication goes from me. And every citizen of Palmyra, save a few sottish souls, is with me. It were worth my throne and my life, the bare suggestion of an embassy now to Aurelian. But let us not speak of this, but of things more agreeable. The day for trouble, the night for rest. Fausta, where is the quarter of Calpurnius? methinks it is hereabouts.'
'It is,' replied Fausta, 'just beyond the towers of the gate next to us; were it not for this thick night, we could see where at this time he is usually to be found, doing, like yourself, an unnecessary task.'
'He is a good soldier and a faithful--may he prove as true to you, my noble girl, as he has to me. Albeit I am myself a sceptic in love, I cannot but be made happier when I see hearts worthy of each other united by that bond. I trust that bright days are coming, when I may do you the honor I would. Piso, I am largely a debtor to your brother--and Palmyra as much. Singular fortune! that while Rome thus oppresses me, to Romans I should owe so much; to one twice my life, to another my army. But where, Lucius Piso, was your heart, that it fell not into the snare that caught Calpurnius?'
'My heart,' I replied, 'has always been Fausta's, from childhood--' 'Our attachment,' said Fausta, interrupting me, 'is not less than love, but greater. It is the sacred tie of nature, if I may say so, of brother to sister; it is friendship.'
'You say well,' replied the Queen. 'I like the sentiment. It is not less than love, but greater. Love is a delirium, a dream, a disease. It is full of disturbance. It is unequal, capricious, unjust; its felicity, when at the highest, is then nearest to deepest misery; a step, and it is into unfathomable gulfs of woe. While the object loved is as yet unattained, life is darker than darkest night. When it is attained, it is then oftener like the ocean heaving and tossing from its foundations, than the calm, peaceful lake, which mirrors friendship. And when lost, all is lost, the universe is nothing. Who will deny it the name of madness? Will love find entrance into Elysium? Will heaven know more than friendship? I trust not. It were an element of discord there, where harmony should reign perpetual.' After a pause, in which she seemed buried in thought, she added musingly--'What darkness rests upon the future! Life, like love, is itself but a dream; often a brief or a prolonged madness. Its light burns sometimes brightly, oftener obscurely, and with a flickering ray, and then goes out in smoke and darkness. How strange that creatures so exquisitely wrought as we are, capable of such thoughts and acts, rising by science, and art, and letters, almost to the level of gods, should be fixed here for so short a time, running our race with the unintelligent brute; living not so long as some, dying like all. Could I have ever looked out of this life into the possession of any other beyond it, I believe my aims would have been different. I should not so easily have been satisfied with glory and power: at least I think so; for who knows himself? I should then, I think, have reached after higher kinds of excellence, such for example as, existing more in the mind itself, could be of avail after death--could be carried out of the world--which power, riches, glory, cannot. The greatest service which any philosopher could perform for the human race, would be to demonstrate the certainty of a future existence, in the same satisfactory manner that Euclid demonstrates the truths of geometry. We cannot help believing Euclid if we would, and the truths he has established concerning lines and angles, influence us whether we will or not. Whenever the immortality of the soul shall be proved in like manner, so that men cannot help believing it, so that they shall draw it in with the first elements of all knowledge, then will mankind become a quite different race of beings. Men will be more virtuous and more happy. How is it possible to be either in a very exalted degree, dwelling as we do in this deep obscure, uncertain whether we are mere earth and water, or parts of the divinity; whether we are worms or immortals; men or gods; spending all our days in, at best, miserable perplexity and doubt? Do you remember, Fausta and Piso, the discourse of Longinus in the garden, concerning the probability of a future life?
'We do, very distinctly.'
'And how did it impress you?'
'It seemed to possess much likelihood,' replied Fausta, 'but that was all.'
'Yes,' responded the Queen, sighing deeply, 'that was indeed all. Philosophy, in this part of it, is a mere guess. Even Longinus can but conjecture. And what to his great and piercing intellect stands but in the strength of probability, to ours will, of necessity, address itself in the very weakness of fiction. As it is, I value life only for the brightest and best it can give now, and these to my mind are power and a throne. When these are lost I would fall unregarded into darkness and death.'
'But,' I ventured to suggest, 'you derive great pleasure and large profit from study; from the researches of philosophy, from the knowledge of history, from contemplation of the beauties of art, and the magnificence of nature. Are not these things that give worth to life? If you reasoned aright, and probed the soul well, would you not find that from these, as from hidden springs, a great deal of all the best felicity you have tasted, has welled up? Then, still more, from acts of good and just government; from promoting and witnessing the happiness of your subjects; from private friendship; from affections resting upon objects worthy to be loved--from these has no happiness come worth living for? And beside all this, from an inward consciousness of rectitude? Most of all this may still be yours, though you no longer sat upon a throne, and men held their lives but in your breath.
'From such sources,' replied Zenobia, 'some streams have issued it may be, that have added to what I have enjoyed; but, of themselves, they would have been nothing. The lot of earth, being of the low and common herd, is a lot too low and sordid to be taken if proffered. I thank the gods mine has been better. It has been a throne, glory, renown, pomp, and power; and I have been happy. Stripped of these, and without the prospect of immortality, and I would not live.'
With these words she rose quickly from her seat, saying that she had a further duty to perform. Fausta intreated to be used as an agent or messenger, but could not prevail. Zenobia darting from our side was in a moment lost in the surrounding darkness. We returned to the house of Gracchus.
In a few days, the vast preparations of the Romans being complete, a general assault was made by the whole army upon every part of the walls. Every engine, known to our modern methods of attacking walled cities, was brought to bear. Towers constructed in the former manner were wheeled up to the walls. Battering rams of enormous size, those who worked them being protected by sheds of hide, thundered on all sides at the gates and walls. Language fails to convey an idea of the energy, the fury, the madness of the onset. The Roman army seemed as if but one being, with such equal courage and contempt of danger and death was the dreadful work performed. But the Queen's defences have again proved superior to all the power of Aurelian. Her engines have dealt death and ruin in awful measure among the assailants. The moat and the surrounding plain are filled and covered with the bodies of the slain. As night came on after a long day of uninterrupted conflict, the troops of Aurelian, baffled and defeated at every point, withdrew to their tents, and left the city to repose.
The temples of the gods have resounded with songs of thanksgiving for this new deliverance, garlands have been hung around their images, and gifts laid upon their altars. Jews and Christians, Persians and Egyptians, after the manner of their worship, have added their voices to the general chorus.
Again there has been a pause. The Romans have rested after the late fierce assault to recover strength, and the city has breathed free. Many are filled with new courage and hope, and the discontented spirits are silenced. The praises of Zenobia, next to those of the gods, fill every mouth. The streets ring with songs composed in her honor.
* * * * * Another day of excited expectations and bitter disappointment.
It was early reported that forces were seen approaching from the east, on the very skirts of the plain, and that they could be no other than the long-looked-for Persian army. Before its approach was indicated to those upon the highest towers of the gates, by the clouds of dust hovering over it, it was evident from the extraordinary commotion in the Roman intrenchments, that somewhat unusual had taken place. Their scouts must have brought in early intelligence of the advancing foe. Soon as the news spread through the city the most extravagant demonstrations of joy broke forth on all sides. Even the most moderate and sedate could not but give way to expressions of heartfelt satisfaction. The multitudes poured to the walls to witness a combat upon which the existence of the city seemed suspended.
'Father,' said Fausta, after Gracchus had communicated the happy tidings, 'I cannot sit here--let us hasten to the towers of the Persian gate, whence we may behold the encounter.'
'I will not oppose you,' replied Gracchus, 'but the sight may cost you naught but tears and pain. Persia's good will, I fear, will not be much, nor manifested by large contributions to our cause. If it be what I suspect--but a paltry subdivision of her army, sent here rather to be cut in pieces than aught else--it will but needlessly afflict and irritate.'
'Father, I would turn away from no evil that threatens Palmyra. Besides, I should suffer more from imagined, than from real disaster. Let us hasten to the walls.'
We flew to the Persian gate.
'But why,' asked Fausta, addressing Gracchus on the way, 'are you not more elated? What suspicion do you entertain of Sapor? Will he not be sincerely desirous to aid us?'
'I fear not,' replied Gracchus. 'If we are to be the conquering party in this war, he will send such an army as would afterward make it plain that he had intended an act of friendship, and done the duty of an ally. If we are to be beaten, he will lose little in losing such an army, and will easily, by placing the matter in certain lights, convince the Romans that their interests had been consulted, rather than ours, We can expect no act of true friendship from Sapor. Yet he dares not abandon us. Were Hormisdas upon the throne, our prospects were brighter.'
'I pray the gods that ancient wretch may quickly perish then,' cried Fausta, 'if such might be the consequences to us. Why is he suffered longer to darken Persia and the earth with his cruel despotism!'
'His throne shakes beneath him,' replied Gracchus; 'a breath may throw it down.'
As we issued forth upon the walls, and then mounted to the battlements of the highest tower, whence the eye took in the environs of the city, and even the farthest verge of the plain, and overlooked, like one's own court-yard, the camp and intrenchments of the Romans--we beheld with distinctness the Persian forces within less than two Roman miles. They had halted and formed, and there apparently awaited the enemy.
No sooner had Gracchus surveyed well the scene, than he exclaimed, 'The gods be praised! I have done Sapor injustice. Yonder forces are such as may well call forth all the strength of the Roman army. In that case there will be much for us to do. I must descend and to the post of duty.'
So saying he left us.
'I suppose,' said Fausta, 'in case the enemy be such as to draw off the larger part of the Roman army, sorties will be made from the gates upon their camp?'
'Yes,' I rejoined; 'if the Romans should suffer themselves to be drawn to a distance, and their forces divided, a great chance would fall into the hands of the city. But that they will not do. You perceive the Romans move not, but keep their station just where they are. They will oblige the Persians to commence the assault upon them in their present position, or there will be no battle.'
'I perceive their policy now,' said Fausta. 'And the battle being fought so near the walls, they are still as strongly beleaguered as ever--at least half their strength seems to remain within their intrenchments. See, see! the Persian army is on the march. It moves toward the city. Now again it halts.'
'It hopes to entice Aurelian from his position, so as to put power into our hands. But they will fail in their object.'
'Yes, I fear they will,' replied Fausta. 'The Romans remain fixed as statues in their place.'
'Is it not plain to you, Fausta,' said I, 'that the Persians conceive not the full strength of the Roman army? Your eye can now measure their respective forces.'
'It is too plain, alas!' said Fausta. 'If the Persians should defeat the army now formed, there is another within the trenches to be defeated afterwards, Now they move again. Righteous gods, interpose in our behalf!'
At this moment indeed the whole Persian army put itself into quick and decisive motion, as if determined to dare all--and achieve all for their ally, if fate should so decree. It was a sight beautiful to behold, but of an interest too painful almost to be endured. The very existence of a city and an empire seemed to hang upon its issues; and here, looking on and awaiting the decisive moment, was as it were the empire itself assembled upon the walls of its capital, with which, if it should fall, the kingdom would also fall, and the same ruin cover both. The Queen herself was there to animate and encourage by her presence, not only the hearts of all around, but even the distant forces of the Persians, who, from their position, might easily behold the whole extent of the walls and towers, covered with an innumerable multitude of the besieged inhabitants, who, by waving their hands, and by every conceivable demonstration, gave them to feel more deeply than they could otherwise have done, how much was depending upon their skill and bravery.
Soon after the last movement of the Persians, the light troops of either army encountered, and by a discharge of arrows and javelins, commenced the attack. Then in a few moments, it being apparently impossible to restrain the impatient soldiery, the battle became general. The cry of the onset and the clash of arms fell distinctly upon our ears. Long, long, were the opposing armies mingled together in one undistinguishable mass, waging an equal fight. Now it would sway toward the one side, and now toward the other, heaving and bending as a field of ripe grain to the fitful breeze. Fausta sat with clenched hands and straining eye, watching the doubtful fight, and waiting the issue in speechless agony. A deep silence, as of night and death, held the whole swarming multitude of the citizens, who hardly seemed as if they dared breathe while what seemed the final scene was in the act of being performed.
Suddenly a new scene, and more terrific because nearer, burst upon our sight. At a signal given by Zenobia from the high tower which she occupied, the gates below us flew open, and Zabdas, at the head of all the flower of the Palmyra cavalry, poured forth, followed closely from this and the other gates by the infantry. The battle now raged between the walls and the Roman intrenchments as well as beyond. The whole plain was one field of battle and slaughter. Despair lent vigor and swiftness to the horse and foot of Palmyra; rage at the long continued contest, revenge for all they had lost and endured, nerved the Roman arm, and gave a double edge to its sword. Never before, my Curtius, had I beheld a fight in which every blow seemed so to carry with it the whole soul, boiling with wrath, of him who gave it. Death sat upon every arm.
'Lucius!' cried Fausta, I started, for it had been long that she had uttered not a word.
'Lucius! unless my eye grows dim and lies, which the gods grant, the Persians! look! they give way--is it not so? Immortal gods, forsake not my country!'
'The battle may yet turn,' I said, turning my eyes where she pointed, and seeing it was so--'despair not, dear Fausta. If the Persians yield--see, Zabdas has mounted the Roman intrenchments.'
'Yes--they fly,' screamed Fausta, and would madly have sprung over the battlements, but that I seized and held her. At the same moment a cry arose that Zabdas was slain--her eye caught his noble form as it fell backwards from his horse, and with a faint exclamation, 'Palmyra is lost!' fell lifeless into my arms.
While I devoted myself to her recovery, cries of distress and despair fell from all quarters upon my ear. And when I had succeeded in restoring her to consciousness, the fate of the day was decided--the Persians were routed--the Palmyrenes were hurrying in wild confusion before the pursuing Romans, and pressing into the gates.
'Lucius,' said Fausta, 'I am sorry for this weakness. But to sit as it were chained here, the witness of such disaster, is too much for mere mortal force. Could I but have mingled in that fight! Ah, how cruel the slaughter of those flying troops! Why do they not turn, and at least die with their faces toward the enemy? Let us now go and seek Calpurnius and Gracchus.'
'We cannot yet, Fausta, for the streets are thronged with this flying multitude.'
'It is hard to remain here, the ears rent, and the heart torn by these shrieks of the wounded and dying. How horrible this tumult! It seems as if the world were expiring. There--the gates are swinging upon their hinges; they are shut. Let us descend.'
We forced our way as well as we could through the streets, crowded now with soldiers and citizens--the soldiers scattered and in disorder, the citizens weeping and alarmed--some hardly able to drag along themselves, others sinking beneath the weight of the wounded whom they bore upon their shoulders, or upon lances and shields as upon a litter. The way was all along obstructed by the bodies of men and horses who had there fallen and died, their wounds allowing them to proceed no further, or who had been run down and trampled to death in the tumult and hurry of the entrance.
After a long and weary struggle, we reached the house of Gracchus--still solitary--for neither he nor Calpurnius had returned. The slaves gathered around us to know the certainty and extent of the evil. When they had learned it, their sorrow for their mistress, whom they loved for her own sake, and whom they saw overwhelmed with grief, made them almost forget that they only were suffering these things who had inflicted a worse injury upon themselves. I could not but admire a virtue which seemed of double lustre from the circumstances in which it was manifested.
Calpurnius had been in the thickest of the fight, but had escaped unhurt. He was near Zabdas when he fell, and revenged his death by hewing down the soldier who had pierced him with his lance.
'Zabdas,' said Calpurnius, when in the evening we recalled the sad events of the day, 'was not instantly killed by the thrust of the spear, but falling backwards from his horse, found strength and life enough remaining to raise himself upon his knee, and cheer me on, as I flew to revenge his death upon the retreating Roman. As I returned to him, having completed my task, he had sunk upon the ground, but was still living, and his eye bright with its wonted fire. I raised him in my arms, and lifting him upon my horse, moved toward the gate, intending to bring him within the walls. But he presently entreated me to desist.' ' "I die," said he; "it is all in vain, noble Piso. Lay me at the root of this tree, and that shall be my bed and its shaft my monument."
'I took him from the horse as he desired.' ' "Place me," said he, "with my back against the tree, and my face toward the intrenchments, that while I live I may see the battle. Piso, tell the Queen that to the last hour I am true to her. It has been my glory in life to live but for her, and my death is a happiness, dying for her. Her image swims before me now, and over her hovers a winged victory. The Romans fly--I knew it would be so--the dogs cannot stand before the cavalry of Palmyra--they never could--they fled at Antioch. Hark! --there are the shouts of triumph--bring me my horse--Zenobia! live and reign forever!"
'With these words and in this happy delusion, his head fell upon his bosom, and he died. I returned to the conflict; but it had become a rout, and I was borne along with the rushing throng toward the gates.'
After a night of repose and quiet, there has come another day of adversity. The hopes of the city have again been raised, only again to be disappointed. The joyful cry was heard from the walls in the morning, that the Saracens and Armenians with united forces were in the field. Coming so soon upon the fatiguing duty of the last day, and the Roman army not having received reinforcements from the West, it was believed that the enemy could not sustain another onset as fierce as that of the Persians. I hastened once more to the walls--Fausta being compelled by Gracchus to remain within the palace--to witness as I believed another battle.
The report I found true. The allied forces of those nations were in sight--the Romans were already drawn from their encampment to encounter them. The same policy was pursued on their part as before. They awaited the approach of the new enemy just on the outer side of their works. The walls and towers as far as the eye could reach were again swarming with the population of Palmyra.
For a long time neither army seemed disposed to move.
'They seem not very ready to try the fortune of another day,' said a citizen to me standing by my side. 'Nor do I wonder. The Persians gave them rough handling. A few thousands more on their side, and the event would not have been as it was. Think you not the sally under Zabdas was too long deferred?'
'It is easy afterward,' I replied, 'to say how an action should have been performed. It requires the knowledge and wisdom of a god never to err. There were different judgments I know, but for myself I believe the Queen was right; that is, whether Zabdas had left the gates earlier or later, the event would have been the same.'
'What means that?' suddenly exclaimed my companion; 'see you yonder herald bearing a flag of truce, and proceeding from the Roman ranks? It bodes no good to Palmyra. What think you the purpose is?'
'It may be but to ask a forbearance of arms for a few hours, or a day perhaps. Yet it is not the custom of Rome. I cannot guess.'
'That can I,' exclaimed another citizen on my other side. 'Neither in the Armenians nor yet the Saracens can so much trust be reposed as in a Christian or a Jew. They are for the strongest. Think you they have come to fight? Not if they can treat to better purpose. The Romans, who know by heart the people of the whole earth, know them. Mark me, they will draw never a sword. As the chances are now, they will judge the Romans winners, and a little gold will buy them.'
'The gods forbid,' cried the other, 'that it should be so; they are the last hope of Palmyra. If they fail us, we must e'en throw open our gates, and take our fate at the mercy of Aurelian.'
'Never while I have an arm that can wield a sword, shall a gate of Palmyra swing upon its hinge to let in an enemy.'
'Food already grows short,' said the first; 'better yield than starve.'
'Thou, friend, art in no danger for many a day, if, as is fabled of certain animals, thou canst live on thine own fat. Or if it came to extremities, thou wouldst make a capital stew or roast for others.'
At which the surrounding crowd laughed heartily, while the fat man, turning pale, slunk away and disappeared.
'That man,' said one, 'would betray a city for a full meal.'
'I know him well,' said another; 'he is the earliest at the markets, where you may always see him feeling out with his fat finger the parts of meats that are kindred to himself. His soul, could it be seen, would be of the form of a fat kidney. His riches he values only as they can be changed into food. Were all Palmyra starved, he, were he sought, would be found in some deep-down vault, bedded in the choicest meats--enough to stand a year's siege, and leave his paunch as far about as 't is to-day. See, the Queen betrays anxiety. The gods shield her from harm!'
Zenobia occupied the same post of observation as before. She paced to and fro with a hasty and troubled step the narrow summit of the tower, where she had placed herself.
After no long-interval of time, the Roman herald was seen returning from the camp of the Armenians. Again he sallied forth from the tent of Aurelian, on the same errand. It was too clear now that negotiations were going on which might end fatally for Palmyra. Doubt, fear, anxiety, intense expectation kept the multitude around me in breathless silence, standing at fixed gaze, like so many figures of stone.
They stood not long in this deep and agonizing suspense; for no sooner did the Roman herald reach the tents of the allied armies, and hold brief parley with their chiefs, than he again turned toward the Roman intrenchments at a quick pace, and at the same moment the tents of the other party were struck, and while a part commenced a retreat, another and larger part moved as auxiliaries to join the camp of Aurelian.
Cries of indignation, rage, grief and despair, then burst from the miserable crowds, as with slow and melancholy steps they turned from the walls to seek again their homes. Zenobia was seen once to clasp her hands, turning her face toward the heavens. As she emerged from the tower and ascended her chariot, the enthusiastic throngs failed not to testify their unshaken confidence and determined spirit of devotion to her and her throne, by acclamations that seemed to shake the very walls themselves.
This last has proved a heavier blow to Palmyra than the former. It shows that their cause is regarded by the neighboring powers as a losing one, or already lost and that hope, so far as it rested upon their friendly interposition, must be abandoned. The city is silent and sad. Almost all the forms of industry having ceased, the inhabitants are doubly wretched through their necessary idleness; they can do little but sit and brood over their present deprivations, and utter their dark bodings touching the future. They who obtained their subsistence by ministering to the pleasures of others, are now the first to suffer; for there are none to employ their services. Streets, which but a little while ago resounded with notes of music and the loud laughter of those who lived to pleasure, are now dull and deserted. The brilliant shops are closed, the fountains forsaken, the Porticos solitary, or they are frequented by a few who resort to them chiefly to while away some of the melancholy hours that hang upon their hands. And they who are abroad seem not like the same people. Their step is now measured and slow--the head bent--no salutation greets the passing stranger or acquaintance, or only a few cold words of inquiry, which pass from cold lips into ears as cold. Apathy--lethargy--stupor--seem fast settling over all. They would indeed bury all, I believe, were it not that the parties of the discontented increase in number and power, which compels the friends of the Queen to keep upon the alert. The question of surrender is now openly discussed. 'It is useless,' it is said, 'to hold out longer. Better make the best terms we can. If we save the city by an early capitulation from destruction, coming off with our lives and a portion of our goods, it is more than we shall get if the act be much longer postponed. Every day of delay adds to our weakness, while it adds also to the vexation and rage of the enemy, who the more and longer he suffers, will be less inclined to treat us with indulgence.'
These may be said to have reason on their side, but the other party are inflamed with national pride and devotion to Zenobia, and no power of earth is sufficient to bend them. They are the principal party for numbers; much more for rank and political power. They will hold out till the very last moment--till it is reduced to a choice between death and capitulation; and, on the part of the Queen and the great spirits of Palmyra, death would be their unhesitating choice, were it not for the destruction of so many with them. They will therefore, until the last loaf of bread is divided, keep the gates shut; then throw them open, and meet the terms, whatever they may be, which the power of the conqueror may impose.
A formidable conspiracy has been detected, and the supposed chiefs of it seized and executed.
The design was to secure the person of the Queen, obtain by a violent assault one of the gates, and sallying out, deliver her into the hands of the Romans, who, with her in their power, could immediately put an end to the contest. There is little doubt that Antiochus was privy to it, although those who suffered betrayed him not, if that were the fact. But it has been urged with some force in his favor, that none who suffered would have felt regard enough for him to have hesitated to sacrifice him, if by doing so they could have saved their own lives or others.
Zenobia displayed her usual dauntless courage, her clemency, and her severity. The attack was made upon her, surrounded by her small body-guard, as she was returning toward evening from her customary visit of observation to the walls. It was sudden, violent, desperate; but the loyalty and bravery of the guards was more than a match for the assassins, aided too by the powerful arm of the Queen herself, who was no idle spectator of the fray. It was a well-laid plot, and but for an accidental addition which was made at the walls to the Queen's guard, might have succeeded; for the attack was made just at the Persian gate, and the keeper of the gate had been gained over. Had the guard been overpowered but for a moment, they would have shot the gate too quickly for the citizens to have roused to her rescue. Such of the conspirators as were not slain upon the spot were secured. Upon examination, they denied the participation of others than themselves in the attempt, and died, such of them as were executed, involving none in their ruin. The Queen would not permit a general slaughter of them, though urged to do so. 'The ends of justice and the safety of the city,' she said, 'would be sufficiently secured, if an example were made of such as seemed manifestly the chief movers. But there should be no indulgence of the spirit of revenge.' Those accordingly were beheaded, the others imprisoned.
While these long and weary days are passing away, Gracchus, Fausta, Calpurnius and myself are often at the palace of Zenobia. The Queen is gracious, as she ever is, but laboring under an anxiety and an inward sorrow, that imprint themselves deeply upon her countenance, and reveal themselves in a greater reserve of manner. While she is not engaged in some active service she is buried in thought, and seems like one revolving difficult and perplexing questions. Sometimes she breaks from these moments of reverie with some sudden question to one or another of those around her, from which we can obscurely conjecture the subjects of her meditations. With Longinus, Otho, and Gracchus she passes many of her hours in deep deliberation. At times, when apparently nature cries out for relief, she will join us as we sit diverting our minds by conversation upon subjects as far removed as possible from the present distresses, and will, as formerly, shed the light of her penetrating judgment upon whatever it is we discuss. But she soon falls back into herself again, and remains silent and abstracted, or leaves us and retreats to her private apartments.
* * * * * Suddenly the Queen has announced a project which fills the city with astonishment at its boldness, and once more lights up hope within the bosoms of the most desponding.
Soon as her own mind had conceived and matured it, her friends and counsellors were summoned to receive it from her, and pronounce their judgment. Would that I could set before you, my Curtius, this wonderful woman as she stood before us at this interview. Never before did she seem so great, or of such transcendent beauty--if under such circumstances such a thought may be expressed. Whatever of melancholy had for so long a time shed its gloom over her features was now gone. The native fire of her eye was restored and doubled, as it seemed, by the thoughts which she was waiting to express. A spirit greater than even her own, appeared to animate her, and to breathe an unwonted majesty into her form, and over the countenance.
She greeted all with the warmth of a friend, and besought them to hear her while she presented a view of the present condition of their affairs, and then proposed what she could not but believe might still prove a means of final deliverance--at least, it might deserve their careful consideration. After having gone over the course that had been pursued and defended it, as that alone which became the dignity and honor of a sovereign and independent power, she proceeded thus: 'We are now, it is obvious to all, at the last extremity. If no new outlet be opened from the difficulties which environ us, a few days will determine our fate. We must open our gates and take such mercy as our conquerors may bestow. The provision laid up in the public granaries is nearly exhausted. Already has it been found necessary greatly to diminish the amount of the daily distribution. Hope in any power of our own seems utterly extinct: if any remain, it rests upon foreign interposition, and of this I do not despair. I still rely upon Persia. I look with confidence to Sapor for farther and yet larger succors. In the former instance, it was apprehended by many--I confess I shared the apprehension--that there would be on the part of Persia but a parade of friendship, with nothing of reality. But you well know it was far otherwise. There was a sincere and vigorous demonstration in our behalf. Persia never fought a better field, and with slightly larger numbers would have accomplished our rescue. My proposition is, that we sue again at the court of Sapor--no, not again, for the first was a free-will offering--and that we fail not, I would go myself my own ambassador, and solicit what so solicited, my life upon it, will not be refused. You well know that I can bear with me jewels gathered during a long reign of such value as to plead eloquently in my cause, since the tithe of them would well repay the Persian for all his kingdom might suffer for our sakes.'
'What you propose, great Queen,' said Longinus, as Zenobia paused, 'agrees with your whole life. But how can we, who hold you as we do, sit in our places and allow you alone to encounter the dangers of such an enterprise? For without danger it cannot be--from the robber of the desert, from the Roman, from the Persian.' In disguise and upon the road, you may suffer the common fate of those who travel where, as now, marauders of all nations swarm; Sapor may, in his capricious policy, detain you prisoner; Aurelian may intercept. Let your servants prevail with you to dismiss this thought from your mind. You can name no one of all this company who will not plead to be your substitute.'
There was not one present who did not spring upon his feet, and express his readiness to undertake the charge.
'I thank you all,' said the Queen, 'but claim, in this perhaps the last act of my reign, to be set free in your indulgence to hold an unobstructed course. If in your honest judgments you confess that of all who could appear at the court of Sapor, I should appear there as the most powerful pleader for Palmyra, it is all I ask you to determine. Is such your judgment?'
'It is,' they all responded--'without doubt it is.'
'Then am I resolved. And the enterprise itself you judge wise and of probable success?'
'We do. The reasons are just upon which it is founded. It is greatly conceived, and the gods giving you safe conduct to Sapor, we cannot doubt a happy result.'
'Then all that remains is, to contrive the manner of escape from the city and through the Roman camp.'
'There is first one thing more,' said the Princess Julia, suddenly rising from her mother's side, but with a forced and trembling courage, 'which remains for me to do. If there appear any want of maidenly reserve in what I say, let the cause, good friends, for which I speak and act, be my excuse. It is well known to you who are familiar with the councils of the state, that not many months past Persia sought through me an alliance with Palmyra. But in me, you, my mother and Queen, have hitherto found an uncomplying daughter--and you, Fathers, a self-willed Princess. I now seek what before I have shunned. Although I know not the Prince Hormisdas--report speaks worthily of him--but of him I think not--yet if by the offer of myself I could now help the cause of my country, the victim is ready for the altar. Let Zenobia bear with her not only the stones torn from her crown, but this which she so often has termed her living jewel, and if the others, first proffered, fail to reach the Persian's heart, then, but not till then, add the other to the scale. If it weigh to buy deliverance and prosperity to Palmyra--though I can never be happy--yet I shall be happy if the cause of happiness to you.'
'My noble child!' said Zenobia, 'I cannot have so startled the chiefs of Palmyra by a new and unthought-of project, as I am now amazed in my turn. I dreamed not of this. But I cannot hinder you in your purpose. It ensures success to your country; and to be the instrument of that, will be a rich compensation for even the largest sacrifice of private affections.'
The counsellors and senators who were present expressed a great, and I doubt not sincere unwillingness that so dangerous a service should be undertaken by those whom they so loved, and whom beyond all others they would shield with their lives from the very shadow of harm. But they were overcome by the determined spirit both of the Queen and Julia, and by their own secret conviction that it was the only act in the power of mortals by which the existence of the empire and city could be preserved.
At this point of the interview, Calpurnius, whom we had missed, entered, and learning what had passed, announced that by a channel not to be mistrusted, he had received intelligence of a sudden rising in Persia, of the assassination of Sapor, and the elevation of Hormisdas to the throne of his father. This imparted to all the liveliest pleasure, and seemed to take away from the project of the Queen every remaining source of disquietude and doubt. Calpurnius at the same moment was besought, and offered himself to serve as the Queen's companion and guide. The chosen friend of Hormisdas, and whose friendship he had not forfeited by his flight--no one could so well as he advocate her cause with the new king.
'But how is it,' inquired Longinus, 'that you obtain foreign intelligence, the city thus beset?'
'It may well be asked,' replied Calpurnius. 'It is through the intelligence and cunning of a Jew well known in Palmyra, and throughout the world I believe, called Isaac. By him was I rescued from Persian captivity, and through him have I received letters thence, ever since the city has been besieged. He is acquainted with a subterranean passage--in the time of Trajan, he has informed me, a public conduit, but long since much choked and dry--by which one may pass from the city under and beyond the lines of the Roman intrenchments, emerging into a deep ravine or fissure, grown thickly over with vines and olives. Once it was of size sufficient to admit an elephant with his rider; now, he says, has it become so obstructed, and in some places so fallen in, that it is with difficulty that a dromedary of but the common size can force his way through.'
'Through this then the Queen may effect her escape,' said Longinus.
'With perfect ease and security,' rejoined Calpurnius. 'At the outlet, Isaac shall be in waiting with the fleetest dromedaries of the royal stables.'
'We are satisfied,' said Longinus; 'let it be as you say. The gods prosper the pious service!'
So ended the conversation.
Of the ancient aqueduct or conduit, you have already heard from me; it is the same by which Isaac has transmitted my late letters to Portia--which I trust you have received and read. To Portia alone--be not offended--do I pour out my whole soul. From her learn more of what relates to the Princess.
I returned from the palace of Zenobia overwhelmed with a thousand painful sensations. But this I need not say.
Fausta, upon learning the determination of the Queen, which had been communicated not even to her, exclaimed--'There, Lucius, I have always told you Palmyra brought forth women! Where in the wide world shall two be found to match Zenobia and Julia? But when is the time fixed for the flight?'
'To-morrow night.'
'I will to the palace. These may be the last hours permitted by the gods to our friendship. I must not lose one of them.'
I went not there again.
Late on the evening of the following day Fausta returned--her countenance betraying what she had suffered in parting from those two, her bosom friends. It was long ere she could possess herself so far as to give to Gracchus and myself a narrative of what had occurred. To do it, asked but few words.
'We have passed the time,' she said at length, 'as you might suppose those would about to be separated--forever; yes, I feel that I have seen them for the last time. It is like a conviction inspired by the gods. We did naught till the hour of attiring for the flight arrived, but sit, look upon each other, embrace, and weep. Not that Zenobia, always great, lost the true command of herself, or omitted aught that should be done; but that she was a woman, and a mother, and a friend, as well as a Queen and a divinity. But I can say no more.'
'Yet one thing,' she suddenly resumed; 'alas! I had well nigh forgotten it--it should have been said first. What think you? the Indian slave, Sindarina, was to accompany the Queen, but at the hour of departure she was missing. Her chamber was empty--the Arabian disguise, in which all were to be arrayed, lying on her bed--she herself to be found neither there nor any where within the palace. Another of the Queen's women was chosen in her place. What make you of it?'
'Treason! --treachery!' cried Gracchus, and springing from his seat, shouted for a horse.
'The gods forgive me,' cried the afflicted Gracchus, 'that this has been forgotten! Why, why did I not lay to heart the hints which you dropped!'
'In very truth,' I replied, 'they were almost too slight to build even a suspicion upon. The Queen heeded them not--and I myself had dismissed them from my mind not less than yourself.'
'Not a moment is to be lost,' said Gracchus; 'the slave must be found, and all whom we suspect seized.'
The night was passed in laborious search, both of the slave and Antiochus. The whole city was abroad in a common cause. All the loose companions of Antiochus and the young princes were taken and imprisoned; the suspected leaders in the affair, after a scrutinizing search and public proclamation, could not be found. The inference was clear, agonizing as clear, that the Queen's flight had been betrayed.
Another day has revealed the whole. Isaac, who acted as guide through the conduit, and was to serve in the same capacity till the party were secure within a Persian fortress, not far from the banks of the Euphrates, has, by a messenger, a servant of the palace, found means to convey a relation of what befel after leaving Palmyra.
'Soon,' he says, 'as the shades of evening fell, the Queen, the Princess Julia, Nichomachus, a slave, and Calpurnius, arrayed in the garb of Arabs of the desert, together with a guard of ten soldiers, selected for their bravery and strength, met by different routes at the mouth of the old conduit. So noble a company had I never before the charge of. Thou wouldst never have guessed the Queen through the veil of her outlandish garment. She became it well. Not one was more a man than she. For the Princess, a dull eye would have seen through her. Entering a little way in utter darkness, I then bid them stand while I lighted torches. The Queen was near me the while, and asked me the length of the passage, and whether the walls were of that thickness as to prevent the voice from being heard above. ' "Till we reach one particular spot, where the arch is partly fallen in," I said, "we may use our tongues as freely and as loud as we please; at that place there will be need of special caution, as it is directly beneath the Roman intrenchments. Of our approach thereto I will give timely warning."
'I took occasion to say, that I was sorry the Queen of Palmyra should be compelled to pass through so gloomy a cavern, but doubtless he who was with Deborah and Judith would not forsake her who was so fast a friend to his people, and who, if rumor might be believed, was even herself one of them. This, Roman, you will doubtless think bold; but how could one who was full refrain? I even added, "Fear not; he who watches over Judah and Israel, will not fail to appear for one by whose arm their glories are to be restored." The Queen at that smiled, and if a countenance may be read, which I hold it can, as well as a book, it spoke favorable things for Jerusalem.
'When our torches were kindled, we went on our way; a narrow way and dark. We went in silence too, for I quickly discerned that minds and hearts were too busy with themselves and their own sorrows and fears to choose to be disturbed. Ah, Roman, how many times harder the lot of the high than the low! When we drew nigh to the fissure in the arch, the torches were again extinguished, and we proceeded at a snail's pace and with a hyena's foot while we were passing within a few feet of the then, as I doubted not, sleeping Romans. As we came beneath the broken and open part, I was startled by the sound of voices. Soldiers were above conversing. As we paused through apprehension, a few words were distinctly heard. ' "The times will not bear it," muttered one. " 'Tis a vain attempt." ' "His severity is cruel," said another. "Gods! when before was it heard of, that a soldier, and such a one, for what every one does whom chance favors, should be torn limb from limb? The trees that wrenched Stilcho asunder, ere they grow too stiff, may serve a turn on 'Hand-to-his-Sword' himself. He will fatten on these starved citizens when he climbs over their walls." ' "O no, by Jupiter!" said the first, "it is far likelier he will let them off, as he did at Tyana, and we lose our sport. It is his own soldiers' blood he loves." ' "He may yet learn," replied the other, "that soldiers wear weapons for one purpose as well as another. Hark! what noise was that?" ' "It was but some rat at work within this old arch, Come, let us to bed."
'They moved away, and we, breathing again, passed along, and soon re-lighted our torches.
'After walking a weary distance from this point, and encountering many obstacles, we at length reached the long-desired termination. The dromedaries were in readiness, and mounting them without delay, we ascended the steep sides of the ravine, and then at a rapid pace sought the open plains. When they were attained, I considered that we were out of all danger from the Romans, and had only to apprehend the ordinary dangers of this route during a time of war, when freebooters of all the neighboring tribes are apt to abound. "Here," I said to the Queen, "we will put our animals to their utmost speed, as the way is plain and smooth--having regard only," I added, "to your and the Princess's strength." --"On, on, in the name of the gods!" said they both; "we can follow as fast as you shall lead." And on we flew with the speed of the wind. The Queen's animals were like spirits of the air, with such amazing fleetness and sureness of foot did they shoot over the surface of the earth. The way was wholly our own. We met none; we saw none. Thrice we paused to relieve those not accustomed to such speed, or to the peculiar motion of this animal. But at each resting place, the Queen with impatience hastened us away, saying, that "rest could be better had at once when we had crossed the river; and once upon the other bank, and we were safe."
'The first flush of morning was upon the sky as we came within sight of the valley of the Euphrates. The river was itself seen faintly gleaming as we wound down the side of a gentle hill. The country here was broken, as it had been for many of the last miles we had rode--divided by low ridges, deep ravines, and stretches of wood and bush. So that to those approaching the banks in the same general direction, many distinct paths offered themselves. It was here, O Piso, just as we reached the foot of this little hill, riding more slowly by reason of the winding road, that my quick ear caught at a distance the sounds of other hoofs upon the ground beside our own. My heart sank within me--a sudden faintness spread over my limbs. But at the instant I gave the alarm to our troop, and at greatest risk of life and limb we put our beasts to their extreme speed, and dashed toward the river. I still, as we rode, turning my ear in the direction of the sound, heard with distinctness the clatter of horses' hoofs. Our beasts were dromedaries; in that lay my hope. Two boats awaited us among the rushes on the river's bank, in the keeping of those who had been sent forward for that purpose; and off against them, upon the other side of the stream, lay a small Persian village and fortress. Once off in the boats but ever so short a distance, and we were safe. On we flew, and on I was each moment conscious came pursuers, whoever they might be. We reached the river's edge. --"Quick! for your lives," I cried. "The Queen, the Princess, and four men in this boat; the packages in the other." In a moment and less than that, we were in our boat, a troop of horse at the same instant sweeping like a blast of the desert down the bank of the river. We shot into the stream; but ere the other could gain the water, the Romans, as we now too plainly saw them to be, were upon them. A brief but desperate strife ensued. The Romans were five for one of the others, and quickly putting them to the sword, sprang into their boat. ' "Pull! pull!" cried the Queen, the first words she had uttered, "for your lives and Palmyra!" They gained upon us. We had six oars, they eight. But the strength of three seemed to nerve the arm of Calpurnius. ' "Immortal gods!" cried he, in inexpressible agony, "they near us!" and straining with redoubled energy his oar snapped, and the boat whirled from her course. ' "All is lost!" ejaculated Zenobia.
'A Roman voice was now heard, "Yield you, and your lives are safe." ' "Never," cried Calpurnius, and as the Roman boat struck against ours, he raised his broken oar, and aiming at him who had spoken, lost his balance and plunged headlong into the stream, '"Save him--save him!" cried the Queen, but they heeded her not. "It is vain to contend," she cried out again; "we yield, but save the life of him who has fallen."
'The light was yet not sufficient to see but to a little distance. Nothing was visible upon the smooth surface of the water, nor any sound heard. ' "His own rash fury has destroyed him," said the Roman, who we now could discern bore the rank of Centurion. ' "We seek," said he, turning toward where the Queen sat, "we seek Zenobia, Queen of Palmyra." ' "I am Zenobia," said the Queen. ' "The gods be praised therefor!" rejoined the Centurion. "Our commands are to bear you to the tent of Aurelian." ' "Do with me as you list," replied the Queen; "I am in your power." ' "To the shore," exclaimed the Roman; and our boat, fastened to the other, was soon at the place whence but a moment before it had parted. ' "Who are these?" asked the Centurion, as we reached the shore, pointing to the Princess, and the attendant slave and secretary. "Our orders extend only to the person of the Queen." ' "Divide them not," I said, willing to spare the Queen the bandying of words with a Roman soldier, "they are of the Queen's family. They are a part of herself. If thou takest one take all to thy Emperor." ' "So be it; and now to your horses, and once more over the plain. It shall go hard, but that what we carry with us will make our fortune with Aurelian."
'Saying this, the whole troop formed, placing Zenobia and Julia in the midst, and winding up the banks of the river disappeared.
'Such, O unhappy Piso, was this disastrous night. Surely all was done on our part to secure a successful issue. I can discern no defect nor fault. We could not have been more fleet. Swifter beasts never trod the sands of Arabia. What then? Hath there not been, think you, foul play? Whence got the Romans knowledge, not only of our flight, but of the very spot for which we aimed? I doubt not there has been treachery--and that too of the very color of hell. Look to it, and let not the guilty go free.
'One word touching thy brother. Despond not. I cannot think that he is lost. We were but a furlong from the shore. My belief is, that seeing the capture of the Queen was certain, and that to him, if taken with her in arms against his country, death was inevitable, he, when he fell, rose again at a safe distance, and will yet be found.
'These things I send in haste by a returning servant of the palace, I remaining both to secure the dromedaries now wandering at will along the banks of the river, and to search diligently for Calpurnius, whom I trust to bear back with me to Palmyra.'
Here, my Curtius, was food for meditation and grief--the renowned Queen of this brilliant capital and kingdom, so late filling a throne that drew the admiration of the world, sitting there in a proud magnificence that cast into shade Persia itself, is in one short night shorn of all her power; a captive at the mercy of a cruel foe; Julia also a captive; my brother, so late redeemed--as I cannot but suppose--dead. I need not nor can I tell you with what emotions I read the fatal letter. The same messenger who delivered it to me had spread through the city the news of the Queen's captivity. What related to Calpurnius I determined to conceal from Fausta, since it was at least possible that by communicating it I might cause a useless suffering.
Fausta, upon learning the horrors of the night, which she first did from the outcries and lamentations in the streets, seemed more like one dead than alive. She could not weep; the evil was too great for tears. And there being no other way in which to give vent to the grief that wrung her soul in every feeling and affection, I trembled lest reason should be hurled from its seat. She wandered from room to room, her face of the hue of death--but indicating life enough in its intense expression of inward pain--and speechless, save that at intervals in a low tone, 'Zenobia! Palmyra!' fell from her scarcely moving lips. To Gracchus and myself essaying to divert her from thoughts that seemed to prey upon her very life, she said, 'Leave me to wrestle alone with my grief; it is the way to strength. I do not doubt that I shall find it.'
'She is right,' said Gracchus; 'to overcome she must fight her own battle. Our aid but ministers to her weakness.'
It was not long before she rejoined us, tears having brought relief to her over-burdened heart.
Her first inquiry now was for Calpurnius. 'I have feared to ask, for if he too is captive, I know that he is lost. Now I can hear and bear all. How is it, Lucius?'
I answered, that 'he was not a captive, so much was known; but where he now was, or what had befallen him, was not known. I had reason to believe that he would find his way back through the guidance of Isaac to the city.'
'Alas! I read in your words his fate. But I will not urge you farther. I will live upon all the hope I can keep alive. Yet it is not the death of Calpurnius--nor yet of Zenobia--nor Julia--that wrings the soul and saps its life, like this bitter, bitter disappointment, this base treason of Antiochus. To be so near the summit of our best hopes, only to be cast down into this deep abyss--that is the sting in our calamity that shoots deepest, and for which there is no cure. Is there no other way, father, in which we can explain the capture of the Queen? Accident--could it not be accident that threw the troop of Aurelian in their way?'
'I fear not,' said Gracchus. 'When we add what rumor has heretofore reported of the aims of Antiochus, but which we have all too much contemned him to believe him capable of, to what has now occurred, I think we cannot doubt that he is the author of the evil, seducing into his plot the Queen's slave, through whom he received intelligence of every plan and movement.'
'Ah, cruel treachery! How can one join together the sweet innocent face of Sindarina and such deep hypocrisy! Antiochus surely must have perverted her by magic arts. Of that I am sure. But what fruit can Antiochus hope his treason shall bear for him? Can he think that Palmyra will endure his rule?'
'That,' replied Gracchus, 'must be his hope. The party of the discontented we well know to be large; upon them he thinks he may rely. Then his treason recommending him to Aurelian, he builds upon his power to establish him on the throne, and sustain him there till his own strength shall have grown, so that he can stand alone. That the city will surrender upon the news of the Queen's captivity, he doubtless calculates upon as certain.'
'May his every hope,' cried Fausta, 'be blasted, and a little of the misery he has poured without stint into our hearts wring his own, and when he cries for mercy, may he find none!'
'One hope,' I said here, 'if I know aught of the nature of Aurelian, and upon which he must chiefly found his project, will sink under him to his shame and ruin.'
'What mean you?' said Fausta eagerly.
'His belief that Aurelian will reward baseness though to an enemy. He never did it yet, and he cannot do it. Were there within the thick skull of Antiochus the brains of a foolish ostrich, he would have read in the fate of Heraclammon, the rich traitor of Tyana, his own. If I err not, he has indiscreetly enough thrust himself into a lion's den. If Aurelian is fierce, his is the grand and terrific ferocity of the king of beasts.'
'May it be so!' said Fausta. 'There were no providence in the gods did such villany escape punishment, still less, did it grow great. But if Aurelian is such as you describe him, O then is there not reason in the belief that he will do gently by her? Were it compatible with greatness or generosity--and these, you say, belong to the Emperor--to take revenge upon an enemy, thrown by such means into his power? and such an enemy? and that too a woman? Julia too! O immortal gods, how bitter past drinking is this cup!'
'Yet must you, must we, not lean too confidently upon the dispositions of Aurelian. He is subject, though supreme, to the state, nay, and in some sense to the army; and what he might gladly do of his own free and generous nature, policy and the contrary wishes and sometimes requisitions of his troops, or of the people, compel him to forbear. The usage of Rome toward captive princes has been, and is, cruel. Yet the Emperor does much to modify it, giving it, according to his own temper, a more or less savage character. And Aurelian has displayed great independence in his acts, both of people and soldiers. There is much ground for hope--but it must not pass into confident expectation.'
'You, Lucius, in former days have known Aurelian well, before fortune raised him to this high eminence. You say you were his friend. Could you not--' 'No, I fear with scarce any hope of doing good. My residence here during all these troubles will, I doubt not, raise suspicions in the mind of Aurelian which it will not be easy to allay. But whenever I shall have it in my power to present myself before him, I shall not fail to press upon him arguments which, if he shall act freely, cannot I think but weigh with him.'
'Ought not the city now,' said Fausta, addressing Gracchus, 'to surrender, and, if it can do no better, throw itself upon the mercy of Aurelian? I see not now what can be gained by longer resistance, and would not a still protracted refusal to capitulate, and when it must be without the faintest expectation of ultimate success, tend merely and with certainty to exasperate Aurelian, and perhaps embitter him toward the Queen?'
'I can scarcely doubt that it would,' replied Gracchus. 'The city ought to surrender. Soon as the first flood of grief has spent itself, must we hasten to accomplish it if possible. Longinus, to whom will now be entrusted the chief power, will advocate it I am sure--so will Otho, Seleucus, Gabrayas; but the army will, I fear, be opposed to it, and will, more through a certain pride of their order than from any principle, incline to hold out. --It is time I sought Longinus.'
He departed in search of the Greek. I went forth into the streets to learn the opinions and observe the behavior of the people.
* * * * * The shades of night are around me--the palace is still--the city sleeps. I resume my pen to add a few words to this epistle, already long, but they are words that convey so much that I cannot but add them for my own pleasure not less than yours. They are in brief these,--Calpurnius is alive and once again returned to us. The conjecture of Isaac was a description of the truth. My brother, knowing well that if apprehended his death were certain, had in the outset resolved, if attacked, rather to provoke his death, and insure it in the violence of a conflict, than be reserved for the axe of the Roman executioner. But in the short moment in which he fell headlong into the river, it flashed across his mind--'The darkness favors my escape--I can reach the shore;' so swimming a short distance below the surface, falling down with the stream and softly rising, concealed himself among the reeds upon the margin of the stream. Finding the field in a short time wholly in possession of Isaac, he revealed himself and joined him, returning to the city as soon as the darkness of the night permitted. Here is a little gleam of light breaking through Fausta's almost solid gloom. A smile has once more played over her features.
In the evening after Calpurnius's return, she tried her harp, but the sounds it gave out only seemed to increase her sorrow, and she threw it from her.
'Music,' said Gracchus, 'is in its nature melancholy, and how, my child, can you think to forget or stifle grief by waking the strings of your harp, whose tones, of all other instruments, are the most melancholy? And yet sometimes sadness seeks sadness, and finds in it its best relief. But now, Fausta? rather let sleep be your minister and nurse.'
So we parted. Farewell.
| {
"id": "8938"
} |
15 | None | It were a vain endeavor, my Curtius, to attempt to describe the fever of indignation, and rage, and grief, that burned in the bosoms of this unhappy people, as soon as it was known that their Queen was a captive in the hands of the Romans. Those imprisoned upon suspicion of having been concerned in her betrayal would have been torn from their confinement, and sacrificed to the wrath of the citizens, in the first hours of their excitement, but for the formidable guard by which the prisons were defended. The whole population seemed to be in the streets and public places, giving and receiving with eagerness such intelligence as could be obtained. Their affliction is such as it would be had each one lost a parent or a friend. The men rave, or sit, or wander about listless and sad; the women weep; children catch the infection, and lament as for the greatest misfortune that could have overtaken them. The soldiers, at first dumb with amazement at so unlooked-for and unaccountable a catastrophe, afterward, upon learning that it fell out through the treason of Antiochus, bound themselves by oaths never to acknowledge or submit to his authority, though Aurelian himself should impose him upon them, nay, to sacrifice him to the violated honor of the empire, if ever he should fall into their power.
Yet all are not such. The numbers are not contemptible of those who, openly or secretly, favor the cause and approve the act of Antiochus. He has not committed so great a crime without some prospect of advantage from it, nor without the assurance that a large party of the citizens, though not the largest, is with him, and will adhere to his fortunes. These are they, who think, and justly think, that the Queen has sacrificed the country to her insane ambition and pride. They cleave to Antiochus, not from personal regard toward him, but because he seems more available for their present purposes than any other, principally through his fool-hardy ambition; and, on the other hand, they abandon the Queen, not for want of personal affection, equal perhaps to what exists in any others, but because they conceive that the power of Rome is too mighty to contend with, and that their best interests rather than any extravagant notions of national honor, ought to prompt their measures.
The city will now give itself up, it is probable, upon the first summons of Aurelian. The council and the senate have determined that to hold out longer than a few days more is impossible. The provisions of the public granaries are exhausted, and the people are already beginning to be pinched with hunger. The rich, and all who have been enabled to subsist upon their own stores, are now engaged in distributing what remains among the poorer sort, who are now thrown upon their compassion. May it not be, that I am to be a witness of a people dying of hunger! Gracchus and Fausta are busily employed in relieving the wants of the suffering.
We have waited impatiently to hear the fate of the Queen. Many reports have prevailed, founded upon what has been observed from the walls. At one time, it has been said that she had perished under the hands of the executioner--at another, that the whole Roman camp had been seen to be thrown into wild tumult, and that she had doubtless fallen a sacrifice to the ungovernable fury of the licentious soldiery, I cannot think either report probable. Aurelian, if he revenged himself by her death, would reserve her for execution on the day of his triumph. But he would never tarnish his glory by such an act. And for the soldiers--I am sure of nothing more than that they are under too rigid a discipline, and hold Aurelian in too great terror, to dare to commit a violence like that which has been imputed to them.
At length--for hours are months in such suspense--we are relieved. Letters have come from Nichomachus to both Longinus and Livia, First, their sum is, the Queen lives!
I shall give you what I gather from them.
'When we had parted,' writes the secretary, 'from the river's edge, we were led at a rapid pace over the same path we had just come, to the neighborhood of the Roman camp. I learned from what I overheard of the conversation of the Centurion with his companion at his side, that the flight of the Queen had been betrayed. But beyond that, nothing.
'We were taken not at once to the presence of Aurelian, but lodged in one of the abandoned palaces in the outskirts of the city--that of Seleucus, if I err not--where? the Queen being assigned the apartments needful for her and her effects, a guard was set around the building.
'Here we had remained not long, yet long enough for the Queen to exchange her disguise for her usual robes, when it was announced by the Centurion that we must proceed to the tent of the Emperor. The Queen and the Princess were placed in a close litter, and conveyed secretly there, out of fear of the soldiers, "who," said the Centurion, "if made aware of whom we carry, would in their rage tear to fragments and scatter to the winds both the litter and its burden."
'We were in this manner borne through the camp to the tent of Aurelian. As we entered, the Emperor stood at its upper end, surrounded by the chief persons of his army. He advanced to meet the Queen, and in his changing countenance and disturbed manner might it be plainly seen how even an Emperor, and he the Emperor of the world, felt the presence of a majesty such as Zenobia's. And never did our great mistress seem more a Queen than now--not through that commanding pride which, when upon her throne, has impressed all who have approached her with a feeling of inferiority, but through a certain dark and solemn grandeur that struck with awe, as of some superior being, those who looked upon her. There was no sign of grief upon her countenance, but many of a deep and rooted sadness, such as might never pass away. No one could behold her and not lament the fortune that had brought her to such a pass. Whoever had thought to enjoy the triumph of exulting over the royal captive, was rebuked by that air of calm dignity and profound melancholy, which even against the will, touched the hearts of all, and forced their homage. ' "It is a happy day for Rome," said Aurelian, approaching and saluting her, "that sees you, lately Queen of Palmyra and of the East, a captive in the tent of Aurelian." ' "And a dark one for my afflicted country," replied the Queen. ' "It might have been darker," rejoined the emperor, "had not the good providence of the gods delivered you into my hands." ' "The gods preside not over treachery. And it must have been by treason among those in whom I have placed my most familiar trust, that I am now where and what I am. I can but darkly surmise by whose baseness the act has been committed. It had been a nobler triumph to you, Roman, and a lighter fall to me, had the field of battle decided the fate of my kingdom, and led me a prisoner to your tent." ' "Doubtless it had been so," replied Aurelian; "yet was it for me to cast away what chance threw into my power? A war is now happily ended, which, had your boat reached the further bank of the Euphrates, might yet have raged--and but to the mutual harm of two great nations. Yet it was both a bold and sagacious device, and agrees well with what was done by you at Antioch, Emesa, and now in the defence of your city, A more determined, a better appointed, or more desperate foe, I have never yet contended with." ' "It were strange, indeed," replied the Queen, "if you met not with a determined foe, when life and liberty were to be defended. Had not treason, base and accursed treason, given me up like a chained slave to your power, yonder walls must have first been beaten piecemeal down by your engines, and buried me beneath their ruins, and famine clutched all whom the sword had spared, ere we had owned you master. What is life, when liberty and independence are gone?" ' "But why, let me ask," said Aurelian? "were you moved to assert an independency of Rome? How many peaceful and prosperous years have rolled on since Trajan and the Antonines, while you and Rome were at harmony; a part of us and yet independent; allies rather than a subject province; using our power for your defence; yet owning no allegiance. Why was this order disturbed? What madness ruled to turn you against the power of Rome?" ' "The same madness," replied Zenobia, "that tells Aurelian he may yet possess the whole world, and sends him here into the far East to wage needless war with a woman--Ambition! Yet had Aurelian always been upon the Roman throne, or one resembling him, it had perhaps been different. There then could have been naught but honor in any alliance that had bound together Rome and Palmyra. But was I, was the late renowned Odenatus, to confess allegiance to base souls such as Aureolus, Gallienus, Balista? While the thirty tyrants were fighting for the Roman crown, was I to sit still, waiting humbly to become the passive prey of whosoever might please to call me his? By the immortal gods, not so! I asserted my supremacy, and made it felt; and in times of tumult and confusion to Rome, while her Eastern provinces were one scene of discord and civil broil, I came in and reduced the jarring elements, and out of parts broken and sundered, and hostile, constructed a fair and well-proportioned whole. And when once created, and I had tasted the sweets of sovereign and despotic power--what they are thou knowest--was I tamely to yield the whole at the word or threat even of Aurelian? It could not be. So many years as had passed and seen me Queen, not of Palmyra only, but of the East--a sovereign honored and courted at Rome, feared by Persia, my alliance sought by all the neighboring dominions of Asia--had served but to foster in me that love of rule which descended to me from a long line of kings. Sprung from a royal line, and so long upon a throne, it was superior force alone--divine or human--that should drag me from my right. Thou hast been but four years king, Aurelian, monarch of the great Roman world, yet wouldst thou not, but with painful unwillingness, descend and mingle with the common herd. For me, ceasing to reign, I would cease to live." ' "Thy speech," said Aurelian, "shows thee well worthy to reign. It is no treason to Rome, Carus, to lament that the fates have cast down from a throne? one who filled its seat so well. Hadst thou hearkened to the message of Petronius, thou mightest still, lady, have sat upon thy native seat. The crown of Palmyra might still have girt thy brow." ' "But not of the East," rejoined the Queen. ' "Fight against ambition, Carus! thou seest how, by aiming at too much, it loses all. It is the bane of humanity. When I am dead, may ambition then die, nor rise again." ' "May it be so," replied his general; "it has greatly cursed the world. It were better perhaps that it died now." ' "It cannot," replied Aurelian; "its life is too strong. I lament too, great Queen, for so I may well call thee, that upon an ancient defender of our Roman honor, upon her who revenged Rome upon the insolent Persian, this heavy fate should fall. I would willingly have met for the first time in a different way the brave conqueror of Sapor, the avenger of the wrongs and insults of the virtuous Valerian. The debt of Rome to Zenobia is great, and shall yet, in some sort at least, be paid. Curses upon those who moved thee to this war. They have brought this calamity upon thee, Queen, not I, nor thou. What ill designing aspirants have urged thee on? This is not a woman's war." ' "Was not that a woman's war," replied the Queen, "that drove the Goths from upper Asia? Was not that a woman's war that hemmed Sapor in his capital, and seized his camp? and that which beat Heraclianus, and gained thereby Syria and Mesopotamia? and that which worsted Probus, and so won the crown of Egypt? Does it ask for more, to be beaten by Romans, than to conquer these? Rest assured, great prince, that the war was mine. My people were indeed with me, but it was I who roused, fired, and led them on. I had indeed great advisers. Their names are known throughout the world. Why should I name the renowned Longinus, the princely Gracchus, the invincible Zabdas, the honest Otho? Their names are honored in Rome as well as here. They have been with me; but without lying or vanity, I may say I have been their head." ' "Be it so; nevertheless, thy services shall be remembered. But let us now to the affairs before us. The city has not surrendered--though thy captivity is known, the gates still are shut. A word from thee would open them." ' "It is a word I cannot speak," replied the Queen; her countenance expressing now, instead of sorrow, indignation. "Wouldst thou that I too should turn traitor?" ' "It surely would not be that," replied the Emperor. "It can avail naught to contend further--it can but end in a wider destruction, both of your people and my soldiers." ' "Longinus, I may suppose," said Zenobia, "is now supreme. Let the Emperor address him, and what is right will be done."
'Aurelian turned, and held a brief conversation with some of his officers. ' "Within the walls," said the Emperor, again addressing the Queen, "thou hast sons. Is it not so?" ' "It is not they," said the Queen quickly, her countenance growing pale, "it is not they, nor either of them, who have conspired against me!" ' "No--not quite so. Yet he who betrayed thee calls himself of thy family. Thy sons surely were not in league with him. Soldiers," cried the Emperor, "lead forth the great Antiochus, and his slave."
'At his name, the Queen started--the Princess uttered a faint cry, and seemed as if she would have fallen.
'A fold of the tent was drawn aside, and the huge form of Antiochus appeared, followed by the Queen's slave, her head bent down and eyes cast upon the ground. If a look could have killed, the first glance of Zenobia, so full of a withering contempt, would have destroyed her base kinsman. He heeded it but so much as to blush and turn away his face from her. Upon Sindarina the Queen gazed with a look of deepest sorrow. The beautiful slave stood there where she entered, not lifting her head, but her bosom rising and falling with some great emotion--conscious, as it seemed, that the Queen's look was fastened upon her, and fearing to meet it. But it was so only for a moment, when raising her head, and revealing a countenance swollen with grief, she rushed toward the Queen, and threw herself at her feet, embracing them, and covering them with kisses. Her deep sobs took away all power of speech. The Queen only said, "My poor Sindarina!"
'The stern voice of Aurelian was first heard, "Bear her away--bear her from the tent."
'A guard seized her, and forcibly separating her from Zenobia, bore her weeping away. ' "This," said Aurelian, turning now to Zenobia, "this is thy kinsman, as he tells me--the Prince Antiochus?"
'The Queen replied not. ' "He has done Rome a great service." Antiochus raised his head, and straightened his stooping shoulders, "He has the merit of ending a weary and disastrous war. It is a rare fortune to fall to any one. 'Tis a work to grow great upon. Yet, Prince," turning to Antiochus, "the work is not complete. The city yet holds out. If I am to reward thee with the sovereign power, as thou sayest, thou must open the gates. Canst thou do it?" ' "Great Prince," replied the base spirit eagerly, "it is provided for. Allow me but a few moments, and a place proper for it, and the gates I warrant shall quickly swing upon their hinges." ' "Ah! do you say so? That is well. What, I pray, is the process?" ' "At a signal which I shall make, noble Prince, and which has been agreed upon, every head of every one of the Queen's party rolls in the dust--Longinus, Gracchus, and his daughter, Seleucus, Gabrayas, and a host more--their heads fall. The gates are then to be thrown open." ' "Noble Palmyrene, you have the thanks of all. Of the city then we are at length secure. For this, thou wouldst have the rule of it under Rome, wielding a sceptre in the name of the Roman Senate, and paying tribute as a subject province? Is it not so?" ' "It is. That is what I would have, and would do, most excellent Aurelian." ' "Who are thy associates in this? Are the Queen's sons, Herennianus, Timolaus, Vabalathus, of thy side, and partners in this enterprise?" ' "They are not privy to the design to deliver up to thy great power the Queen their mother; but they are my friends, and most surely do I count upon their support. As I shall return king of Palmyra, they will gladly share my power." ' "But if friends of thine, they are enemies of mine," rejoined Aurelian, in terrific tones; "they are seeds of future trouble; they may sprout up into kings also, to Rome's annoyance. They must be crushed. Dost thou understand me?" ' "I do, great Prince. Leave them to me. I will do for them. But to say the truth they are too weak to disturb any--friends or enemies." ' "Escape not so. They must die." roared Aurelian. ' "They shall--they shall," ejaculated the alarmed Antiochus; "soon as I am within the walls their heads shall be sent to thee." ' "That now is as I would have it. One thing more thou hast asked--that the fair slave who accompanies thee be spared to thee, to be thy Queen." ' "It was her desire--hers, noble Aurelian, not mine." ' "But didst thou not engage to her as much?" ' "Truly I did. But among princes such words are but politic ones: that is well understood. Kings marry for the state. I would be higher matched;" and the sensual demon cast his eyes significantly towards the Princess Julia. ' "Am I understood?" continued Antiochus, Aurelian making no response. "The Princess Julia I would raise to the throne." The monster seemed to dilate to twice his common size, as his mind fed upon the opening glories.
'Aurelian had turned from him, looking first at his Roman attendants, then at the Queen and Julia--his countenance kindling with some swelling passion. ' "Do I understand thee?" he then said. "I understand thee to say that for the bestowment of the favors and honors thou hast named, thou wilt do the things thou hast now specifically promised? Is it not so?" ' "It is, gracious king." ' "Dost thou swear it?" ' "I swear it by the great God of Light!"
'The countenance of the Emperor now grew black with as it seemed mingled fury and contempt. Antiochus started, and his cheek paled. A little light reached his thick brain. ' "Romans," cried Aurelian, "pardon me for so abusing your ears! And you, our royal captives! I knew not that such baseness lived--still less that it was here. Thou foul stigma upon humanity! Why opens not the earth under thee, but that it loathes and rejects thee! Is a Roman like thee, dost thou think, to reward thy unheard-of treacheries? Thou knowest no more what a Roman is, than what truth and honor are. Soldiers! seize yonder miscreant, write traitor on his back, and spurn him forth the camp. His form and his soul both offend alike. Hence, monster!"
'Antiochus was like one thunderstruck. Trembling in every joint, he sought to appeal to the Emperor's mercy, but the guard stopped his mouth, and dragged him from the tent. His shrieks pierced the air as the soldiers scourged him beyond the encampment. ' "It was not for me," said Aurelian, as these ceased to be heard, "to refuse what fate threw into my hands. Though I despise the traitorous informer, I could not shut my ear to the facts he revealed, without myself betraying the interests of Rome. But, believe me, it was information I would willingly have spared, My infamy were as his to have rewarded the traitor. Fear not, great Queen; I pledge the word of a Roman and an Emperor for thy safety. Thou art safe both from Roman and Palmyrene." ' "What I have but now been witness of," replied the Queen, "assures me that in the magnanimity of Aurelian I may securely rest." ' "As the Queen uttered these words, a sound as of a distant tumult, and the uproar of a multitude, caught the ears of all within the tent. ' "What mean these tumultuous cries?" inquired Aurelian of his attending guard. "They increase and approach." ' "It may be but the soldiers at their game with Antiochus," replied Probus.
'But it was not so. At the moment a Centurion, breathless, and with his head bare, rushed madly into the tent. ' "Speak," said the Emperor, "what is it?" ' "The legions!" said the Centurion, as soon as he could command his words, "the legions are advancing, crying out for the Queen of Palmyra! They have broken from their camp and their leaders, and in one mixed body come to surround the Emperor's tent." ' "As he ended, the fierce cries of the enraged soldiery were distinctly heard, like the roaring of a forest torn by a tempest. Aurelian, baring his sword, and calling upon his friends to do the same, sprang toward the entrance of the tent. They were met by the dense throng of the soldiers, who now pressed against the tent, and whose savage yells now could be heard,-- '"The head of Zenobia." --"Deliver the Queen to our will." --"Throw out the head of Zenobia, and we will return to our quarters." --"She belongs to us."
'At the same moment the sides of the tent were thrown up, showing the whole plain filled with the heaving multitude, and being itself instantly crowded with the ringleaders and their more desperate associates. Zenobia, supporting the Princess, who clung to her, and pale through a just apprehension of every horror, but otherwise firm and undaunted, cried out to Aurelian, "Save us, O Emperor, from this foul butchery!" ' "We will die else!" replied the Emperor; who with the word, sprang upon a soldier making toward the Queen, and with a blow clove him to the earth. Then swinging round him that sword which had drunk the blood of thousands, and followed by the gigantic Sandarion, by Probus, and Carus, a space around the Queen was soon cleared. ' "Back, ruffians," cried Aurelian, in a voice of thunder, "for you are no longer Romans! back to the borders of the tent. There I will hear your complaints." The soldiers fell back, and their ferocious cries ceased. ' "Now," cried the Emperor, addressing them, "what is your will, that thus in wild disorder you throng my tent?"
'One from the crowd replied--"Our will is that the Queen of Palmyra be delivered to us as our right, instantly. Thousands and thousands of our bold companions lie buried upon these accursed plains, slain by her and her fiery engines. We demand her life. It is but justice, and faint justice too." ' "Her life!" --"Her life!" --arose in one shout from the innumerable throng.
'The Emperor raised his hand, waving his sword dropping with the blood of the slain soldier; the noise subsided; and his voice, clear and loud like the tone of a trumpet, went to the farthest bounds of the multitude. ' "Soldiers," he cried, "you ask for justice; and justice you shall have." --"Aurelian is ever just!" cried many voices. --"But you shall not have the life of the Queen of Palmyra." --He paused; a low murmur went through the crowd. --"Or you must first take the life of your Emperor, and of these who stand with him." --The soldiers were silent. --"In asking the life of Zenobia," he continued, "you know not what you ask. Are any here who went with Valerian to the Persian war?" A few voices responded, "I was there,--and I,--and I."--"Are there any here whose parents, or brothers, or friends fell into the tiger clutches of the barbarian Sapor, and died miserably in hopeless captivity?" --Many voices every where throughout the crowd were heard in reply, "Yes, yes,--Mine were there, and mine." --"Did you ever hear it said," continued Aurelian, "that Rome lifted a finger for their rescue, or for that of the good Valerian?" --They were silent, some crying, "No, no." --"Know then, that when Rome forgot her brave soldiers and her Emperor, Zenobia remembered and avenged them; and Rome fallen into contempt with the Persian, was raised to her ancient renown by the arms of her ally, the brave Zenobia, and her dominions throughout the East saved from the grasp of Sapor only by her valor. While Gallienus wallowed in sensuality and forgot Rome, and even his own great father, the Queen of Palmyra stood forth, and with her royal husband, the noble Odenatus, was in truth the savior of the empire. And is it her life you would have? Were that a just return? Were that Roman magnanimity? And grant that thousands of your brave companions lie buried upon these plains: it is but the fortune of war. Were they not slain in honorable fight, in the siege of a city, for its defence unequalled in all the annals of war? Cannot Romans honor courage and conduct, though in an enemy? But you ask for justice. I have said you shall have justice. You shall. It is right that the heads and advisers of this revolt, for such the senate deems it, should be cut off. It is the ministers of princes who are the true devisers of a nation's acts. These, when in our power, shall be yours. And now, who, soldiers! stirred up this mutiny, bringing inexpiable shame upon our brave legions? Who are the leaders of the tumult?"
'Enough were found to name them; '"Firmus! Carinus! the Centurions Plancus! Tatius! Burrhus! Valens! Crispinus!" ' "Guards! seize them and hew them down. Soldiers! to your tents." The legions fell back as tumultuously as they had come together; the faster, as the dying groans of the slaughtered ringleaders fell upon their ears.
'The tent of the Emperor was once more restored to order. After a brief conversation, in which Aurelian expressed his shame for the occurrence of such disorders in the presence of the Queen, the guard were commanded to convey back to the palace of Seleucus, whence they had been taken, Zenobia and the Princess.'
Such are the principal matters contained in the communications of Nichomachus.
When the facts contained in them became known, the senate, the council, the army, and the people, agreed in the belief, that the Queen's safety and their own would now be best secured by an immediate capitulation. Accordingly, heralds bearing letters from Longinus, in the name of the council, proceeded to the Roman camp. No other terms could be obtained than a verbal promise that the city, the walls, and the common people should be spared; but the surrender, beyond that, must be unconditional.
Upon learning the terms prescribed by the conqueror, many were for further resistance. 'The language of Aurelian,' they said, 'is ambiguous. He will spare the city, walls, and common people. Are our senators and counsellors to be sacrificed? Are they, who have borne the burden of the day, now to be selected, as the only ones who are to suffer? It shall not be so.'
Generous sentiments like these were heard on all sides. But they were answered and overcome, by Gracchus especially, and others. Said Gracchus to the people, 'Doubtless punishment will be inflicted by Rome upon some. Our resistance is termed by her, rebellion, revolt, conspiracy; the leaders will be sought and punished. It is ever her course. But this is a light evil compared with a wide-spread massacre of this whole population, the destruction of these famous temples, the levelling of these proud walls. Aurelian has said that these shall be spared. His word, though an unwritten and informal one, may be trusted. My counsel is, that it be at once accepted. What if a few grey heads among us are taken off? That will not touch the existence or prosperity of Palmyra. You can spare them. Your children will soon grow up to take our places, and fill them, I hope, with a better wisdom.'
But such words only served at first the more to strengthen the people in their resolution, that their rulers should not be the only sacrifice. None were loved throughout the city more than Gracchus and Otho, none revered like Longinus. It was a long and painful struggle between affection and the convictions of reason before it ended, and the consent of the people was obtained to deliver up the city to the mercy of Aurelian. But it was obtained.
I was sitting with Fausta and Calpurnius, speaking of the things that had happened, and of the conduct of the Queen, when Gracchus entered and joined us, informing us that 'ambassadors were now gone to the camp of Aurelian, clothed with authority to deliver up the city into his hands. So that now the end has drawn on, and Palmyra ceases to exist.'
Fausta, although knowing that this must happen, and might at any moment, could not hear the fatal words, announcing the death of her country, as she deemed it, and quenching forever in darkness the bright dreams upon which she had fed so long, without renewed grief. We were a long time silent.
'Something yet remains,' at length Gracchus resumed, 'for us to resolve upon and do. Before many hours have elapsed, a Roman army will fill the streets of the city, perhaps our houses also, and a general plunder may be commenced of all the valuables we possess. It will be useless to conceal what it will be well enough known, from the manner in which we live, must be beneath our roof. It will but expose our lives. Yet, Fausta, your jewels, valued by you as gifts, and other things precious for the same or a like reason, may easily be secreted, nor yet be missed by the licensed robbers. See to this, my child; but except this there is now naught to do concerning such affairs, but to sit still and observe the general wreck. But there are other and weightier matters to be decided upon, and that at once.'
'Concerning the care of ourselves, you mean?' said Fausta.
'I do,' replied Gracchus.
'I,' said Fausta, 'would remain here, where I am.'
'It is that which I wish,' replied her father. 'I commit you to the care of Lucius. For Calpurnius, he must leave you, and as he would live, fly if that yet be possible beyond the walls, or conceal himself within them.'
'Never!' said Calpurnius; 'I can do neither. I have never shunned a danger--and I cannot.'
'Let pride and passion now,' said Gracchus, 'go fast asleep. We have no occasion for them; they are out of place, dealing as we now do with stern necessities. Your life will be especially sought by Aurelian; it is a life that cannot be spared. Fausta needs you. In you she must find, or nowhere, father, husband, friend. Lucius, when these troubles are over, will return to Rome, and I shall be in the keeping of Aurelian. You must live; for her sake, if not for your own.'
'For mine too, surely, if for hers,' replied Calpurnius.
'Father,' said Fausta, throwing her arms around him, 'why, why must you fall into the hands of Aurelian? Why not, with Calpurnius, fly from these now hated walls?'
'My daughter!' replied Gracchus, 'let not your love of me make you forgetful of what I owe my own name and our country's. Am I not bound by the words of Aurelian? --"He will spare the city and the common people"--reserving for himself their rulers and advisers. Were they all to fly or shrink into concealment, can we doubt that then the fury of the fierce Roman would discharge itself upon the helpless people, and men, women and children suffer in our stead? And shall I fly while the rest are true to their trust?'
'The gods forbid!' sobbed Fausta.
'Now you are yourself again. Life is of little account with me. For you I would willingly hold on upon it, though in any event my grasp would be rapidly growing weaker and weaker; age would come and weaken and dissolve it. But for myself, I can truly say, I survey the prospect of death with indifference. Life is one step; death is another. I have taken the first, I am as ready to take the second. But to preserve life, agreeable as I have found it, by any sacrifice--' 'O, that were dying twice!' said Fausta; 'I know it.'
'Be thankful then that I shall die but once, and so dry your tears. Of nothing am I more clear, than that if the loss of my head will bring security to the city and the people, I can offer it to the executioner with scarce a single regret. But let us leave this. But few hours remain to do what is yet to be done.'
It was so indeed. Already the commotion in the streets indicated that the entrance of the Roman army was each moment expected.
It was determined that Calpurnius should avail himself of the old conduit, and fly beyond the walls. To this he consented, though with pain; and bidding us farewell, departed. Fausta retired to fulfil the injunctions of her father, while Gracchus employed himself in arranging a few papers, to be entrusted to my keeping.
In the course of a few hours the gates of the city were thrown open, and the army of the conqueror made its unobstructed entrance. Soon as the walls were secured, the towers of the gates, and the arms of the Queen's remaining forces, Aurelian himself approached, and by the Roman gate passed into a city that had cost him so dear to gain. He rode through its principal streets and squares, gazing with admiration at the magnificence which every where met his view. As he arrived at the far-famed Temple of the Sun, and was told to what deity it was dedicated, he bared his head, flung himself from his horse, and on foot, followed by an innumerable company of Romans, ascended its long flight of steps, and there within its walls returned solemn thanks to the great God of Light, the protecting deity of his house, for the success that had crowned his arms.
When this act of worship had been performed, and votive offerings had been hung upon the columns of the temple, the Emperor came forth, and after visiting and inspecting all that was beautiful and rare, made proclamation of his will concerning the city and its inhabitants. This was, that all gold and silver, precious stones, all pictures, statues, and other works of art, were to be placed in the hands of the Romans, and that all the members of the Queen's senate and council, with the nobility, were to be delivered up as prisoners of war, together with certain specified portions of the army. Beyond these requisitions, the persons and property of the citizens were to be respected. No violence of any kind on the part of the soldiers would be allowed, or pardoned if committed.
Immediately upon this, the Roman army was converted into a body of laborers and artisans, employed in the construction of wains of every form and size, for the transportation across the desert to the sea-coast, of whatever would adorn the triumph of Aurelian, or add to the riches of the great capital of the world. Vast numbers of elephants and camels were collected from the city, and from all the neighboring territory, with which to drag the huge and heavy loaded wagons through the deep sands and over the rough and rocky plains of Syria. The palaces of the nobles and the wealthy merchants have been stripped of every embellishment of art and taste. The private and public gardens, the fountains, the porticos, have each and all been robbed of every work, in either marble or brass, which had the misfortune or the merit to have been wrought by artists of distinguished names. The palaces of the Queen and of Longinus were objects of especial curiosity and desire, and, as it were, their entire contents, after being secured with utmost art from possibility of injury, have been piled upon carriages prepared for them, ready for their journey toward Rome. It was pitiful to look on and see this wide desolation of scenes, that so little while ago had offered to the eye all that the most cultivated taste could have required for its gratification. The citizens stood around in groups, silent witnesses of the departing glories of their city and nation.
But the sight saddest of all to behold, was that of the senators and counsellors of Palmyra, led guarded from the city to the camp of Aurelian. All along the streets through which they passed, the people stood in dumb and motionless array, to testify in that expressive manner their affection and their grief. Voices were indeed occasionally heard invoking the blessings of the gods upon them, or imprecating curses upon the head of the scourge Aurelian. Whenever Longinus and Gracchus appeared, their names were uttered in the tones with which children would cry out to venerated parents, whom they beheld for the last time; beheld borne away from them by a power they could not resist to captivity or death. No fear of the legion that surrounded them availed to repress or silence such testimonies of regard. And if confidence was reposed in the Roman soldiery, that they would not, because conquerors and the power was theirs, churlishly deny them the freedom to relieve in that manner their over-burdened hearts, it was not--happy was I, as a Roman, to witness it--misplaced. They resented it not either by word or look or act, but moved on like so many statues in mail, turning neither to the one hand nor the other, nor apparently so much as hearing the reproaches which were by some lavished upon them and their Emperor.
Livia, Faustula, and the other inmates of the palace have joined Zenobia and Julia, by order of Aurelian, at the house of Seleucus. The Cæsars, Herennianus and Timolaus, have fled or concealed themselves; Vabalathus has surrendered himself, and has accompanied the princesses to the Roman camp.
How desolate is the house of Gracchus, deprived of its princely head! --especially as the mind cannot help running forward and conjecturing the fate which awaits him. Fausta surrenders herself to her grief--loss of country and of parent, at one and the same moment, is loss too great for her to bear with fortitude. Her spirit, so alive to affection and every generous sentiment, is almost broken by these sorrows and disappointments. I did not witness the parting between her and Gracchus, and happy am I that I did not. Her agony was in proportion to her love and her sensibility. I have not met her since. She remains within her own apartments, seen only by her favorite slaves. A double darkness spreads around while Fausta too is withdrawn.
It appeared to me now, my Curtius, as if something might be done on my part in behalf of Gracchus. According to the usages of Rome, the chief persons among the prisoners, and who might be considered as the leaders of the rebellion, I knew would die either at once, or at farthest, when Aurelian should re-enter Rome as the conqueror of the East. I considered that by reason of the growing severity of the Emperor toward all, friends as well as foes--amounting, as many now deem, to cruelty--the danger to Gracchus was extreme, beyond any power perhaps to avert. Yet I remembered, at the same time, the generous traits in Aurelian's character; his attachment toward old friends; his gratitude for services rendered him in the early part of his life, while making his way up through the lower posts of the army. It seemed to me that he was open to solicitation; that he would not refuse to hear me--a friend--the son of Cneius Piso--with what object soever I might present myself before him: and that, consequently, there was from this quarter a ray of hope, however small, for the father of our beloved Fausta.
Accordingly, so soon as the affairs at first calling for the entire devotion of Aurelian were through, and I knew that his leisure would allow of an interruption, I sought the Roman camp, and asked an audience of the Emperor. It was immediately granted.
As I entered his tent, Aurelian was seated at a table holding in his hand a parchment scroll, which he seemed intently considering. His stern countenance lowered over it like a thunder-cloud. I stood there where I had entered a few moments before he seemed aware of the presence of any one. His eye then falling almost accidentally upon me, he suddenly rose, and with the manner of his ancient friendship warmly greeted me.
'I am glad,' said he, 'to meet so true a Roman in these distant parts.'
'I am still a true Roman,' I replied, 'notwithstanding I have been, during this siege, upon the side of the enemy.'
'I doubt it not. I am not ignorant of the causes that led you to Palmyra, and have detained you there. Henceforward your Roman blood must be held of the purest, for as I learn, and since I have seen can believe, they are few who have come within the magic circle of the late Queen, who have not lost their name and freedom--themselves fastening on the chains of her service.'
'You have heard truly. Her court and camp are filled with those who at first perhaps sought her capital, as visiters of curiosity or traffic, but being once within the marvellous influence of her presence, have remained there her friends or servants. She is irresistible.'
'And well nigh so in war too. In Rome they make themselves merry at my expense, inasmuch as I have been warring thus with a woman--not a poet in the garrets of the Via Coeli, but has entertained the city with his couplets upon the invincible Aurelian, beset here in the East by an army of women, who seem likely to subdue him by their needles or their charms. Nay, the Senate looks on and laughs. By the immortal gods! they know not of what they speak. Julius Cæsar himself, Piso, never displayed a better genius than this woman. Twice have I saved my army but by stratagem. I give the honor of those days to Zenobia. It belongs to her rather than to me. Palmyra may well boast of Antioch and Emesa. Your brother did her good service there. I trust, for your sake and for mine, he will not fall into my hands.'
That dark and cruel frown, which marks Aurelian, grew above and around his eyes.
'I never,' he continued, 'forgive a traitor to his country.'
'Yet,' I ventured to say, 'surely the circumstances of his captivity, and long abandonment, may plead somewhat in extenuation of his fault.'
'Never. His crime is beyond the reach of pardon.'
Aurelian had evidently supposed that I came to seek favor for Calpurnius. But this I had not intended to do, as Calpurnius had long ago resolved never again to dwell within the walls of Rome, I then opened the subject of my visit.
'I have come,' I said, 'not to seek the pardon of Calpurnius Piso. Such, to my grief, is his hostility toward Rome, that he would neither seek nor accept mercy at her hands. He has forsworn his country, and never willingly will set foot within her borders. He dwells henceforward in Asia. But there is another--' 'You would speak of Gracchus. It cannot be. Longinus excepted, he is the first citizen of Palmyra. If the Queen be spared, these must suffer. It is due to the army, and to justice, and to vengeance. The soldiers have clamored for the blood of Zenobia, and it has been at no small cost that her and her daughter's life have been redeemed. But I have sworn it, they shall live; my blood shall flow before theirs. Zenobia has done more for Rome than many an Emperor. Besides, I would that Rome should see with her own eyes who it is has held even battle with Roman legions so long, that they may judge me to have had a worthy antagonist. She must grace my triumph.'
'I truly thank the gods,' I said, 'that it is so resolved! Fortune has placed me, while in her dominions, near the Queen, and though a Roman, I have come to love and revere her even like a Palmyrene. Would that the like clemency might be shown toward Gracchus! There is no greatness like mercy.'
'I may not, noble Piso, win glory to myself at the cost of Rome. On the field of battle I and Rome win together. In pardoning her enemies fallen into my power, I may indeed crown myself with the praise of magnanimity in the eye of the world, while by the same act I wound my country. No rebellion is quelled, till the heads that moved and guided it are off--off. Who is ignorant that Longinus, that subtle Greek, has been the master-spring in this great revolt? and hand and hand with him Gracchus? Well should I deserve the gibes and sneers of the Roman mob, if I turned my back upon the great work I have achieved, leaving behind me spirits like these to brew fresh trouble. Nor, holding to this as it may seem to you harsh decision, am I forgetful, Piso, of our former friendship; nor of the helping hand often stretched out to do me service of Cneius Piso, your great parent. I must trust in this to your generosity or justice, to construe me aright. Fidelity to Rome must come before private friendship, or even gratitude. Am I understood?'
'I think so.'
'Neither must you speak to me of Longinus the learned Greek--the accomplished scholar--the great philosopher. He has thrown aside the scholar and the philosopher in putting on the minister. He is to me known only as the Queen's chief adviser; Palmyra's strength; the enemy of Rome. As such he has been arrayed against me; as such he has fallen a prisoner into my hands; as such he must feel the sword of the Roman executioner. Gracchus--I would willingly for thy sake, Piso, spare him--the more, as I hear thou art betrothed to his far-famed daughter, she who upon the fields of Antioch and Emesa filled with amazement even Roman soldiers.'
To say that instead of me it was Calpurnius to whom she was betrothed, would seem to have sealed the fate of Gracchus at the moment there was a gleam of hope. I only said, 'She was the life of the Queen's army. She falls but little below her great mistress.'
'I believe it. These women of Palmyra are the true wonder of the age. When for the first time I found myself before Zenobia and her daughter, it is no shame for me to confess that it was hard for the moment to believe myself Aurelian and conqueror. I was ready to play the subject; I scarce kept myself from an oriental prostration. Never, Piso, was such beauty seen in Rome. Rome now has an Empress worthy of her--unless a Roman Emperor may sue in vain. Think you not with me? You have seen the Princess Julia?'
You can pity me, Curtius and Lucilia. I said only, 'I have. Her beauty is rare indeed, but by many, nay by most, her sister, the Princess Livia, is esteemed before her.'
'Hah! Nay, but that cannot be. The world itself holds not another like the elder Princess, much less the same household. He seemed as if he would have added more, but his eye fell upon the scroll before him, and it changed the current of his thoughts and the expression of his countenance, which again grew dark as when I first entered the tent. He muttered over as to himself the names of 'Gracchus,' 'Fausta,' 'the very life of their cause,' 'the people's chief trust,' and other broken sentences of the same kind. He then suddenly recommenced: 'Piso, I know not that even I have power to grant thy suit. I have saved, with some hazard, the life of the Queen and her daughter; in doing it I promised to the soldiers, in their place, the best blood of Palmyra, and theirs it is by right. It will not be easy to wrest Gracchus from their hands. It will bring danger to myself, to the Queen, and to the empire. It may breed a fatal revolt. But, Piso, for the noble Portia's sake, the living representative of Cneius Piso my early friend, for thine, and chiefly for the reason that thou art affianced to the warlike daughter of the princely Palmyrene--' 'Great Prince,' said I--for it was now my turn to speak,--'pardon me that I break in upon your speech, but I cannot by a deception, however slight and unintentional, purchase the life even of a friend.'
'To what does this tend?'
'It is not I who am affianced to the daughter of Gracchus, but Calpurnius Piso my brother and the enemy of Rome. If my hope for Gracchus rests but where you have placed it, it must be renounced. Rumor has dealt falsely with you.'
'I am sorry for it. You know me, Piso, well enough to believe me--I am sorry for it. That plea would have availed me more than any. Yet it is right that he should die, It is the custom of war. The legions clamor for his death--it has been promised--it is due to justice and revenge. Piso, he must die!'
I however did not cease to importune. As Aurelian had spoken of Portia, I too spoke of her, and refrained not from bringing freshly before his memory the characters of both my parents, and especially the services of my father. The Emperor was noways displeased, but on the contrary, as I recurred to the early periods of his career, when he was a Centurion in Germany, under tutelage to the experienced Cneius Piso, he himself took up the story, and detained me long with the history of his life and actions, while serving with and under my father--and then afterward when in Gaul, in Africa, and in the East. Much curious narrative, the proper source of history, I heard from the great actor himself, during this long interview. It was terminated by the entrance of Sandarion, upon pressing business with the Emperor, whereupon I withdrew, Gracchus not being again named, but leaving his fate in the hands of the master of the world, and yet--how often has it been so with our Emperors--the slave of his own soldiers. I returned to the city.
The following day I again saw Fausta--now pale, melancholy and silent. I told her of my interview with Aurelian, and of its doubtful issue. She listened to me with a painful interest, as if wishing a favorable result, yet not daring to hope. When I had ended, she said, 'You have done all, Lucius, that can be done, yet it avails little or nothing. Would that Aurelian had thought women worthy his regard so much as to have made me a prisoner too. I can now feel how little one may fear death, dying in a certain cause. Palmyra is now dead, and I care no more for life. And if Gracchus is to die too, how much rather would I die with him, than live without him. And this is not as it may seem, infidelity to Calpurnius. I love him better than I ever thought to have loved anything beside Palmyra and Gracchus. But my love for these is from my infancy, and is in reason stronger than the other. The gods make it so, not I. I love Calpurnius with all that is left. When does the army depart?'
'To-morrow, as I learn. I shall follow it to Emesa, for it is there, so it is reported, that the fate of the prisoners will be decided.'
'Do so, Lucius, and by bribery, cunning, or force, find your way to the presence of Gracchus. Be not denied. Tell him--but no, you know what I would say; I cannot--' and a passionate flood of tears came to her relief.
The preparations of the army are now completed. The city has been drained of its wealth and its embellishments. Scarce anything is left but the walls and buildings, which are uninjured, the lives and the industry of the inhabitants. Sandarion is made Governor of the city and province, with, as it seems to me, a very incompetent force to support his authority. Yet the citizens are, as they have been since the day the contest was decided, perfectly peaceable--nay, I rather should say, stupid and lethargic. There appear to be on the part of Aurelian no apprehensions of future disturbance.
I have stood upon the walls and watched till the last of the Romans has disappeared beyond the horizon, Two days have been spent in getting into motion and beyond the precincts of the city and suburbs, the army with its innumerable wagons--its long trains of elephants, and camels, and horses. Not only Palmyra, but the whole East, seems to have taken its departure for the Mediterranean. For the carriages were hardly to be numbered which have borne away for the Roman amphitheatres wild animals of every kind, collected from every part of Asia, together with innumerable objects of curiosity and works of art.
| {
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16 | None | I write to you, Curtius, as from my last you were doubtless led to expect, from Emesa, a Syrian town of some consequence, filled now to overflowing with the Roman army. Here Aurelian reposes for a while, after the fatigues of the march across the desert, and here justice is to be inflicted upon the leaders of the late revolt, as by Rome it is termed.
The prisons are crowded with the great, and noble, and good, of Palmyra. All those with whom I have for the last few months mingled so much, whose hospitality I have shared, whose taste, accomplishments, and elegant displays of wealth I have admired, are now here immured in dungeons, and awaiting that death which their virtues, not their vices nor their crimes, have drawn upon them. For I suppose it will be agreed, that if ever mankind do that which claims the name and rank of virtue, it is when they freely offer up their lives for their country, and for a cause which, whatever may be their misjudgment in the case, they believe to be the cause of liberty. Man is then greater in his disinterestedness, in the spirit with which he renounces himself, and offers his neck to the axe of the executioner, than he can be clothed in any robe of honor, or sitting upon any throne of power. Which is greater in the present instance, Longinus, Gracchus, Otho--or Aurelian--I cannot doubt for a moment; although I fear that you, Curtius, were I to declare my opinion, would hardly agree with me. Strange that such a sacrifice as this which is about to be made, can be thought to be necessary! It is not necessary; nor can Aurelian himself in his heart deem it so. It is a peace-offering to the blood-thirsty legions, who, well do I know it--for I have been of them--love no sight so well as the dying throes of an enemy. It is, I am told, with an impatience hardly to be restrained within the bounds of discipline, that they wait for the moment, when their eyes shall be feasted with the flowing blood and headless trunks of the brave defenders of Palmyra. I see that this is so, whenever I pass by a group of soldiers, or through the camp. Their conversation seems to turn upon nothing else than the vengeance due to them upon those who have thinned their ranks of one half their numbers, and who, themselves shielded by their walls, looked on and beheld in security the slaughter which they made. They cry out for the blood of every Palmyrene brought across the desert. My hope for Gracchus is small; not more, however, because of this clamor of the legions, than on account of the stern and almost cruel nature of Aurelian himself. He is himself a soldier. He is one of the legions. His sympathies are with them, one of whom he so long has been, and from whom he sprang. The gratifications which he remembers himself so often to have sought and so dearly to have prized, he is willing to bestow upon those who he knows feel as he once did. He may speak of his want of power to resist the will of the soldiers; but I almost doubt his sincerity, since nothing can equal the terror and reverence with which he is regarded throughout the army; reverence for his genius, terror for his passions, which, when excited, rage with the fury of a madman, and wreak themselves upon all upon whom the least suspicion falls, though among his most trusted friends. To this terror, as you well know, his bodily strength greatly adds.
It was my first office to seek the presence of Gracchus. I found, upon inquiry, that both he and Longinus were confined in the same prison, and in the charge of the same keeper. I did not believe that I should experience difficulty in gaining admission to them, and I found it so.
Applying to the jailer for admittance to Gracchus the Palmyrene, I was told that but few were allowed to see him, and such only whose names had been given him. Upon giving him my name, he said that it was one which was upon his list, and I might enter. 'Make the most of your time,' he added, 'for to-morrow is the day set for the general execution.'
'So soon?' I said.
'Aye,' he replied, 'and that is scarce soon enough to keep the soldiers quiet. Since they have lost the Queen, they are suspicious lest the others, or some of them, may escape too,--so that they are well guarded, I warrant you.'
'Is the Queen,' I asked, 'under your guard, and within the same prison?'
'The Queen?' he rejoined, and lowering his tone added, 'she is far enough from here. If others know it not, I know that she is well on her way to Rome. She has let too much Roman blood for her safety within reach of Roman swords, I can tell you--Aurelian notwithstanding. That butchery of the Centurions did neither any good.'
'You say to-morrow is the day appointed for the execution?'
'So I said. But you will scarce believe it when you see the prisoners. They seem rather as if they were for Rome upon a journey of pleasure, than so soon for the axe. But walk in. And when you would be let out, make a signal by drawing the cord which you will find within the inner ward.'
I passed in, and meeting another officer of the prison, was by him shown the door that led to the cell of Gracchus, and the cord by which I was to make the necessary signal.
I unbarred the door and entered. Gracchus, who was pacing to and fro in his apartment, upon seeing who his visiter was, greeted me in his cordial, cheerful way. His first inquiry was, 'Is Fausta well?'
'I left her well; well as her grief would allow her to be.'
'My room is narrow, Piso, but it offers two seats. Let us sit. This room is not our hall in Palmyra, nor the banqueting room--this window is too small--nay, it is in some sort but a crevice--and this ceiling is too low--and these webs of the spider, the prisoner's friend, are not our purple hangings--but it might all be worse. I am free of chains, I can walk the length of my room and back again, and there is light enough from our chink to see a friend's face by. Yet far as these things are from worst, I trust not to be annoyed or comforted by them long. You have done kindly, Piso, to seek me out thus remote from Palmyra, and death will be lighter for your presence. I am glad to see you.'
'I could not, as you may easily suppose, remain in Palmyra, and you here and thus. For Fausta's sake and my own, I must be here. Although I should not speak a word, nor you, there is a happiness in being near and in seeing.'
'There is. Confinement for a long period of time were robbed of much of its horror, if there were near you but a single human countenance, and that a stranger's, upon which you might look, especially if you might read there pity and affection. Then if this countenance should be that of one known and beloved, it would be almost like living in society, even though speech were prohibited. Tyrants know this--these walls are the proof of it. Aurelian is not a tyrant in this sense. He is not without magnanimity. Are you here with his knowledge?'
'By his express provision. The jailer had been furnished with my name. You are right surely, touching the character of Aurelian. Though rude and unlettered, and severe almost to cruelty, there are generous sentiments within which shed a softening light, if inconstant, upon the darker traits. I would conceal nothing from you, Gracchus; as I would do nothing without your approbation. I know your indifference to life. I know that you would not purchase a day by any unworthy concession, by any doubtful act or word. Relying with some confidence upon the generosity of Aurelian--' 'Why, Lucius, so hesitating and indirect? You would say that you have appealed to Aurelian for my life--and that hope is not extinct in your mind of escape from this appointed death.'
'That is what I would say. The Emperor inclines to spare your life, but wavers. Shall I seek another interview with him? And is there any argument which you would that I should urge? --or--would you rather that I should forbear? It is, Gracchus, because I feared lest I had been doing you a displeasing and undesired service, that I have now spoken.'
'Piso, it is the simple truth when I say that I anticipate the hour and the moment of death with the same indifference and composure that I do any, the most common event. I have schooled myself to patience. Acquiescence in the will of the gods--if gods there are--or which is the same thing, in the order of events, is the temper which, since I have reflected at all, I have cultivated, and to which I can say I have fully attained. I throw myself upon the current of life, unresisting, to be wafted withersoever it will. I look with desire neither to this shore nor the opposite, to one port nor another, but wherever I am borne and permitted to act, I straightway find there and in that my happiness. Not that one allotment is not in itself preferable to another, but that there being so much of life over which man has no control, and cannot, if he would, secure his felicity, I think it wiser to renounce all action and endeavor concerning it--receiving what is sent or happens with joy if it be good, without complaint if it be evil. In this manner have I secured an inward calm, which has been as a fountain of life. My days, whether they have been dark ones or bright, as others term them, have flowed along a smooth and even current. Under misfortune, I believe I have enjoyed more from this my inward frame, than many a son of prosperity has in the very height of his glory. That which so disturbs the peace of multitudes--even of philosophers--the prospect of death, has occasioned me not one moment's disquiet. It is true, I know not what it is--do I know what life is? --but that is no reason why I should fear it. One thing I know, which is this, that it will come, as it comes to all, and that I cannot escape it. It may take me where it will, I shall be content. If it be but a change, and I live again elsewhere, I shall be glad, especially if I am then exempt from evils in my condition which assail me here; if it be extinction of being, it will but resemble those nights when I sleep without dreaming--it will not yield any delights, but it will not bring affright nor torment. I desire not to entertain, and I do not entertain either hope or fear. I am passive. My will is annihilated. The object of my life has been to secure the greatest amount of pleasure--that being the best thing of which we can conceive. This I have done by acting right. I have found happiness, or that which we agree to call so, in acting in accordance with that part of my nature which prescribes the lines of duty: not in any set of philosophical opinions; not in expectations in futurity; not in any fancies or dreams; but in the substantial reality of virtuous action. I have sought to treat both myself and others in such a way, that afterward I should not hear from either a single word of reproach. In this way of life I have for the most part succeeded, as any one can who will apply his powers as he may if he will. I have at this hour, which it may be is the last of my life, no complaints to make or hear against myself. So too in regard to others. At least I know not that there is one living whom I have wronged, and to whom I owe the least reparation. Now therefore by living in the best manner for this life on earth, I have prepared myself in the best manner for death, and for another life, if there be one. If there be none--still what I have enjoyed I have enjoyed, and it has been more than any other manner of life could have afforded. So that in any event, I am like a soldier armed at all points. To me, Piso, to die is no more than to go on to live. Both are events: to both I am alike indifferent; I know nothing about either. As for the pain of death, it is not worthy a moment's thought, even if it were considerable--but it appears to me that it is not. I have many times witnessed it, and it has ever seemed that death, so far from being represented by any word signifying pain, would be better expressed by one that should stand for insensibility. The nearer death the nearer apathy. There is pain which often precedes it, in various forms of sickness; but this is sickness, not death. Such pains we often endure and recover; worse often than apparently are endured by those who die.'
'I perceive then, Gracchus, that I have given you neither pain nor pleasure by any thing I have done.'
'Not that exactly. It has given me pleasure that you have sought to do me a service. For myself, it will weigh but little whether you succeed or fail. Your intercession has not displeased me. It cannot affect my good name. For Fausta's sake--'at her name he paused as if for strength--'and because she wishes it, I would rather live than die. Otherwise my mind is even-poised, inclining neither way.'
'But would it not afford you, Gracchus, a sensible pleasure, if, supposing you are now to die, you could anticipate with certainty a future existence? You are now, you say, in a state of indifference, as to life or death? Above all you are delivered from all apprehensions concerning death and futurity. This is, it cannot be denied, a great felicity. You are able to sit here calm and composed. But it seems to me, if you were possessed of a certain expectation of immortality, you would be very much animated and transported, as it were, with the prospect of the wonderful scenes so soon to be revealed. If, with such a belief, you could turn back your eye upon as faultless and virtuous a life as you have passed, you would cast it forward with feelings far from those of indifference.'
'What you assert is very true: doubtless it would be as you say. I can conceive that death may be approached not only with composure, but with a bursting impatience; just as the youthful traveller pants to leap from the vessel that bears him to a foreign land. This would be the case if we were as secure of another and happier life as we are certain that we live now. In future ages, perhaps through the discoveries of reason, perhaps by disclosures from superior beings, it may be so universally, and death come to be regarded even with affection, as the great deliverer and rewarder. But at present it is very different; I have found no evidence to satisfy me in any of the systems of ancient or modern philosophers, from Pythagoras to Seneca, and our own Longinus, either of the existence of a God, or of the reality of a future life. It seems to me oftentimes in certain frames of mind, but they are transient, as if both were true; they feel true, but that is all. I find no evidence beyond this inward feeling at all complete and sufficient; and this feeling is nothing, it is of the nature of a dream, I cannot rely upon it. So that I have, as I still judge, wisely intrenched myself behind indifference. I have never indulged in idle lamentations over evils that could not be removed, nor do I now. Submission is the law of my life, the sum of my philosophy.'
'The Christians,' I here said, 'seem to possess that which all so much desire, a hope, amounting to a certain expectation, of immortality. They all, so I am informed, the poor and the humble, as well as the rich and the learned, live while they live, as feeling themselves to be only passengers here, and when they die, die as those who pass from one stage of a journey to another. To them death loses its character of death, and is associated rather in their minds with life. It is a beginning rather than an ending; a commencement, not a consummation; being born, not dying.'
'So I have heard; but I have never considered their doctrine. The Christian philosophy or doctrine is almost the only one of all, which lay claim to such distinction, that I have not studied. I have been repelled from that I suppose by seeing it in so great proportion the property of the vulgar. What they so rejoiced in, it has appeared to me, could not at the same time be what would yield me either pleasure or wisdom. At least in other things the vulgar and the refined seek their knowledge and their pleasures from very different sources. I cannot conceive of the same philosophy approving itself to both classes. Do you learn, Piso, when the time for the execution of the prisoners is appointed?'
'To-morrow, as I heard from the jailer.'
'To-morrow. It is well. Yet I marvel that the jailer told not me. I am somewhat more concerned to know the hour than you, yet to you he has imparted what he has withheld from me. He is a partial knave. Have you yet seen Longinus?'
'I have not, but shall visit him in the morning.'
'Do so. He will receive you with pleasure. Tell me if he continues true in his affections for the Queen. His is a great trial, laboring, as at first he did, to turn her from the measures that have come to this end; now dying, because at last, out of friendship for her rather than anything else, he espoused her cause. Yet it is almost the same with me. And for myself, the sweetest feeling of this hour is, that I die for Zenobia, and that perhaps my death is in part the sacrifice that spares her. Incomparable woman! how the hearts of those who have known thee are bound to thee, so that thy very errors and faults are esteemed to be virtues!'
Our conversation here ended, and I turned from the prison, resolved to seek the presence of Aurelian. I did so. He received me with urbanity as before, but neither confirmed my hopes nor my fears. I returned again to the cell of Gracchus, with whom, in various, and to me most instructive conversation, we passed the remainder of the day.
In the morning, with a spirit heavy and sad, burdened indeed with a grief such as I never before had experienced, I turned to seek the apartment of Longinus. It was not far from that of Gracchus. The keeper of the prison readily admitted me, saying, 'that free intercourse was allowed the prisoners with all whom it was their desire to see, and that there were several friends of Longinus already with him.' With these words he let fall a heavy bar, and the door of the cell creaked upon its hinges.
The room into which I passed seemed a dungeon, rather than any thing else or better, for the only light it had, came from a small barred window far above the reach. Longinus was seated near a massy central column, to which he was bound by a chain; his friends were around him, with whom he appeared to have been engaged in earnest conversation, He rose as I approached him, and saluted me with the grace that is natural to him, and which is expressive, not more of his high breeding, than of an inward benevolence that goes forth and embraces all who draw near him.
'Although,' said he, 'I am forsaken of that which men call fortune, yet I am not forgotten by my friends. So that the best things remain. Piso, I rejoice truly to see you. These whom you behold are pupils and friends whom you have often met at my house, if this dim light will allow you to distinguish them.'
'My eyes are not yet so used to darkness as to see with much distinctness, but I recognise well-known faces.'
After mutual salutations, Longinus said, 'Let me now first inquire concerning the daughter of Gracchus, that bright emanation of the Deity. I trust in the gods she is well!'
'I left her,' I replied, 'overwhelmed by sorrow. To lose at once country, parent, and friends, is loss too great I fear for her. Death to Gracchus will be death also to her.'
'The temper of Fausta is too sanguine, her heart too warm: she was designed for a perpetual prosperity. The misfortunes that overtake her friends she makes more than her own. Others' sufferings--her own she could bear--falling upon her so thickly, will, if they leave her life, impart a lasting bitterness to it. It were better perhaps that she died with us. Gracchus you have found altogether Gracchus?'
'I have. He is in the prison as he was in his own palace. His thoughts will sometimes wander to his daughter--oftener than he would--and then in the mirror of the face you behold the inward sorrow of the heart, but it is only a momentary ruffling of the surface, and straightway it is calm again. Except this only, and he sits upon his hard seat in the same composure as if at the head of the Senate.'
'Gracchus,' said Longinus in reply, 'is naturally great; he is a giant! the ills of life, the greater and the lesser, which assail and subdue so many, can make nothing of him. He is impenetrable, immovable. Then he has aided nature by the precepts of philosophy. What he wanted of insensibility to evil, he has added from a doctrine, to which he himself clings tenaciously, to which he refers and will refer, as the spring of his highest felicity, but from which I--so variously are we constituted--shrink with unfeigned horror. Doubtless you all know what it is?'
'We do.'
'I grant it thus much; that it steels the mind against pain; that it is unrivalled in its power to sear and harden the soul; and that if it were man's common lot to be exposed to evil, and evil chiefly, it were a philosophy to be greatly coveted. But it is benumbing, deadening in its influences. It oppresses the soul and overlays it; it delivers it by rendering it insensible, not by imparting a new principle of vitality beyond the reach of earthly ill. It does the same service that a stupifying draught does to him who is about to submit to the knife of the surgeon, or the axe of the executioner. But is it not nobler to meet such pains fortified in no other way than by a resolute purpose to bear them as well as the nature the gods have given you will allow? And suppose you shrink or give signs of suffering? that does not impeach the soul. It is rather the gods themselves who cry out through you: you did not; it was your corporeal nature, something beside your proper self. It is to be no subject of humiliation to us, or of grief, that when the prospect of acute suffering is before us; or, still more, when called to endure it, we give many tokens of a keen sensibility; so it be that at the same time we remain unshaken in our principles, and ready to bear what we must.'
'And what,' asked the young Cleoras, a favorite disciple of the philosopher, 'is it in your case that enables you to meet misfortune and death without shrinking? If you take not shelter behind indifference, what other shield do you find to be sufficient?'
'I know,' said Longinus, 'that you ask this question not because you have never heard from me virtually at least its answer, but because you wish to hear from me at this hour, whether I adhere with firmness to the principles I have ever inculcated, respecting death, and whether I myself derive from them the satisfactions I have declared them capable to impart. It is right and well that you do so. And I on my part take pleasure in repeating and re-affirming what I have maintained and taught. But I must be brief in what I say, more so than I have been in replying to your other inquiries, Cleoras and Bassus, for I perceive by the manner in which the rays of the sun shoot through the bars of the window, that it is not long before the executioner will make his appearance. It affords me then, I say, a very especial satisfaction, to declare in the presence of so many worthy friends, my continued attachment and hearty devotion to the truths I have believed and taught, concerning the existence of a God, and the reality of a future and immortal life. Upon these two great points I suffer from no serious doubts, and it is from this belief that I now derive the serenity and peace which you witness. All the arguments which you have often heard from me in support of them, now seem to me to be possessed of a greater strength than ever--I will not repeat them, for they are too familiar to you, but only re-affirm them, and pronounce them, as in my judgment, affording a ground for our assurance in the department of moral demonstration, as solid and sufficient as the reasonings of Euclid afford in the science of geometry. I believe in a supreme God and sovereign ruler of the world, by whose wisdom and power all things and beings have been created, and are sustained, and in whose presence I live and enjoy, as implicitly as I believe the fifth proposition of Euclid's first book. I believe in a future life with the like strength. It is behind these truths, Cleoras, that I entrench myself at this hour; these make the shield which defends me from the assaults of fear and despair, that would otherwise, I am sure, overwhelm me.'
'But how do they defend you, Longinus,' asked Cleoras--'by simply rendering you inaccessible to the shafts which are directed against you, or by any other and higher operation upon the soul?'
'Were it only,' replied the philosopher, 'that truth made me insensible and indifferent, I should pray rather to be left to the tutelage of nature. I both despise and abhor doctrines that can do no more than this. I desire to bless the gods that the philosophy I have received and taught has performed for me a far more essential service. This elevates and expands: it renders nature as it were superior to itself and its condition: it causes the soul to assert its entire supremacy over its companion, the body, and its dwelling-place the earth, and in the perfect possession of itself to inhabit a better world of its own creation: it infinitely increases all its sensibilities, and adds to the constitution received from nature, what may be termed new senses, so vividly does it come to apprehend things, which to those who are unenlightened by this excellent truth, are as if they had no existence, their minds being invested with no faculty or power whereby to discern and esteem them. So far from carrying those who embrace it farther toward insensibility and indifference, which may truly be called a kind of death, it renders them intensely alive, and it is through the transforming energies of this new life that the soul is made not insensible to pain, but superior to it, and to all the greater ills of existence. It soars above them. The knowledge and the belief that fill it furnish it with wings by which it is borne far aloft, even at the very time that the body is in the deepest affliction. Gracchus meets death with equanimity, and that is something. It is better than to be convulsed with vulgar and excessive fear. But it is a state of the soul very inferior to what exists in those who truly receive the doctrines which I have taught. I, Cleoras, look upon death as a release, not from a life which has been wholly evil, for I have, through the favor of the gods, enjoyed much, but from the dominion of the body and the appetites which clog the soul and greatly hinder it in its efforts after a perfect virtue and a true felicity. It will open a way for me into those elysian realms in whose reality all men have believed, a very few excepted, though few or none could prove it. Even as the great Roman could call that "O glorious day," that should admit him to the council of the gods, and the society of the great and good who had preceded him, so can I in like manner designate the day and hour which are now present. I shall leave you whom I have known so long; I shall be separated from scenes familiar and beloved through a series of years; the arts and the sciences, which have ministered so largely to my happiness, in these forms of them I shall lose; the very earth itself, venerable to my mind for the events which have passed upon it, and the genius it has nurtured and matured, and beautiful too in its array of forms and colors, I shall be conversant with no more. Death will divide me from them all: but it will bear me to worlds and scenes of a far exceeding beauty: it will introduce me to mansions inconceivably more magnificent than anything which the soul has experience of here; above all it will bring me into the company of the good of all ages, with whom I shall enjoy the pleasures of an uninterrupted intercourse. It will place me where I shall be furnished with ample means for the prosecution of all those inquiries which have engaged me on earth, exposed to none or fewer of the hindrances which have here thronged the way. All knowledge and all happiness will then be attainable. Is death to be called an evil, or is it to be feared or approached with tears and regrets, when such are to be its issues?'
'By no means,' said Cleoras; 'it is rather to be desired. If my philosophy were as deep and secure as yours, Longinus, I should beg to exchange places with you. I should willingly suffer a brief pain to be rewarded so largely. But I find within me no such strong assurance.'
'That,' replied Longinus, 'is for want of reflection. It is only by conversing with itself that the soul rises to any height of faith. Argument from abroad is of but little service in the comparison. I have often discoursed with you concerning these things, and have laid open before you the grounds upon which my convictions rest. But I have ever taught that consciousness was the true source of belief, and that of this you could possess yourselves only through habits of profound attention. What I believe I feel. I cannot communicate the strength of my belief to another, because it is mysteriously generated within, interweaving itself with all my faculties and affections, and abundantly imparting itself to them, but at the same time inseparable from them in such a sense that I can offer it as I can a portion of my reason or my knowledge, to any whom I might desire to benefit. It is in truth in its origin the gift of God, strengthened and exalted infinitely by reflection. It is an instinct. Were it otherwise, why could I not give to you all I possess myself, and possess because I have by labor acquired it? Whereas, though I believe so confidently myself, I find no way in which to bestow the same good upon you. But each one will possess it, I am persuaded, in the proportion in which he prepares himself by a pure life and habitual meditation. It will then reveal itself with new strength every day. So will it also be of service to contemplate the characters and lives of those who have lived illustriously, both for their virtue and their philosophy. To study the character of Plato will be more beneficial in this regard than to ponder the arguments of the Phoedo. Those arguments are trivial, fanciful, and ingenious, rather than convincing. And the great advantage to be derived from the perusal of that treatise is, as it shall be regarded as a sublime expression of the confidence with which its author entertained the hope of immortality. It is as a part of Plato's biography--of the history of his mind--that it is valuable. Through meditation, through inward purity, through the contemplation of bright examples, will the soul be best prepared for the birth of that feeling or conviction that shall set before you with the distinctness and certainty of actual vision the prospect of immortality.'
'But are there, Longinus, after all, no waverings of the mind, no impertinent doubts, no overcasting shadows, which at all disturb your peace, or impair the vividness of your faith? Are you wholly superior to fear--the fear of suffering and death?'
'That is not, Cleoras, so much to ask whether I still consider my philosophy as sufficient, and whether it be so, as whether or not I am still a man, and therefore a mixed and imperfect being. But if you desire the assurance, I can answer you, and say that I am but a man, and therefore notwithstanding my philosophy subject to infirmity and to assaults from the body, which undoubtedly occasion me some distress. But these seasons are momentary. I can truly affirm, that although there have been and still are conflicts, the soul is ever conqueror, and that too by very great odds. My doubts and fears are mere flitting shadows; my hope, a strong and unchanging beam of light. The body sometimes slips from beyond my control and trembles, but the soul is at the very same time secure in herself and undaunted. I present the same apparent contradiction that the soldier often does upon the field of battle; he trembles and turns pale as he first springs forward to encounter the foe, but his arm is strong and his soul determined at the very same moment, and no death nor suffering in prospect avails to alarm or turn him back. Do not therefore, although I should exhibit signs of fear, imagine that my soul is terrified, or that I am forsaken of those steadfast principles to which I have given in my allegiance for so long a time.'
'We will not, Longinus,' said they all.
Longinus here paused, and seemed for a time buried in meditation. We were all silent--or the silence was broken only by the sobs of those who could not restrain their grief.
'I have spoken to you, my friends,' he at length resumed, 'of the hope of immortality, of the strength it yields, and of its descent from God. But think not that this hope can exist but in the strictest alliance with virtue. The hope of immortality without virtue is a contradiction in terms. The perpetuation of vice, or of any vicious affections or desires, can be contemplated only with horror. If the soul be without virtue, it is better that it should perish. And if deep stained with vice, it is to be feared that the very principle of life may be annihilated. As then you would meet the final hour, not only with calmness, but with pleasant expectations, cherish virtue in your souls; reverence the divinity; do justly by all; obey your instincts, which point out the right and the wrong; keep yourselves pure; subdue the body. As virtue becomes a habit and a choice, and the soul, throughout all its affections and powers, harmonizes with nature and God, will the hope of immortality increase in strength till it shall grow to a confident expectation. Remember that virtue is the golden key, and the only one, that unlocks the gates of the celestial mansions.'
I here asked Longinus if he was conscious of having been influenced in any of his opinions by Christianity. 'I know,' I said, 'that in former conversations you have ever objected to that doctrine. Does your judgment remain the same?'
'I have not read the writings of the Christians, yet am I not wholly ignorant of them, since it were impossible to know with such familiarity the Princess Julia, and not arrive at some just conceptions of what that religion is. But I have not received it. Yet even as a piece of polished metal takes a thousand hues from surrounding objects, so does the mind; and mine may have been unconsciously colored and swayed by the truths of Christianity, which I have heard so often stated and defended. Light may have fallen upon it from that quarter as well as from others. I doubt not that it has. For although I cannot myself admit that doctrine, yet am I now, and have ever been, persuaded of its excellence, and that upon such as can admit it, it must exert a power altogether beneficial. But let us now, for the little time that remains, turn to other things. Piso, know you aught concerning the Queen? I have not seen her since the day of her flight, nor have I heard concerning her that which I could trust.'
I then related at length all that I knew.
'Happy would it have been for her and for all, had my first counsels prevailed! Yet am I glad that fortune spares her. May she live to hear of Palmyra once more restored to opulence and glory. I was happy in her service. I am now happy, if by my death, as by my life, I can avert from her evil that otherwise might overtake her. For her, or for the Princess, there is no extremity I would not endure, as there have been no services I have not rejoiced to perform. The only favor I have asked of Aurelian was, to be permitted a last interview with my great pupils; it did not agree with my opinions of him, that I was denied so reasonable a request.'
'Perhaps,' said I, 'it is in my power to furnish the reason, having been informed, since reaching Emesa, that the Queen, with her attendants and the Princesses, had been sent on secretly toward Rome, that they might be placed beyond the risk of violence on the part of the legions. He himself was doubtful of his power to protect them.'
'For the sake of both am I glad to hear the explanation,' replied Longinus.
As he uttered these words, the sound of steps was heard as of several approaching the door of the room. Then the heavy bar of the door was let fall, and the key turned in the wards of the lock. We knew that the last moments of Longinus had arrived. Although knowing this so well, yet we still were not ready for it, and a horror as of some unlooked-for calamity came over us. Cleoras wept without restraint; and threw himself down before Longinus, embraced his knees, and as the officers entered and drew near, warned them away with threatening language. It was with difficulty that Longinus calmed him. He seemed to have lost the possession of his reason.
The jailer, followed by a guard, now came up to Longinus, and informed him that the hour appointed for his execution had arrived.
Longinus replied, 'that he was ready to go with him, but must first, when his chains were taken off, be permitted to address himself to the gods. For,' said he, 'we ought to undertake no enterprise of moment, especially ought we not to venture into any unknown and untried scenes without first asking their guidance, who alone have power to carry us safely through.'
'This we readily grant,' replied the jailer; who then taking his hammer struck off the chain that was bound around the middle of his body.
Longinus then, without moving from where he sat, bent his head, and covering his face with his hands remained a few moments in that posture. The apartment was silent as if no one had been in it. Even Cleoras was by that sight taught to put a restraint upon the expression of his feelings.
When these few moments were ended, Longinus raised his head, and with a bright and smiling countenance said to the jailer that he was now ready.
He then went out in company with the guard and soldiers, we following in sad procession. The place of execution was in front of the camp, all the legions being drawn round to witness it. Aurelian himself was present among them.
Soon as we came in sight of that fatal place, and of the executioner standing with his axe lifted upon his shoulder, Longinus suddenly stopped, his face became pale and his frame trembled. He turned and looked upon us who were immediately behind him, and held up his hands, but without speaking, which was as much as to say, 'you perceive that what I said was very likely to happen has come to pass, and the body has obtained a momentary triumph.' He paused however not long, making then a sign to the soldiers that he was ready to proceed. After a short walk from that spot we reached the block and the executioner.
'Friend,' said he now to the executioner, 'I hope your axe is sharp, and that you are skilful in your art; and yet it is a pity if you have had so much practice as to have become very dexterous in it.'
'Ten years service in Rome,' he replied, 'may well make one so, or he must be born with little wit. Distrust not my arm, for it has never failed yet. One blow, and that a light one, is all I want, if it be as it ought, a little slanting. As for this edge--feel it if thou wilt--it would do for thy beard.'
Longinus had now divested himself of whatever parts of his garments would obstruct the executioner in his duty, and was about to place his head in the prescribed place, when he first turned to us and again held out his hands, which now trembled no longer.
'You see,' said he, in a cheerful voice, 'that the soul is again supreme. Love and cultivate the soul, my good friends, and you will then be universal conquerors, and throughout all ages. It will never betray you. Now, my new friend, open for me the gates of immortality, for you are in truth a celestial porter.' So saying, he placed himself as he was directed to do, and at a single blow, as he had been promised, the head of Longinus was severed from his body.
Neither the head nor the body was delivered to the soldiers, nor allowed to be treated with disrespect. This favor we had obtained of Aurelian. So after the executioner had held up the head of the philosopher, and shown it to the soldiers, it was together with the body given to our care, and by us sent to Palmyra.
On this same day perished Otho, Seleucus, Gabrayas, Nicanor--all, in a word, of the Queen's council, and almost all of the senate. Some were reserved for execution at another time, and among these I found, as I went sadly toward the cell of Gracchus, was the father of Fausta.
The keeper of the prison admitted me with a more cheerful air than before, and with a significant shake of the head. I heeded him but little, pressing on to meet Gracchus.
'So,' I exclaimed, 'it is not to-day'-- 'No,' rejoined Gracchus, visibly moved, 'nor to-morrow, Piso. Read here.' And placing a parchment in my hand, turned away.
It contained a full and free remission of punishment, and permission to return immediately to Palmyra.
'The gods be praised! the gods be praised!' I cried as I embraced him, 'Is not this better, Gracchus?'
'It is,' said he, with emphasis. 'It is a great boon. I do not deny it. For Fausta's sake I rejoice--as for myself, all is strictly true which I have said to you. But I forget all now, save Fausta and her joy and renewed life. Would, O would, that Longinus could have returned to Palmyra with me!' --and then, for the first time, Gracchus gave way to grief, and wept aloud.
In the morning we set out for Palmyra. Farewell.
| {
"id": "8938"
} |
17 | None | I write again from Palmyra.
We arrived here after a day's hard travel. The sensation occasioned by the unexpected return of Gracchus seemed to cause a temporary forgetfulness of their calamities on the part of the citizens. As we entered the city at the close of the day, and they recognised their venerated friend, there were no hounds to the tumultuous expressions of their joy. The whole city was abroad. It were hard to say whether Fausta herself was more pained by excess of pleasure, than was each citizen who thronged the streets as we made our triumphal entry.
A general amnesty of the past having been proclaimed by Sandarion immediately after the departure of Aurelian with the prisoners whom he chose to select, we found Calpurnius already returned. At Fausta's side he received us as we dismounted in the palace-yard. I need not tell you how we passed our first evening. Yet it was one of very mixed enjoyment. Fausta's eye, as it dwelt upon the beloved form of her father, seemed to express unalloyed happiness. But then again, as it was withdrawn at those moments when, his voice kept not her attention fixed upon himself, she fell back upon the past and the lost, and the shadows of a deep sadness would gather over her. So in truth was it with us all--especially, when at the urgency of the rest, I related to them the interviews I had had with Longinus, and described to them his behavior in the prison and at the execution.
'I think,' said Fausta, 'that Aurelian, in the death of Longinus, has injured his fame far more than by the capture of Zenobia and the reduction of Palmyra he has added to it. Posterity will not readily forgive him for putting out, in its meridian blaze, the very brightest light of the age. It surely was an unnecessary act.'
'The destruction of prisoners, especially those of rank and influence, is,' said I, 'according to the savage usages of war--and Aurelian defends the death of Longinus by saying, that in becoming the first adviser of Zenobia, he was no longer Longinus the philosopher, but Longinus the minister and rebel.'
'That will be held,' she replied, 'as a poor piece of sophistry. He was still Longinus. And in killing Longinus the minister, he basely slew Longinus the renowned philosopher, the accomplished scholar, the man of letters and of taste; the great man of the age; for you will not say that either in Rome or Greece there now lives his equal.'
'Fausta,' said Gracchus, 'you are right. And had Aurelian been any more or higher than a soldier, he would not have dared to encounter the odium of the act; but in simple truth he was, I suppose, and is utterly insensible to the crime he has committed, not against an individual or Palmyra, but against the civilized world and posterity; a crime that will grow in its magnitude as time rolls on, and will forever and to the remotest times blast the fame and the name of him who did it. Longinus belonged to all times and people, and by them will be avenged. Aurelian could not understand the greatness of his victim, and was ignorant that he was drawing upon himself a reproach greater than if he had sacrificed in his fury the Queen herself, and half the inhabitants of Palmyra. He will find it out when he reaches Rome. He will find himself as notorious there, as the murderer of Longinus, as he will be as conqueror of the East.'
'There was one sentiment of Aurelian,' I said, 'which he expressed to me when I urged upon him the sparing of Longinus, to which you must allow some greatness to attach. I had said to him that it was greater to pardon than to punish, and that for that reason--"Ah," he replied, interrupting me, "I may not gain to myself the fame of magnanimity at the expense of Rome. As the chief enemy of Rome in this rebellion, Rome requires his punishment, and Rome is the party to be satisfied, not I."' 'I grant that there is greatness in the sentiment. If he was sincere, all we can say is this--that he misjudged in supposing Rome to need the sacrifice. She needed it not. There were enough heads like mine, of less worth, that would do for the soldiers--for they are Rome in Aurelian's vocabulary.'
'Men of humanity and of letters,' I replied, 'will, I suppose, decide upon this question one way, politicians and soldiers another.'
'That, I believe,' rejoined Gracchus, 'is nearly the truth.'
When wearied by a prolonged conversation, we sought the repose of our pillows; each one of us happier by a large and overflowing measure than but two days before we had ever thought to be again.
The city is to all appearance tranquil and acquiescent under its bitter chastisement. The outward aspect is calm and peaceful. The gates are thrown open, and the merchants and traders are returning to the pursuits of traffic; the gentry and nobles are engaged in refitting and re-embellishing their rifled palaces; and the common people have returned in quiet to the several channels of their industry.
I have made however some observations, which lead me to believe that all is not so settled and secure as it seems to be, and that however the greater proportion of the citizens are content to sit down patiently under the rule of their new masters, others are not of their mind. I can perceive that Antiochus, who under the general pardon proclaimed by Sandarion has returned to the city, is the central point of a good deal of interest among a certain class of citizens. He is again at the head of the same licentious and desperate crew as before; a set of men, like himself, large in their resources, lawless in their lives, and daring in the pursuit of whatever object they set before them. To one who knows the men, their habits and manners, it is not difficult to see that they are engaged in other plans than appear upon the surface. Yet are their movements so quietly ordered as to occasion no general observation or remark. Sandarion, ignorant whence danger might be expected to arise, appears not to indulge suspicions of one nor another. Indeed, from the smallness of the garrison, from the whole manner both of the governor and those who are under him, soldiers and others, it is evident that no thought of a rising on the part of the populace has entered their minds.
* * * * * A few days have passed, and Gracchus and Fausta, who inclined not to give much heed to my observations, both think with me--indeed, to Gracchus communication has been made of the existence of a plot to rescue the city from the hands of the Romans, in which he has been solicited to join.
Antiochus himself has sought and obtained an interview with Gracchus.
Gracchus has not hesitated to reject all overtures from that quarter. We thus learn that the most desperate measures are in agitation--weak and preposterous too as they are desperate, and must in the end prove ruinous. Antiochus, we doubt not, is a tool in the hands of others, but he stands out as the head and centre of the conspiracy. There is a violent and a strong party, consisting chiefly of the disbanded soldiers, but of some drawn from every class of the inhabitants, whose object is by a sudden attack to snatch the city from the Roman garrison; and placing Antiochus on the throne, proclaim their independence again, and prepare themselves to maintain and defend it. They make use of Antiochus because of his connection with Zenobia, and the influence he would exert through that prejudice, and because of his sway over other families among the richest and most powerful, especially the two princes, Herennianus and Timolaus--and because of his fool-hardiness. If they should fail, he, they imagine, will be the only or the chief sacrifice--and he can well be spared. If they succeed, it will be an easy matter afterward to dispose of him, if his character or measures as their king should displease them, and exalt some other and worthier in his room.
'And what, father,' said Fausta, 'said you to Antiochus?'
'I told him,' replied Gracchus, 'what I thought, that the plan struck me not only as frantic and wild, but foolish--that I for myself should engage in no plot of any kind, having in view any similar object, much less in such a one as he proposed. I told him that if Palmyra was destined ever to assert its supremacy and independence of Rome, it could not be for many years to come, and then by watching for some favorable juncture in the affairs of Rome in other parts of the world. It might very well happen, I thought, that in the process of years, and when Palmyra had wholly recruited her strength after her late and extreme sufferings--that there might occur some period of revolution or inward commotion in the Roman empire, such as would leave her remote provinces in a comparatively unprotected state. Then would be the time for re-asserting our independence; then we might spring upon our keepers with some good prospect of overpowering them, and taking again to ourselves our own government. But now, I tried to convince him, it was utter madness, or worse, stupidity, to dream of success in such an enterprise. The Romans were already inflamed and angry; not half appeased by the bloody offering that had just been made; their strength was undiminished--for what could diminish the strength of Rome? --and a rising could no sooner take place, than her legions would again be upon us, and our sufferings might be greater than ever. I entreated him to pause, and to dissuade those from action who were connected with him. I did not hesitate to set before him a lively picture of his own hazard in the affair; that he, if failure ensued, would be the first victim. I urged moreover, that a few, as I held his number to be, had no right to endanger, by any selfish and besotted conduct, the general welfare, the lives and property of the citizens; that not till he felt he had the voice of the people with him ought he to dare to act; and that although I should not betray his councils to Sandarion, I should to the people, unless I received from him ample assurance that no movement should be made without a full disclosure of the project to all the principal citizens, as representatives of the whole city.'
'And how took he all that?' we asked.
'He was evidently troubled at the vision I raised of his' own head borne aloft upon a Roman pike, and not a little disconcerted at what I labored to convince him were the rights of us all in the case. I obtained from him in the end a solemn promise that he would communicate what I had said to his companions, and that they would forbear all action till they had first obtained the concurrence of the greater part of the city. I assured him however, that in no case and under no conceivable circumstances could he or others calculate upon any co-operation of mine. Upon any knowledge which I might obtain of intended action, I should withdraw from the city.'
'It is a sad fate,' said Fausta, 'that having just escaped with our lives and the bare walls of our city and dwellings from the Romans, we are now to become the prey of a wicked faction among ourselves. But, can you trust the word of Antiochus that he will give you timely notice if they go on to prosecute the affair? Will they not now work in secret all the more, and veil themselves even from the scrutiny of citizens?'
'I hardly think they can escape the watchful eyes that will be fixed upon them,' replied Gracchus; 'nor do I believe that however inclined Antiochus might be to deceive me, those who are of his party would agree to such baseness. There are honorable men, however deluded, in his company.'
* * * * * Several days have passed, and our fears are almost laid. Antiochus and the princes have been seen as usual frequenting the more public streets, lounging in the Portico, or at the places of amusement. And the evenings have been devoted to gayety and pleasure--Sandarion himself, and the officers of his legion, being frequent visiters at the palace of Antiochus, and at that of the Cæsars, lately the palace of Zenobia.
During this interval we have celebrated with all becoming rites the marriage of Fausta and Calpurnius, hastened at the urgency of Gracchus, who feeling still very insecure of life, and doubtful of the continued tranquillity of the city, wished to bestow upon Calpurnius the rights of a husband, and to secure to Fausta the protection of one. Gracchus seems happier and lighter of heart since this has been done--so do we all. It was an occasion of joy, but as much of tears also. An event which we had hoped to have been graced by the presence of Zenobia, Julia, and Longinus, took place almost in solitude and silence. But of this I have written fully to Portia.
* * * * * That which we have apprehended has happened. The How has been struck, and Palmyra is again, in name at least, free and independent.
Early on the morning after the marriage of Fausta, we were alarmed by the sounds of strife and commotion in the streets--by the cries of those who pursued, and of those who fled and fought. It was as yet hardly light. But it was not difficult to know the cause of the uproar, or the parties engaged. We seized our arms, and prepared ourselves for defence, against whatever party, Roman or Palmyrene, should make an assault. The preparation was however needless, for the contest was already decided. The whole garrison, with the brave Sandarion at their head, has been massacred, and the power of Palmyra is in the hands of Antiochus and his adherents. There has been in truth no fighting, it has been the murder rather of unprepared and defenceless men. The garrison was cut off in detail while upon their watch by overwhelming numbers. Sandarion was despatched in his quarters, and in his bed, by the very inhuman wretches at whose tables he had just been feasted, from whom he had but a few hours before parted, giving and receiving the signs of friendship. The cowardly Antiochus it was who stabbed him as he sprang from his sleep, encumbered and disabled by his night-clothes. Not a Roman has escaped with his life.
Antiochus is proclaimed king, and the streets of the city have resounded with the shouts of this deluded people, crying, 'long live Antiochus!' He has been borne in tumult to the great portico of the temple of the Sun, where, with the ceremonies prescribed for the occasion, he has been crowned king of Palmyra and of the East.
While these things were in progress--the now king entering upon his authority, and the government forming itself--Gracchus chose and acted his part.
'There is little safety,' he said, 'for me now, I fear, anywhere--but least of all here. But were I secure of life, Palmyra is now to be a desecrated and polluted place, and I would fain depart from it. I could not remain in it, though covered with honor, to see Antiochus in the seat of Zenobia, and Critias in the chair of Longinus. I must go, as I respect myself and as I desire life. Antiochus will bear me no good will, and no sooner will he have become easy in his seat and secure of his power, than he will begin the work for which his nature alone fits him, of cold-blooded revenge, cruelty, and lust. I trust indeed that his reign will end before that day shall arrive--but it may not--and it will be best for me and for you, my children, to remove from his sight. If he sees us not, he may forget us.'
We all gladly assented to the plan which he then proposed. It was to withdraw privately as possible to one of his estates in the neighborhood of the city, and there await the unfolding of the scenes that remained yet to be enacted. The plan was at once carried into effect. The estate to which we retreated was about four Roman miles from the walls, situated upon an eminence, and overlooking the city and the surrounding plains. Soon as the shadows of the evening of the first day of the reign of Antiochus had fallen, we departed from Palmyra, and within an hour found ourselves upon a spot as wild and secluded as if it had been within the bosom of a wilderness. The building consists of a square tower of stone, large and lofty, built originally for purposes of war and defence, but now long occupied by those who have pursued the peaceful labors of husbandry. The wildness of the region, the solitariness of the place, the dark and frowning aspect of the impregnable tower, had pleased the fancy of both Gracchus and Fausta, and it has been used by them as an occasional retreat at those times when, wearied of the sound and sight of life, they have needed perfect repose. A few slaves are all that are required to constitute a sufficient household.
Here, Curtius, notwithstanding the troubled aspect of the times, have we passed a few days of no moderate enjoyment. Had there been no other, it would have been enough to sit and witness the happiness of Calpurnius and Fausta. But there have been and are other sources of satisfaction as you will not doubt. We have now leisure to converse at such length as we please upon a thousand subjects which interest us. Seated upon the rocks at nightfall, or upon the lofty battlements of the tower, or at hot noon reclining beneath the shade of the terebinth or palm, we have tasted once again the calm delights we experienced at the Queen's mountain palace. In this manner have we heard from Calpurnius accounts every way instructive and entertaining of his life while in Persia; of the character and acts of Sapor; of the condition of that empire, and its wide-spread population. Nothing seems to have escaped his notice and investigation. At these times and places too do I amuse and enlighten the circle around me by reading such portions of your letters and of Portia's as relate to matters generally interesting--and thus too do we discuss the times, and speculate upon the events with which the future labors in relation to Palmyra.
In the mean time we learn that the city is given up to festivity and excess. Antiochus himself possessing immense riches, is devoting these, and whatever the treasury of the kingdom places within his reach, to the entertainment of the people with shows and games after the Roman fashion, and seems really to have deluded the mass of the people so far as to have convinced them that their ancient prosperity has returned, and that he is the father of their country, a second Odenatus. He has succeeded in giving to his betrayal of the Queen the character and merit of a patriotic act, at least with the creatures who uphold him--and there are no praises so false and gross that they are not heaped upon him, and imposed upon the people in proclamations, and edicts. The ignorant--and where is it that they are not the greater part--stand by, wonder and believe. They cannot penetrate the wickedness of the game that has been played before them, and by the arts of the king and his minions have already been converted into friends and supporters.
The defence of the city is not, we understand, wholly neglected; but having before their eyes some fear of retribution, troops are again levied and organized, and the walls beginning to be put into a state of preparation. But this is all of secondary interest, and is postponed to any object of more immediate and sensual gratification.
But there are large numbers of the late Queen's truest friends, who with Gracchus look on in grief and terror even, at the order of things that has arisen, and prophesying with him a speedy end to it, either from interior and domestic revolution, or a return of the Roman armies, accompanied in either case of course by a wide-spread destruction, have with him also secretly withdrawn from the city, and fled either to some neighboring territory, or retreated to the fastnesses of the rural districts. Gracchus has not ceased to warn all whom he knows and chiefly esteems of the dangers to be apprehended, and urge upon them the duty of a timely escape.
* * * * * Messengers have arrived from Antiochus to Gracchus, with whom they have held long and earnest conference, the object of which has been to induce him to return to the city, and resume his place at the head of the Senate, the king well knowing that no act of his would so much strengthen his power as to be able to number Gracchus among his friends. But Gracchus has not so much as wavered in his purpose to keep aloof from Antiochus and all concern with his affairs. His contempt and abhorrence of the king would not however, he says, prevent his serving his country, were he not persuaded that in so short a time violence of some sort from without or within would prostrate king and government in the dust.
It was only a few days after the messengers from Antiochus had paid their visit to Gracchus, that as we were seated upon a shaded rock, not far from the tower, listening to Fausta as she read to us, we were alarmed by the sudden irruption of Milo upon our seclusion, breathless, except that he could just exclaim, 'The Romans! The Romans!' As he could command his speech, he said, 'that the Roman army could plainly be discerned from the higher points of the land, rapidly approaching the city, of which we might satisfy ourselves by ascending the tower.'
'Gods! can it be possible,' exclaimed Gracchus, 'that Aurelian can himself have returned? He must have been well on his way to the Hellespont ere the conspiracy broke out.'
'I can easily believe it,' I replied, as we hastened toward the old tower, 'from what I have known and witnessed of the promptness and miraculous celerity of his movements.'
As we came out upon the battlements of the tower, not a doubt remained that it was indeed the Romans pouring in again like a flood upon the plains of the now devoted city. Far as the eye could reach to the west, clouds of dust indicated the line of the Roman march, while the van was already within a mile of the very gates. The roads leading to the capital, in every direction, seemed covered with those who, at the last moment, ere the gates were shut, had rushed forth and were flying to escape the impending desolation. All bore the appearance of a city taken by surprise and utterly unprepared; as we doubted not was the case from what we had observed of its actual state, and from the suddenness of Aurelian's return and approach.
'Now,' said Fausta, 'I can believe that the last days of Palmyra have arrived. It is impossible that Antiochus can sustain the siege against what will now be the tenfold fury of Aurelian and his enraged soldiers.'
A very few days will suffice for its reduction, if long before it be not again betrayed into the power of the assailants.
We have watched with intense curiosity and anxiety the scene that has been performing before our eyes. We are not so remote but that we can see with considerable distinctness whatever takes place, sometimes advancing and choosing our point of observation upon some nearer eminence.
* * * * * After one day of preparation and one of assault the city has fallen, and Aurelian again entered in triumph; this time in the spirit of revenge and retaliation. It is evident, as we look on horror-struck, that no quarter is given, but that a general massacre has been ordered, both of soldier and citizen. We can behold whole herds of the defenceless populace escaping from the gates or over the walls, only to be pursued--hunted--and slaughtered by the remorseless soldiers. And thousands upon thousands have we seen driven over the walls, or hurled from the battlements of the lofty towers to perish, dashed upon the rocks below. Fausta cannot endure these sights of horror, but retires and hides herself in her apartments.
No sooner had the evening of this fatal day set in, than a new scene of terrific sublimity opened before us as we beheld flames beginning to ascend from every part of the city. They grew and spread till they presently appeared to wrap all objects alike in one vast sheet of fire. Towers, pinnacles and domes, after glittering awhile in the fierce blaze, one after another fell and disappeared in the general ruin. The Temple of the Sun stood long untouched, shining almost with the brightness of the sun itself, its polished shafts and sides reflecting the surrounding fire with an intense brilliancy. We hoped that it might escape, and were certain that it would, unless fired from within--as from its insulated position the flames from the neighboring buildings could not reach it. But we watched not long ere from its western extremity the fire broke forth, and warned us that that peerless monument of human genius, like all else, would soon crumble to the ground. To our amazement however and joy, the flames, after having made great progress, were suddenly arrested, and by some cause extinguished; and the vast pile stood towering in the centre of the desolation, of double size as it seemed, from the fall and disappearance of so many of the surrounding structures.
'This,' said Fausta, 'is the act of a rash and passionate man. Aurelian, before to-morrow's sun is set, will himself repent it. What a single night has destroyed, a century could not restore. This blighted and ruined capital, as long as its crumbling remains shall attract the gaze of the traveller, will utter a blasting malediction upon the name and memory of Aurelian. Hereafter he will be known, not as conqueror of the East and the restorer of the Roman Empire, but as the executioner of Longinus and the ruthless destroyer of Palmyra.'
'I fear that you prophesy with too much truth,' I replied. 'Rage and revenge have ruled the hour, and have committed horrors which no reason and no policy either of the present or of any age, will justify.'
'It is a result ever to be expected,' said Gracchus, 'so long as mankind will prefer an ignorant, unlettered soldier as their ruler. They can look for nothing different from one whose ideas have been formed by the camp alone--whose vulgar mind has never been illuminated by study and the knowledge of antiquity. Such a one feels no reverence for the arts, for learning, for philosophy, nor for man as man--he knows not what these mean--power is all he can comprehend, and all he worships. As long as the army furnishes Rome with her emperors, so long may she know that her name will, by acts like these, be handed down to posterity covered with the infamy that belongs to the polished savage--the civilized barbarian. Come, Fausta, let us now in and hide ourselves from this sight--too sad and sorrowful to gaze upon.'
'I can look now, father, without emotion,' she replied; 'a little sorrow opens all the fountains of grief--too much seals them. I have wept till I can weep no more. My sensibility is, I believe, by this succession of calamities dulled till it is dead.'
Aurelian, we learn, long before the fire had completed its work of destruction, recalled the orders he had given, and labored to arrest the progress of the flames. In this he to a considerable extent succeeded, and it was owing to this that the great temple was saved, and others among the most costly and beautiful structures.
On the third day after the capture of the city and the massacre of the inhabitants, the army of the 'conqueror and destroyer' withdrew from the scene of its glory, and again disappeared beyond the desert. I sought not the presence of Aurelian while before the city, for I cared not to meet him drenched in the blood of women and children. But as soon as he and his legions were departed, we turned toward the city, as children to visit the dead body of a parent.
No language which I can use, my Curtius, can give you any just conception of the horrors which met our view on the way to the walls and in the city itself. For more than a mile before we reached the gates, the roads, and the fields on either hand, were strewed with the bodies of those who, in their attempts to escape, had been overtaken by the enemy and slain. Many a group of bodies did we notice, evidently those of a family, the parents and the children, who, hoping to reach in company some place of security, had all--and without resistance apparently--fallen a sacrifice to the relentless fury of their pursuers. Immediately in the vicinity of the walls and under them the earth was concealed from the eye by the multitudes of the slain, and all objects were stained with the one hue of blood. Upon passing the gates and entering within those walls which I had been accustomed to regard as embracing in their wide and graceful sweep the most beautiful city of the world, my eye met naught but black and smoking ruins, fallen houses and temples, the streets choked with piles of still blazing timbers and the half-burned bodies of the dead. As I penetrated farther into the heart of the city, and to its better built and more spacious quarters, I found the destruction to be less--that the principal streets were standing, and many of the more distinguished structures. But every where--in the streets--upon the porticos of private and public dwellings--upon the steps and within the very walls of the temples of every faith--in all places, the most sacred as well as the most common, lay the mangled carcasses of the wretched inhabitants. None apparently had been spared. The aged were there, with their silvered heads--little children and infants--women, the young, the beautiful, the good--all were there, slaughtered in every imaginable way, and presenting to the eye spectacles of horror and of grief enough to break the heart and craze the brain. For one could not but go back to the day and the hour when they died, and suffer with these innocent thousands a part of what they suffered, when the gates of the city giving way, the infuriated soldiery poured in, and with death written in their faces and clamoring on their tongues, their quiet houses were invaded, and resisting or unresisting, they all fell together beneath the murderous knives of the savage foe. What shrieks then rent and filled the air--what prayers of agony went up to the gods for life to those whose ears on mercy's side were adders'--what piercing supplications that life might be taken and honor spared! The apartments of the rich and the noble presented the most harrowing spectacles, where the inmates, delicately nurtured, and knowing of danger, evil and wrong only by name and report, had first endured all that nature most abhors, and then, there where their souls had died, were slain by their brutal violators with every circumstance of most demoniac cruelty. Happy for those who, like Gracchus, foresaw the tempest and fled. These calamities have fallen chiefly upon the adherents of Antiochus: but among them, alas! were some of the noblest and most honored families of the capital. Their bodies now lie blackened and bloated upon their door-stones--their own halls have become their tombs.
We sought together the house of Gracchus. We found it partly consumed, partly standing and uninjured. The offices and one of the rear wings were burned and level with the ground, but there the flames had been arrested, and the remainder, comprising all the principal apartments, stands as it stood before. The palace of Zenobia has escaped without harm--its lofty walls and insulated position were its protection. The Long Portico, with its columns, monuments, and inscriptions, remains also untouched by the flames and unprofaned by any violence from the wanton soldiery. The fire has fed upon the poorer quarters of the city, where the buildings were composed in greater proportion of wood, and spared most of the great thorough-fares, principal avenues, and squares of the capital, which, being constructed in the most solid manner of stone, resisted effectually all progress of the flames, and though frequently set on fire for the purpose of their destruction, the fire perished from a want of material, or it consumed but the single edifice where it was kindled.
The silence of death and of ruin rests over this once and but so lately populous city. As I stood upon a high point which overlooked a large extent of it, I could discern no signs of life, except here and there a detachment of the Roman guard dragging forth the bodies of the slaughtered citizens, and bearing them to be burned or buried. This whole people is extinct. In a single day these hundred thousands have found a common grave. Not one remains to bewail or bury the dead. Where are the anxious crowds, who when their dwellings have been burned, eagerly rush in as the flames have spent themselves to sorrow over their smoking altars, and pry with busy search among the hot ashes, if perchance they may yet rescue some lamented treasure, or bear away at least the bones of a parent or a child, buried beneath the ruins? They are not here. It is broad day, and the sun shines bright, but not a living form is seen lingering about these desolated streets and squares. Birds of prey are already hovering round, and alighting without apprehension of disturbance wherever the banquet invites them; and soon as the shadows of evening shall fall, the hyena of the desert will be here to gorge himself upon what they have left, having scented afar off upon the tainted breeze the fumes of the rich feast here spread for him. These Roman grave-diggers from the legion of Bassus, are alone upon the ground to contend with them for their prize. O, miserable condition of humanity! Why is it that to man have been given passions which he cannot tame, and which sink him below the brute! Why is it that a few ambitious are permitted by the Great Ruler, in the selfish pursuit of their own aggrandizement, to scatter in ruin, desolation, and death, whole kingdoms--making misery and destruction the steps by which they mount up to their seats of pride! O, gentle doctrine of Christ! doctrine of love and of peace, when shall it be that I and all mankind shall know thy truth, and the world smile with a new happiness under thy life-giving reign!
Fausta, as she has wandered with us through this wilderness of woe, has uttered scarce a word. This appalling and afflicting sight of her beloved Palmyra--her pride and hope--in whose glory her very life was wrapt up--so soon become a blackened heap of ruins--its power departed--its busy multitudes dead, and their dwellings empty or consumed--has deprived her of all but tears. She has only wept. The sensibility which she feared was dead she finds endued with life enough--with too much for either her peace or safety.
As soon as it became known in the neighboring districts that the army of Aurelian was withdrawn, and that the troops left in the camp and upon the walls were no longer commissioned to destroy, they who had succeeded in effecting their escape, or who had early retreated from the scene of danger, began to venture back. These were accompanied by great numbers of the country people, who now poured in either to witness with their own eyes the great horror of the times, or to seek for the bodies of children or friends, who, dwelling in the city for purposes of trade or labor or as soldiers, had fallen in the common ruin. For many days might the streets, and walls, and ruins be seen covered with crowds of men and women, who weeping sought among the piles of the yet unburied and decaying dead, dear relatives, or friends, or lovers, for whom they hoped to perform the last offices of unfailing affection; a hope that was, perhaps, in scarce a single instance fulfilled. And how could any but those in whom love had swallowed up reason once imagine that where the dead were heaped fathoms deep, mangled by every shocking mode of death, and now defaced yet more by the processes of corruption, they could identify the forms which they last saw beautiful in all the bloom of health? But love is love; it feels and cannot reason.
Cerronius Bassus, the lieutenant of Aurelian, has with a humane violence laid hold upon this curious and gazing multitude, and changed them all into buriers of the dead they came to seek and bewail. To save the country, himself and his soldiers from pestilence, he hastens the necessary work of interment. The plains are trenched, and into them the bodies of the citizens are indiscriminately thrown. There now lie in narrow space the multitudes of Palmyra.
The mangled bodies of Antiochus, Herennianus and Timolaus have been found among the slain.
* * * * * We go no longer to the city, but remain at our solitary tower--now however populous as the city itself. We converse of the past and the future; but most of my speedy departure for Rome.
It is the purpose of Gracchus to continue for a season yet in the quiet retreat where he now is. He then will return to the capital, and become one of those to lay again the foundations of another prosperity.
'Nature,' he says, 'has given to our city a position and resources which, it seems to me, no power of man can deprive her of, nor prevent their always creating and sustaining upon this same spot a large population. Circumstances like the present may oppress and overwhelm for a time, but time will again revive and rebuild, and embellish. I will not for one sit down in inactivity or useless grief, but if Aurelian does not hinder, shall apply the remainder of my days to the restoration of Palmyra. In Calpurnius and Fausta I shall look to find my lieutenants, prompt to execute the commissions intrusted to them by their commander.'
'We shall fall behind,' said Calpurnius, 'I warrant you, in no quality of affection or zeal in the great task.'
'Fausta,' continued Gracchus, 'has as yet no heart but for the dead and the lost. But, Lucius, when you shall have been not long in Rome, you will hear that she lives then but among the living, and runs before me and Calpurnius in every labor that promises advantage to Palmyra.'
'It may be so,' replied Fausta, 'but I have no faith that it will. We have witnessed the death of our country; we have attended the funeral obsequies. I have no belief in any rising again from the dead.'
'Give not way, my child,' said Gracchus, 'to grief and despair. These are among the worst enemies of man. They are the true doubters and deniers of the gods and their providence, who want a spirit of trust and hope. Hope and confidence are the best religion, and the truest worship. I who do not believe in the existence of the gods am therefore to be commended for my religion more than many of the staunchest defenders of Pagan, Christian, or Jewish superstitions, who too often, it seems to me, feel and act as if the world were abandoned of all divine care, and its affairs and events the sport of a blind chance. What is best for man and the condition of the world, must be most agreeable to the gods--to the creator and possessor of the world--be they one or many. Can we doubt which is best for the remaining inhabitants of Palmyra, and the provinces around which are dependent upon her trade--to leave her in her ruin finally and utterly to perish, or apply every energy to her restoration? Is it better that the sands of the desert should within a few years heap themselves over these remaining walls and dwellings, or that we who survive should cleanse, and repair, and rebuild, in the confident hope, before we in our turn are called to disappear, to behold our beloved city again thronged with its thousands of busy and laborious inhabitants? Carthage is again populous as in the days of Hamilcar. You, Fausta, may live to see Palmyra what it was in the days of Zenobia.'
'The gods grant it may be so!' exclaimed Fausta; and a bright smile at the vision her father had raised up before her illuminated her features. She looked for a moment as if the reality had been suddenly revealed to her, and had stood forth in all its glory.
'I do not despair,' continued Gracchus, 'of the Romans themselves doing something toward the restoration of that which they have wantonly and foolishly destroyed.'
'But they cannot give life to the dead, and therefore it is but little that they can do at best,' said Fausta. 'They may indeed rebuild the temple of the Sun, but they cannot give us back the godlike form of Longinus, and kindle within it that intellect that shed light over the world; they may raise again the walls of the citizen's humble dwelling, but they cannot re-animate the bodies of the slaughtered multitudes, and call them out from their trenches to people again the silent streets.'
'They cannot indeed,' rejoined Gracchus; 'they cannot do every thing--they may not do any thing. But I think they will, and that the Emperor himself, when reason returns, will himself set the example. And from you, Lucius, when once more in Rome, shall I look for substantial aid in disposing favorably the mind both of Aurelian and the Senate.'
'I can never be more happily employed,' I replied, 'than in serving either you or Palmyra. You will have a powerful advocate also in Zenobia.'
'Yes,' said Gracchus, 'if her life be spared, which must for some time be still quite uncertain. After gracing the triumph of Aurelian, she, like Longinus, may be offered as a new largess to the still hungering legions.'
'Nay, there I think, Gracchus, you do Aurelian hardly justice. Although he has bound himself by no oath, yet virtually is he sworn to spare Zenobia--and his least word is true as his sword.'
Thus have we passed the last days and hours of my residence here. I should in vain attempt, my Curtius, to tell you how strongly I am bound to this place--to this kingdom and city, and above all to those who survive this destruction. No Palmyrene can lament with more sincerity than I the whirlwind of desolation that has passed over them, obliterating almost their place and name--nor from any one do there ascend more fervent prayers that prosperity may yet return, and these wide-spread ruins again rise and glow in their ancient beauty. Rome has by former acts of unparalleled barbarism covered her name with reproach, but by none has she so drenched it in guilt as by this wanton annihilation--for so do I regard it--of one of the fairest cities and kingdoms of the earth. The day of Aurelian's triumph may be a day of triumph to him, but to Rome it will be a day of never forgotten infamy.
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18 | None | From Piso to Fausta I trust that you have safely received the letter which, as we entered the Tiber, I was fortunate enough to place on board a vessel bound directly to Berytus. In that I have told you of my journey and voyage, and have said many other things of more consequence still, both to you, Gracchus, and myself.
I now write to you from my own dwelling upon the Coelian, where I have been these many days that have intervened since the date of my former letter. If you have waited impatiently to hear from me again, I hope that I shall now atone for what may seem a too long delay, by telling you of those concerning whom you wish chiefly to hear and know--Zenobia and Julia.
But first let me say that I have found Portia in health, and as happy as she could be after her bitter disappointment in Calpurnius. This has proved a misfortune, less only than the loss of our father himself. That a Piso should live, and be other than a Roman; that he should live and bear arms against his country--this has been to her one of those inexplicable mysteries in the providence of the gods that has tasked her piety to the utmost. In vain has she scrutinized her life to discover what fault has drawn down upon her and her house this heavy retribution. Yet her grief is lightened by what I have told her of the conduct of Calpurnius at Antioch and Emesa. At such times, when I have related the events of those great days, and the part which my brother took, the pride of the Roman has yielded to that of the mother, and she has not been able to conceal her satisfaction. 'Ah,' she would say, 'my brave boy! That was like him! I warrant Zabdas himself was not greater! What might he not be, were he but in Rome!'
Portia is never weary with inquiring into every thing relating to yourself and Gracchus. My letters, many and minute as they have been, so far from satisfying her, serve only as themes for new and endless conversations, in which, as well as I am able, I set before her my whole life while in Palmyra, and every event, from the conversation at the table or in the porticos, to the fall of the city and the death of Longinus. So great is her desire to know all concerning the 'hero Fausta,' and so unsatisfying is the all that I can say, that I shall not wonder if, after the ceremony of the triumph, she should herself propose a journey to Palmyra, to see you once more with her own eyes, and once more fold you in her arms. You will rejoice to be told that she bewails, even with tears, the ruin of the city, and the cruel massacre of its inhabitants. She condemns the Emperor in language as strong as you or I should use. The slaughter of Sandarion and his troops she will by no means allow to be a sufficient justification of the act. And of her opinion are all the chief citizens of Rome.
I have found Curtius and Lucilia also in health. They are at their villa upon the Tiber. The first to greet me there were Laco and Coelia. Their gratitude was affecting and oppressive. Indeed there is no duty so hard as to receive with grace the thanks of those whom you have obliged. Curtius is for once satisfied that I have performed with fidelity the part of a correspondent. He even wonders at my diligence. The advantage is, I believe for the first time, fairly on my side; though you can yourself bear testimony, having heard all his epistles, how many he wrote, and with what vividness and exactness he made Rome to pass before us. I think he will not be prevented from writing to you by anything I can say. He drops in every day, Lucilia sometimes with him, and never leaves us till he has exhausted his prepared questions concerning you, and the great events which have taken place--there remaining innumerable points to a man of his exact turn of mind, about which he must insist upon fuller and more careful information. I think he will draw up a history of the war. I hope he will--no one could do it better.
Aurelian, you will have heard, upon leaving Palmyra, instead of continuing on the route upon which he set out toward Emesa and Antioch, turned aside to Egypt, in order to put down by one of his sudden movements the Egyptian merchant Firmus, who, with a genius for war greater than for traffic, had placed himself at the head of the people, and proclaimed their independence of Rome. As the friend and ally of Zenobia--although he could render her during the siege no assistance--I must pity his misfortunes and his end. News has just reached us that his armies have been defeated, he himself taken and put to death, and his new-made kingdom reduced again to the condition of a Roman province. We now every hour look to hear of the arrival of the Emperor and his armies.
Although there has been observed some secrecy concerning the progress and places of residence of Zenobia, yet we learn with a good degree of certainty that she is now at Brundusium, awaiting the further orders of Aurelian, having gone over-land from Byzantium to Apollonia, and there crossing the Adriatic. I have not been much disturbed by the reports which have prevailed, because I thought I knew too much of the Queen to think them well grounded. Yet I confess I have suffered somewhat when, upon resorting to the capitol or the baths, I have found the principal topic to be the death of Zenobia--according to some, of grief, on her way from Antioch to Byzantium--or, as others had it, of hunger, she having resolutely refused all nourishment. I have given no credit to the rumor, yet as all stories of this kind are a mixture of truth and error, so in this case I can conceive easily that it has some foundation in reality, and I am led to believe from it that the sufferings of the Queen have been great. How indeed could they be otherwise! A feebler spirit than Zenobia's, and a feebler frame would necessarily have been destroyed. With what impatience do I await the hour that shall see her in Rome! I am happily already relieved of all anxiety as to her treatment by Aurelian--no fear need be entertained for her safety. Desirous as far as may be to atone for the rash severity of his orders in Syria, he will distinguish with every possible mark of honor the Queen, her family, and such other of the inhabitants of Palmyra as have been reserved to grace his triumph.
For this august ceremony the preparations are already making. It is the sole topic of conversation, and the single object toward which seem to be bent the whole genius and industry of the capital. It is intended to surpass in magnificence all that has been done by former Emperors or Generals. The materials for it are collecting from every part of the empire, and the remotest regions of Asia and Africa. Every day there arrive cargoes either of wild beasts or of prisoners, destined to the amphitheatre; illustrious captives also from Asia, Germany and Gaul, among whom are Tetricus and his son. The Tiber is crowded with vessels bringing in the treasures drawn from Palmyra--her silver and gold--her statuary and works of art--and every object of curiosity and taste that was susceptible of transportation across the desert and the ocean.
It is now certain that the Queen has advanced as far as Tusculum, where with Julia, Livia, Faustula and Vabalathus, they will remain--at a villa of Aurelian's it is said--till the day of the triumph. Separation seems the more painful as they approach nearer. Although knowing that they would be scrupulously prohibited from all intercourse with any beyond the precincts of the villa itself, I have not been restrained from going again and again to Tusculum, and passing through it and around it in the hope to obtain were it but a distant glimpse of persons to whom I am bound more closely than to any others on earth. But it has been all in vain. I shall not see them till I behold them a part of the triumphal procession of their conqueror.
* * * * * Aurelian has arrived--the long expected day has come--and is gone. His triumph has been celebrated, and with a magnificence and a pomp greater than the traditionary glories of those of Pompey, Trajan, Titus, or even the secular games of Philip.
I have seen Zenobia!
The sun of Italy never poured a flood of more golden light upon the great capital and its surrounding plains than on the day of Aurelian's triumph. The airs of Palmyra were never more soft. The whole city was early abroad, and, added to our own overgrown population, there were the inhabitants of all the neighboring towns and cities, and strangers from all parts of the empire, so that it was with difficulty and labor only, and no little danger too, that the spectacle could be seen. I obtained a position opposite the capitol, from which I could observe the whole of this proud display of the power and greatness of Rome.
A long train of elephants opened the show, their huge sides and limbs hung with cloth of gold and scarlet, some having upon their backs military towers or other fanciful structures, which were filled with the natives of Asia or Africa, all arrayed in the richest costumes of their countries. These were followed by wild animals, and those remarkable for their beauty, from every part of the world, either led, as in the case of lions, tigers, leopards, by those who from long management of them possessed the same power over them as the groom over his horse, or else drawn along upon low platforms, upon which they were made to perform a thousand antic tricks for the amusement of the gaping and wondering crowds. Then came not many fewer than two thousand gladiators in pairs, all arranged in such a manner as to display to the greatest advantage their well-knit joints, and projecting and swollen muscles. Of these a great number have already perished on the arena of the Flavian, and in the sea fights in Domitian's theatre. Next, upon gilded wagons, and so arranged as to produce the most dazzling effect, came the spoils of the wars of Aurelian--treasures of art, rich cloths and embroideries, utensils of gold and silver, pictures, statues, and works in brass, from the cities of Gaul, from Asia and from Egypt. Conspicuous here over all were the rich and gorgeous contents of the palace of Zenobia. The huge wains groaned under the weight of vessels of gold and silver, of ivory, and of the most precious woods of India. The jewelled wine cups, vases, and golden sculpture of Demetrius attracted the gaze and excited the admiration of every beholder. Immediately after these came a crowd of youths richly habited in the costumes of a thousand different tribes, bearing in their hands, upon cushions of silk, crowns of gold and precious stones, the offerings of the cities and kingdoms of all the world, as it were, to the power and fame of Aurelian. Following these came the ambassadors of all nations, sumptuously arrayed in the habits of their respective countries. Then an innumerable train of captives, showing plainly in their downcast eyes, in their fixed and melancholy gaze, that hope had taken its departure from their breasts. Among these were many women from the shores of the Danube, taken in arms fighting for their country, of enormous stature, and clothed in the warlike costume of their tribes.
But why do I detain you with these things, when it is of one only that you wish to hear. I cannot tell you with what impatience I waited for that part of the procession to approach where were Zenobia and Julia. I thought its line would stretch on forever. And it was the ninth hour before the alternate shouts and deep silence of the multitudes announced that the conqueror was drawing near the capitol. As the first shout arose, I turned toward the quarter whence it came, and beheld, not Aurelian as I expected, but the Gallic Emperor Tetricus--yet slave of his army and of Victoria--accompanied by the prince his son, and followed by other illustrious captives from Gaul. All eyes were turned with pity upon him, and with indignation too that Aurelian should thus treat a Roman, and once--a Senator. But sympathy for him was instantly lost in a stronger feeling of the same kind for Zenobia, who came immediately after. You can imagine, Fausta, better than I can describe them, my sensations, when I saw our beloved friend--her whom I had seen treated never otherwise than as a sovereign Queen, and with all the imposing pomp of the Persian ceremonial--now on foot, and exposed to the rude gaze of the Roman populace--toiling beneath the rays of a hot sun, and the weight of jewels, such as both for richness and beauty, were never before seen in Rome--and of chains of gold, which, first passing around her neck and arms, were then borne up by attendant slaves. I could have wept to see her so--yes, and did. My impulse was to break through the crowd and support her almost fainting form--but I well knew that my life would answer for the rashness on the spot. I could only therefore, like the rest, wonder and gaze. And never did she seem to me, not even in the midst of her own court, to blaze forth with such transcendent beauty--yet touched with grief. Her look was not that of dejection of one who was broken and crushed by misfortune--there was no blush of shame. It was rather one of profound heartbreaking melancholy, Her full eyes looked as if privacy only was wanted for them to overflow with floods of tears. But they fell not. Her gaze was fixed on vacancy, or else cast toward the ground. She seemed like one unobservant of all around her, and buried in thoughts to which all else were strangers, and had nothing in common with. They were in Palmyra, and with her slaughtered multitudes. Yet though she wept not, others did; and one could, see all along, wherever she moved, the Roman hardness yielding to pity, and melting down before the all-subduing presence of this wonderful woman. The most touching phrases of compassion fell constantly upon my ear. And ever and anon as in the road there would happen some rough or damp place, the kind souls would throw down upon it whatever of their garments they could quickest divest themselves of, that those feet, little used to such encounters, might receive no harm. And as when other parts of the procession were passing by, shouts of triumph and vulgar joy frequently arose from the motley crowds, yet when Zenobia appeared, a death-like silence prevailed, or it was interrupted only by exclamations of admiration or pity, or of indignation at Aurelian for so using her. But this happened not long. For when the Emperor's pride had been sufficiently gratified, and just there where he came over against the steps of the capitol, he himself, crowned as he was with the diadem of universal empire, descended from his chariot, and, unlocking the chains of gold that bound the limbs of the Queen, led and placed her in her own chariot--that chariot in which she had fondly hoped herself to enter Rome in triumph--between Julia and Livia. Upon this the air was rent with the grateful acclamations of the countless multitudes. The Queen's countenance brightened for a moment as if with the expressive sentiment, 'The gods bless you!' and was then buried in the folds of her robe. And when after the lapse of many minutes it was again raised and turned toward the people, every one might see that tears burning hot had coursed her cheeks, and relieved a heart which else might well have burst with its restrained emotion. Soon as the chariot which held her had disappeared upon the other side of the capitol, I extricated myself from the crowd and returned home. It was not till the shades of evening had fallen, that the last of the procession had passed the front of the capitol, and the Emperor reposed within the walls of his palace. The evening was devoted to the shows of the theatres.
Seven days succeeding this first day of the triumph have been devoted to games and shows. I attended them not, but escaping from the tumult and confusion of the city, passed them in a very different manner--you will at once conjecture where and with whom. It was indeed as you suppose in the society of Zenobia, Julia, and Livia.
What the immediate destination of the Queen was to be I knew not, nor did any seem to know even so late as the day of the triumph. It was only known that her treatment was to be lenient. But on the day after, it became public in the city, that the Emperor had bestowed upon her his magnificent villa, not far from Hadrian's at Tibur, and at the close of the first day of the triumph a chariot of Aurelian in waiting had conveyed her there. This was to me transporting news, as it will be to you.
On the evening of that day I was at Tibur. Had I been a son or a brother, the Queen could not have received me with more emotion. But I leave it to you to imagine the first moments of our interview. When our greetings were over, the first thought, at least the first question, of Zenobia was, concerning you and Gracchus. All her inquiries, as well as those of Julia, I was happily able to answer in the most exact manner, out of the fulness of your letter. When I had finished this agreeable duty, the Queen said, 'Our happiness were complete, as now it can be, could Fausta and Gracchus be but added to our numbers. I shall hope, in the lapse of days or months, to entice them away for a season from their melancholy home. And yet what better can I offer them here? There they behold their city in ruins; here their Queen. There they already detect some tokens of reviving life; here they would have before them but the picture of decay and approaching death. But these things I ought not to say. Piso, you will be glad to learn the purposes of Aurelian concerning Palmyra. He has already set apart large sums for the restoration of its walls and temples; and what is more and better, he has made Gracchus governor of the city and province, with liberal promises of treasure to carry into effect whatever designs he may conceive as most likely to people again the silent streets, and fill them with the merchants of the East and the West.'
'Aurelian, I am persuaded,' I replied, 'will feel upon him the weight of the strongest motives to do all that he can to repair the injuries he has inflicted. Then too, in addition to this, his nature is generous.'
'It is so,' said Julia. 'How happy if he had been less subject to his passions! The proofs of a generous nature you see here, Piso, every where around us. This vast and magnificent palace, with its extensive grounds, has he freely bestowed upon us; and here, as your eye has already informed you, has he caused to be brought and arranged every article of use or luxury found in the palace of Palmyra, and capable of transportation.'
'I could hardly believe,' I said, 'as I approached the great entrance, and beheld objects so familiar--still more, when I came within the walls and saw around me all that I had seen in Palmyra, that I was indeed in the vicinity of Rome, and had not been by some strange power transported suddenly to Asia. In the rash violence of Aurelian in Syria, and in this reparation, both here and there, of the evil he has committed to the farthest extent possible, you witness a genuine revelation of his character. Would that principle rather than passion were the governing power of his life!'
Although I have passed many days at Tibur, yet have I seen but little of Zenobia. She is silent and solitary. Her thoughts are evidently never with the present, but far back among the scenes of her former life. To converse is an effort. The lines of grief have fixed themselves upon her countenance; her very form and manner are expressive of a soul bowed and subdued by misfortune. Her pride seems no longer, as on the day of the triumph, to bear her up. It is Zenobia before me, but--like her own beautiful capital--it is Zenobia in ruins. That she suffers too from the reproaches of a mind now conscious of its errors I cannot doubt. She blames Aurelian, but I am persuaded she blames with no less severity herself. It is, I doubt not, the image of her desolated country rising before her, that causes her so often in the midst of discourse with us, or when she has been sitting long silent, suddenly to start and clasp her hands, and withdraw weeping to her apartments, or the seclusion of the garden.
'It will be long, very long,' Julia has said to me, 'before Zenobia will recover from this grief--if indeed she ever do. Would that the principles of that faith, which we have learned to believe and prize, were also hers! Life would then still place before her a great object, which now she wants. The past absorbs her wholly--the future is nothing. She dwells upon glories that are departed forever, and is able to anticipate no other, or greater, in this world--nor with certainty in any beyond it.'
I said, 'But doubtless she throws herself at this season upon her Jewish faith and philosophy. She has ever spoken of it with respect at least, if not with affection.'
'I do not,' Julia replied, 'think that her faith in Judaism is of much avail to her. She has found pleasure in reading the sacred books of the Jews, and has often expressed warmly her admiration of the great principles of moral living and of religious belief found in them; but I do not think that she has derived from them that which she conceives to be the sum of all religion and philosophy, a firm belief and hope of immortality. I am sure she has not. She has sometimes spoken as if such a belief possessed likelihood, but never as if she entertained it in the way the Christian does.'
* * * * * You will rejoice, dear Fausta, to learn that Zenobia no longer opposes me; but waits with impatience for the day when I shall be an inmate of her palace.
What think you is the news to-day in Rome? No other and no less than this--which you may well suppose has for some time been no news to me--that Livia is to be Empress! It has just been made public by authority; and I despatch my letter that you may be immediately informed of it. It has brought another expression upon the countenance of Zenobia.
Curtius and Lucilia have this moment come in, and full of these tidings interrupt me--they with Portia wish to be remembered to you with affection. I shall soon write again--telling you then especially of my interviews with Aurelian, and of Probus. Farewell.
Note.
Piso, it will be observed, makes no mention of, nor allusion to, the story recorded by the historian Zosimus, of the Queen's public accusation of Longinus and the other principal persons of Palmyra, as authors of the rebellion, in order to save her own life. It is well known that Zenobia, chiefly on the authority of this historian, has been charged with having laid upon Longinus and her other counsellors, all the blame of the revolt, as if she had been driven by them against her will into the course she pursued. The words of Zosimus are as follows: 'Emisam rediit et Zenobiam cum suis complicibus pro tribunali stitit. Illa causas exponens, et eulpa semet eximens multos alios in medium protulit, qui cam veluti fæminam seduxissent; quorum in numero et Longinus erat. --Itidem alii quos Zenobia detulerat suppliciis adficiebatur.'
This is suspicious upon the face of it. As if Aurelian needed a formal tribunal and the testimony of Zenobia to inform him who the great men of Palmyra were, and her chief advisers. Longinus, at least, we may suppose, was as well known as Zenobia. But if there was a formal tribunal, then evidence was heard--and not upon one side only, but both. If therefore the statements of Zenobia were false, there were Longinus and the other accused persons, with their witnesses, to make it appear so. If they were true--if she had been overruled--led--or driven--by her advisers, then it was not unreasonable that punishment--if some must suffer--should fall where it did.
But against Zosimus may be arrayed the words of Aurelian himself, in a letter addressed to the Roman senate, and preserved by Pollio. He says, 'Nec ego illi (Zenobiæ) vitam conservassem nisi cam scissem multum Rom: Reip. profuisse, quum sibi vel liberis suis Orientis servaret imperium.'
Aurelian here says that he would not have spared her life but for one reason, namely, that she had done such signal service to the republic, when either for herself or for her children she had saved the empire in the East. Aurelian spared her life, if he himself is to be believed, _because of services rendered to Rome,_ NOT because by the accusation of others she had cleared herself of the charge of rebellion. Her life was never in any danger, if this be true; and unless it were, she of course had no motive to criminate Longinus in the manner related by Zosimus.
Longinus and his companions suffered therefore, not in consequence of any special accusation--it was not needed for their condemnation--but as a matter of course, because they were leaders and directors of the revolt. It was the usage of war.
Why are Pollio (the biographer of Zenobia) and Vopiscus (the biographer of Aurelian) and Zonaras all silent respecting so remarkable a point of the history of Zenobia? Pollio does not hesitate to say that she had been thought by some to have been partner in the crime of murdering Odenatus and his son Herod--a charge which never found credit in any quarter. Such a biographer surely would not have passed over in silence the unutterable baseness of Zenobia in the accusation of Longinus, if he had ever heard of it and had esteemed it to have come to him as well vouched at least as the other story. Omission under such circumstances is good evidence that it came to him not so well vouched--that is, not vouched at all.
Supposing Zenobia to have been guilty of the crime laid to her charge, could Aurelian have treated her afterwards in the way he did? He not only took her to Rome and gave her a palace at Tibur, and the state of a Queen, but according to some, [Footnote: Filiam (Zenobiæ) unam uxorem duxisse Aurellanum; cæteras nobilibus Romanis despondisee. --Zonoras, lib. xii. p. 480.] married one of her daughters. Could he have done all this had she been the mean, base and wicked woman Zosimus makes her out to be? The history of this same eastern expedition furnishes a case somewhat in point, and which may serve to show in what light he would probably have regarded Zenobia. Tyana, a city of Asia Minor, for a long time resisted all his attempts to reduce it. At length it was betrayed into his hands by one of its chief citizens, Heraclammon. How did Aurelian receive and treat him after entering the city? Let Vopiscus reply: 'Nam et Heraclammon proditorem patriæ suse sapiens victor occidit.' --'Heraclammon who betrayed his country the conqueror wisely slew.' But this historian has preserved a letter of Aurelian, in which he speaks of this same traitor: 'Aurelianus Aug: Mallio Chiloni. Occidi passus sum cujus quasi beneficio Tyanam recepi. Ego vero proditorem amare non potui; et libenter tuli quod eum milites occiderunt: neque enim mihi fidem servare potuisset qui patriæ non pepercit,' etc. He permits Heraclammon to be slain _because he could not love a traitor_, and _because one who had betrayed his country could not be trusted_--while Zenobia, if Zosimus is to be believed, whose act was of the same kind--only infinitely more base--he receives and crowns with distinguished honor, and marries her daughter!
'Zosime pretend,' says Tillemont, 'que ce fut Zenobie mesme qui se déchargea sur eux des choses don't on l'accusoit, (ce qui répondroit bien mal a cette grandeur d'ame qu'on lay attribue.') --Hist, des Emp. t. II. p. _212_.
The evidence of Zosimus is not of so high a character as justly to weigh against a strong internal improbability, or the silence of other historians. Gibbon says of him, 'In good policy we must use the service of Zosimus without esteeming him or trusting him,' and repeatedly designates him as 'credulous,' 'partial,' 'disingenuous.' By Tillemont he is called a 'bad authority.'
Nothing would seem to be plainer, than that Aurelian spared Zenobia because she was a woman; because she was a beautiful and every way remarkable woman; and as he himself says, because she had protected and saved the empire in the East; and that he sacrificed Longinus and the other chief men of Palmyra, because such was the usage of war.
Page 122. Piso speaks of the prowess of Aurelian, and of the songs sung in the camp in honor of him. Vopiscus has preserved one of these.
'Mille mille, mille, decollavimus, Unus homo mille decollavimus, Mille vivat qui mille occidit. Tantum vini habet nemo Quantum fudit sanguinis.
'Mille Sarmatas, mille Francos Semel et semel occidimus Mille Persas quærimus.'
The two letters on pages 135 and 137, it will be observed, are nearly the same as those found in Vopiscus.
On page 172, Aurelian is designated by a soldier under the nick-name of 'Hand-to-his-Sword.' Vopiscus also mentions this as a name by which he was known in the army. 'Nam quum essent in exercitu duo Aureliani tribuni, hic, et alius qui cum Valeriano captus est, huic signum (cognomen) exercitus apposuerat "Mannus ad ferrum,"' &c. Page 280. Piso represents Aurelian as wearing a crown. He was the first since the Tarquins who had dared to invest his brow with that symbol of tyranny. So says Aurelius Victor. 'Iste primus apud Romanos Diadema capiti innexuit; gemmisque et aurata omni veste, quod adhuc fere incognitum Romanis moribus videbatur, usus est.' On the same page, in the account of the triumph, a chariot of Zenobia is stated to have been exhibited, in which it was her belief that she should enter Rome in triumph, which indeed had been made for that very purpose. This singular fact is confirmed by Vopiscus--'tertius, (currus) quem sibi Zenobia composuerat sperans se urbem Romanam cum eo visuram; quod eam non fefellit, nam cum eo urbem ingressa est victa et triumphata.'
| {
"id": "8938"
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1 | TWO GENERATIONS | Why all delights are vain, but that most vain Which with pain purchased doth inherit pain.
“My dear--Madam--what you call heart does not come into the question at all.”
Sir John Meredith was sitting slightly behind Lady Cantourne, leaning towards her with a somewhat stiffened replica of his former grace. But he was not looking at her--and she knew it.
They were both watching a group at the other side of the great ballroom.
“Sir John Meredith on Heart,” said the old lady, with a depth of significance in her voice.
“And why not?”
“Yes, indeed. Why not?”
Sir John smiled with that well-bred cynicism which a new school has not yet succeeded in imitating. They were of the old school, these two; and their worldliness, their cynicism, their conversational attitude, belonged to a bygone period. It was a cleaner period in some ways--a period devoid of slums. Ours, on the contrary, is an age of slums wherein we all dabble to the detriment of our hands--mental, literary, and theological.
Sir John moved slightly in his chair, leaning one hand on one knee. His back was very flat, his clothes were perfect, his hair was not his own, nor yet his teeth. But his manners were entirely his own. His face was eighty years old, and yet he smiled his keen society smile with the best of them. There was not a young man in the room of whom he was afraid, conversationally.
“No, Lady Cantourne,” he repeated. “Your charming niece is heartless. She will get on.”
Lady Cantourne smiled, and drew the glove further up her stout and motherly right arm.
“She will get on,” she admitted. “As to the other, it is early to give an opinion.”
“She has had the best of trainings--,” he murmured. And Lady Cantourne turned on him with a twinkle amidst the wrinkles.
“For which?” she asked.
“Choisissez!” he answered, with a bow.
One sees a veteran swordsman take up the foil with a tentative turn of the wrist, lunging at thin air. His zest for the game has gone; but the skill lingers, and at times he is tempted to show the younger blades a pass or two. These were veteran fencers with a skill of their own, which they loved to display at times. The zest was that of remembrance; the sword-play of words was above the head of a younger generation given to slang and music-hall airs; and so these two had little bouts for their own edification, and enjoyed the glitter of it vastly.
Sir John's face relaxed into the only repose he ever allowed it; for he had a habit of twitching and moving his lips such as some old men have. And occasionally, in an access of further senility, he fumbled with his fingers at his mouth. He was clean shaven, and even in his old age he was handsome beyond other men--standing an upright six feet two.
The object of his attention was the belle of that ball, Miss Millicent Chyne, who was hemmed into a corner by a group of eager dancers anxious to insert their names in some corner of her card. She was the fashion at that time. And she probably did not know that at least half of the men crowded round because the other half were there. Nothing succeeds like the success that knows how to draw a crowd.
She received the ovation self-possessedly enough, but without that hauteur affected by belles of balls--in books. She seemed to have a fresh smile for each new applicant--a smile which conveyed to each in turn the fact that she had been attempting all along to get her programme safely into his hands. A halting masculine pen will not be expected to explain how she compassed this, beyond a gentle intimation that masculine vanity had a good deal to do with her success.
“She is having an excellent time,” said Sir John, weighing on the modern phrase with a subtle sarcasm. He was addicted to the use of modern phraseology, spiced with a cynicism of his own.
“Yes, I cannot help sympathising with her--a little,” answered the lady.
“Nor I. It will not last.”
“Well, she is only gathering the rosebuds.”
“Wisely so, your ladyship. They at least LOOK as if they were going to last. The full-blown roses do not.”
Lady Cantourne gave a little sigh. This was the difference between them. She could not watch without an occasional thought for a time that was no more. The man seemed to be content that the past had been lived through and would never renew itself.
“After all,” she said, “she is my sister's child. The sympathy may only be a matter of blood. Perhaps I was like that myself once. Was I? You can tell me.”
She looked slowly round the room and his face hardened. He knew that she was reflecting that there was no one else who could tell her; and he did not like it.
“No,” he answered readily.
“And what was the difference?”
She looked straight in front of her with a strange old-fashioned demureness.
“Their name is legion, for they are many.”
“Name a few. Was I as good-looking as that, for instance?”
He smiled--a wise, old, woman-searching smile.
“You were better-looking than that,” he said, with a glance beneath his lashless lids. “Moreover, there was more of the grand lady about you. You behaved better. There was less shaking hands with your partners, less nodding and becking, and none of that modern forwardness which is called, I believe, camaraderie.”
“Thank you, Sir John,” she answered, looking at him frankly with a pleasant smile. “But it is probable that we had the faults of our age.”
He fumbled at his lips, having reasons of his own for disliking too close a scrutiny of his face.
“That is more than probable,” he answered, rather indistinctly.
“Then,” she said, tapping the back of his gloved hand with her fan, “we ought to be merciful to the faults of a succeeding generation. Tell me who is that young man with the long stride who is getting himself introduced now.”
“That,” answered Sir John, who prided himself upon knowing every one--knowing who they were and who they were not--“is young Oscard.”
“Son of the eccentric Oscard?”
“Son of the eccentric Oscard.”
“And where did he get that brown face?”
“He got that in Africa, where he has been shooting. He forms part of some one else's bag at the present moment.”
“What do you mean?”
“He has been apportioned a dance. Your fair niece has bagged him.”
If he had only known it, Guy Oscard won the privilege of a waltz by the same brown face which Lady Cantourne had so promptly noted. Coupled with a sturdy uprightness of carriage, this raised him at a bound above the pallid habitues of ballroom and pavement. It was, perhaps, only natural that Millicent Chyne should have noted this man as soon as he crossed the threshold. He was as remarkable as some free and dignified denizen of the forest in the midst of domestic animals. She mentally put him down for a waltz, and before five minutes had elapsed he was bowing before her while a mutual friend murmured his name. One does not know how young ladies manage these little affairs, but the fact remains that they are managed. Moreover, it is a singular thing that the young persons who succeed in the ballroom rarely succeed on the larger and rougher floor of life. Your belle of the ball, like your Senior Wrangler, never seems to do much afterwards--and Afterwards is Life.
The other young men rather fell back before Guy Oscard--scared, perhaps, by his long stride, and afraid that he might crush their puny toes. This enabled Miss Chyne to give him the very next dance, of which the music was commencing.
“I feel rather out of all this,” said Oscard, as they moved away together. “You must excuse uncouthness.”
“I see no signs of it,” laughed Millicent. “You are behaving very nicely. You cannot help being larger and stronger than--the others. I should say it was an advantage and something to be proud of.”
“Oh, it is not that,” replied Oscard; “it is a feeling of unkemptness and want of smartness among these men who look so clean and correct. Shall we dance?”
He looked down at her, with an admiration which almost amounted to awe, as if afraid of entering the throng with such a dainty and wonderful charge upon his powers of steering. Millicent Chyne saw the glance and liked it. It was different from the others, quite devoid of criticism, rather simple and full of honest admiration. She was so beautiful that she could hardly be expected to be unaware of the fact. She had merely to make comparisons, to look in the mirror and see that her hair was fairer and softer, that her complexion was more delicately perfect, that her slight, rounded figure was more graceful than any around her. Added to this, she knew that she had more to say than other girls--a larger stock of those little frivolous, advice-seeking, aid-demanding nothings than her compeers seemed to possess.
She knew that in saying them she could look brighter and prettier and more intelligent than her competitors.
“Yes,” she said, “let us dance by all means.”
Here also she knew her own proficiency, and in a few seconds she found that her partner was worthy of her skill.
“Where have you been?” she asked presently. “I am sure you have been away somewhere, exploring or something.”
“I have only been in Africa, shooting.”
“Oh, how interesting! You must tell me all about it!”
“I am afraid,” replied Guy Oscard, with a somewhat shy laugh, “that that would NOT be interesting. Besides, I could not tell you now.”
“No, but some other time. I suppose you are not going back to Africa to-morrow, Mr. Oscard?”
“Not quite. And perhaps we may meet somewhere else.”
“I hope so,” replied Miss Chyne. “Besides, you know my aunt, Lady Cantourne. I live with her, you know.”
“I know her slightly.”
“Then take an opportunity of improving the acquaintanceship. She is sitting under the ragged banner over there.”
Millicent Chyne indicated the direction with a nod of the head, and while he looked she took the opportunity of glancing hastily round the room. She was seeking some one.
“Yes,” said Oscard, “I see her, talking to an old gentleman who looks like Voltaire. I shall give her a chance of recognising me before the evening is out. I don't mind being snubbed if--” He paused and steered neatly through a narrow place.
“If what?” she asked, when they were in swing again.
“If it means seeing you again,” he answered bluntly--more bluntly than she was accustomed to. But she liked it. It was a novelty after the smaller change of ballroom compliments.
She was watching the door all the while.
Presently the music ceased and they made their way back to the spot whence he had taken her. She led the way thither by an almost imperceptible pressure of her fingers on his arm. There were several men waiting there, and one or two more entering the room and looking languidly round.
“There comes the favoured one,” Lady Cantourne muttered, with a veiled glance towards her companion.
Sir John's grey eyes followed the direction of her glance.
“My bright boy?” he inquired, with a wealth of sarcasm on the adjective.
“Your bright boy,” she replied.
“I hope not,” he said curtly.
They were watching a tall fair man in the doorway who seemed to know everybody, so slow was his progress into the room. The most remarkable thing about this man was a certain grace of movement. He seemed to be specially constructed to live in narrow, hampered places. He was above six feet; but, being of slight build, he moved with a certain languidness which saved him from that unwieldiness usually associated with large men in a drawing-room.
Such was Jack Meredith, one of the best known figures in London society. He had hitherto succeeded in moving through the mazes of that coterie, as he now moved through this room, without jarring against any one.
| {
"id": "8939"
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2 | OVER THE OLD GROUND | A man who never makes mistakes never makes anything else either.
Miss Millicent Chyne was vaguely conscious of success--and such a consciousness is apt to make the best of us a trifle elated. It was certainly one of the best balls of the season, and Miss Chyne's dress was, without doubt, one of the most successful articles of its sort there.
Jack Meredith saw that fact and noted it as soon as he came into the room. Moreover, it gratified him, and he was pleased to reflect that he was no mean critic in such matters. There could be no doubt about it, because he KNEW as well as any woman there. He knew that Millicent Chyne was dressed in the latest fashion--no furbished-up gown from the hands of her maid, but a unique creation from Bond Street.
“Well,” she asked in a low voice, as she handed him her programme, “are you pleased with it?”
“Eminently so.”
She glanced down at her own dress. It was not the nervous glance of the debutante, but the practised flash of experienced eyes which see without appearing to look.
“I am glad,” she murmured.
He handed her back the card with the orthodox smile and bow of gratitude, but there was something more in his eyes.
“Is that what you did it for?” he inquired.
“Of course,” with a glance half coquettish, half humble.
She took the card and allowed it to drop pendent from her fan without looking at it. He had written nothing on it. This was all a form. The dances that were his had been inscribed on the engagement-card long before by smaller fingers than his.
She turned to take her attendant partner's arm with a little flaunt--a little movement of the hips to bring her dress, and possibly herself, more prominently beneath Jack Meredith's notice. His eyes followed her with that incomparably pleasant society smile which he had no doubt inherited from his father. Then he turned and mingled with the well-dressed throng, bowing where he ought to bow--asking with fervour for dances in plain but influential quarters where dances were to be easily obtained.
And all the while his father and Lady Cantourne watched.
“Yes, I THINK,” the lady was saying, “that that is the favoured one.”
“I fear so.”
“I noticed,” observed Lady Cantourne, “that he asked for a dance.”
“And apparently got one--or more.”
“Apparently so, Sir John.”
“Moreover--” Lady Cantourne turned on him with her usual vivacity.
“Moreover?” she repeated.
“He did not need to write it down on the card; it was written there already.”
She closed her fan with a faint smile “I sometimes wonder,” she said, “whether, in our young days, you were so preternaturally observant as you are now.”
“No,” he answered, “I was not. I affected scales of the very opaquest description, like the rest of my kind.”
In the meantime this man's son was going about his business with a leisurely savoir-faire which few could rival. Jack Meredith was the beau-ideal of the society man in the best acceptation of the word. One met him wherever the best people congregated, and he invariably seemed to know what to do and how to do it better than his compeers. If it was dancing in the season, Jack Meredith danced, and no man rivalled him. If it was grouse shooting, Jack Meredith held his gun as straight as any man. All the polite accomplishments in their season seemed to come to him without effort; but there was in all the same lack of heart--that utter want of enthusiasm which imparted to his presence a subtle suggestion of boredom. The truth was that he was over-educated. Sir John had taught him how to live and move and have his being with so minute a care, so keen an insight, that existence seemed to be nothing but an habitual observance of set rules.
Sir John called him sarcastically his “bright boy,” his “hopeful offspring,” the “pride of his old age”; but somewhere in his shrivelled old heart there nestled an unbounded love and admiration for his son. Jack had assimilated his teaching with a wonderful aptitude. He had as nearly as possible realised Sir John Meredith's idea of what an English gentleman should be, and the old aristocrat's standard was uncompromisingly high. Public school, University, and two years on the Continent had produced a finished man, educated to the finger-tips, deeply read, clever, bright, and occasionally witty; but Jack Meredith was at this time nothing more than a brilliant conglomerate of possibilities. He had obeyed his father to the letter with a conscientiousness bred of admiration. He had always felt that his father knew best. And now he seemed to be waiting--possibly for further orders. He was suggestive of a perfect piece of mechanism standing idle for want of work delicate enough to be manipulated by its delicate craft. Sir John had impressed upon him the desirability of being independent, and he had promptly cultivated that excellent quality, taking kindly enough to rooms of his own in a fashionable quarter. But upon the principle of taking a horse to the water and being unable to make him drink, Sir John had not hitherto succeeded in making Jack take the initiative. He had turned out such a finished and polished English gentleman as his soul delighted in, and now he waited in cynical silence for Jack Meredith to take his life into his own hands and do something brilliant with it. All that he had done up to now had been to prove that he could attain to a greater social popularity than any other man of his age and station; but this was not exactly the success that Sir John Meredith coveted for his son. He had tasted of this success himself, and knew its thinness of flavour--its fleeting value.
Behind his keen old eyes such thoughts as these were passing, while he watched Jack go up and claim his dance at the hands of Miss Millicent Chyne. He could almost guess what they said; for Jack was grave and she smiled demurely. They began dancing at once, and as soon as the floor became crowded they disappeared.
Jack Meredith was an adept at such matters. He knew a seat at the end of a long passage where they could sit, the beheld of all beholders who happened to pass; but no one could possibly overhear their conversation--no one could surprise them. It was essentially a strategical position.
“Well,” inquired Jack, with a peculiar breathlessness, when they were seated, “have you thought about it?”
She gave a little nod.
They seemed to be taking up some conversation at a point where it had been dropped on a previous occasion.
“And?” he inquired suavely. The society polish was very thickly coated over the man; but his eyes had a hungry look.
By way of reply her gloved hand crept out towards his, which rested on the chair at his side.
“Jack!” she whispered; and that was all.
It was very prettily done, and quite naturally. He was a judge of such matters, and appreciated the girlish simplicity of the action.
He took the small gloved hand and pressed it lovingly. The thoroughness of his social training prevented any further display of affection.
“Thank Heaven!” he murmured.
They were essentially of the nineteenth century--these two. At a previous dance he had asked her to marry him; she had deferred her answer, and now she had given it. These little matters are all a question of taste. We do not kneel nowadays, either physically or morally. If we are a trifle off hand, it is the women who are to blame. They should not write in magazines of a doubtful reputation in language devoid of the benefit of the doubt. They are equal to us. Bien! One does not kneel to an equal. A better writer than any of us says that men serve women kneeling, and when they get to their feet they go away. We are being hauled up to our feet now.
“But--?” began the girl, and went no further.
“But what?”
“There will be difficulties.”
“No doubt,” he answered, with quiet mockery. “There always are. I will see to them. Difficulties are not without a certain advantage. They keep one on the alert.”
“Your father,” said the girl. “Sir John--he will object.”
Jack Meredith reflected for a moment, lazily, with that leisureliness which gave a sense of repose to his presence.
“Possibly,” he admitted gravely.
“He dislikes me,” said the girl. “He is one of my failures.”
“I did not know you had any. Have you tried? I cannot quite admit the possibility of failure.”
Millicent Chyne smiled. He had emphasised the last remark with lover-like glance and tone. She was young enough; her own beauty was new enough to herself to blind her to the possibility mentioned. She had not even got to the stage of classifying as dull all men who did not fall in love with her at first sight. It was her first season, one must remember.
“I have not tried very hard,” she said. “But I don't see why I should not fail.”
“That is easily explained.”
“Why?”
“No looking-glass about.”
She gave a little pout, but she liked it.
The music of the next dance was beginning, and, remembering their social obligations, they both rose. She laid her hand on his arm, and for a moment his fingers pressed hers. He smiled down into her upturned eyes with love, but without passion. He never for a second risked the “gentleman” and showed the “man.” He was suggestive of a forest pool with a smiling rippled surface. There might be depth, but it was yet unpenetrated.
“Shall we go now,” he said, “and say a few words in passing to my redoubtable father? It might be effective.”
“Yes, if you like,” she answered promptly. There is no more confident being on earth than a pretty girl in a successful dress.
They met Sir John at the entrance of the ballroom. He was wandering about, taking in a vast deal of detail.
“Well, young lady,” he said, with an old-world bow, “are you having a successful evening?”
Millicent laughed. She never knew quite how to take Sir John.
“Yes, I think so, thank you,” she answered, with a pretty smile. “I am enjoying myself very much.”
There was just the least suggestion of shyness in her manner, and it is just possible that this softened the old cynic's heart, for his manner was kinder and almost fatherly when he spoke again.
“Ah!” he said, “at your time of life you do not want much--plenty of partners and a few ices. Both easily obtainable.”
The last words were turned into a compliment by the courtly inclination of the head that accompanied them.
The exigencies of the moment forced the young people to go with the stream.
“Jack,” said Sir John, as they passed on, “when you have been deprived of Miss Chyne's society, come and console yourself with a glass of sherry.”
The dutiful son nodded a semi-indifferent acquiescence and disappeared.
“Wonderful thing, sherry!” observed Sir John Meredith for his own edification.
He waited there until Jack returned, and then they set off in search of refreshment. The son seemed to know his whereabouts better than the father.
“This way,” he said, “through the conservatory.”
Amidst the palms and tropical ferns Sir John paused. A great deal of care had been devoted to this conservatory. Half hidden among languorous scented flowers were a thousand tiny lights, while overhead in the gloom towered graceful palms and bananas. A fountain murmured pleasantly amidst a cluster of maidenhairs. The music from the ballroom fell softly over all.
Sir John Meredith and his son stood in silence, looking around them. Finally their eyes met.
“Are you in earnest with that girl?” asked Sir John abruptly.
“I am,” replied Jack. He was smiling pleasantly.
“And you think there is a chance of her marrying you--unless, of course, something better turns up?”
“With all due modesty I do.”
Sir John's hand was at his mouth. He stood up his full six feet two and looked hard at his son, whose eyes were level with his own. They were ideal representatives of their school.
“And what do you propose marrying upon? She, I understand, has about eight hundred a year. I respect you too much to suspect any foolish notions of love in a cottage.”
Jack Meredith made no reply. He was entirely dependent upon his father.
“Of course,” said Sir John, “when I die you will be a baronet, and there will be enough to live on like a gentleman. You had better tell Miss Chyne that. She may not know it. Girls are so innocent. But I am not dead yet, and I shall take especial care to live some time.”
“In order to prevent my marriage?” suggested Jack. He was still smiling, and somehow Sir John felt a little uneasy. He did not understand that smile.
“Precisely so,” he said, rather indistinctly.
“What is your objection?” inquired Jack Meredith, after a little pause.
“I object to the girl.”
“Upon what grounds?”
“I should prefer you to marry a woman of heart.”
“Heart?” repeated Jack, with a suspicion of hereditary cynicism. “I do not think heart is of much consequence. Besides, in this case, surely that is my province! you would not have her wear it on her sleeve?”
“She could not do that: not enough sleeve.”
Sir John Meredith had his own views on ladies' dress.
“But,” he added, “we will not quarrel. Arrange matters with the young lady as best you can. I shall never approve of such a match, and without my approval you cannot well marry.”
“I do not admit that.”
“Indeed?”
“Your approval means money,” explained this dutiful son politely. “I might manage to make the money for myself.”
Sir John moved away.
“You might,” he admitted, looking back. “I should be very glad to see you doing so. It is an excellent thing--money.”
And he walked leisurely away.
| {
"id": "8939"
} |
3 | A FAREWELL | Since called The Paradise of Fools, to few unknown.
Having been taught to take all the chances and changes of life with a well-bred calmness of demeanour, Jack Meredith turned the teaching against the instructor. He pursued the course of his social duties without appearing to devote so much as a thought to the quarrel which had taken place in the conservatory. His smile was as ready as ever, his sight as keen where an elderly lady looked hungry, his laughter as near the surface as society demands. It is probable that Sir John suffered more, though he betrayed nothing. Youth has the upper hand in these cases, for life is a larger thing when we are young. As we get on in years, our eggs, to use a homely simile, have a way of accumulating into one basket.
At eleven o'clock the next morning Sir John Meredith's valet intimated to his master that Mr. Meredith was waiting in the breakfast-room. Sir John was in the midst of his toilet--a complicated affair, which, like other works of art, would not bear contemplation when incomplete.
“Tell him,” said the uncompromising old gentleman, “that I will come down when I am ready.”
He made a more careful toilet than usual, and finally came down in a gay tweed suit, of which the general effect was distinctly heightened by a pair of white gaiters. He was upright, trim, and perfectly determined. Jack noted that his clothes looked a little emptier than usual--that was all.
“Well,” said the father, “I suppose we both made fools of ourselves last night.”
“I have not yet seen you do that,” replied the son, laying aside the morning paper which he had been reading.
Sir John smiled grimly. He hoped that Jack was right.
“Well,” he added, “let us call it a difference of opinion.”
“Yes.”
Something in the monosyllable made the old gentleman's lips twitch nervously.
“I may mention,” he said, with a dangerous suavity, “that I still hold to my opinion.”
Jack Meredith rose, without haste. This, like the interview of the previous night, was conducted upon strictly high-bred and gentlemanly lines.
“And I to mine,” he said. “That is why I took the liberty of calling at this early hour. I thought that perhaps we might effect some sort of a compromise.”
“It is very good of you to make the proposal.” Sir John kept his fingers away from his lips by an obvious exercise of self-control. “I am not partial to compromises: they savour of commerce.”
Jack gave a queer, curt nod, and moved towards the door. Sir John extended his unsteady hand and rang the bell.
“Good-morning,” he said.
“Graves,” he added, to the servant who stood in the doorway, “when you have closed the door behind Mr. Meredith, bring up breakfast, if you please.”
On the doorstep Jack Meredith looked at his watch. He had an appointment with Millicent Chyne at half-past eleven--an hour when Lady Cantourne might reasonably be expected to be absent at the weekly meeting of a society which, under the guise and nomenclature of friendship, busied itself in making servant girls discontented with their situations.
It was only eleven o'clock. Jack turned to the left, out of the quiet but fashionable street, and a few steps took him to Piccadilly. He went into the first jeweller's shop he saw, and bought a plain diamond ring. Then he walked on to keep his appointment with his affianced wife.
Miss Millicent Chyne was waiting for him with that mixture of maidenly feelings of which the discreet novelist only details a selection. It is not customary to dwell upon thoughts of vague regret at the approaching withdrawal of a universal admiration--at the future necessity for discreet and humdrum behaviour quite devoid of the excitement that lurks in a double meaning. Let it, therefore, be ours to note the outward signs of a very natural emotion. Miss Chyne noted them herself with care, and not without a few deft touches to hair and dress. When Jack Meredith entered the room she was standing near the window, holding back the curtain with one hand and watching, half shyly, for his advent.
What struck her at once was his gravity; and he must have seen the droop in her eyes, for he immediately assumed the pleasant, half-reckless smile which the world of London society had learnt to associate with his name.
He played the lover rather well, with that finish and absence of self-consciousness which only comes from sincerity; and when Miss Chyne found opportunity to look at him a second time she was fully convinced that she loved him. She was, perhaps, carried off her feet a little--metaphorically speaking, of course--by his evident sincerity. At that moment she would have done anything that he had asked her. The pleasures of society, the social amenities of aristocratic life, seemed to have vanished suddenly into thin air, and only love was left. She had always known that Jack Meredith was superior in a thousand ways to all her admirers. More gentlemanly, more truthful, honester, nobler, more worthy of love. Beyond that, he was cleverer, despite a certain laziness of disposition--more brilliant and more amusing. He had always been to a great extent the chosen one; and yet it was with a certain surprise and sense of unreality that she found what she had drifted into. She saw the diamond ring, and looked upon it with the beautiful emotions aroused by those small stones in the female breast; but she did not seem to recognise her own finger within the golden hoop.
It was at this moment--while she dwelt in this new unreal world--that he elected to tell her of his quarrel with his father. And when one walks through a maze of unrealities nothing seems to come amiss or to cause surprise. He detailed the very words they had used, and to Millicent Chyne it did not sound like a real quarrel such as might affect two lives to their very end. It was not important. It did not come into her life; for at that moment she did not know what her life was.
“And so,” said Jack Meredith, finishing his story, “we have begun badly--as badly as the most romantic might desire.”
“Yes, theoretically it is consoling. But I am sorry, Jack, very sorry. I hate quarrelling with anybody.”
“So do I. I haven't time as a rule. But the old gentleman is so easy to quarrel with, he takes all the trouble.”
“Jack,” she said, with pretty determination, “you must go and say you are sorry. Go now! I wish I could go with you.”
But Meredith did not move. He was smiling at her in evident admiration. She looked very pretty with that determined little pout of the lips, and perhaps she knew it. Moreover, he did not seem to attach so much importance to the thought as to the result--to the mind as to the lips.
“Ah!” he said, “you do not know the old gentleman. That is not our way of doing things. We are not expansive.”
His face was grave again, and she noticed it with a sudden throb of misgiving. She did not want to begin taking life seriously so soon. It was like going back to school in the middle of the holidays.
“But it will be all right in a day or two, will it not? It is not serious,” she said.
“I am afraid it is serious, Millicent.”
He took her hand with a gravity which made matters worse.
“What a pity!” she exclaimed; and somehow both the words and the speaker rang shallow. She did not seem to grasp the situation, which was perhaps beyond her reach. But she did the next best thing. She looked puzzled, pretty, and helpless.
“What is to be done, Jack?” she said, laying her two hands on his breast and looking up pleadingly.
There was something in the man's clear-cut face--something beyond aristocratic repose--as he looked down into her eyes--something which Sir John Meredith might perhaps have liked to see there. To all men comes, soon or late, the moment wherein their lives are suddenly thrust into their own hands to shape or spoil, to make or mar. It seemed that where a clever man had failed, this light-hearted girl was about to succeed. Two small clinging hands on Jack Meredith's breast had apparently wrought more than all Sir John's care and foresight. At last the light of energy gleamed in Jack Meredith's lazy eyes. At last he faced the “initiative,” and seemed in no wise abashed.
“There are two things,” he answered; “a small choice.”
“Yes.”
“The first and the simplest,” he went on in the tone of voice which she had never quite fathomed--half cynical, half amused--“is to pretend that last night--never was.”
He waited for her verdict.
“We will not do that,” she replied softly; “we will take the other alternative, whatever it is.”
She glanced up half shyly beneath her lashes, and he felt that no difficulty could affright him.
“The other is generally supposed to be very difficult,” he said. “It means--waiting.”
“Oh,” she answered cheerfully, “there is no hurry. I do not want to be married yet.”
“Waiting perhaps for years,” he added--and he saw her face drop.
“Why?”
“Because I am dependent on my father for everything. We could not marry without his consent.”
A peculiar, hard look crept into her eyes, and in some subtle way it made her look older. After a little pause she said: “But we can surely get that--between us?”
“I propose doing without it.”
She looked up--past him--out of the window. All the youthfulness seemed to have left her face, but he did not appear to see that.
“How can you do so?”
“Well, I can work. I suppose I must be good for something--a bountiful Providence must surely have seen to that. The difficulty is to find out what it intends me for. We are not called in the night nowadays to a special mission--we have to find it out for ourselves.”
“Do you know what I should like you to be?” she said, with a bright smile and one of those sudden descents into shallowness which he appeared to like.
“What?”
“A politician.”
“Then I shall be a politician,” he answered, with loverlike promptness.
“That would be very nice,” she said; and the castles she at once began to build were not entirely aerial in their structure.
This was not a new idea. They had talked of politics before as a possible career for himself. They had moved in a circle where politics and politicians held a first place--a circle removed above the glamour of art, and wherein Bohemianism was not reckoned an attraction. She knew that behind his listlessness of manner he possessed a certain steady energy, perfect self-command, and that combination of self-confidence and indifference which usually attains success in the world. She was ambitious not only for herself but for him, and she was shrewd enough to know that the only safe outlet for a woman's ambition is the channel of a husband's career.
“But,” he said, “it will mean waiting.”
He paused, and then the worldly wisdom which he had learnt from his father--that worldly wisdom which is sometimes called cynicism--prompted him to lay the matter before her in its worst light.
“It will mean waiting for a couple of years at least. And for you it will mean the dulness of a long engagement, and the anomalous position of an engaged girl without her rightful protector. It will mean that your position in society will be quite different--that half the world will pity you, while the other half thinks you--well, a fool for your pains.”
“I don't care,” she answered.
“Of course,” he went on, “I must go away. That is the only way to get on in politics in these days. I must go away and get a speciality. I must know more about some country than any other man; and when I come back I must keep that country ever before the eye of the intelligent British workman who reads the halfpenny evening paper. That is fame--those are politics.”
She laughed. There seemed to be no fear of her taking life too seriously yet. And, truth to tell, he did not appear to wish her to do so.
“But you must not go very far,” she said sweetly.
“Africa.”
“Africa? That does not sound interesting.”
“It is interesting: moreover, it is the coming country. I may be able to make money out there, and money is a necessity at present.”
“I do not like it, Jack,” she said in a foreboding voice. “When do you go?”
“At once--in fact, I came to say good-bye. It is better to do these things very promptly--to disappear before the onlookers have quite understood what is happening. When they begin to understand they begin to interfere. They cannot help it. I will write to Lady Cantourne if you like.”
“No, I will tell her.”
So he bade her good-bye, and those things that lovers say were duly said; but they are not for us to chronicle. Such words are better left to be remembered or forgotten as time and circumstance and result may decree. For one may never tell what words will do when they are laid within the years like the little morsel of leaven that leaveneth the whole.
| {
"id": "8939"
} |
4 | A TRAGEDY | Who knows? the man is proven by the hour.
In his stately bedroom on the second floor of the quietest house in Russell Square Mr. Thomas Oscard--the eccentric Oscard--lay, perhaps, a-dying.
Thomas Oscard had written the finest history of an extinct people that had ever been penned; and it has been decreed that he who writes a fine history or paints a fine picture can hardly be too eccentric. Our business, however, does not lie in the life of this historian--a life which certain grave wiseacres from the West End had shaken their heads over a few hours before we find him lying prone on a four-poster counting for the thousandth time the number of tassels fringing the roof of it. In bold contradiction to the medical opinion, the nurse was, however, hopeful. Whether this comforting condition of mind arose from long experience of the ways of doctors, or from an acquired philosophy, it is not our place to inquire. But that her opinion was sincere is not to be doubted. She had, as a matter of fact, gone to the pantomime, leaving the patient under the immediate eye of his son, Guy Oscard.
The temporary nurse was sitting in a cretonne-covered armchair, with a book of travel on his knee, and thoughts of Millicent Chyne in his mind. The astute have no doubt discovered ere this that the mind of Mr. Guy Oscard was a piece of mental mechanism more noticeable for solidity of structure than brilliancy or rapidity of execution. Thoughts and ideas and principles had a strange way of getting mixed up with the machinery, and sticking there. Guy Oscard had, for instance, concluded some years before that the Winchester rifle was, as he termed it, “no go”; and if the Pope of Rome and the patentee of the firearm in question had crossed Europe upon their bended knees to persuade him to use a Winchester rifle, he would have received them with a pleasant smile and an offer of refreshment. He would have listened to their arguments with that patience of manner which characterises men of large stature, and for the rest of his days he would have continued to follow big game with an “Express” double-barrelled rifle as heretofore. Men who decide such small matters as these for themselves, after mature and somewhat slow consideration, have a way of also deciding the large issues of life without pausing to consider either expediency or the experience of their neighbours.
During the last forty-eight hours Guy Oscard had made the decision that life without Millicent Chyne would not be worth having, and in the hush of the great house he was pondering over this new feature in his existence. Like all deliberate men, he was placidly sanguine. Something in the life of savage sport that he had led had no doubt taught him to rely upon his own nerve and capacity more than do most men. It is the indoor atmosphere that contains the germ of pessimism.
His thoughts cannot have been disturbing, for presently his eyes closed and he appeared to be slumbering. If it was sleep, it was the light unconsciousness of the traveller; for a sound so small, that waking ears could scarce have heard it, caused him to lift his lashes cautiously. It was the sound of bare feet on carpet.
Through his lashes Guy Oscard saw his father standing on the hearthrug within two yards of him. There was something strange, something unnatural and disturbing, about the movements of the man that made Guy keep quite still--watching him.
Upon the mantelpiece the medicine bottles were arranged in a row, and the “eccentric Oscard” was studying the labels with a feverish haste. One bottle--a blue one--bore two labels: the smaller, of brilliant orange colour, with the word “Poison” in startling simplicity. He took this up and slowly drew the cork. It was a liniment for neuralgic pains in an overwrought head--belladonna. He poured some into a medicine-glass, carefully measuring two tablespoonsful.
Then Guy Oscard sprang up and wrenched the glass away from him, throwing the contents into the fire, which flared up. Quick as thought the bottle was at the sick man's lips. He was a heavily built man with powerful limbs. Guy seized his arm, closed with him, and for a moment there was a deadly struggle, while the pungent odour of the poison filled the atmosphere. At last Guy fell back on art: he tripped his father cleverly, and they both rolled on the floor.
The sick man still gripped the bottle, but he could not get it to his lips. He poured some of the stuff over his son's face, but fortunately missed his eyes. They struggled on the floor in the dim light, panting and gasping, but speaking no word. The strength of the elder man was unnatural--it frightened the younger and stronger combatant.
At last Guy Oscard got his knee on his father's neck, and bent his wrist back until he was forced to let go his hold on the bottle.
“Get back to bed!” said the son breathlessly. “Get back to bed.”
Thomas Oscard suddenly changed his tactics. He whined and cringed to his own offspring, and begged him to give him the bottle. He dragged across the floor on his knees--three thousand pounds a year on its knees to Guy Oscard, who wanted that money because he knew that he would never get Millicent Chyne without it.
“Get back to bed!” repeated Guy sternly, and at last the man crept sullenly between the rumpled sheets.
Guy put things straight in a simple, man-like way. The doctor's instructions were quite clear. If any sign of excitement or mental unrest manifested itself, the sleeping-draught contained in a small bottle on the mantelpiece was to be administered at once, or the consequences would be fatal. But Thomas Oscard refused to take it. He seemed determined to kill himself. The son stood over him and tried threats, persuasion, prayers; and all the while there was in his heart the knowledge that, unless his father could be made to sleep, the reputed three thousand a year would be his before the morning.
It was worse than the actual physical struggle on the floor. The temptation was almost too strong.
After a while the sick man became quieter, but he still refused to take the opiate. He closed his eyes and made no answer to Guy's repeated supplication. Finally he ceased shaking his head in negation, and at last breathed regularly like a child asleep.
Afterwards Guy Oscard reproached himself for suspecting nothing. But he knew nothing of brain diseases--those strange maladies that kill the human in the human being. He knew, however, why his father had tried to kill himself. It was not the first time. It was panic. He was afraid of going mad, of dying mad like his father before him. People called him eccentric. Some said that he was mad. But it was not so. It was only fear of madness. He was still asleep when the nurse came back from the pantomime in a cab, and Guy crept softly downstairs to let her in.
They stood in the hall for some time while Guy told her in whispers about the belladonna liniment. Then they went upstairs together and found Thomas Oscard--the great historian--dead on the floor. The liniment bottle, which Guy had left on the mantelpiece, was in his hand--empty. He had feigned sleep in order to carry out his purpose. He had preferred death, of which the meaning was unknown to him, to the possibility of that living death in which his father had lingered for many years. And who shall say that his thoughts were entirely selfish? There may have been a father's love somewhere in this action. Thomas Oscard, the eccentric savant, had always been a strong man, independent of the world's opinion. He had done this thing deliberately, of mature thought, going straight to his Creator with his poor human brain full of argument and reason to prove himself right before the Judge.
They picked him up and laid him reverently on the bed, and then Guy went for the doctor.
“I could,” said the attendant of Death, when he had heard the whole story--“I could give you a certificate. I could reconcile it, I mean, with my professional conscience and my--other conscience. He could not have lived thirty hours--there was an abscess on his brain. But I should advise you to face the inquest. It might be”--he paused, looking keenly into the young fellow's face--“it might be that at some future date, when you are quite an old man, you may feel inclined to tell this story.”
Again the doctor paused, glancing with a vague smile towards the woman who stood beside them. “Or even nurse--” he added, not troubling to finish his sentence. “We all have our moments of expansiveness. And it is a story that might easily be--discredited.”
So the “eccentric Oscard” finished his earthly career in the intellectual atmosphere of a coroner's jury. And the world rather liked it than otherwise. The world, one finds, does like novelty, even in death. Some day an American will invent a new funeral, and if he can only get the patent, will make a fortune.
The world was, moreover, pleased to pity Guy Oscard with that pure and simple sympathy which is ever accorded to the wealthy in affliction. Every one knew that Thomas Oscard had enjoyed affluence during his lifetime, and there was no reason to suppose that Guy would not step into very comfortably lined shoes. It was unfortunate that he should lose his father in such a tragic way, and the keen eye of the world saw the weak point in his story at once. But the coroner's jury was respectful, and the rest of society never so much as hinted at the possibility that Guy had not tried his best to keep his father alive.
Among the letters of sympathy, the young fellow received a note from Lady Cantourne, whose acquaintance he had successfully renewed, and in due course he called at her house in Vere Gardens to express somewhat lamely his gratitude.
Her ladyship was at home, and Guy Oscard was ushered into her presence. He looked round the room, with a half-suppressed gleam of searching which was not overlooked by Millicent Chyne's aunt.
“It is very good of you to call,” she said, “so soon after your poor father's death. You must have had a great deal of trouble and worry. Millicent and I have often talked of you, and sympathised with you. She is out at the moment, but I expect her back almost at once. Will you sit down?”
“Thanks,” he said; and after he had drawn forward a chair he repeated the word vaguely and comprehensively--“Thanks”--as if to cover as many demands for gratitude as she could make.
“I knew your father very well,” continued the lady, “when we were young. Great things were expected of him. Perhaps he expected them himself. That may have accounted for a tone of pessimism that always seemed to pervade his life. Now, you are quite different. You are not a pessimist--eh?”
Guy gravely examined the back of his gloved hand. “Well, I am afraid I have not given much thought to the question.”
Lady Cantourne gave him the benefit of a very wise smile. She was unrivalled in the art of turning a young man's mind inside out and shaking it.
“No! you need not apologise. I am glad you have given no thought to it. Thought is the beginning of pessimism, especially with young men; for if they think at all, they naturally think of themselves.”
“Well, I suppose I think as much of myself as other people.”
“Possibly; but I doubt it. Will you ring the bell? We will have some tea.”
He obeyed, and she watched him with approval. For some reason--possibly because he had not sought it--Lady Cantourne had bestowed her entire approval on this young man. She had been duly informed, a few weeks before this visit, that Miss Millicent Chyne had engaged herself to be married to Jack Meredith whenever that youth should find himself in a position to claim the fulfilment of her promise. She said nothing against the choice or the decision, merely observing that she was sorry that Jack had quarrelled with his father. By way of counsel she advised strongly that the engagement be kept as much in the background as possible. She did not, she said, want Millicent to be a sort of red rag to Sir John, and there was no necessity to publish abroad the lamentable fact that a quarrel had resulted from a very natural and convenient attachment. Sir John was a faddist, and, like the rest of his kind, eminently pig-headed. It was more than likely that in a few months he would recall his son, and, in the meantime, it never did a girl any good to be quarrelled over.
Lady Cantourne was too clever a woman to object to the engagement. On the contrary, she allowed it to be understood that such a match was in many ways entirely satisfactory. At the same time, however, she encouraged Guy Oscard to come to the house, knowing quite well that he was entirely unaware of the existence of Jack Meredith.
“I am,” she was in the habit of saying, “a great advocate for allowing young people to manage their affairs themselves. One young man, if he be the right one, has more influence with a girl than a thousand old women; and it is just possible that he knows better than they do what is for her happiness. It is the interference that makes mischief.”
So she did not interfere. She merely invited Guy Oscard to stay to tea.
| {
"id": "8939"
} |
5 | WITH EDGED TOOLS | Do not give dalliance Too much the rein; the strongest oaths are straw To the fire i' the blood.
“And what do you intend to do with yourself?” asked Lady Cantourne when she had poured out tea. “You surely do not intend to mope in that dismal house in Russell Square?”
“No, I shall let it if I can.”
“Oh, you will have no difficulty in doing that. People live in Russell Square again now, and try to make one believe that it is a fashionable quarter. Your father stayed on there because the carpets fitted the rooms, and on account of other ancestral conveniences. He did not live there--he knew nothing of his immediate environments. He lived in Phoenicia.”
“Then,” continued Guy Oscard, “I shall go abroad.”
“Ah! Will you have a second cup? Why will you go abroad?”
Guy Oscard paused for a moment. “I know an old hippopotamus in a certain African river who has twice upset me. I want to go back and shoot him.”
“Don't go at once; that would be running away from it--not from the hippopotamus--from the inquest. It does not matter being upset in an African river; but you must not be upset in London by--an inquest.”
“I did not propose going at once,” replied Guy Oscard, with a peculiar smile which Lady Cantourne thought she understood. “It will take me some time to set my affairs in order--the will, and all that.”
Lady Cantourne waited with perfectly suppressed curiosity, and while she was waiting Millicent Chyne came into the room. The girl was dressed with her habitual perfect taste and success, and she came forward with a smile of genuine pleasure, holding out a small hand neatly gloved in Suede. Her ladyship was looking not at Millicent, but at Guy Oscard.
Millicent was glad that he had called, and said so. She did not add that during the three months that had elapsed since Jack Meredith's sudden departure she had gradually recognised the approaching ebb of a very full tide of popularity. It was rather dull at times, when Jack's letters arrived at intervals of two and sometimes of three weeks--when her girl friends allowed her to see somewhat plainly that she was no longer to be counted as one of themselves. An engagement sits as it were on a young lady like a weak heart on a schoolboy, setting her apart in work and play, debarring her from participation in that game of life which is ever going forward where young folks do congregate.
Moreover, she liked Guy Oscard. He aroused her curiosity. There was something in him--something which she vaguely suspected to be connected with herself--which she wanted to drag out and examine. She possessed more than the usual allowance of curiosity--which is saying a good deal; for one may take it that the beginning of all things in the feminine mind is curiosity. They want to know what is inside Love before they love. Guy Oscard was a new specimen of the genus homo; and while remaining perfectly faithful to Jack, Miss Millicent Chyne saw no reason why she should not pass the time by studying him, merely, of course, in a safe and innocent manner. She was one of those intelligent young ladies who think deeply--about young men. And such thinking usually takes the form of speculation as to how the various specimens selected will act under specified circumstances. The circumstances need hardly be mentioned. Young men are only interesting to young women in circumstances strictly personal to and bearing upon themselves. In a word, maidens of a speculative mind are always desirous of finding out how different men will act when they are in love; and we all know and cannot fail to applaud the assiduity with which they pursue their studies.
“Ah!” said Miss Chyne, “it is very good of you to take pity upon two lone females. I was afraid that you had gone off to the wilds of America or somewhere in search of big game. Do you know, Mr. Oscard, you are quite a celebrity? I heard you called the 'big-game man' the other day, also the 'travelling fellow.'”
The specimen smiled happily under this delicate handling.
“It is not,” he said modestly, “a very lofty fame. Anybody could let off a rifle.”
“I am afraid I could not,” replied Millicent, with a pretty little shudder of horror, “if anything growled.”
“Mr. Oscard has just been telling me,” interposed Lady Cantourne conversationally, “that he is thinking of going off to the wilds again.”
“Then it is very disappointing of him,” said Millicent, with a little droop of the eyelids which went home. “It seems to be only the uninteresting people who stay at home and live humdrum lives of enormous duration.”
“He seems to think that his friends are going to cast him off because his poor father died without the assistance of a medical man,” continued the old lady meaningly.
“No--I never said that, Lady Cantourne.”
“But you implied it.”
Guy Oscard shook his head. “I hate being a notoriety,” he said. “I like to pass through with the crowd. If I go away for a little while I shall return a nonentity.”
At this moment another visitor was announced, and presently made his appearance. He was an old gentleman of no personality whatever, who was nevertheless welcomed effusively, because two people in the room had a distinct use for him. Lady Cantourne was exceedingly gracious. She remembered instantly that horticulture was among his somewhat antiquated accomplishments, and she was immediately consumed with a desire to show him the conservatory which she had had built outside the drawing-room window. She took a genuine interest in this abode of flowers, and watered the plants herself with much enthusiasm--when she remembered.
Added to a number of positive virtues the old gentleman possessed that of abstaining from tea, which enabled the two horticulturists to repair to the conservatory at once, leaving the young people alone at the other end of the drawing-room.
Millicent smoothed her gloves with downcast eyes and that demure air by which the talented fair imply the consciousness of being alone and out of others' earshot with an interesting member of the stronger sex.
Guy sat and watched the Suede gloves with a certain sense of placid enjoyment. Then suddenly he spoke, continuing his remarks where they had been broken off by the advent of the useful old gentleman.
“You see,” he said, “it is only natural that a great many people should give me the cold shoulder. My story was a little lame. There is no reason why they should believe in me.”
“I believe in you,” she answered.
“Thank you.”
He looked at her in a strange way, as if he liked her terse creed, and would fain have heard it a second time. Then suddenly he leant back with his head against a corner of the piano. The fronds of a maidenhair fern hanging in delicate profusion almost hid his face. He was essentially muscular in his thoughts, and did not make the most of his dramatic effects. The next remark was made by a pair of long legs ending off with patent-leather boots which were not quite new. The rest of him was invisible.
“It was a very unpleasant business,” he said, in a jerky, self-conscious voice. “I didn't know that I was that sort of fellow. The temptation was very great. I nearly gave in and let him do it. He was a stronger man than I. You know--we did not get on well together. He always hoped that I would turn out a literary sort of fellow, and I suppose he was disappointed. I tried at one time, but I found it was no good. From indifference it turned almost to hatred. He disliked me intensely, and I am afraid I did not care for him very much.”
She nodded her head, and he went on. Perhaps he could see her through the maidenhair fern. She was getting more and more interested in this man. He obviously disliked talking of himself--a pleasant change which aroused her curiosity. He was so unlike other men, and his life seemed to be different from the lives of the men whom she had known--stronger, more intense, and of greater variety of incident.
“Of course,” he went on, “his death was really of enormous advantage to me. They say that I shall have two or three thousand a year, instead of five hundred, paid quarterly at Cox's. He could not prevent it coming to me. It was my mother's money. He would have done so if he could, for we never disguised our antipathy for each other. Yet we lived together, and--and I had the nursing of him.”
Millicent was listening gravely without interrupting--like a man. She had the gift of adapting herself to her environments in a marked degree.
“And,” he added curtly, “no one knows how much I wanted that three thousand a year.”
The girl moved uneasily, and glanced towards the conservatory.
“He was not an old man,” Guy Oscard went on. “He was only forty-nine. He might have lived another thirty years.”
She nodded, understanding the significance of his tone.
“There,” he said, with an awkward laugh, “do you still believe in me?”
“Yes,” she answered, still looking away.
There was a little pause. They were both sitting forward in their chairs looking towards the conservatory.
“It was not the money that tempted me,” said Guy very deliberately; “it was you.”
She rose from her chair as if to join her aunt and the horticultural old gentleman.
“You must not say that,” she said, in little more than a whisper, and without looking round she went towards Lady Cantourne. Her eyes were gleaming with a singular suppressed excitement, such as one sees in the eyes of a man fresh from a mad run across country.
Guy Oscard rose also, and followed more deliberately. There was nothing for him to do but to take his leave.
“But,” said Lady Cantourne graciously, “if you are determined to go away you must at least come and say good-bye before you leave.”
“Thanks; I should like to do so, if I may.”
“We shall be deeply disappointed if you forget,” said Millicent, holding out her hand, with a smile full of light-heartedness and innocent girlish friendship.
| {
"id": "8939"
} |
6 | UNDER THE LINE | Enough of simpering and grimace, Enough of vacuity, trimmed with lace.
“Curse this country! Curse it--curse it!” The man spoke aloud, but there was no one near to hear. He shook his skinny yellow fist out over the broad river that crept greasily down to the equatorial sea.
All around him the vegetable kingdom had asserted its sovereignty. At his back loomed a dense forest, impenetrable to the foot of man, defying his puny hand armed with axe or saw. The trees were not high, few of them being above twenty feet, but from their branches creepers and parasites hung in tangled profusion, interlaced, joining tree to tree for acres, nay for miles.
As far as the eye could reach either bank of the slow river was thus covered with rank vegetation--mile after mile without variety, without hope. The glassy surface of the water was broken here and there by certain black forms floating like logs half hidden beneath the wave. These were crocodiles. The river was the Ogowe, and the man who cursed it was Victor Durnovo, employe of the Loango Trading Association, whose business it was at that season to travel into the interior of Africa to buy, barter, or steal ivory for his masters.
He was a small-faced man, with a squarely aquiline nose and a black moustache, which hung like a valance over his mouth. From the growth of that curtain-like moustache Victor Durnovo's worldly prosperity might have been said to date. No one seeing his mouth had before that time been prevailed upon to trust him. Nature has a way of hanging out signs and then covering them up, so that the casual fail to see. He was a man of medium height, with abnormally long arms and a somewhat truculent way of walking, as if his foot was ever ready to kick anything or any person who might come in his way.
His movements were nervous and restless, although he was tired out and half-starved. The irritability of Africa was upon him--had hold over him--gripped him remorselessly. No one knows what it is, but it is there, and sometimes it is responsible for murder. It makes honourable European gentlemen commit crimes of which they blush to think in after days. The Powers may draw up treaties and sign the same, but there will never be a peaceful division of the great wasted land so near to Southern Europe. There may be peace in Berlin, or Brussels, or London, but because the atmosphere of Africa is not the same as that of the great cities, there will be no peace beneath the Equator. From the West Coast of Africa to the East men will fight and quarrel and bicker so long as human nerves are human nerves. The irritability lurks in the shades of boundless forests where men may starve for want of animal sustenance; it hovers over the broad bosoms of a hundred slow rivers haunted by the mysterious crocodile, the weird hippopotamus. It is everywhere, and by reason of it men quarrel about trifles and descend to brutal passion over a futile discussion.
Victor Durnovo had sent his boatmen into the forest to find a few bananas, a few handsful of firewood, and while they were absent he gave vent to that wild unreasoning passion which is inhaled into the white man's lungs with the air of equatorial Africa. For there are moral microbes in the atmosphere of different countries, and we must not judge one land by the laws of another. There is the fatalism of India, the restlessness of New York, the fear of the Arctic, the irritability of Africa.
“Curse this country!” he shouted, “curse it--curse it! River and tree--man and beast!”
He rose and slouched down to his boat, which lay moored to a snag alongside the bank, trodden hard to the consistency of asphalte by a hundred bare feet. He stepped over the gunwale and made his way aft with a practised balancing step. The after part of the canoe was decked in and closed with lock and key. The key hung at his watch-chain--a large chain with square links and a suggestive doubtfulness of colour. It might have been gold, but the man who wore it somehow imparted to it a suggestion of baser metal.
He opened the locker and took from it a small chest. From this he selected a bottle, and, rummaging in the recesses of the locker, he found an unwashed tumbler. Into half a glass of water he dropped a minute quantity from the bottle and drank off the mixture. The passion had left him now, and quite suddenly he looked yellow and very weak. He was treating himself scientifically for the irritability to which he had given way. Then he returned to the bank and laid down at full length. The skin of his face must have been giving him great pain, for it was scarlet in places and exuding from sun-blisters. He had long ago given up wiping the perspiration from his brow, and evidently did not care to wash his face.
Presently a peacefulness seemed to come over him, for his eyes lost their glitter and his heavy lids drooped. His arms were crossed behind his head--before him lay the river.
Suddenly he sat upright, all eagerness and attention. Not a leaf stirred. It was about five o'clock in the evening, the stillest hour of the twenty-four. In such a silence the least sound would travel almost any distance, and there was a sound travelling over the water to him. It was nothing but a thud repeated with singular regularity; but to his practised ears it conveyed much. He knew that a boat was approaching, as yet hidden by some distant curve in the river. The thud was caused by the contact of six paddles with the gunwale of the canoe as the paddlers withdrew them from the water.
Victor Durnovo rose again and brought from the boat a second rifle, which he laid beside the double-barrelled Reilly which was never more than a yard away from him, waking or sleeping. Then he waited. He knew that no boat could reach the bank without his full permission, for every rower would be dead before they got within a hundred yards of his rifle. He was probably the best rifle-shot but one in that country--and the other, the very best, happened to be in the approaching canoe.
After the space of ten minutes the boat came in sight--a long black form on the still waters. It was too far away for him to distinguish anything beyond the fact that it was a native boat.
“Eight hundred yards,” muttered Durnovo over the sight of his rifle.
He looked upon this river as his own, and he knew the native of equatorial Africa. Therefore he dropped a bullet into the water, under the bow of the canoe, at eight hundred yards.
A moment later there was a sound which can only be written “P-ttt” between his legs, and he had to wipe a shower of dust from his eyes. A puff of blue smoke rose slowly over the boat and a sharp report broke the silence a second time.
Then Victor Durnovo leapt to his feet and waved his hat in the air. From the canoe there was an answering greeting, and the man on the bank went to the water's edge, still carrying the rifle from which he was never parted.
Durnovo was the first to speak when the boat came within hail.
“Very sorry,” he shouted. “Thought you were a native boat. Must establish a funk--get in the first shot, you know.”
“All right,” replied one of the Europeans in the approaching craft, with a courteous wave of the hand, “no harm done.”
There were two white men and six blacks in the long and clumsy boat. One of the Europeans lay in the bows while the other was stretched at his ease in the stern, reclining on the canvas of a neatly folded tent. The last-named was evidently the leader of the little expedition, while the manner and attitude of the man in the bows suggested the servitude of a disciplined soldier slightly relaxed by abnormal circumstances.
“Who fired that shot?” inquired Durnovo, when there was no longer any necessity to shout.
“Joseph,” replied the man in the stern of the boat, indicating his companion. “Was it a near thing?”
“About as near as I care about--it threw up the dust between my legs.”
The man called Joseph grinned. Nature had given him liberally of the wherewithal for indulgence in that relaxation, and Durnovo smiled rather constrainedly. Joseph was grabbing at the long reedy grass, bringing the canoe to a standstill, and it was some moments before his extensive mouth submitted to control.
“I presume you are Mr. Durnovo,” said the man in the stern of the boat, rising leisurely from his recumbent position and speaking with a courteous savoir-faire which seemed slightly out of place in the wilds of Central Africa. He was a tall man with a small aristocratic head and a refined face, which somehow suggested an aristocrat of old France.
“Yes,” answered Durnovo.
The tall man stepped ashore and held out his hand.
“I am glad we have met you,” he said; “I have a letter of introduction to you from Maurice Gordon, of Loango.”
Victor Durnovo's dark face changed slightly; his eyes--bilious, fever-shot, unhealthy--took a new light.
“Ah!” he answered, “are you a friend of Maurice Gordon's?”
There was another question in this, an unasked one; and Victor Durnovo was watching for the answer. But the face he watched was like a delicately carved piece of brown marble, with a courteous, impenetrable smile.
“I met him again the other day at Loango. He is an old Etonian like myself.”
This conveyed nothing to Durnovo, who belonged to a different world, whose education was, like other things about him, an unknown quantity.
“My name,” continued the tall man, “is Meredith--John Meredith--sometimes called Jack.”
They were walking up the bank towards the dusky and uninviting tent.
“And the other fellow?” inquired Durnovo, with a backward jerk of the head.
“Oh--he is my servant.”
Durnovo raised his eyebrows in somewhat contemptuous amusement, and proceeded to open the letter which Meredith had handed him.
“Not many fellows,” he said, “on this coast can afford to keep a European servant.”
Jack Meredith bowed, and ignored the irony.
“But,” he said courteously, “I suppose you find these coloured chaps just as good when they have once got into your ways?”
“Oh yes,” muttered Durnovo. He was reading the letter. “Maurice Gordon,” he continued, “says you are travelling for pleasure--just looking about you. What do you think of it?”
He indicated the dismal prospect with a harsh laugh.
“A bit suggestive of Hell,” he went on, “eh? How does it strike you?”
“Finer timber, I should think,” suggested Jack Meredith, and Durnovo laughed more pleasantly.
“The truth is,” he explained, “that it strikes one as a bit absurd that any man should travel up here for pleasure. If you take my advice you will come down-stream again with me to-morrow.”
He evidently distrusted him; and the sidelong, furtive glance suggested vaguely that Victor Durnovo had something farther up this river which he wished to keep concealed.
“I understand,” answered Meredith, with a half-suppressed yawn, “that the country gets finer farther up--more mountainous--less suggestive of--Hell.”
The proprietors of very dark eyes would do well to remember that it is dangerous to glance furtively to one side or the other. The attention of dark eyes is more easily felt than the glances of grey or blue orbs.
Jack Meredith's suspicions were aroused by the suspicious manner of his interlocutor.
“There is no white man knows this river as I do, and I do not recommend it. Look at me--on the verge of jaundice--look at this wound on my arm; it began with a scratch and has never healed. All that comes from a month up this cursed river. Take my advice, try somewhere else.”
“I certainly shall,” replied Meredith. “We will discuss it after dinner. My chap is a first-rate cook. Have you got anything to add to the menu?”
“Not a thing. I've been living on plantains and dried elephant-meat for the last fortnight.”
“Doesn't sound nourishing. Well, we are pretty well provided, so perhaps you will give me the pleasure of your company to dinner? Come as you are: no ceremony. I think I will wash though. It is as well to keep up these old customs.”
With a pleasant smile he went towards the tent which had just been erected. Joseph was very busy, and his admonishing voice was heard at times.
“Here, Johnny, hammer in that peg. Now, old cups and saucers, stop that grinning and fetch me some water. None of your frogs and creepy crawly thing this time, my blonde beauty, but clean water, comprenny?”
With these and similar lightsome turns of speech was Joseph in the habit of keeping his men up to the mark. The method was eminently successful. His coloured compeers crowded round him “all of a grin,” as he himself described it, and eager to do his slightest behest. From the throne to the back-kitchen the secret of success is the art of managing men--and women.
| {
"id": "8939"
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7 | THE SECRET OF THE SIMIACINE | Surtout, Messieurs, pas de zele.
Such was the meeting of Victor Durnovo and Jack Meredith. Two men with absolutely nothing in common--no taste, no past, no kinship--nothing but the future. Such men as Fate loves to bring together for her own strange purposes. What these purposes are none of us can tell. Some hold that Fate is wise. She is not so yet, but she cannot fail to acquire wisdom some day, because she experiments so industriously. She is ever bringing about new combinations, and one can only trust that she, the experimenter, is as keenly disappointed in the result as are we, the experimented.
To Jack Meredith Victor Durnovo conveyed the impression of little surprise and a slight local interest. He was a man who was not quite a gentleman; but for himself Jack did not give great heed to this. He had associated with many such; for, as has been previously intimated, he had moved in London society, where there are many men who are not quite gentlemen. The difference of a good coat and that veiled insolence which passes in some circles for the ease of good breeding had no weight with the keen son of Sir John Meredith, and Victor Durnovo fared no worse in his companion's estimation because he wore a rough coat and gave small attention to his manners. He attracted and held Jack's attention by a certain open-air manliness which was in keeping with the situation and with his life. Sportsmen, explorers and wanderers were not new to Jack; for nowadays one may never know what manner of man is inside a faultless dress-suit. It is an age of disappearing, via Charing Cross station in a first-class carriage, to a life of backwooding, living from hand to mouth, starving in desert, prairie, pampas or Arctic wild, with, all the while, a big balance at Cox's. And most of us come back again and put on the dress-suit and the white tie with a certain sense of restfulness and comfort.
Jack Meredith had known many such. He had, in a small way, done the same himself. But he had never met one of the men who do not go home--who possess no dress-coat and no use for it--whose business it is to go about with a rifle in one hand and their life in the other--who risk their lives because it is their trade and not their pleasure.
Durnovo could not understand the new-comer at all. He saw at once that this was one of those British aristocrats who do strange things in a very strange way. In a degree Meredith reminded him of Maurice Gordon, the man whose letter of introduction was at that moment serving to light the camp fire. But it was Maurice Gordon without that semi-sensual weakness of purpose which made him the boon companion of Tom, Dick, or Harry, provided that one of those was only with him long enough. There was a vast depth of reserve--of indefinable possibilities, which puzzled Durnovo, and in some subtle way inspired fear.
In that part of Africa which lies within touch of the Equator, life is essentially a struggle. There is hunger about, and where hunger is the emotions will be found also. Now Jack Meredith was a past-master in the concealment of these, and, as such, came to Victor Durnovo in the guise of a new creation. He had lived the latter and the larger part of his life among men who said, in action if not in words, I am hungry, or I am thirsty; I want this, or I want that; and if you are not strong enough to keep it, I will take it from you.
This man was different; and Victor Durnovo did not know--could not find out--WHAT he wanted.
He had at first been inclined to laugh at him. What struck him most forcibly was Joseph, the servant. The idea of a man swaggering up an African river with a European man-servant was so preposterous that it could only be met with ridicule; but the thing seemed so natural to Jack Meredith, he accepted the servitude of Joseph so much as a matter of course, that after a time Durnovo accepted him also as part and parcel of Meredith.
Moreover, he immediately began to realise the benefit of being waited upon by an intelligent European, for Joseph took off his coat, turned up his sleeves, and proceeded to cook such a dinner as Durnovo had not tasted for many months. There was wine also, and afterwards a cigar of such quality as appealed strongly to Durnovo's West Indian palate.
The night settled down over the land while they sat there, and before them the great yellow equatorial moon rose slowly over the trees. With the darkness came a greater silence, for the myriad insect life was still. This great silence of Central Africa is wonderfully characteristic. The country is made for silence, the natives are created to steal, spirit-ridden, devil-haunted, through vast tracks of lifeless forest, where nature is oppressive in her grandeur. Here man is put into his right place--a puny, insignificant, helpless being in a world that is too large for him.
“So,” said Durnovo, returning to the subject which had never really left his thoughts, “you have come out here for pleasure?”
“Not exactly. I came chiefly to make money, partly to dispel some of the illusions of my youth, and I am getting on very well. Picture-book illusions they were. The man who drew the pictures had never seen Africa.”
“This is no country for illusions. Things go naked here--damned naked.”
“And only language is adorned?”
Durnovo laughed. He had to be alert to keep up with Jack Meredith--to understand his speech; and he rather liked the necessity, which was a change after the tropic indolence in which he had moved.
“Swearing, you mean,” he replied. “Hope you don't mind it?”
“Not a bit. Do it myself.”
At this moment Joseph, the servant, brought coffee served up in tin cups.
“First-class dinner,” said Durnovo. “The best dinner I have had for years. Clever chap, your man!”
The last remark was made as much for the servant's edification as for the master's, and it was accompanied by an inviting smile directed towards Joseph. Of this the man took no notice whatever. He came from a world where masters and masters' guests know their place and keep it, even after a good dinner.
The evening had turned out so very differently from what he had expected that Durnovo was a little off his balance. Things were so sociable and pleasant in comparison with the habitual loneliness of his life. The fire crackled so cheerily, the moon shone down on the river so grandly, the subdued chatter of the boatmen imparted such a feeling of safety and comfort to the scene, that he gave way to that impulse of expansiveness which ever lurks in West Indian blood.
“I say,” he said, “when you told me that you wanted to make money, were you in earnest?”
“In the deadliest earnest,” replied Jack Meredith, in the half-mocking tone which he never wholly learnt to lay aside.
“Then I think I can put you in the way of it. Oh, I know it seems a bit premature--not known you long enough, and all that. But in this country we don't hold much by the formalities. I like you. I liked the look of you when you got out of that boat--so damned cool and self-possessed. You're the right sort, Mr. Meredith.”
“Possibly--for some things. For sitting about and smoking first-class cigars and thinking second-class thoughts I am exactly the right sort. But for making money, for hard work and steady work, I am afraid, Mr. Durnovo, that I am distinctly the wrong sort.”
“Now you're chaffing again. Do you always chaff?”
“Mostly; it lubricates things, doesn't it?”
There was a little pause. Durnovo looked round as if to make sure that Joseph and the boatmen were out of earshot.
“Can you keep a secret?” he asked suddenly.
Jack Meredith turned and looked at the questioner with a smile. His hat had slipped to the back of his head, the light of the great yellow moon fell full upon his clean-cut, sphinx-like face. The eyes alone seemed living.
“Yes! I can do that.”
He was only amused, and the words were spoken half-mockingly; but his face said more than his lips. It said that even in chaff this was no vain boast that he was uttering. Even before he had set foot on African soil he had been asked to keep so many secrets of a commercial nature. So many had begun by imparting half a secret, to pass on in due course to the statement that only money was required, say, a thousand pounds. And, in the meantime, twenty-five would be very useful, and, if not that, well, ten shillings. Jack Meredith had met all that before.
But there was something different about Durnovo. He was not suitably got up. Your bar-room prospective millionaire is usually a jolly fellow, quite prepared to quench any man's thirst for liquor or information so long as credit and credulity will last. There was nothing jolly or sanguine about Durnovo. Beneath his broad-brimmed hat his dark eyes flashed in a fierce excitement. His hand was unsteady. He had allowed the excellent cigar to go out. The man was full of quinine and fever, in deadly earnest.
“I can see you're a gentleman,” he said; “I'll trust you. I want a man to join me in making a fortune. I have got my hand on it at last. But I'm afraid of this country. I'm getting shaky; look at that hand. I've been looking for it too long. I take you into my confidence, the first comer, you'll think. But there are not many men like you in this country, and I'm beastly afraid of dying. I'm in a damned funk. I want to get out of this for a bit, but I dare not leave until I set things going.”
“Take your time,” said Meredith, quietly and soothingly; “light that cigar again and lie down. There is no hurry.”
Durnovo obeyed him meekly.
“Tell me,” he said, “have you ever heard of Simiacine?”
“I cannot say that I have,” replied Jack. “What is it for, brown boots or spasms?”
“It is a drug, the most expensive drug in the market. And they must have it, they cannot do without it, and they cannot find a substitute. It is the leaf of a shrub, and your hatful is worth a thousand pounds.”
“Where is it to be found?” asked Jack Meredith. “I should like some--in a sack.”
“Ah, you may laugh now, but you won't when you hear all about it. The scientific chaps called it Simiacine, because of an old African legend which, like all those things, has a grain of truth in it. The legend is, that the monkeys first found out the properties of the leaf, and it is because they live on it that they are so strong. Do you know that a gorilla's arm is not half so thick as yours, and yet he would take you and snap your backbone across his knee; he would bend a gun-barrel as you would bend a cane, merely by the turn of his wrist. That is Simiacine. He can hang on to a tree with one leg and tackle a leopard with his bare hands--that's Simiacine. At home, in England and in Germany, they are only just beginning to find out its properties; it seems that it can bring a man back to life when he is more than half dead. There is no knowing what children that are brought up on it may turn out to be; it may double the power of the human brain--some think it will.”
Jack Meredith was leaning forward, watching with a certain sense of fascination the wild, disease-stricken face, listening to the man's breathless periods. It seemed that the fear of death, which had gotten hold of him, gave Victor Durnovo no time to pause for breath.
“Yes,” said the Englishman, “yes, go on.”
“There is practically no limit to the demand that there is for it. At present the only way of obtaining it is through the natives, and you know their manner of trading. They send a little packet down from the interior, and it very often takes two months and more to reach the buyer's hands. The money is sent back the same way, and each man who fingers it keeps a little. The natives find the leaf in the forests by the aid of trained monkeys, and only in very small quantities. Do you follow me?”
“Yes, I follow you.”
Victor Durnovo leant forward until his face was within three inches of Meredith, and the dark wild eyes flashed and glared into the Englishman's steady glance.
“What,” he hissed, “what if I know where Simiacine grows like a weed? What if I could supply the world with Simiacine at my own price? Eh--h--h! What of that, Mr. Meredith?”
He threw himself suddenly back and wiped his dripping face. There was a silence, the great African silence that drives educated men mad, and fills the imagination of the poor heathen with wild tales of devils and spirits.
Then Jack Meredith spoke, without moving.
“I'm your man,” he said, “with a few more details.”
Victor Durnovo was lying back at full length on the hard dry mud, his arms beneath his head. Without altering his position he gave the details, speaking slowly and much more quietly. It seemed as if he spoke the result of long pent-up thought.
“We shall want,” he said, “two thousand pounds to start it. For we must have an armed force of our own. We have to penetrate through a cannibal country, of the fiercest devils in Africa. It is a plateau, a little plateau of two square miles, and the niggers think that it is haunted by an evil spirit. When we get there we shall have to hold it by force of arms, and when we send the stuff down to the coast we must have an escort of picked men. The bushes grow up there as thick as gooseberry bushes in a garden at home. With a little cultivation they will yield twice as much as they do now. We shall want another partner. I know a man, a soldierly fellow full of fight, who knows the natives and the country. I will undertake to lead you there, but you will have to take great care of me. You will have to have me carried most of the way. I am weak, devilish weak, and I am afraid of dying; but I know the way there, and no other man can say as much! It is in my head here; it is not written down. It is only in my head, and no one can get it out of there.”
“No,” said Meredith, in his quiet, refined voice, “no, no one can get it out. Come, let us turn in. To-morrow I will go down the river with you. I will turn back, and we can talk it over as we go downstream.”
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"id": "8939"
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8 | A RECRUIT | Said the Engine from the East, “They who work best talk the least.”
It is not, of course, for a poor limited masculine mind to utter heresies regarding the great question of woman's rights. But as things stand at present, as, in fact, the forenamed rights are to-day situated, women have not found comprehension of the dual life. The dual life is led solely by men, and until women have found out its full compass and meaning, they can never lead in the world. There is the public life and the private; and the men who are most successful in the former are the most exclusive in the latter. Women have only learned to lead one life; they must be all public or all private, there is no medium. Those who give up the private life for which Providence destined them, to assume the public existence to which their own conceit urges them, have their own reward. They taste all the bitterness of fame and never know its sweets, because the bitterness is public and the sweets are private.
Women cannot understand that part of a man's life which brings him into daily contact with men whom he does not bring home to dinner. One woman does not know another without bringing her in to meals and showing her her new hat. It is merely a matter of custom. Men are in the habit of associating in daily, almost hourly, intercourse with others who are never really their friends and are always held at a distance. It is useless attempting to explain it, for we are merely reprimanded for unfriendliness, stiffness, and stupid pride. Soit! Let it go. Some of us, perhaps, know our own business best. And there are, thank Heaven! amidst a multitude of female doctors, female professors, female wranglers, a few female women left.
Jack Meredith knew quite well what he was about when he listened with a favourable ear to Durnovo's scheme. He knew that this man was not a gentleman, but his own position was so assured that he could afford to associate with any one. Here, again, men are safer. A woman is too delicate a social flower to be independent of environments. She takes the tone of her surroundings. It is, one notices, only the ladies who protest that the barmaid married in haste and repented of at leisure can raise herself to her husband's level. The husband's friends keep silence, and perhaps, like the mariner's bird, they meditate all the more.
What Meredith proposed to do was to enter into a partnership with Victor Durnovo, and when the purpose of it was accomplished, to let each man go his way. Such partnerships are entered into every day. Men have carried through a brilliant campaign--a world-affecting scheme--side by side, working with one mind and one heart; and when the result has been attained they drop out of each other's lives for ever. They are created so, for a very good purpose, no doubt. But sometimes Providence steps in and turns the little point of contact into the leaven that leaveneth the whole lump. Providence, it seems--or let us call it Fate--was hovering over that lone African river, where two men, sitting in the stern of a native canoe, took it upon themselves to prearrange their lives.
A month later Victor Durnovo was in London. He left behind him in Africa Jack Meredith, whose capacities for organisation were developing very quickly.
There was plenty of work for each to do. In Africa Meredith had undertaken to get together men and boats, while Durnovo went home to Europe for a threefold purpose. Firstly, a visit to Europe was absolutely necessary for his health, shattered as it was by too long a sojourn in the fever-ridden river beds of the West Coast. Secondly, there were rifles, ammunition, and stores to be purchased and packed in suitable cases. And, lastly, he was to find and enlist the third man, “the soldierly fellow full of fight,” who knew the natives and the country.
This, indeed, was his first care on reaching London, and before his eyes and brain were accustomed to the roar of the street life he took a cab to Russell Square, giving the number affixed to the door of a gloomy house in the least frequented corner of the stately quadrangle.
“Is Mr. Guy Oscard at home?” he inquired of the grave man-servant.
“He is, sir,” replied the butler, stepping aside.
Victor Durnovo thought that a momentary hesitation on the part of the butler was caused by a very natural and proper feeling of admiration for the new clothes and hat which he had purchased out of the money advanced by Jack Meredith for the outfit of the expedition. In reality the man was waiting for the visitor to throw away his cigar before crossing the threshold. But he waited in vain, and Durnovo stood, cigar in mouth, in the dining-room until Guy Oscard came to him.
At first Oscard did not recognise him, and conveyed this fact by a distant bow and an expectant silence.
“You do not seem to recognise me,” said Durnovo with a laugh, which lasted until the servant had closed the door. “Victor Durnovo!”
“Oh--yes--how are you?”
Oscard came forward and shook hands. His manner was not exactly effusive. The truth was that their acquaintanceship in Africa had been of the slightest, dating from some trivial services which Durnovo had been able and very eager to render to the sportsman.
“I'm all right, thanks,” replied Durnovo. “I only landed at Liverpool yesterday. I'm home on business. I'm buying rifles and stores.”
Guy Oscard's honest face lighted up at once--the curse of Ishmael was on him in its full force. He was destined to be a wanderer on God's earth, and all things appertaining to the wild life of the forests were music in his ears.
Durnovo was no mean diplomatist. He had learnt to know man, within a white or coloured skin. The effect of his words was patent to him.
“You remember the Simiacine?” he said abruptly.
“Yes.”
“I've found it.”
“The devil you have! Sit down.”
Durnovo took the chair indicated.
“Yes, sir,” he said, “I've got it. I've laid my hand on it at last. I've always been on its track. That has been my little game all the time. I did not tell you when we met out there, because I was afraid I should never find it, and because I wanted to keep quiet about it.”
Guy Oscard was looking out of the window across to the dull houses and chimneys that formed his horizon, and in his eyes there was the longing for a vaster horizon, a larger life.
“I have got a partner,” continued Durnovo, “a good man--Jack Meredith, son of Sir John Meredith. You have, perhaps, met him.”
“No,” answered Oscard; “but I have heard his name, and I have met Sir John--the father--once or twice.”
“He is out there,” went on Durnovo, “getting things together quietly. I have come home to buy rifles, ammunition, and stores.”
He paused, watching the eager, simple face.
“We want to know,” he said quietly, “if you will organise and lead the fighting men.”
Guy Oscard drew a deep breath. There are some Englishmen left, thank Heaven! who love fighting for its own sake, and not only for the gain of it. Such men as this lived in the old days of chivalry, at which modern puny carpet-knights make bold to laugh, while inwardly thanking their stars that they live in the peaceful age of the policeman. Such men as this ran their thick simple heads against many a windmill, couched lance over many a far-fetched insult, and swung a sword in honour of many a worthless maid; but they made England, my masters. Let us remember that they made England.
“Then there is to be fighting?”
“Yes,” said Durnovo, “there will be fighting. We must fight our way there, and we must hold it when we get there. But so far as the world is concerned, we are only a private expedition exploring the source of the Ogowe.”
“The Ogowe?” and again Guy Oscard's eyes lighted up.
“Yes, I do not mind telling you that much. To begin with, I trust you; secondly, no one could get there without me to lead the way.”
Guy Oscard looked at him with some admiration, and that sympathy which exists between the sons of Ishmael. Durnovo looked quite fit for the task he set himself. He had regained his strength on the voyage, and with returning muscular force his moral tone was higher, his influence over men greater. Amidst the pallid sons of the pavement among whom Guy Oscard had moved of late, this African traveller was a man apart--a being much more after his own heart. The brown of the man's face and hands appealed to him--the dark flashing eyes, the energetic carriage of head and shoulders. Among men of a fairer skin the taint that was in Victor Durnovo's blood became more apparent--the shadow on his finger-nails, the deep olive of his neck against the snowy collar, and the blue tint in the white of his eyes.
But none of these things militated against him in Oscard's mind. They only made him fitter for the work he had undertaken.
“How long will it take?” asked Guy.
Durnovo tugged at his strange, curtain-like moustache. His mouth was hidden; it was quite impossible to divine his thoughts.
“Three months to get there,” he answered at length. “One month to pick the leaf, and then you can bring the first crop down to the coast and home, while Meredith and I stay on at the plateau.”
“I could be home again in eight months?”
“Certainly! We thought that you might work the sale of the stuff in London, and in a couple of years or so, when the thing is in swing, Meredith will come home. We can safely leave the cultivation in native hands when once we have established ourselves up there, and made ourselves respected among the tribes.”
A significance in his tone made Guy Oscard look up inquiringly.
“How?”
“You know my way with the natives,” answered Durnovo with a cruel smile. “It is the only way. There are no laws in Central Africa except the laws of necessity.”
Oscard was nothing if not outspoken.
“I do not like your way with the natives,” he said, with a pleasant smile.
“That is because you do not know them. But in this affair you are to be the leader of the fighting column. You will, of course, have carte blanche.”
Oscard nodded.
“I suppose,” he said, after a pause, “that there is the question of money?”
“Yes; Meredith and I have talked that over. The plan we fixed upon was that you and he each put a thousand pounds into it; I put five hundred. For the first two years we share the profits equally. After that we must come to some fresh arrangement, should you or Meredith wish to give up an active part in the affair. I presume you would not object to coming up at the end of a year, with a handy squad of men to bring down the crop under escort?”
“No,” replied Oscard, after a moment's reflection. “I should probably be able to do that.”
“I reckon,” continued the other, “that the journey down could be accomplished in two months, and each time you do the trip you will reduce your time.”
“Yes.”
“Of course,” Durnovo went on, with the details which he knew were music in Oscard's ears, “of course we shall be a clumsy party going up. We shall have heavy loads of provisions, ammunition, and seeds for cultivating the land up there.”
“Yes,” replied Guy Oscard absently. In his ears there rang already the steady plash of the paddle, the weird melancholy song of the boatmen, the music of the wind amidst the forest trees.
Durnovo rose briskly.
“Then,” he said, “you will join us? I may telegraph out to Meredith that you will join us?”
“Yes,” replied Oscard simply. “You may do that.”
“There is no time to be lost,” Durnovo went on. “Every moment wasted adds to the risk of our being superseded. I sail for Loango in a fortnight; will you come with me?”
“Yes.”
“Shall I take a passage for you?”
“Yes.”
Durnovo held out his hand.
“Good-bye,” he said. “Shall I always find you here when I want you?”
“Yes--stay, though! I shall be going away for a few days. Come to-morrow to luncheon, and we will settle the preliminaries.”
“Right--one o'clock?”
“One o'clock.”
When Durnovo had gone Guy sat down and wrote to Lady Cantourne accepting her invitation to spend a few days at Cantourne Place, on the Solent. He explained that his visit would be in the nature of a farewell, as he was about to leave for Africa for a little big-game hunting.
| {
"id": "8939"
} |
9 | TO PASS THE TIME | Quand on n'a pas ce que l'on aime, il faut aimer ce que l'on a. “Your energy, my dear lady, is not the least of many attributes.”
Lady Cantourne looked up from her writing-desk with her brightest smile. Sir John Meredith was standing by the open window, leaning against the jamb thereof with a grace that had lost its youthful repose. He was looking out, across a sloping lawn, over the Solent, and for that purpose he had caused himself to be clad in a suit of blue serge. He looked the veteran yachtsman to perfection--he could look anything in its season--but he did his yachting from the shore--by preference from the drawing-room window.
“One must keep up with the times, John,” replied the lady, daintily dipping her quill.
“And 'the times' fills its house from roof to cellar with people who behave as if they were in a hotel. Some of them--say number five on the first floor, number eleven on the second, or some of the atticated relatives--announce at breakfast that they will not be home to lunch. Another says he cannot possibly return to dinner at half-past seven, and so on. 'The times' expects a great deal for its money, and does not even allow one to keep the small change of civility.”
Lady Cantourne was blotting vigorously.
“I admit,” she answered, “that the reaction is rather strong; reactions are always stronger than they intend to be. In our early days the formalities were made too much of; now they are--” “Made into a social hash,” he suggested, when she paused for a word, “where the prevailing flavour is the common onion of commerce! Now, I'll wager any sum that that is an invitation to some one you do not care a screw about.”
“It is. But, Sir John, the hash must be kept moving; cold hash is not palatable. I will tell you at once, I am inviting young Semoor to fill the vacancy caused by Mr. Oscard's departure.”
“Ah! Mr. Oscard proposes depriving us of his--society.”
“He leaves to-morrow. He only came to say good-bye.”
“He moves on--to some other hostelry?”
“No! He is going to--” She paused, so that Sir John was forced to turn in courteous inquiry and look her in the face.
“Africa!” she added sharply, never taking her bright eyes from his face.
She saw the twitching of the aged lips before his hand got there to hide them. She saw his eyes fall before her steady gaze, and she pitied him while she admired his uncompromising pride.
“Indeed!” he said. “I have reason to believe,” he added, turning to the window again, “that there is a great future before that country; all the intellect of Great Britain seems to be converging in its direction.”
Since his departure Jack's name had never been mentioned, even between these two whose friendship dated back a generation. Once or twice Sir John had made a subtle passing reference to him, such as perhaps no other woman but Lady Cantourne could have understood; but Africa was, so to speak, blotted out of Sir John Meredith's map of the world. It was there that he kept his skeleton--the son who had been his greatest pride and his deepest humiliation--his highest hope in life--almost the only failure of his career.
He stood there by the window, looking out with that well-bred interest in details of sport and pastime which was part of his creed. He braved it out even before the woman who had been a better friend to him than his dead wife. Not even to her would he confess that any event of existence could reach him through the impenetrable mask he wore before the world. Not even she must know that aught in his life could breathe of failure or disappointment. As it is given to the best of women to want to take their sorrows to another, so the strongest men instinctively deny their desire for sympathy.
Lady Cantourne, pretending to select another sheet of note-paper, glanced at him with a pathetic little smile. Although they had never been anything to each other, these two people had passed through many of the trials to which humanity is heir almost side by side. But neither had ever broken down. Each acted as a sort of mental tonic on the other. They had tacitly agreed, years before, to laugh at most things. She saw, more distinctly than any, the singular emptiness of his clothes, as if the man was shrinking, and she knew that the emptiness was of the heart.
Sir John Meredith had taught his son that Self and Self alone reigns in the world. He had taught him that the thing called Love, with a capital L, is nearly all Self, and that it finally dies in the arms of Self. He had told him that a father's love, or a son's, or a mother's, is merely a matter of convenience, and vanishes when Self asserts itself.
Upon this principle they were both acting now, with a strikingly suggestive similarity of method. Neither was willing to admit to the world in general, and to the other in particular, that a cynical theory could possibly be erroneous.
“I am sorry that our young friend is going to leave us,” said Sir John, taking up and unfolding the morning paper. “He is honest and candid, if he is nothing else.”
This meant that Guy Oscard's admiration for Millicent Chyne had never been concealed for a moment, and Lady Cantourne knew it.
“He interests me,” went on the old aristocrat, studying the newspaper; and his hearer knew the inner significance of the remark.
At times she was secretly ashamed of her niece, but that esprit de corps which binds women together prompted her always to defend Millicent. The only defence at the moment was silence, and an assumed density which did not deceive Sir John--even she could not do that.
In the meantime Miss Millicent Chyne was walking on the sea-wall at the end of the garden with Guy Oscard. One of the necessary acquirements of a modern educational outfit is the power of looking perfectly at home in a score of different costumes during the year, and, needless to say, Miss Chyne was finished in this art. The manner in which she wore her sailor-hat, her blue serge, and her neat brown shoes conveyed to the onlooker, and especially the male of that species (we cannot in conscience call them observers), the impression that she was a yachtswoman born and bred. Her delicate complexion was enhanced by the faintest suspicion of sunburn and a few exceedingly becoming freckles. There was a freedom in her movements which had not been observable in London drawing-rooms. This was Diana-like and in perfect keeping with the dainty sailor outfit; moreover, nine men out of ten would fail to attribute the difference to sundry cunning strings within the London skirt.
“It is sad,” Millicent was saying, “to think that we shall have no more chances of sailing. The wind has quite dropped, that horrid tide is running, and--this is your last day.”
She ended with a little laugh, knowing full well that there was little sentiment in the big man by her side.
“Really,” she went on, “I think I should be able to manage a boat in time, don't you think so? Please encourage me. I am sure I have tried to learn.”
But he remained persistently grave. She did not like that gravity; she had met it before in the course of her experiments. One of the grievances harboured by Miss Millicent Chyne against the opposite sex was that they could not settle down into a harmless, honest flirtation. Of course, this could be nothing but a flirtation of the lightest and most evanescent description. She was engaged to Jack Meredith--poor Jack, who was working for her, ever so hard, somewhere near the Equator--and if Guy Oscard did not know this he had only himself to blame. There were plenty of people ready to tell him. He had only to ask.
Millicent Chyne, like Guy, was hampered at the outset of life by theories upon it. Experience, the fashionable novel, and modern cynicism had taught her to expect little from human nature--a dangerous lesson, for it eases responsibility, and responsibility is the Ten Commandments rolled into a compact whole, suitable for the pocket.
She expected of no man--not even of Jack--that perfect faithfulness in every word and thought which is read of in books. And it is one of the theories of the day that what one does not expect one is not called upon to give. Jack, she reflected, was too much a man of the world to expect her to sit and mope alone. She was apparently incapable of seeing the difference between that pastime and sitting on the sea-wall behind a large flowering currant-tree with a man who did not pretend to hide the fact that he was in love with her. Some women are thus.
“I do not know if you have learnt much,” he answered. “But I have.”
“What have you learnt?” she asked in a low voice, half-fascinated by the danger into which she knew that she was running.
“That I love you,” he answered, standing squarely in front of her, and announcing the fact with a deliberate honesty which was rather startling. “I was not sure of it before, so I stayed away from you for three weeks; but now I know for certain.”
“Oh, you mustn't say that!”
She rose hastily and turned away from him. There was in her heart a sudden feeling of regret. It was the feeling that the keenest sportsman sometimes has when some majestic monarch of the forest falls before his merciless rifle--a sudden passing desire that it might be undone.
“Why not?” he asked. He was desperately in earnest, and that which made him a good sportsman--an unmatched big-game hunter, calm and self-possessed in any strait--gave him a strange deliberation now, which Millicent Chyne could not understand. “Why not?”
“I do not know--because you mustn't.”
And in her heart she wanted him to say it again.
“I am not ashamed of it,” he said, “and I do not see why I should not say it to you--or to any one else, so far as that goes.”
“No, never!” she cried, really frightened. “To me it does not matter so much. But to no one else--no, never! Aunt Marian must not know it--nor Sir John.”
“I cannot see that it is any business of Sir John's. Of course, Lady Cantourne would have liked you to marry a title; but if you cared for me she would be ready to listen to reason.”
In which judgment of the good lady he was no doubt right--especially if reason spoke with the voice of three thousand pounds per annum.
“Do you care for me?” he asked, coming a little closer.
There was a whole world of gratified vanity and ungratified curiosity for her in the presence of this strong man at her elbow. It was one of the supreme triumphs of her life, because he was different from the rest. He was for her what his first tiger had been for him. The danger that he might come still nearer had for her a sense of keen pleasure. She was thoroughly enjoying herself, and the nearest approach that men can experience to the joy that was hers is the joy of battle.
“I cannot answer that--not now.”
And the little half-shrinking glance over her shoulder was a low-minded, unmaidenly invitation. But he was in earnest, and he was, above all, a gentleman. He stood his ground a yard away from her.
“Then when,” he asked--“when will you answer me?”
She stood with her back turned towards him, looking out over the smooth waters of the Solent, where one or two yachts and a heavy black schooner were creeping up on the tide before the morning breeze. She drummed reflectively with her fingers on the low stone wall. Beneath them a few gulls whirled and screamed over a shoal of little fish. One of the birds had a singular cry, as if it were laughing to itself.
“You said just now,” Millicent answered at length, “that you were not sure yourself--not at first--and therefore you cannot expect me to know all at once.”
“You would know at once,” he argued gravely, “if it was going to be no. If you do not say no now, I can only think that it may be yes some day. And”--he came closer--he took the hand that hung at her side--conveniently near--“and I don't want you to say no now. Don't say no! I will wait as long as you like for yes. Millicent, I would rather go on waiting, and thinking that it is going to be yes, even if it is no after all.”
She said nothing, but she left her hand in his.
“May I go on thinking that it will be yes until I come back?”
“I cannot prevent your thinking, can I?” she whispered, with a tender look in her eyes.
“And may I write to you?”
She shook her head.
“Well--I--I--Now and then,” he pleaded. “Not often. Just to remind you of my existence.”
She gave a little laugh, which he liked exceedingly, and remembered afterwards.
“If you like,” she answered.
At this moment Lady Cantourne's voice was heard in the distance, calling them.
“There!” exclaimed Millicent. “We must go at once. And no one--no one, mind--must know of this.”
“No one shall know of it,” he answered.
| {
"id": "8939"
} |
10 | LOANGO | Faithful and hopeful, wise in charity, Strong in grave peace, in pity circumspect.
Those who for their sins have been to Loango will scarcely care to have its beauties recalled to memory. And to such as have not yet visited the spot one can only earnestly recommend a careful avoidance.
Suffice it to say, therefore, that there is such a place, and the curious may find it marked in larger type than it deserves on the map of Africa, on the West Coast of that country, and within an inch or so of the Equator.
Loango has a bar, and outside of that mysterious and somewhat suggestive nautical hindrance the coasting steamers anchor, while the smaller local fry find harbour nearer to the land. The passenger is not recommended to go ashore--indeed, many difficulties are placed in his way, and he usually stays on board while the steamer receives or discharges a scanty cargo, rolling ceaselessly in the Atlantic swell. The roar of the surf may be heard, and at times some weird cry or song. There is nothing to tempt even the most adventurous through that surf. A moderately large white building attracts the eye, and usually brings upon itself a contemptuous stare, for it seems to be the town of Loango, marked so bravely on the map. As a matter of fact the town is five miles inland, and the white building is only a factory or trading establishment.
Loango is the reverse of cheerful. To begin with, it is usually raining there. The roar of the surf--than which there are few sadder sounds on earth--fills the atmosphere with a never-ceasing melancholy. The country is overwooded; the tropical vegetation, the huge tangled African trees, stand almost in the surf; and inland the red serrated hills mount guard in gloomy array. For Europeans this country is accursed. From the mysterious forest-land there creeps down a subtle, tainted air that poisons the white man's blood, and either strikes him down in a fever or terrifies him by strange unknown symptoms and sudden disfiguring disease. The Almighty speaks very plainly sometimes and in some places--nowhere more plainly than on the West Coast of Africa, which land He evidently wants for the black man. We of the fairer skin have Australia now; we are taking America, we are dominant in Asia; but somehow we don't get on in Africa. The Umpire is there, and He insists on fair play.
“This is not cheery,” Jack Meredith observed to his servant as they found themselves deposited on the beach within a stone's-throw of the French factory.
“No, sir, not cheery, sir,” replied Joseph. He was very busy attending to the landing of their personal effects, and had only time to be respectful. It was Joseph's way to do only one thing at a time, on the principle, no doubt, that enough for the moment is the evil thereof. His manner implied that, when those coloured gentlemen had got the baggage safely conveyed out of the boats on to the beach, it would be time enough to think about Loango.
Moreover, Joseph was in his way rather a dauntless person. He held that there were few difficulties which he and his master, each in his respective capacity, were unable to meet. This African mode of life was certainly not one for which he had bargained when taking service; but he rather enjoyed it than otherwise, and he was consoled by the reflection that what was good enough for his master was good enough for him. Beneath the impenetrable mask of a dignified servitude he knew that this was “all along of that Chyne girl,” and rightly conjectured that it would not last for ever. He had an immense respect for Sir John, whom he tersely described as a “game one,” but his knowledge of the world went towards the supposition that headstrong age would finally bow before headstrong youth. He did not, however, devote much consideration to these matters, being a young man although an old soldier, and taking a lively interest in the present.
It had been arranged by letter that Jack Meredith should put up, as his host expressed it, at the small bungalow occupied by Maurice Gordon and his sister. Gordon was the local head of a large trading association somewhat after the style of the old East India Company, and his duties partook more of the glory of a governor than of the routine of a trader.
Of Maurice Gordon's past Meredith knew nothing beyond the fact that they were schoolfellows strangely brought together again on the deck of a coasting steamer. Maurice Gordon was not a reserved person, and it was rather from a lack of opportunity than from an excess of caution that he allowed his new-found friend to go up the Ogowe river, knowing so little of himself, Maurice Gordon, of Loango.
There were plenty of willing guides and porters on the beach; for in this part of Africa there is no such thing as continued and methodical labour. The entire population considers the lilies of the field to obvious purpose.
Joseph presently organised a considerable portion of this population into a procession, headed triumphantly by an old white-woolled negro whose son cleaned Maurice Gordon's boots. This man Joseph selected--not without one or two jokes of a somewhat personal nature--as a fitting guide to the Gordons' house. As they neared the little settlement on the outskirts of the black town where the mission and other European residences are situated, the veteran guide sent on couriers to announce the arrival of the great gentleman, who had for body-servant the father of laughter.
On finally reaching the bungalow Meredith was pleasantly surprised. It was pretty and homelike--surrounded by a garden wherein grew a strange profusion of homely English vegetables and tropical flowers.
Joseph happened to be in front, and, as he neared the verandah, he suddenly stopped at the salute; moreover, he began to wonder in which trunk he had packed his master's dress-clothes.
An English lady was coming out of the drawing-room window to meet the travellers--a lady whose presence diffused that sense of refinement and peace into the atmosphere which has done as much towards the expansion of our piecemeal empire as ever did the strong right arm of Thomas Atkins. It is because--sooner or later--these ladies come with us that we have learnt to mingle peace with war--to make friends of whilom enemies.
She nodded in answer to the servant's salutation, and passed on to greet the master.
“My brother has been called away suddenly,” she said. “One of his sub-agents has been getting into trouble with the natives. Of course you are Mr. Meredith?”
“I am,” replied Jack, taking the hand she held out; it was a small white hand--small without being frail or diaphanous. “And you are Miss Gordon, I suppose? I am sorry Gordon is away, but no doubt we shall be able to find somewhere to put up.”
“You need not do that,” she said quietly. “This is Africa, you know. You can quite well stay with us, although Maurice is away until to-morrow.”
“Sure?” he asked.
“Quite!” she answered.
She was tall and fair, with a certain stateliness of carriage which harmonised wonderfully with a thoughtful and pale face. She was not exactly pretty, but gracious and womanly, with honest blue eyes that looked on men and women alike. She was probably twenty-eight years of age; her manner was that of a woman rather than of a girl--of one who was in life and not on the outskirts.
“We rather pride ourselves,” she said, leading the way into the drawing-room, “upon having the best house in Loango. You will, I think, be more comfortable here than anywhere.”
She turned and looked at him with a slow, grave smile. She was noticing that, of the men who had been in this drawing-room, none had seemed so entirely at his ease as this one.
“I must ask you to believe that I was thinking of your comfort and not of my own.”
“Yes, I know you were,” she answered. “Our circle is rather limited, as you will find, and very few of the neighbours have time to think of their houses. Most of them are missionaries, and they are so busy; they have a large field, you see.”
“Very--and a weedy one, I should think.”
He was looking round, noting with well-trained glance the thousand little indescribable touches that make a charming room. He knew his ground. He knew the date and the meaning of every little ornament--the title and the writer of each book--the very material with which the chairs were covered; and he knew that all was good--all arranged with that art which is the difference between ignorance and knowledge.
“I see you have all the new books.”
“Yes, we have books and magazines; but, of course, we live quite out of the world.”
She paused, leaving the conversation with him, as in the hands of one who knew his business.
“I,” he said, filling up the pause, “have hitherto lived in the world--right in it. There is a lot of dust and commotion; the dust gets into people's eyes and blinds them; the commotion wears them out; and perhaps, after all, Loango is better!”
He spoke with the easy independence of the man of the world, accustomed to feel his way in strange places--not heeding what opinion he might raise--what criticism he might brave. He was glancing round him all the while, noting things, and wondering for whose benefit this pretty room had been evolved in the heart of a savage country. Perhaps he had assimilated erroneous notions of womankind in the world of which he spoke; perhaps he had never met any of those women whose natural refinement urges them to surround themselves, even in solitude, with pretty things, and prompts them to dress as neatly and becomingly as their circumstances allow for the edification of no man.
“I never abuse Loango,” she answered; “such abuse is apt to recoil. To call a place dull is often a confession of dulness.”
He laughed--still in that somewhat unnatural manner, as if desirous of filling up time. He had spent the latter years of his life in doing nothing else. The man's method was so different to what Jocelyn Gordon had met with in Loango, where men were all in deadly earnest, pursuing souls or wealth, that it struck her forcibly, and she remembered it long after Meredith had forgotten its use.
“I have no idea,” she continued, “how the place strikes the passing traveller; he usually passes by on the other side; but I am afraid there is nothing to arouse the smallest interest.”
“But, Miss Gordon, I am not the passing traveller.”
She looked up with a sudden interest.
“Indeed! I understood from Maurice that you were travelling down the coast without any particular object.”
“I have an object--estimable, if not quite original.”
“Yes?”
“I want to make some money. I have never made any yet, so there is a certain novelty in the thought which is pleasant.”
She smiled with the faintest suspicion of incredulity.
“I know what you are thinking,” he said; “that I am too neat and tidy--too namby-pamby to do anything in this country. That my boots are too narrow in the toe, my hair too short and my face too clean. I cannot help it. It is the fault of the individual you saw outside--Joseph. He insists on a strict observance of the social duties.”
“We are rougher here,” she answered.
“I left England,” he explained, “in rather a hurry. I had no time to buy uncomfortable boots, or anything like that. I know it was wrong. The ordinary young man of society who goes morally to the dogs and physically to the colonies always has an outfit. His friends buy him an outfit, and certain enterprising haberdashers make a study of such things. I came as I am.”
While he was speaking she had been watching him--studying him more closely than she had hitherto been able to do.
“I have heard of a Sir John Meredith,” she said suddenly.
“My father.”
He paused, drawing in his legs, and apparently studying the neat brown boots of which there had been question.
“Should you meet him again,” he went on, “it would not be advisable to mention my name. He might not care to hear it. We have had a slight difference of opinion. With me it is different. I am always glad to hear about him. I have an immense respect for him.”
She listened gravely, with a sympathy that did not attempt to express itself in words. On such a short acquaintance she had not learnt to expect a certain lightness of conversational touch which he always assumed when speaking of himself, as if his own thoughts and feelings were matters for ridicule.
“Of course,” he went on, “I was in the wrong. I know that. But it sometimes happens that a man is not in a position to admit that he is in the wrong--when, for instance, another person would suffer by such an admission.”
“Yes,” answered Jocelyn; “I understand.”
At this moment a servant came in with lamps and proceeded to close the windows. She was quite an old woman--an Englishwoman--and as she placed the lamps upon the table she scrutinised the guest after the manner of a privileged servitor. When she had departed Jack Meredith continued his narrative with a sort of deliberation which was explained later on.
“And,” he said, “that is why I came to Africa--that is why I want to make money. I do not mind confessing to a low greed of gain, because I think I have the best motive that a man can have for wanting to make money.”
He said this meaningly, and watched her face all the while.
“A motive which any lady ought to approve of.”
She smiled sympathetically.
“I approve and I admire your spirit.”
She rose as she spoke, and moved towards a side table, where two lighted candles had been placed.
“My motive for talking so barefacedly about myself,” he said, as they moved towards the door together, “was to let you know exactly who I am and why I am here. It was only due to you on accepting your hospitality. I might have been a criminal or an escaped embezzler. There were two on board the steamer coming out, and several other shady characters.”
“Yes,” said the girl; “I saw your motive.”
They were now in the hall, and the aged servant was waiting to show him his room.
| {
"id": "8939"
} |
11 | A COMPACT | Drifting, slow drifting down a wizard stream.
“No one knows,” Victor Durnovo was in the habit of saying, “what is going on in the middle of Africa.”
And on this principle he acted.
“Ten miles above the camping-ground where we first met,” he had told Meredith, “you will find a village where I have my headquarters. There is quite a respectable house there, with--a--a woman to look after your wants. When you have fixed things up at Loango, and have arranged for the dhows to meet my steamer, take up all your men to this village--Msala is the name--and send the boats back. Wait there till we come.”
In due time the telegram came, via St. Paul de Loanda, announcing the fact that Oscard had agreed to join the expedition, and that Durnovo and he might be expected at Msala in one month from that time. It was not without a vague feeling of regret that Jack Meredith read this telegram. To be at Msala in a month with forty men and a vast load of provisions meant leaving Loango almost at once. And, strange though it may seem, he had become somewhat attached to the dreary West African town. The singular cosmopolitan society was entirely new to him; the life, taken as a life, almost unique. He knew that he had not outstayed his welcome. Maurice Gordon had taken care to assure him of that in his boisterous, hearty manner, savouring more of Harrow than of Eton, every morning at breakfast.
“Confound Durnovo!” he cried, when the telegram had been read aloud. “Confound him, with his energy and his business-like habits! That means that you will have to leave us before long; and somehow it has got to be quite natural to see you come lounging in ten minutes late for most things, with an apology for Jocelyn, but none for me. We shall miss you, old chap.”
“Yes,” added Jocelyn, “we shall.”
She was busy with the cups, and spoke rather indifferently.
“So you've got Oscard?” continued Maurice. “I imagine he is a good man--tip-top shot and all that. I've never met him, but I have heard of him.”
“He is a gentleman, at all events,” said Meredith quietly; “I know that.”
Jocelyn was looking at him between the hibiscus flowers decorating the table.
“Is Mr. Durnovo going to be leader of the expedition?” she inquired casually, after a few moments' silence; and Jack, looking up with a queer smile, met her glance for a moment.
“No,” he answered.
Maurice Gordon's hearty laugh interrupted.
“Ha, ha!” he cried. “I wonder where the dickens you men are going to?”
“Up the Ogowe river,” replied Jack.
“No doubt. But what for? There is something mysterious about that river. Durnovo keeps his poor relations there, or something of that kind.”
“We are not going to look for them.”
“I suppose,” said Maurice, helping himself to marmalade, “that he has dropped upon some large deposit of ivory; that will turn out to be the solution of the mystery. It is the solution of most mysteries in this country. I wish I could solve the mysteries of ways and means and drop upon a large deposit of ivory, or spice, or precious stones. We should soon be out of this country, should we not, old girl?”
“I do not think we have much to complain of,” answered Jocelyn.
“No; you never do. Moreover, I do not suppose you would do so if you had the excuse.”
“Oh yes, I should, if I thought it would do any good.”
“Ah!” put in Meredith. “There speaks Philosophy--jam, please.”
“Or Resignation--that is strawberry and this is black currant.”
“Thanks, black currant. No--Philosophy. Resignation is the most loathsome of the virtues.”
“I can't say I care for any of them very much,” put in Maurice.
“No; I thought you seemed to shun them,” said Jack, like a flash.
“Sharp! very sharp! Jocelyn, do you know what we called him at school? --the French nail; he was so very long and thin and sharp! I might add polished and strong, but we were not so polite in those days. Poor old Jack! he gave as good as he got. But I must be off--the commerce of Western Africa awaits me. You'll be round at the office presently, I suppose, Jack?”
“Yes; I have an appointment there with a coloured person who is a liar by nature and a cook by trade.”
Maurice Gordon usually went off like this--at a moment's notice. He was one of those loud-speaking, quick-actioned men, who often get a reputation for energy and capacity without fully deserving it.
Jack, of a more meditative habit, rarely followed his host with the same obvious haste. He finished his breakfast calmly, and then asked Jocelyn whether she was coming out on to the verandah. It was a habit they had unconsciously dropped into. The verandah was a very important feature of the house, thickly overhung as it was with palms, bananas, and other tropical verdure. Africa is the land of creepers, and all around this verandah, over the trellis-work, around the supports, hanging in festoons from the roof, were a thousand different creeping flowers. The legend of the house--for, as in India, almost every bungalow on the West Coast has its tale--was that one of the early missionaries had built it, and, to beguile the long months of the rainy season, had carefully collected these creepers to beautify the place against the arrival of his young wife. She never came. A telegram stopped her. A snake interrupted his labour of love.
Jack took a seat at once, and began to search for his cigar-case in the pocket of his jacket. In this land of flies and moths men need not ask permission before they smoke. Jocelyn did not sit down at once. She went to the front of the verandah and watched her brother mount his horse. She was a year older than Maurice Gordon, and exercised a larger influence over his life than either of them suspected.
Presently he rode past the verandah, waving his hand cheerily. He was one of those large, hearty Englishmen who seem to be all appetite and laughter--men who may be said to be manly, and beyond that nothing. Their manliness is so overpowering that it swallows up many other qualities which are not out of place in men, such as tact and thoughtfulness, and PERHAPS intellectuality and the power to take some interest in those gentler things that interest women.
When Jocelyn came to the back of the verandah she was thinking about her brother Maurice, and it never suggested itself to her that she should not speak her thoughts to Meredith, whom she had not seen until three weeks ago. She had never spoken of Maurice behind his back to any man before.
“Does it ever strike you,” she said, “that Maurice is the sort of man to be led astray by evil influence?”
“Yes; or to be led straight by a good influence, such as yours.”
He did not meet her thoughtful gaze. He was apparently watching the retreating form of the horse through the tangle of flower and leaf and tendril.
“I am afraid,” said the girl, “that my influence is not of much account.”
“Do you really believe that?” asked Meredith, turning upon her with a half-cynical smile.
“Yes,” she answered simply.
Before speaking again he took a pull at his cigar.
“Your influence,” he said, “appears to me to be the making of Maurice Gordon. I frequently see serious flaws in the policy of Providence; but I suppose there is wisdom in making the strongest influence that which is unconscious of its power.”
“I am glad you think I have some power over him,” said Jocelyn; “but, at the same time, it makes me uneasy, because it only confirms my conviction that he is very easily led. And suppose my influence--such as it is--was withdrawn? Suppose that I were to die, or, what appears to be more likely, suppose that he should marry?”
“Then let us hope that he will marry the right person. People sometimes do, you know.”
She smiled with a strange little flicker of the eyelids. They had grown wonderfully accustomed to each other during the last three weeks. Here, it would appear, was one of those friendships between man and woman that occasionally set the world agog with curiosity and scepticism. But there seemed to be no doubt about it. He was over thirty, she verging on that prosaic age. Both had lived and moved in the world; to both life was an open book, and they had probably discovered, as most of us do, that the larger number of the leaves are blank. He had almost told her that he was engaged to be married, and she had quite understood. There could not possibly be any misapprehension; there was no room for one of those little mistakes about which people write novels and fondly hope that some youthful reader may be carried away by a very faint resemblance to that which they hold to be life. Moreover, at thirty, one leaves the first romance of youth behind.
There was something in her smile that suggested that she did not quite believe in his cynicism.
“Also,” she said gravely, “some stronger influence might appear--an influence which I could not counteract.”
Jack Meredith turned in his long chair and looked at her searchingly.
“I have a vague idea,” he said, “that you are thinking of Durnovo.”
“I am,” she admitted, with some surprise. “I wonder how you knew? I am afraid of him.”
“I can reassure you on that score,” said Meredith. “For the next two years or so Durnovo will be in daily intercourse with me. He will be under my immediate eye. I did not anticipate much pleasure from his society. But now I do.”
“Why?” she asked, rather mystified.
“Because I shall have the daily satisfaction of knowing that I am relieving you of an anxiety.”
“It is very kind of you to put it in that way,” said Jocelyn. “But I should not like you to sacrifice yourself to what may be a foolish prejudice on my part.”
“It is not a foolish prejudice. Durnovo is not a gentleman either by birth or inclination. He is not fit to associate with you.”
To this Jocelyn answered nothing. Victor Durnovo was one of her brother's closest friends--a friend of his own choosing.
“Miss Gordon,” said Jack Meredith suddenly, with a gravity that was rare, “will you do me a favour?”
“I think I should like to.”
“You admit that you are afraid of Durnovo now: if at any time you have reason to be more afraid, will you make use of me? Will you write or come to me and ask my help?”
“Thank you,” she said hesitatingly.
“You see,” he went on, in a lighter tone, “I am not afraid of Durnovo. I have met Durnovos before. You may have observed that my locks no longer resemble the raven's wing. There is a little grey--just here--above the temple. I am getting on in life, and I know how to deal with Durnovos.”
“Thank you,” said the girl, with a little sigh of relief. “The feeling that I have some one to turn to will be a great relief. You see how I am placed here. The missionaries are very kind and well-meaning, but there are some things which they do not quite understand. They may be gentlemen--some of them are; but they are not men of the world. I have no definite thought or fear, and very good persons, one finds, are occasionally a little dense. Unless things are very definite, they do not understand.”
“On the other hand,” pursued Jack, in the same reflective tone, as if taking up her thought, “persons who are not good have a perception of the indefinite. I did not think of it in that light before.”
Jocelyn Gordon laughed softly, without attempting to meet his lighter vein.
“Do you know,” she said, after a little silence, “that I was actually thinking of warning you against Mr. Durnovo? Now I stand aghast at my own presumption.”
“It was kind of you to give the matter any thought whatever.”
He rose and threw away the end of his cigar. Joseph was already before the door, leading the horse which Maurice Gordon had placed at his visitor's disposal.
“I will lay the warning to heart,” he said, standing in front of Jocelyn and looking down at her as she lay back in the deep basket-chair. She was simply dressed in white--as was her wont, for it must be remembered that they were beneath the Equator--a fair English maiden, whose thoughts were hidden behind a certain gracious, impenetrable reserve. “I will lay it to heart, although you have not uttered it. But I have always known with what sort of man I was dealing. We serve each other's purpose, that is all; and he knows that as well as I do.”
“I am glad Mr. Oscard is going with you,” she answered guardedly.
He waited a moment. It seemed as if she had not done speaking--as if there was another thought near the surface. But she did not give voice to it, and he turned away. The sound of the horse's feet on the gravel did not arouse her from the reverie into which she had fallen; and long after it had died away, leaving only the hum of insect life and the distant ceaseless song of the surf, Jocelyn Gordon sat apparently watching the dancing shadows on the floor as the creepers waved in the breeze.
| {
"id": "8939"
} |
12 | A MEETING | No one can be more wise than destiny.
The short equatorial twilight was drawing to an end, and all Nature stood in silence, while Night crept up to claim the land where her reign is more autocratic than elsewhere on earth. There is a black night above the trees, and a blacker beneath. In an hour it would be dark, and, in the meantime, the lowering clouds were tinged with a pink glow that filtered through from above. There was rain coming, and probably thunder. Moreover, the trees seemed to know it, for there was a limpness in their attitude as if they were tucking their heads into their shoulders in anticipation of the worst. The insects were certainly possessed of a premonition. They had crept away.
It was distinctly an unlikely evening for the sportsman. The stillness was so complete that the faintest rustle could be heard at a great distance. Moreover, it was the sort of evening when Nature herself seems to be glancing over her shoulder with timorous restlessness.
Nevertheless, a sportsman was abroad. He was creeping up the right-hand bank of a stream, his only chance lying in the noise of the waters, which might serve to deaden the sound of broken twig or rustling leaf.
This sportsman was Jack Meredith, and it was evident that he was bringing to bear upon the matter in hand that intelligence and keenness of perception which had made him a person of some prominence in other scenes where Nature has a less assured place.
It would appear that he was not so much at home in the tangle of an African forest as in the crooked paths of London society; for his clothes were torn in more than one place; a mosquito, done to sudden death, adhered sanguinarily to the side of his aristocratic nose, while heat and mental distress had drawn damp stripes down his countenance. His hands were scratched and inclined to bleed, and one leg had apparently been in a morass. Added to these physical drawbacks there was no visible sign of success, which was probably the worst part of Jack Meredith's plight.
Since sunset he had been crawling, scrambling, stumbling up the bank of this stream in relentless pursuit of some large animal which persistently kept hidden in the tangle across the bed of the river. The strange part of it was that when he stopped to peep through the branches the animal stopped too, and he found no way of discovering its whereabouts. More than once they remained thus for nearly five minutes, peering at each other through the heavy leafage. It was distinctly unpleasant, for Meredith felt that the animal was not afraid of him, and did not fully understand the situation. The respective positions of hunter and hunted were imperfectly defined. He had hitherto confined his attentions to such game as showed a sporting readiness to run away, and there was a striking novelty in this unseen beast of the forest, fresh, as it were, from the hands of its Creator, that entered into the fun of the thing from a totally mistaken standpoint.
Once Meredith was able to decide approximately the whereabouts of his prey by the momentary shaking of a twig. He raised his rifle and covered that twig steadily; his forefinger played tentatively on the trigger; but on second thoughts he refrained. He was keenly conscious of the fact that the beast was doing its work with skill superior to his own. In comparison to his, its movements were almost noiseless. Jack Meredith was too clever a man to be conceited in the wrong place, which is the habit of fools. He recognised very plainly that he was not distinguishing himself in this new field of glory; he was not yet an accomplished big-game hunter.
Twice he raised his rifle with the intention of firing at random into the underwood on the remote chance of bringing his enemy into the open. But the fascination of this duel of cunning was too strong, and he crept onwards with bated breath.
It was terrifically hot, and all the while Night was stalking westward on the summits of the trees with stealthy tread.
While absorbed in the intricacies of pursuit--while anathematising tendrils and condemning thorns to summary judgment--Jack Meredith was not losing sight of his chance of getting back to the little village of Msala. He knew that he had only to follow the course of the stream downwards, retracing his steps until a junction with the Ogowe river was effected. In the meantime his lips were parted breathlessly, and there was a light in the quiet eyes which might have startled some of his well-bred friends could they have seen it.
At last he came to an open space made by a slip of the land into the bed of the river. When Jack Meredith came to this he stepped out of the thicket and stood in the open, awaiting the approach of his stealthy prey. The sound of its footfall was just perceptible, slowly diminishing the distance that divided them. Then the trees were parted, and a tall, fair man stepped forward on to the opposite bank.
Jack Meredith bowed gravely, and the other sportsman, seeing the absurdity of the situation, burst into hearty laughter. In a moment or two he had leapt from rock to rock and come to Meredith.
“It seems,” he said, “that we have been wasting a considerable amount of time.”
“I very nearly wasted powder and shot,” replied Jack, significantly indicating his rifle.
“I saw you twice, and raised my rifle; your breeches are just the colour of a young doe. Are you Meredith? My name is Oscard.”
“Ah! Yes, I am Meredith. I am glad to see you.”
They shook hands. There was a twinkle in Jack Meredith's eyes, but Oscard was quite grave. His sense of humour was not very keen, and he was before all things a sportsman.
“I left the canoes a mile below Msala, and landed to shoot a deer we saw drinking, but I never saw him. Then I heard you, and I have been stalking you ever since.”
“But I never expected you so soon; you were not due till--look!” Jack whispered suddenly.
Oscard turned on his heel, and the next instant their two rifles rang out through the forest stillness in one sharp crack. Across the stream, ten yards behind the spot where Oscard had emerged from the bush, a leopard sprang into the air, five feet from the ground, with head thrown back, and paws clawing at the thinness of space with grand free sweeps. The beast fell with a thud, and lay still--dead.
The two men clambered across the rocks again, side by side. While they stood over the prostrate form of the leopard--beautiful, incomparably graceful and sleek even in death--Guy Oscard stole a sidelong glance at his companion. He was a modest man, and yet he knew that he was reckoned among the big-game hunters of the age. This man had fired as quickly as himself, and there were two small trickling holes in the animal's head.
While he was being quietly scrutinised Jack Meredith stooped down, and, taking the leopard beneath the shoulders, lifted it bodily back from the pool of blood.
“Pity to spoil the skin,” he explained, as he put a fresh cartridge into his rifle.
Oscard nodded in an approving way. He knew the weight of a full-grown male leopard, all muscle and bone, and he was one of those old-fashioned persons mentioned in the Scriptures as taking a delight in a man's legs--or his arms, so long as they were strong.
“I suppose,” he said quietly, “we had better skin him here.”
As he spoke he drew a long hunting-knife, and, slashing down a bunch of the maidenhair fern that grew like nettles around them, he wiped the blood gently, almost affectionately, from the leopard's cat-like face.
There was about these two men a strict attention to the matter in hand, a mutual and common respect for all things pertaining to sport, a quiet sense of settling down without delay to the regulation of necessary detail that promised well for any future interest they might have in common.
So these highly-educated young gentlemen turned up their sleeves and steeped themselves to the elbow in gore. Moreover, they did it with a certain technical skill and a distinct sense of enjoyment. Truly, the modern English gentleman is a strange being. There is nothing his soul takes so much delight in as the process of getting hot and very dirty, and, if convenient, somewhat sanguinary. You cannot educate the manliness out of him, try as you will; and for such blessings let us in all humbleness give thanks to Heaven.
This was the bringing together of Jack Meredith and Guy Oscard--two men who loved the same woman. They knelt side by side, and Jack Meredith--the older man, the accomplished, gifted gentleman of the world, who stood second to none in that varied knowledge required nowadays of the successful societarian--Jack Meredith, be it noted, humbly dragged the skin away from the body while Guy Oscard cut the clinging integuments with a delicate touch and finished skill.
They laid the skin out on the trampled maidenhair, and contemplated it with silent satisfaction. In the course of their inspection they both arrived at the head at the same moment. The two holes in the hide, just above the eyes, came under their notice at the same moment, and they turned and smiled gravely at each other, thinking the same thought--the sort of thought that Englishmen rarely put into intelligible English.
“I'm glad we did that,” said Guy Oscard at length, suddenly. “Whatever comes of this expedition of ours--if we fight like hell, as we probably shall, before it is finished--if we hate each other ever afterwards, that skin ought to remind us that we are much of a muchness.”
It might have been put into better English; it might almost have sounded like poetry had Guy Oscard been possessed of the poetic soul. But this, fortunately, was not his; and all that might have been said was left to the imagination of Meredith. What he really felt was that there need be no rivalry, and that he for one had no thought of such; that in the quest which they were about to undertake there need be no question of first and last; that they were merely two men, good or bad, competent or incompetent, but through all equal.
Neither of them suspected that the friendship thus strangely inaugurated at the rifle's mouth was to run through a longer period than the few months required to reach the plateau--that it was, in fact, to extend through that long expedition over a strange country that we call Life, and that it was to stand the greatest test that friendship has to meet with here on earth.
It was almost dark when at last they turned to go, Jack Meredith carrying the skin over his shoulder and leading the way. There was no opportunity for conversation, as their progress was necessarily very difficult. Only by the prattle of the stream were they able to make sure of keeping in the right direction. Each had a thousand questions to ask the other. They were total strangers; but it is not, one finds, by conversation that men get to know each other. A common danger, a common pleasure, a common pursuit--these are the touches of Nature by which men are drawn together into the kinship of mutual esteem.
Once they gained the banks of the Ogowe their progress was quicker, and by nine o'clock they reached the camp at Msala. Victor Durnovo was still at work superintending the discharge of the baggage and stores from the large trading-canoes. They heard the shouting and chattering before coming in sight of the camp, and one voice raised angrily above the others.
“Is that Durnovo's voice?” asked Meredith.
“Yes,” answered his companion curtly.
It was a new voice which Meredith had not heard before. When they shouted to announce their arrival it was suddenly hushed, and presently Durnovo came forward to greet them.
Meredith hardly knew him, he was so much stronger and healthier in appearance. Durnovo shook hands heartily.
“No need to introduce you two,” he said, looking from one to the other.
“No; after one mistake we discovered each other's identity in the forest,” answered Meredith.
Durnovo smiled; but there was something behind the smile. He did not seem to approve of their meeting without his intervention.
| {
"id": "8939"
} |
13 | IN BLACK AND WHITE | A little lurking secret of the blood, A little serpent secret rankling keen.
The three men walked up towards the house together. It was a fair-sized house, with a heavy thatched roof that overhung the walls like the crown of a mushroom. The walls were only mud, and the thatching was nothing else than banana leaves; but there was evidence of European taste in the garden surrounding the structure, and in the glazed windows and wooden door.
As they approached the open doorway three little children, clad in very little more than their native modesty, ran gleefully out, and proceeded to engage seats on Jack Meredith's boots, looking upon him as a mere public conveyance. They took hardly any notice of him, but chattered and quarrelled among themselves, sometimes in baby English, sometimes in a dialect unknown to Oscard and Meredith.
“These,” said the latter, when they were seated, and clinging with their little dusky arms round his legs, “are the very rummest little kids I ever came across.”
Durnovo gave an impatient laugh, and went on towards the house. But Guy Oscard stopped, and walked more slowly beside Meredith as he laboured along heavy footed.
“They are the jolliest little souls imaginable,” continued Jack Meredith. “There,” he said to them when they had reached the doorstep, “run away to your mother--very fine ride--no! no more to-night! I'm aweary--you understand--aweary!”
“Aweary--awe-e-e-ary!” repeated the little things, standing before him in infantile nude rotundity, looking up with bright eyes.
“Aweary--that is it. Good night, Epaminondas--good night, Xantippe! Give ye good hap, most stout Nestorius!”
He stooped and gravely shook hands with each one in turn, and, after forcing a like ceremonial upon Guy Oscard, they reluctantly withdrew.
“They have not joined us, I suppose?” said Oscard, as he followed his companion into the house.
“Not yet. They live in this place. Nestorius, I understand, takes care of his mother, who, in her turn, takes care of this house. He is one and a half.”
Guy Oscard seemed to have inherited the mind inquisitive from his learned father. He asked another question later on.
“Who is that woman?” he said during dinner, with a little nod towards the doorway, through which the object of his curiosity had passed with some plates.
“That is the mother of the stout Nestorius,” answered Jack--“Durnovo's housekeeper.”
He spoke quietly, looking straight in front of him; and Joseph, who was drawing a cork at the back of the room, was watching his face.
There was a little pause, during which Durnovo drank slowly. Then Guy Oscard spoke again.
“If she cooked the dinner,” he said, “she knows her business.”
“Yes,” answered Durnovo, “she is a good cook--if she is nothing else.”
It did not sound as if further inquiries would be welcome, and so the subject was dropped with a silent tribute to the culinary powers of Durnovo's housekeeper at the Msala Station.
The woman had only appeared for a moment, bringing in some dishes for Joseph--a tall, stately woman, with great dark eyes, in which the patience of motherhood had succeeded to the soft fire of West Indian love and youth. She had the graceful, slow carriage of the Creole, although her skin was darker than that of those dangerous sirens. That Spanish blood ran in her veins could be seen by the intelligence of her eyes; for there is an intelligence in Spanish eyes which stand apart. In the men it seems to refer to the past or the future, for their incorrigible leisureliness prevents the present rendering of a full justice to their powers. In the women it belongs essentially to the present; for there is no time like the present for love and other things.
“They call me,” she had said to Jack Meredith, in her soft, mumbled English, a fortnight earlier, “they call me Marie.”
The children he had named after his own phantasy, and when she had once seen him with them there was a notable change in her manner. Her eyes rested on him with a sort of wondering attention, and when she cooked his meals or touched anything that was his there was something in her attitude that denoted a special care.
Joseph called her “Missis,” with a sort of friendliness in his voice, which never rose to badinage nor descended to familiarity.
“Seems to me, missis,” he said, on the third evening after the arrival of the advance column, “that the guv'nor takes uncommon kindly to them little 'uns of yours.”
They were washing up together after dinner in that part of the garden which was used for a scullery, and Joseph was enjoying a post-prandial pipe.
“Yes,” she said simply, following the direction of Joseph's glance. Jack Meredith was engaged in teaching Epaminondas the intellectual game of bowls with a rounded pebble and a beer-bottle. Nestorius, whose person seemed more distended than usual, stood gravely by, engaged in dental endeavours on a cork, while Xantippe joined noisily in the game. Their lack of dress was essentially native to the country, while their mother affected a simple European style of costume.
“And,” added Joseph, on politeness bent, “it don't surprise me. I'm wonderfully fond of the little nig--nippers already. I am--straight.”
The truth was that the position of this grave and still comely woman was ambiguous. Neither Joseph nor his master called her by the name she had offered for their use. Joseph compromised by the universal and elastic “Missis”; his master simply avoided all names.
Ambiguity is one of those intangible nothings that get into the atmosphere and have a trick of remaining there. Marie seemed in some subtle way to pervade the atmosphere of Msala. It would seem that Guy Oscard, in his thick-headed way, was conscious of this mystery in the air; for he had not been two hours in Msala before he asked “Who is that woman?” and received the reply which has been recorded.
After dinner they passed out on to the little terrace overlooking the river, and it was here that the great Simiacine scheme was pieced together. It was here beneath the vast palm trees that stood like two beacons towering over the surrounding forest, that three men deliberately staked their own lives and the lives of others against a fortune. Nature has a strange way of hiding her gifts. Many of the most precious have lain unheeded for hundreds of years in barren plains, on inaccessible mountains, or beneath the wave, while others are thrown at the feet of savages who know no use for them.
The man who had found the Simiacine was eager, restless, full of suspicion. To the others the scheme obviously presented itself in a different light. Jack Meredith was dilettante, light-hearted, and unsatisfactory. It was impossible to arouse any enthusiasm in him--to make him take it seriously. Guy Oscard was gravely indifferent. He wanted to get rid of a certain space of time, and the African forest, containing as it did the only excitement that his large heart knew, was as good a place as any. The Simiacine was, in his mind, relegated to a distant place behind weeks of sport and adventure such as his soul loved. He scarcely took Victor Durnovo au pied de la lettre. Perhaps he knew too much about him for that. Certain it is that neither of the two realised at that moment the importance of the step that they were taking.
“You men,” said Durnovo eagerly, “don't seem to take the thing seriously.”
“I,” answered Meredith, “intend at all events to take the profits very seriously. When they begin to come in, J. Meredith will be at the above address, and trusts by a careful attention to business to merit a continuance of your kind patronage.”
Durnovo laughed somewhat nervously. Oscard did not seem to hear.
“It is all very well for you,” said the half-caste in a lower voice. “You have not so much at stake. It is likely that the happiness of my whole life depends upon this venture.”
A curious smile passed across Jack Meredith's face. Without turning his head, he glanced sideways into Durnovo's face through the gloom. But he said nothing, and it was Oscard who broke the silence by saying simply: “The same may possibly apply to me.”
There was a little pause, during which he lighted his pipe.
“To a certain extent,” he said in emendation. “Of course, my real object, as you no doubt know, is to get away from England until my father's death has been forgotten. My own conscience is quite clear, but--” Jack Meredith drew in his legs and leant forward.
“But,” he said, interrupting, and yet not interrupting--“but the public mind is an unclean sink. Everything that goes into it comes out tainted. Therefore it is best only to let the public mind have the scourings, as it were, of one's existence. If they get anything better--anything more important--it is better to skedaddle until it has run through and been swept away by a flow of social garbage.”
Guy Oscard grunted with his pipe between his teeth, after the manner of the stoic American-Indian--a grunt that seemed to say, “My pale-faced brother has spoken well; he expresses my feelings.” Then he gave further vent to the deliberate expansiveness which was his.
“What I cannot stand,” he said, “are the nudges and the nods and the surreptitious glances of the silly women who think that one cannot see them looking. I hate being pointed out.”
“Together with the latest skirt-dancing girl, and the last female society-detective, with the blushing honours of the witness-box thick upon her,” suggested Jack Meredith.
“Yes,” muttered Guy. He turned with a sort of simple wonder, and looked at Meredith curiously. He had never been understood so quickly before. He had never met man or woman possessing in so marked a degree that subtle power of going right inside the mind of another and feeling the things that are there--the greatest power of all--the power that rules the world; and it is only called Sympathy.
“Well,” said the voice of Durnovo through the darkness, “I don't mind admitting that all I want is the money. I want to get out of this confounded country; but I don't want to leave till I have made a fortune.”
The subtle influence that Meredith wielded seemed to have reached him too, warming into expansiveness his hot Spanish blood. His voice was full of confidence.
“Very right and proper,” said Meredith. “Got a grudge against the country; make the country pay for it in cash.”
“That's what I intend to do; and it shall pay heavily. Then, when I've got the money, I'll know what to do with it. I know where to look, and I do not think that I shall look in vain.”
Guy Oscard shuffled uneasily in his camp-chair. He had an Englishman's horror of putting into speech those things which we all think, while only Frenchmen and Italians say them. The Spaniards are not so bad, and Victor Durnovo had enough of their blood in him to say no more.
It did not seem to occur to any of them that the only person whose individuality was still veiled happened to be Jack Meredith. He alone had said nothing, had imparted no confidence. He it was who spake first, after a proper period of silence. He was too much of an adept to betray haste, and thus admit his debt of mutual confidence.
“It seems to me,” he said, “that we have all the technicalities arranged now. So far as the working of the expedition is concerned, we know our places, and the difficulties will be met as they present themselves. But there is one thing which I think we should set in order now. I have been thinking about it while I have been waiting here alone.”
The glow of Victor Durnovo's cigar died away as if in his attention he was forgetting to smoke; but he said nothing.
“It seems to me,” Jack went on, “that before we leave here we should draw up and sign a sort of deed of partnership. Of course, we trust each other perfectly--there is no question of that. But life is an uncertain thing, as some earlier philosopher said before me; and one never knows what may happen. I have drawn up a paper in triplicate. If you have a match, I will read it to you.”
Oscard produced a match, and, striking it on his boot, sheltered it with the hollow of his hand, while Jack read: “We, the undersigned, hereby enter into partnership to search for and sell, to our mutual profit, the herb known as Simiacine, the profits to be divided into three equal portions, after the deduction of one-hundredth part to be handed to the servant, Joseph Atkinson. Any further expenses that may be incurred to be borne in the same proportion as the original expense of fitting out the expedition, namely, two-fifths to be paid by Guy Cravener Oscard, two-fifths by John Meredith, one-fifth by Victor Durnovo.
“The sum of fifty pounds per month to be paid to Victor Durnovo, wherewith he may pay the thirty special men taken from his estate and headquarters at Msala to cultivate the Simiacine, and such corn and vegetables as may be required for the sustenance of the expedition; these men to act as porters until the plateau be reached.
“The opinion of two of the three leaders against one to be accepted unconditionally in all questions where controversy may arise. In case of death each of us undertakes hereby to hand over to the executors of the dead partner or partners such moneys as shall belong to him or them.”
At this juncture there was a little pause while Guy Oscard lighted a second match.
“And,” continued Jack, “we hereby undertake severally, on oath, to hold the whereabouts of the Simiacine a strict secret, which secret may not be revealed by any one of us to whomsoever it may be without the sanction, in writing, of the other two partners.”
“There,” concluded Jack Meredith, “I am rather pleased with that literary production: it is forcible and yet devoid of violence. I feel that in me the commerce of the century has lost an ornament. Moreover, I am ready to swear to the terms of the agreement.”
There was a little pause. Guy Oscard took his pipe from his mouth, and while he knocked the ashes out against the leg of his chair he mumbled, “I swear to hold that agreement.”
Victor Durnovo took off his hat with a sweep and a flourish, and, raising his bared brow to the stars, he said, “I swear to hold to that agreement. If I fail, may God strike me dead!”
| {
"id": "8939"
} |
14 | PANIC-STRICKEN | Is this reason? Is this humanity? Alas! it is man.
The next morning Jack Meredith was awakened by his servant Joseph before it was fully light. It would appear as if Joseph had taken no means of awakening him, for Meredith awoke quite quietly to find Joseph standing by his bed.
“Holloa!” exclaimed the master, fully awake at once, as townsmen are.
Joseph stood at attention by the bedside.
“Woke you before yer time, sir,” he said. “There's something wrong among these 'ere darkie fellers, sir.”
“Wrong! what do you mean?”
Meredith was already lacing his shoes.
“Not rebellion?” he said curtly, looking towards his firearms.
“No, sir, not that. It's some mortual sickness. I don't know what it is. I've been up half the night with them. It's spreading, too.”
“Sickness! what does it seem like? Just give me that jacket. Not that sleeping sickness?”
“No, sir. It's not that. Missis Marie was telling me about that--awful scourge that, sir. No, the poor chaps are wide-awake enough. Groanin', and off their heads too, mostly.”
“Have you called Mr. Oscard?”
“No, sir.”
“Call him and Mr. Durnovo.”
“Met Mr. Durnovo, sir, goin' out as I came in.”
In a few moments Jack joined Durnovo and Oscard, who were talking together on the terrace in front of the house. Guy Oscard was still in his pyjamas, which he had tucked into top-boots. He also wore a sun-helmet, which added a finish to his costume. They got quite accustomed to this get-up during the next three days, for he never had time to change it; and, somehow, it ceased to be humorous long before the end of that time.
“Oh, it's nothing,” Durnovo was saying, with a singular eagerness. “I know these chaps. They have been paid in advance. They are probably shamming, and if they are not they are only suffering from the effects of a farewell glorification. They want to delay our start. That is their little game. It will give them a better chance of deserting.”
“At any rate, we had better go and see them,” suggested Jack.
“No, don't!” cried Durnovo eagerly, detaining him with both hands. “Take my advice, and don't. Just have breakfast in the ordinary way and pretend there is nothing wrong. Then afterwards you can lounge casually into the camp.”
“All right,” said Jack, rather unwillingly.
“It has been of some use--this scare,” said Durnovo, turning and looking towards the river. “It has reminded me of something. We have not nearly enough quinine. I will just take a quick canoe, and run down to Loango to fetch some.”
He turned quite away from them, and stooped to attach the lace of his boot.
“I can travel night and day, and be back here in three days,” he added. “In the meantime you can be getting on with the loading of the canoes, and we will start as soon as I get back.”
He stood upright and looked around with weatherwise, furtive eyes.
“Seems to me,” he said, “there's thunder coming. I think I had better be off at once.”
In the course of his inspection of the lowering clouds which hung, black as ink, just above the trees, his eyes lighted on Joseph, standing within the door of the cottage, watching him with a singular half-suppressed smile.
“Yes,” he said hurriedly, “I will start at once. I can eat some sort of a breakfast when we are under way.”
He looked beneath his lashes quickly from Jack to Guy and back again. Their silent acquiescence was not quite satisfactory. Then he called his own men, and spoke to them in a tongue unknown to the Englishmen. He hurried forward their preparations with a feverish irritability which made Jack Meredith think of the first time he had ever seen Durnovo--a few miles farther down the river--all palpitating and trembling with climatic nervousness. His face was quite yellow, and there was a line drawn diagonally from the nostrils down each cheek, to lose itself ultimately in the heavy black moustache.
Before he stepped into his canoe the thunder was rumbling in the distance, and the air was still as death. Breathing was an effort; the inhaled air did not satisfy the lungs, and seemed powerless to expand them.
Overhead the clouds, of a blue-black intensity, seemed almost to touch the trees; the river was of ink. The rowers said nothing, but they lingered on the bank and watched Durnovo's face anxiously. When he took his seat in the canoe they looked protestingly up to the sky. Durnovo said something to them rapidly, and they laid their paddles to the water.
Scarcely had the boat disappeared in the bend of the river before the rain broke. It came with the rush of an express train--the trees bending before the squall like reeds. The face of the river was tormented into a white fury by the drops which splashed up again a foot in height. The lashing of the water on the bare backs of the negroes was distinctly audible to Victor Durnovo.
Then the black clouds split up like a rent cloth, and showed behind them, not Heaven, but the living fire of Hell. The thunder crashed out in sharp reports like file-firing at a review. With one accord the men ceased rowing and crouched down in the canoe.
Durnovo shouted to them, his face livid with fury. But for some moments his voice was quite lost. The lightning ran over the face of the river like will-o'-the-wisps; the whole heaven was streaked continuously with it.
Suddenly the negroes leaped to their paddles and rowed with bent back, and wild staring eyes, as if possessed. They were covered by the muzzle of Durnovo's revolver.
Behind the evil-looking barrel of blue steel, the half-caste's dripping face looked forth, peering into the terrific storm. There was no question of fending off such torrents of rain, nor did he attempt it. Indeed, he seemed to court its downfall. He held out his arms and stretched forth his legs, giving free play to the water which ran off him in a continual stream, washing his thin khaki clothing on his limbs. He raised his face to the sky, and let the water beat upon his brow and hair.
The roar of the thunder, which could be FELT, so great was the vibration of the laden air, seemed to have no fear for him. The lightning, ever shooting athwart the sky, made him blink as if dazzled, but he looked upon it without emotion.
He knew that behind him he had left a greater danger than this, and he stretched out his limbs to the cleansing torrent with an exulting relief to be washed from the dread infection. Small-pox had laid its hand on the camp at Msala: and from the curse of it Victor Durnovo was flying in a mad chattering panic through all the anger of the tropic elements, holding death over his half-stunned crew, not daring to look behind him or pause in his coward's flight.
It is still said on the Ogowe river that no man travels like Victor Durnovo. Certain it is that, in twenty-seven hours from the time that he left Msala on the morning of the great storm, he presented himself before Maurice Gordon in his office at the factory at Loango.
“Ah!” cried Gordon, hardly noticing the washed-out, harassed appearance of the visitor; “here you are again. I heard that the great expedition had started.”
“So it has, but I have come back to get one or two things we have forgotten. Got any sherry handy?”
“Of course,” replied Gordon, with perfect adhesion to the truth.
He laid aside his pen and, turning in his chair, drew a decanter from a small cupboard which stood on the ground at his side.
“Here you are,” he continued, pouring out a full glass with practised, but slightly unsteady, hand.
Durnovo drank the wine at one gulp and set the glass down.
“Ah!” he said, “that does a chap good.”
“Does it now?” exclaimed Maurice Gordon with mock surprise. “Well, I'll just try.”
The manner in which he emptied his glass was quite different, with a long, slow drawing-out of the enjoyment, full of significance for the initiated.
“Will you be at home to-night?” asked Durnovo, gently pushing aside the hospitable decanter. “I have got a lot of work to do to-day, but I should like to run in and see you this evening.”
“Yes, come and dine.”
Durnovo shook his head and looked down at his wrinkled and draggled clothing.
“No, I can't do that, old man. Not in this trim.”
“Bosh? What matter? Jocelyn doesn't mind.”
“No, but I do.”
It was obvious that he wanted to accept the invitation, although the objection he raised was probably honest. For that taint in the blood that cometh from the subtle tar-brush brings with it a vanity that has its equal in no white man's heart.
“Well, I'll lend you a black coat! Seven o'clock sharp!”
Durnovo hurried away with a gleam of excitement in his dark eyes.
Maurice Gordon did not resume his work at once. He sat for some time idly drumming with his fingers on the desk.
“If I can only get her to be civil to him,” he reflected aloud, “I'll get into this business yet.”
At seven o'clock Durnovo appeared at the Gordons' house. He had managed to borrow a dress-suit, and wore an orchid in his buttonhole. It was probably the first time that Jocelyn had seen him in this garb of civilisation, which is at the same time the most becoming and the most trying variety of costume left to sensible men in these days. A dress-suit finds a man out sooner than anything except speech.
Jocelyn was civil in her reception--more so, indeed, than Maurice Gordon had hoped for. She seemed almost glad to see Durnovo, and evinced quite a kindly interest in his movements. Durnovo attributed this to the dress-suit, while Maurice concluded that his obvious hints, thrown out before dinner, had fallen on fruitful ground.
At dinner Victor Durnovo was quite charmed with the interest that Jocelyn took in the expedition, of which, he gave it to be understood, he was the chief. So also was Maurice, because Durnovo's evident admiration of Jocelyn somewhat overcame his natural secrecy of character.
“You'll hear of me, Miss Gordon, never fear, before three months are past,” said Durnovo, in reply to a vague suggestion that his absence might extend to several months. “I am not the sort of man to come to grief by a foolish mistake or any unnecessary risk.”
To which sentiment two men at Msala bore generous testimony later on.
The simple dinner was almost at an end, and it was at this time that Jocelyn Gordon began once more to dislike Durnovo. At first she had felt drawn towards him. Although he wore the dress-clothes rather awkwardly, there was something in his manner which reminded her vaguely of a gentleman. It was not that he was exactly gentlemanly, but there was the reflection of good breeding in his bearing. Dark-skinned people, be it noted, have usually the imitative faculty. As the dinner and the wine warmed his heart, so by degrees he drew on his old self like a glove. He grew bolder and less guarded. His opinion of himself rose momentarily, and with it a certain gleam in his eyes increased as they rested on Jocelyn.
It was not long before she noted this, and quite suddenly her ancient dislike of the man was up in arms with a new intensity gathered she knew not whence.
“And,” said Maurice, when Jocelyn had left them, “I suppose you'll be a millionaire in about six months?”
He gently pushed the wine towards him at the same time. Durnovo had not slept for forty hours. The excitement of his escape from the plague-ridden camp had scarcely subsided. The glitter of the silver on the table, the shaded candles, the subtle sensuality of refinement and daintiness appealed to his hot-blooded nature. He was a little off his feet perhaps. He took the decanter and put it to the worst use he could have selected.
“Not so soon as that,” he said; “but in time--in time.”
“Lucky beggar!” muttered Maurice Gordon, with a little sigh.
“I don't mind telling you,” said Durnovo, with a sudden confidence begotten of Madeira, “that it's Simiacine--that's what it is. I can't tell you more.”
“Simiacine,” repeated Gordon, fingering the stem of his wine-glass and looking at him keenly between the candle-shades. “Yes. You've always been on its track, haven't you?”
“In six months your go-downs will be full of it--my Simiacine, my Simiacine.”
“By God, I wish I had a hand in it.”
Maurice Gordon pushed the decanter again--gently, almost surreptitiously.
“And so you may, some day. You help me and I'll help you--that is my ticket. Reciprocity--reciprocity, my dear Maurice.”
“Yes, but how?”
“Can't tell you now, but I will in good time--in my own time. Come, let's join the ladies--eh? haha!”
But at this moment the servant brought in coffee, saying in his master's ear that Miss Jocelyn had gone to bed with a slight headache.
| {
"id": "8939"
} |
15 | A CONFIDENCE | The spirits Of coming things stride on before their issues.
There is nothing that brings men so close to each other as a common grievance or a common danger. Men who find pleasure in the same game or the same pursuit are drawn together by a common taste; but in the indulgence of it there is sure to arise, sooner or later, a spirit of competition. Now, this spirit, which is in most human affairs, is a new bond of union when men are fighting side by side against a common foe.
During the three days that followed Durnovo's departure from Msala, Jack Meredith and Oscard learnt to know each other. These three days were as severe a test as could well be found; for courage, humanity, tenderness, loyalty, were by turns called forth by circumstance. Smallpox rages in Africa as it rages nowhere else in these days. The natives fight it or bow before it as before an ancient and deeply dreaded foe. It was nothing new to them, and it would have been easy enough for Jack and Oscard to prove to their own satisfaction that the presence of three white men at Msala was a danger to themselves and no advantage to the natives. It would have been very simple to abandon the river station, leaving there such men as were stricken down to care for each other. But such a thought never seemed to suggest itself.
The camp was moved across the river, where all who seemed strong and healthy were placed under canvas, awaiting further developments.
The infected were carried to a special camp set apart and guarded, and this work was executed almost entirely by the three Englishmen, aided by a few natives who had had the disease.
For three days these men went about with their lives literally in their hands, tending the sick, cheering the despondent, frightening the cowards into some semblance of self-respect and dignity. And during these three days, wherein they never took an organised meal or three consecutive hours of rest, Joseph, Meredith, and Oscard rose together to that height of manhood where master and servant, educated man and common soldier, stand equal before their Maker.
Owing to the promptness with which measures had been taken for isolating the affected, the terrible sickness did not spread. In all eleven men were stricken, and of these ten died within three days. The eleventh recovered, but eventually remained at Msala.
It was only on the evening of the third day that Jack and Guy found time to talk of the future. They had never left Durnovo's house, and on this third day they found time to dine together.
“Do you think,” Oscard asked bluntly, when they were left alone to smoke, “that Durnovo knew what was the matter?”
“I am afraid that I have not the slightest doubt of it,” replied Jack lightly.
“And bolted?” suggested Oscard.
“And bolted.”
Guy Oscard gave a contemptuous little laugh, which had a deeper insult in it than he could have put into words.
“And what is to be done?” he inquired.
“Nothing. People in books would mount on a very high pinnacle of virtue and cast off Mr. Durnovo and all his works; but it is much more practical to make what use we can of him. That is a worldly-wise, nineteenth-century way of looking at it; we cannot do without him.”
The contemplativeness of nicotine was upon Guy Oscard.
“Umph!” he grunted. “It is rather disgusting,” he said, after a pause; “I hate dealing with cowards.”
“And I with fools. For everyday use, give me a coward by preference.”
“Yes, there is something in that. Still, I'd throw up the whole thing if--” “So would I,” said Jack, turning sharply in his chair, “if--” Oscard laughed curtly and waited.
“If,” continued Jack, “I could. But I am more or less bound to go on now. Such chances as this do not turn up every day; I cannot afford to let it go by. Truth is, I told--some one who shall be nameless--that I would make money to keep her in that state of life wherein her godfathers, etc., have placed her; and make that money I must.”
“That is about my position too,” said Guy Oscard, somewhat indistinctly, owing to the fact that he habitually smoked a thick-stemmed pipe.
“Is it? I'm glad of that. It gives us something in common to work for.”
“Yes.” Guy paused, and made a huge effort, finally conquering that taciturnity which was almost an affliction to him. “The reason I gave the other night to you and that chap Durnovo was honest enough, but I have another. I want to lie low for a few months, but I also want to make money. I'm as good as engaged to be married, and I find that I am not so well off as I thought I was. People told me that I should have three thousand a year when the governor died, but I find that people know less of my affairs than I thought.”
“They invariably do,” put in Jack encouragingly.
“It is barely two thousand, and--and she has been brought up to something better than that.”
“Um! they mostly are. Mine has been brought up to something better than that too. That is the worst of it.”
Jack Meredith leant back in his folding chair, and gazed practically up into the heavens.
“Of course,” Guy went on, doggedly expansive now that he had once plunged, “two thousand a year sounds pretty good, and it is not bad to start upon. But there is no chance of its increasing; in fact, the lawyer fellows say it may diminish. I know of no other way to make money--had no sort of training for it. I'm not of a commercial turn of mind. Fellows go into the City and brew beer or float companies, whatever that may be.”
“It means they sink other people's funds,” explained Jack.
“Yes, I suppose it does. The guv'nor, y' know, never taught me how to make a livelihood; wouldn't let me be a soldier; sent me to college, and all that; wanted me to be a litterateur. Now I'm not literary.”
“No, I shouldn't think you were.”
“Remains Africa. I am not a clever chap, like you, Meredith.”
“For which you may thank a gracious Providence,” interposed Jack. “Chaps like me are what some people call 'fools' in their uncouth way.”
“But I know a little about Africa, and I know something about Durnovo. That man has got a mania, and it is called Simiacine. He is quite straight upon that point, whatever he may be upon others. He knows this country, and he is not making any mistake about the Simiacine, whatever--” “His powers of sick-nursing may be,” suggested Jack.
“Yes, that's it. We'll put it that way if you like.”
“Thanks, I do prefer it. Any fool could call a spade a spade. The natural ambition would be to find something more flowery and yet equally descriptive.”
Guy Oscard subsided into a monosyllabic sound.
“I believe implicitly in this scheme,” he went on, after a pause. “It is a certain fact that the men who can supply pure Simiacine have only to name their price for it. They will make a fortune, and I believe that Durnovo knows where it is growing in quantities.”
“I cannot see how it would pay him to deceive us in the matter. That is the best way of looking at it,” murmured Jack reflectively. “When I first met him, the man thought he was dying, and for the time I really believe that he was honest. Some men are honest when they feel unwell. There was so little doubt in my mind that I went into the thing at once.”
“If you will go on with it I will stand by you,” said Oscard shortly.
“All right; I think we two together are as good as any half-bred sharper on this coast, to put it gracefully.”
Jack Meredith lighted a fresh cigarette, and leant back with the somewhat exaggerated grace of movement which was in reality partly attributable to natural litheness. For some time they smoked in silence, subject to the influence of the dreamy tropic night. Across the river some belated bird was calling continuously and cautiously for its mate. At times the splashing movements of a crocodile broke the smooth silence of the water. Overhead the air was luminous with that night-glow which never speaks to the senses in latitudes above the teens.
There is something in man's nature that inclines him sympathetically--almost respectfully--towards a mental inferior. Moreover, the feeling, whatever it may be, is rarely, if ever, found in women. A man does not openly triumph in victory, as do women. One sees an easy victor--at lawn tennis, for instance--go to his vanquished foe, wiping vigorously a brow that is scarcely damp, and explaining more or less lamely how it came about. But the same rarely happens in the “ladies' singles.” What, to quote another instance, is more profound than the contempt bestowed by the girl with the good figure upon her who has no figure at all? Without claiming the virtue of a greater generosity for the sex, one may, perhaps, assume that men learn by experience the danger of despising any man. The girl with the good figure is sometimes--nay, often--found blooming alone in her superiority, while the despised competitor is a happy mother of children. And all this to explain that Jack Meredith felt drawn towards his great hulking companion by something that was not a mere respect of mind for matter.
As love is inexplicable, so is friendship. No man can explain why David held Jonathan in such high esteem. Between men it would appear that admiration is no part of friendship. And such as have the patience to follow the lives of the two Englishmen thus brought together by a series of chances will perhaps be able to discover in this record of a great scheme the reason why Jack Meredith, the brilliant, the gifted, should bestow upon Guy Oscard such a wealth of love and esteem as he never received in return.
During the silence Jack was apparently meditating over the debt of confidence which he still owed to his companion; for he spoke first, and spoke seriously, about himself, which was somewhat against his habit.
“I daresay you have heard,” he said, “that I had a--a disagreement with my father.”
“Yes. Heard something about it,” replied Oscard, in a tone which seemed to imply that the “something” was quite sufficient for his requirements.
“It was about my engagement,” Jack went on deliberately. “I do not know how it was, but they did not hit it off together. She was too honest to throw herself at his head, I suppose; for I imagine a pretty girl can usually do what she likes with an old man if she takes the trouble.”
“Not with him, I think. Seemed to be rather down on girls in general,” said Oscard coolly.
“Then you know him?”
“Yes, a little. I have met him once or twice, out, you know. I don't suppose he would know me again if he saw me.”
Which last remark does not redound to the credit of Guy's powers of observation.
They paused. It is wonderful how near we may stand to the brink and look far away beyond the chasm. Years afterwards they remembered this conversation, and it is possible that Jack Meredith wondered then what instinct it was that made him change the direction of their thoughts.
“If it is agreeable to you,” he said, “I think it would be wise for me to go down to Loango, and gently intimate to Durnovo that we should be glad of his services.”
“Certainly.”
“He cannot be buying quinine all this time, you know. He said he would travel night and day.”
Oscard nodded gravely.
“How will you put it?” he asked.
“I thought I would simply say that his non-arrival caused us some anxiety, and that I had come down to see if anything was wrong.”
Jack rose and threw away the end of his cigarette. It was quite late, and across the river the gleam of the moonlight on fixed bayonets told that only the sentries were astir.
“And what about the small-pox?” pursued Oscard, more with the desire to learn than to amend.
“Don't think I shall say anything about that. The man wants careful handling.”
“You will have to tell him that we have got it under.”
“Yes, I'll do that. Good-night, old fellow; I shall be off by daylight.”
By seven o'clock the next morning the canoe was ready, with its swarthy rowers in their places. The two Englishmen breakfasted together, and then walked down to the landing-stage side by side.
It was raining steadily, and the atmosphere had that singular feeling of total relaxation and limpness which is only to be felt in the rain-ridden districts of Central Africa.
“Take care of yourself,” said Oscard gruffly as Jack stepped into the canoe.
“All right.”
“And bring back Durnovo with you.”
Jack Meredith looked up with a vague smile.
“That man,” he said lightly, “is going to the Plateau if I have to drag him there by the scruff of the neck.”
And he believed that he was thinking of the expedition only.
| {
"id": "8939"
} |
16 | WAR | Who, when they slash and cut to pieces, Do so with civilest addresses.
There is no power so subtle and so strong as that of association. We have learnt to associate mustard with beef, and therefore mustard shall be eaten with beef until the day when the lion shall lie down with the lamb.
Miss Millicent Chyne became aware, as the year advanced towards the sere and yellow leaf, that in opposing her wayward will in single combat against a simple little association in the public mind she was undertaking a somewhat herculean task.
Society--itself an association--is the slave of a word, and society had acquired the habit of coupling the names of Sir John Meredith and Lady Cantourne. They belonged to the same generation; they had similar tastes; they were both of some considerable power in the world of leisured pleasure; and, lastly, they amused each other. The result is not far to seek. Wherever the one was invited, the other was considered to be in demand; and Millicent found herself face to face with a huge difficulty.
Sir John was distinctly in the way. He had a keener eye than the majority of young men, and occasionally exercised the old man's privilege of saying outright things which, despite theory, are better left unsaid. Moreover, the situation was ill-defined, and an ill-defined situation does not improve in the keeping. Sir John said sharp things--too sharp even for Millicent--and, in addition to the original grudge begotten of his quarrel with Jack and its result, the girl nourished an ever-present feeling of resentment at a persistency in misunderstanding her of which she shrewdly suspected the existence.
Perhaps the worst of it was that Sir John never said anything which could be construed into direct disapproval. He merely indicated, in passing, the possession of a keen eyesight coupled with the embarrassing faculty of adding together correctly two small numerals.
When, therefore, Millicent allowed herself to be assisted from the carriage at the door of a large midland country house by an eager and lively little French baron of her acquaintance, she was disgusted but not surprised to see a well-known figure leaning gracefully on a billiard-cue in the hall.
“I wish I could think that this pleasure was mutual,” said Sir John with his courtliest smile, as he bowed over Millicent's hand.
“It might be,” with a coquettish glance.
“If--?”
“If I were not afraid of you.”
Sir John turned, smiling, to greet Lady Cantourne. He did not appear to have heard, but in reality the remark had made a distinct impression on him. It signalised a new departure--the attack at a fresh quarter. Millicent had tried most methods--and she possessed many--hitherto in vain. She had attempted to coax him with a filial playfulness of demeanour, to dazzle him by a brilliancy which had that effect upon the majority of men in her train, to win him by respectful affection; but the result had been failure. She was now bringing her last reserve up to the front; and there are few things more dangerous, even to an old campaigner, than a confession of fear from the lips of a pretty girl.
Sir John Meredith gave himself a little jerk--a throw back of the shoulders which was habitual--which might have been a tribute either to Millicent behind, or to Lady Cantourne in front.
The pleasantest part of existence in a large country house full of visitors is the facility with which one may avoid those among the guests for whom one has no sympathy. Millicent managed very well to avoid Sir John Meredith. The baron was her slave--at least he said so--and she easily kept him at her beck and call during the first evening.
It would seem that that strange hollow energy of old age had laid its hand upon Sir John Meredith, for he was the first to appear in the breakfast-room the next morning. He went straight to the sideboard where the letters and newspapers lay in an orderly heap. It is a question whether he had not come down early on purpose to look for a letter. Perhaps he could not stay in his bed with the knowledge that the postman had called. He was possibly afraid to ask his old servant to go down and fetch his letters.
His bent and knotted hands fumbled among the correspondence, and suddenly his twitching lips were still. A strange stillness indeed overcame his whole face, turning it to stone. The letter was there; it had come, but it was not addressed to him.
Sir John Meredith took up the missive; he looked at the back, turned it, and examined the handwriting of his own son. There was a whole volume--filled with pride, and love, and unquenchable resolve--written on his face. He threw the letter down among its fellows, and his hand went fumbling weakly at his lips. He gazed, blinking his lashless lids, at the heap of letters, and the corner of another envelope presently arrested his attention. It was of the same paper, of the same shape and hue, as that addressed to Miss Chyne. Sir John drew a deep breath, and reached out his hand. The letter had come at last. At last, thank God! And how weakly ready he was to grasp at the olive branch held out to him across a continent!
He took the letter; he made a step with it towards the door, seeking solitude; then, as an afterthought, he looked at the superscription. It was addressed to the same person, Miss Chyne, but in a different handwriting--the handwriting of a man well educated but little used to wielding the pen.
“The other,” mumbled Sir John. “The other man, by God!”
And, with a smile that sat singularly on his withered face, he took up a newspaper and went towards the fireplace, where he sat stiffly in an armchair, taking an enormous interest in the morning's news. He read a single piece of news three times over, and a fourth time in a whisper, so as to rivet his attention upon it. He would not admit that he was worsted--would not humble his pride even before the ornaments on the mantelpiece.
Before Millicent came down, looking very fresh and pretty in her tweed dress, the butler had sorted the letters. There were only two upon her plate--the twin envelopes addressed by different hands. Sir John was talking with a certain laboured lightness to Lady Cantourne, when that lady's niece came into the room. He was watching keenly. There was a certain amount of interest in the question of those two envelopes, as to which she would open first. She looked at each in turn, glanced furtively towards Sir John, made a suitable reply to some remark addressed to her by the baron, and tore open Jack's envelope. There was a gravity--a concentrated gravity--about her lips as she unfolded the thin paper; and Sir John, who knew the world and the little all-important trifles thereof, gave an impatient sigh. It is the little trifle that betrays the man, and not the larger issues of life in which we usually follow precedent. It was that passing gravity (of the lips only) that told Sir John more about Millicent Chyne than she herself knew, and what he had learnt did not seem to be to his liking.
There is nothing so disquieting as the unknown motive, which disquietude was Sir John's soon after breakfast. The other men dispersed to put on gaiters and cartridge-bags, and the old aristocrat took his newspaper on to the terrace.
Millicent followed him almost at once.
“Sir John,” she said, “I have had a letter from Africa.”
Did she take it for granted that he knew this already? Was this spontaneous? Had Jack told her to do it?
These questions flashed through the old man's mind as his eyes rested on her pretty face.
He was beginning to be afraid of this girl: which showed his wisdom. For the maiden beautiful is a stronger power in the world than the strong man. The proof of which is that she gets her own way more often than the strong man gets his.
“From Africa?” repeated Sir John Meredith, with a twitching lip. “And from whom is your letter, my dear young lady?”
His face was quite still, his old eyes steady, as he waited for the answer.
“From Jack.”
Sir John winced inwardly. Outwardly he smiled and folded his newspaper upon his knees.
“Ah, from my brilliant son. That is interesting.”
“Have you had one?” she asked, in prompt payment of his sarcasm.
Sir John Meredith looked up with a queer little smile. He admired the girl's spirit. It was the smile of the fencer on touching worthy steel.
“No, my dear young lady, I have not. Mr. John Meredith does not find time to write to me--but he draws his allowance from the bank with a filial regularity.”
Millicent had the letter in her hand. She made it crinkle in her fingers within a foot of the old gentleman's face. A faint odour of the scent she used reached his nostrils. He drew back a little, as if he disliked it. His feeling for her almost amounted to a repugnance.
“I thought you might like to hear that he is well,” she said gently. She was reading the address on the envelope, and again he saw that look of concentrated gravity which made him feel uneasy for reasons of his own.
“It is very kind of you to throw me even that crumb from your richly-stored intellectual table. I am very glad to hear that he is well. A whole long letter from him must be a treat indeed.”
She thought of a proverb relating to the grapes that are out of reach, but said nothing.
It was the fashion that year to wear little flyaway jackets with a coquettish pocket on each side. Millicent was wearing one of them, and she now became aware that Sir John had glanced more than once with a certain significance towards her left hand, which happened to be in that pocket. It, moreover, happened that Guy Oscard's letter was in the same receptacle.
She withdrew the hand and changed colour slightly as she became conscious that the corner of the envelope was protruding.
“I suppose that by this time,” said Sir John pleasantly, “you are quite an authority upon African matters?”
His manner was so extremely conversational and innocent that she did not think it necessary to look for an inner meaning. She was relieved to find that the two men, having actually met, spoke of each other frankly. It was evident that Guy Oscard could be trusted to keep his promise, and Jack Meredith was not the man to force or repose a confidence.
“He does not tell me much about Africa,” she replied, determined to hold her ground. She was engaged to be married to Jack Meredith, and whether Sir John chose to ignore the fact or not she did not mean to admit that the subject should be tabooed.
“No--I suppose he has plenty to tell you about himself and his prospects?”
“Yes, he has. His prospects are not so hopeless as you think.”
“My dear Miss Chyne,” protested Sir John, “I know nothing about his prospects beyond the fact that, when I am removed from this sphere of activity, he will come into possession of my title, such as it is, and my means, such as they are.”
“Then you attach no importance to the work he is inaugurating in Africa?”
“Not the least. I did not even know that he was endeavouring to work. I only trust it is not manual labour--it is so injurious to the finger-nails. I have no sympathy with a gentleman who imagines that manual labour is compatible with his position, provided that he does not put his hand to the plough in England. Is not there something in the Scriptures about a man putting his hand to the plough and looking back? If Jack undertakes any work of that description, I trust that he will recognise the fact that he forfeits his position by doing so.”
“It is not manual labour--I can assure you of that.”
“I am glad to hear it. He probably sells printed cottons to the natives, or exchanges wrought metal for ivory--an intellectual craft. But he is gaining experience, and I suppose he thinks he is going to make a fortune.”
It happened that this was precisely the thought expressed by Jack Meredith in the letter in Millicent's hand.
“He is sanguine,” she admitted.
“Of course. Quite right. Pray do not discourage him--if you find time to write. But between you and me, my dear Miss Chyne, fortunes are not made in Africa. I am an old man, and I have some experience of the world. That part of it which is called Africa is not the place where fortunes are made. It is as different from India as chalk is from cheese, if you will permit so vulgar a simile.”
Millicent's face dropped.
“But SOME people have made fortunes there.”
“Yes--in slaves! But that interesting commerce is at an end. However, so long as my son does not suffer in health, I suppose we must be thankful that he is creditably employed.”
He rose as he spoke.
“I see,” he went on, “your amiable friend the baron approaching with lawn-tennis necessaries. It is wonderful that our neighbours never learn to keep their enthusiasm for lawn-tennis in bounds until the afternoon.”
With that he left her, and the baron came to the conclusion, before very long, that something had “contraried” the charming Miss Chyne. The truth was that Millicent was bitterly disappointed. The idea of failure had never entered her head since Jack's letters, full of life and energy, had begun to arrive. Sir John Meredith was a man whose words commanded respect--partly because he was an old man whose powers of perception had as yet apparently retained their full force, and the vast experience of life which was his could hardly be overrated. Man's prime is that period when the widest experience and the keenest perception meet.
Millicent Chyne had lulled herself into a false security. She had taken it for granted that Jack would succeed, and would return rich and prosperous within a few months. Upon this pleasant certainty Sir John had cast a doubt, and she could hardly treat his words with contempt. She had almost forgotten Guy Oscard's letter. Across a hemisphere Jack Meredith was a stronger influence in her life than Oscard.
While she sat on the terrace and flirted with the baron she reflected hurriedly over the situation. She was, she argued to herself, not in any way engaged to Guy Oscard. If he in an unguarded moment should dare to mention such a possibility to Jack, it would be quite easy to contradict the statement with convincing heat. But in her heart she was sure of Guy Oscard. One of the worst traits in the character of an unfaithful woman is the readiness with which she trades upon the faithfulness of men.
| {
"id": "8939"
} |
17 | UNDERHAND | The offender never pardons.
Victor Durnovo lingered on at Loango. He elaborated and detailed to all interested, and to some whom it did not concern, many excuses for his delay in returning to his expedition, lying supine and attendant at Msala. It was by now an open secret on the coast that a great trading expedition was about to ascend the Ogowe river, with, it was whispered, a fortune awaiting it in the dim perspective of Central Africa.
Durnovo had already built up for himself a reputation. He was known as one of the foremost ivory traders on the coast--a man capable of standing against those enormous climatic risks before which his competitors surely fell sooner or later. His knowledge of the interior was unrivalled, his power over the natives a household word. Great things were therefore expected, and Durnovo found himself looked up to and respected in Loango with that friendly worship which is only to be acquired by the possession or prospective possession of vast wealth.
It is possible even in Loango to have a fling, but the carouser must be prepared to face, even in the midst of his revelry, the haunting thought that the exercise of the strictest economy in any other part of the world might be a preferable pastime.
During the three days following his arrival Victor Durnovo indulged, according to his lights, in the doubtful pleasure mentioned. He purchased at the best factory the best clothes obtainable; he lived like a fighting cock in the one so-called hotel--a house chiefly affected and supported by ship-captains. He spent freely of money that was not his, and imagined himself to be leading the life of a gentleman. He rode round on a hired horse to call on his friends, and on the afternoon of the sixth day he alighted from this quadruped at the gate of the Gordons' bungalow.
He knew that Maurice Gordon had left that morning on one of his frequent visits to a neighbouring sub-factory. Nevertheless, he expressed surprise when the servant gave him the information.
“Miss Gordon,” he said, tapping his boot with a riding-whip: “is she in?”
“Yes, sir.”
A few minutes later Jocelyn came into the drawing-room, where he was waiting with a brazen face and a sinking heart. Somehow the very room had power to bring him down towards his own level. When he set eyes on Jocelyn, in her fair Saxon beauty, he regained aplomb.
She appeared to be rather glad to see him.
“I thought,” she said, “that you had gone back to the expedition?”
And Victor Durnovo's boundless conceit substituted “feared” for “thought.”
“Not without coming to say good-bye,” he answered. “It is not likely.”
Just to demonstrate how fully he felt at ease, he took a chair without waiting for an invitation, and sat tapping his boot with his whip, looking her furtively up and down all the while with an appraising eye.
“And when do you go?” she asked, with a subtle change in her tone which did not penetrate his mental epidermis.
“I suppose in a few days now; but I'll let you know all right, never fear.”
Victor Durnovo stretched out his legs and made himself quite at home; but Jocelyn did not sit down. On the contrary, she remained standing, persistently and significantly.
“Maurice gone away?” he inquired.
“Yes.”
“And left you all alone,” in a tone of light badinage, which fell rather flat, on stony ground.
“I am accustomed to being left,” she answered gravely.
“I don't quite like it, you know.”
“YOU?”
She looked at him with a steady surprise which made him feel a trifle uncomfortable.
“Well, you know,” he was forced to explain, shuffling the while uneasily in his chair and dropping his whip, “one naturally takes an interest in one's friends' welfare. You and Maurice are the best friends I have in Loango. I often speak to Maurice about it. It isn't as if there was an English garrison, or anything like that. I don't trust these niggers a bit.”
“Perhaps you do not understand them?” suggested she gently.
She moved away from him as far as she could get. Every moment increased her repugnance for his presence.
“I don't think Maurice would endorse that,” he said, with a conceited laugh.
She winced at the familiar mention of her brother's name, which was probably intentional, and her old fear of this man came back with renewed force.
“I don't think,” he went on, “that Maurice's estimation of my humble self is quite so low as yours.”
She gave a nervous little laugh.
“Maurice has always spoken of you with gratitude,” she said.
“To deaf ears, eh? Yes, he has reason to be grateful, though perhaps I ought not to say it. I have put him into several very good things on the coast, and it is in my power to get him into this new scheme. It is a big thing; he would be a rich man in no time.”
He rose from his seat and deliberately crossed the room to the sofa where she had sat down, where he reclined, with one arm stretched out along the back of it towards her. In his other hand he held his riding-whip, with which he began to stroke the skirt of her dress, which reached along the floor almost to his feet.
“Would you like him to be in it?” he asked, with a meaning glance beneath his lashes. “It is a pity to throw away a good chance; his position is not so very secure, you know.”
She gave a strange little hunted glance round the room. She was wedged into a corner, and could not rise without incurring the risk of his saying something she did not wish to hear. Then she leant forward and deliberately withdrew her dress from the touch of his whip, which was in its way a subtle caress.
“Is he throwing away the chance?” she asked.
“No, but you are.”
Then she rose from her seat, and, standing in the middle of the room, faced him with a sudden gleam in her eyes.
“I do not see what it has to do with me,” she said; “I do not know anything about Maurice's business arrangements, and very little about his business friends.”
“Then let me tell you, Jocelyn--well, then, Miss Gordon, if you prefer it--that you will know more about one of his business friends before you have finished with him. I've got Maurice more or less in my power now, and it rests with you--” At this moment a shadow darkened the floor of the verandah, and an instant later Jack Meredith walked quietly in by the window.
“Enter, young man,” he said dramatically, “by window--centre.”
“I am sorry,” he went on in a different tone to Jocelyn, “to come in this unceremonious way, but the servant told me that you were in the verandah with Durnovo and--” He turned towards the half-breed, pausing.
“And Durnovo is the man I want,” weighing on each word.
Durnovo's right hand was in his jacket pocket. Seeing Meredith's proffered salutation, he slowly withdrew it and shook hands.
The flash of hatred was still in his eyes when Jack Meredith turned upon him with aggravating courtesy. The pleasant, half-cynical glance wandered from Durnovo's dark face very deliberately down to his jacket pocket, where the stock of a revolver was imperfectly concealed.
“We were getting anxious about you,” he explained, “seeing that you did not come back. Of course, we knew that you were capable of taking--care--of yourself.”
He was still looking innocently at the tell-tale jacket pocket, and Durnovo, following the direction of his glance, hastily thrust his hand into it.
“But one can never tell, with a treacherous climate like this, what a day may bring forth. However, I am glad to find you looking--so very fit.”
Victor Durnovo gave an awkward little laugh, extremely conscious of the factory clothes.
“Oh, yes; I'm all right,” he said. “I was going to start this evening.”
The girl stood behind them, with a flush slowly fading from her face. There are some women who become suddenly beautiful--not by the glory of a beautiful thought, not by the exaltation of a lofty virtue, but by the mere practical human flush. Jack Meredith, when he took his eyes from Durnovo's, glancing at Jocelyn, suddenly became aware of the presence of a beautiful woman.
The crisis was past; and if Jack knew it, so also did Jocelyn. She knew that the imperturbable gentlemanliness of the Englishman had conveyed to the more passionate West Indian the simple, downright fact that in a lady's drawing-room there was to be no raised voice, no itching fingers, no flash of fiery eyes.
“Yes,” he said, “that will suit me splendidly. We will travel together.”
He turned to Jocelyn.
“I hear your brother is away?”
“Yes, for a few days. He has gone up the coast.”
Then there was a silence. They both paused, helping each other as if by pre-arrangement, and Victor Durnovo suddenly felt that he must go. He rose, and picked up the whip which he had dropped on the matting. There was no help for it--the united wills of these two people were too strong for him.
Jack Meredith passed out of the verandah with him, murmuring something about giving him a leg up. While they were walking round the house, Victor Durnovo made one of those hideous mistakes which one remembers all through life with a sudden rush of warm shame and self-contempt. The very thing that was uppermost in his mind to be avoided suddenly bubbled to his lips, almost, it would seem, in defiance of his own will.
“What about the small--the small-pox?” he asked.
“We have got it under,” replied Jack quietly. “We had a very bad time for three days, but we got all the cases isolated and prevented it from spreading. Of course, we could do little or nothing to save them; they died.”
Durnovo had the air of a whipped dog. His mind was a blank. He simply had nothing to say; the humiliation of utter self-contempt was his.
“You need not be afraid to come back now,” Jack Meredith went on, with a strange refinement of cruelty.
And that was all he ever said about it.
“Will it be convenient for you to meet me on the beach at four o'clock this afternoon?” he asked, when Durnovo was in the saddle.
“Yes.”
“All right--four o'clock.”
He turned and deliberately went back to the bungalow.
There are some friendships where the intercourse is only the seed which absence duly germinates. Jocelyn Gordon and Jack had parted as acquaintances; they met as friends. There is no explaining these things, for there is no gauging the depths of the human mind. There is no getting down to the little bond that lies at the bottom of the well--the bond of sympathy. There is no knowing what it is that prompts us to say, “This man, or this woman, of all the millions, shall be my friend.”
“I am sorry,” he said, “that he should have had a chance of causing you uneasiness again.”
Jocelyn remembered that all her life. She remembers still--and Africa has slipped away from her existence for ever. It is one of the mental photographs of her memory, standing out clear and strong amidst a host of minor recollections.
| {
"id": "8939"
} |
18 | A REQUEST | It surely was my profit had I known It would have been my pleasure had I seen.
“Why did he come back?”
Jocelyn had risen as if to intimate that, if he cared to do so, they would sit in the verandah.
“Why did Mr. Durnovo come back?” she repeated; for Jack did not seem to have heard the question. He was drawing forward a cane chair with the leisurely debonnair grace that was his, and, before replying, he considered for a moment.
“To get quinine,” he answered.
Without looking at her, he seemed to divine that he had made a mistake. He seemed to know that she had flushed suddenly to the roots of her hair, with a distressed look in her eyes. The reason was too trivial. She could only draw one conclusion.
“No,” he continued; “to tell you the truth, I think his nerve gave way a little. His health is undermined by this climate. He has been too long in Africa. We have had a bad time at Msala. We have had small-pox in the camp. Oscard and I have been doing doughty deeds. I feel convinced that, if we applied to some Society, we should get something or other--a testimonial or a monument--also Joseph.”
“I like Joseph,” she said in a low tone.
“So do I. If circumstances had been different--if Joseph had not been my domestic servant--I should have liked him for a friend.”
He was looking straight in front of him with a singular fixity. It is possible that he was conscious of the sidelong scrutiny which he was undergoing.
“And you--you have been all right?” she said lightly.
“Oh, yes,” with a laugh. “I have not brought the infection down to Loango; you need not be afraid of that.”
For a moment she looked as if she were going to explain that she was not “afraid of that.” Then she changed her mind and let it pass, as he seemed to believe.
“Joseph constructed a disinfecting room with a wood-smoke fire, or something of that description, and he has been disinfecting everything, down to Oscard's pipes.”
She gave a little laugh, which stopped suddenly.
“Was it very bad?” she asked.
“Oh, no. We took it in time, you see. We had eleven deaths. And now we are all right. We are only waiting for Durnovo to join, and then we shall make a start. Of course, somebody else could have come down for the quinine.”
“Yes.”
He glanced at her beneath his lashes before going on, “But, as Durnovo's nerves were a little shaken, it--was just as well, don't you know, to get him out of it all.”
“I suppose he got himself out of it all?” she said quietly.
“Well--to a certain extent. With our approval, you understand.”
Men have an esprit de sexe as well as women. They like to hustle the cowards through with the crowd, unobserved.
“It is a strange thing,” said Jocelyn, with a woman's scorn of the man who fears those things of which she herself has no sort of dread, “a very strange thing, that Mr. Durnovo said nothing about it down here. It is not known in Loango that you had small-pox in the camp.”
“Well, you see, when he left we were not quite sure about it.”
“I imagine Mr. Durnovo knows all about small-pox. We all do on this coast. He could hardly help recognising it in its earliest stage.”
She turned on him with a smile which he remembered afterwards. At the moment he felt rather abashed, as if he had been caught in a very maze of untruths. He did not meet her eyes. It was a matter of pride with him that he was equal to any social emergency that might arise. He had always deemed himself capable of withholding from the whole questioning world anything that he might wish to withhold. But afterwards--later in his life--he remembered that look in Jocelyn Gordon's face.
“Altogether,” she said, with a peculiar little contented laugh, “I think you cannot keep it up any longer. He ran away from you and left you to fight against it alone. All the same, it was--nice--of you to try and screen him. Very nice, but I do not think that I could have done it myself. I suppose it was--noble--and women cannot be noble.”
“No, it was only expedient. The best way to take the world is to wring it dry--not to try and convert it and make it better, but to turn its vices to account. That method has the double advantage of serving one's purpose at the time, and standing as a warning later. The best way to cure vice is to turn it ruthlessly to one's own account. That is what we are doing with Durnovo. His little idiosyncrasies will turn in witness against him later on.”
She shook her head in disbelief.
“Your practice and your theory do not agree,” she said.
There was a little pause; then she turned to him gravely.
“Have you been vaccinated?” she asked.
“In the days of my baptism, wherein I was made--” “No doubt,” she interrupted impatiently, “but since? Have you had it done lately?”
“Just before I came away from England. My tailor urged it so strongly. He said that he had made outfits for many gents going to Africa, and they had all made their wills and been vaccinated. For reasons which are too painful to dwell upon in these pages I could not make a will, so I was enthusiastically vaccinated.”
“And have you all the medicines you will require? Did you really want that quinine?”
There was a practical, common-sense anxiety in the way she asked these questions which made him answer gravely.
“All, thanks. We did not really want the quinine, but we can do with it. Oscard is our doctor; he is really very good. He looks it all up in a book, puts all the negative symptoms on one side, and the positive on the other--adds them all up, then deducts the smaller from the larger, and treats what is left of the patient accordingly.”
She laughed, more with the view of pleasing him than from a real sense of the ludicrous.
“I do not believe,” she said, “that you know the risks you are running into. Even in the short time that Maurice and I have been here we have learnt to treat the climate of Western Africa with a proper respect. We have known so many people who have--succumbed.”
“Yes, but I do not mean to do that. In a way, Durnovo's--what shall we call it? --lack of nerve is a great safeguard. He will not run into any danger.”
“No, but he might run you into it.”
“Not a second time, Miss Gordon. Not if we know it. Oscard mentioned a desire to wring Durnovo's neck. I am afraid he will do it one of these days.”
“The mistake that most people make,” the girl went on more lightly, “is a want of care. You cannot be too careful, you know, in Africa.”
“I am careful; I have reason to be.”
She was looking at him steadily, her blue eyes searching his.
“Yes?” she said slowly, and there were a thousand questions in the word.
“It would be very foolish of me to be otherwise,” he said. “I am engaged to be married, and I came out here to make the wherewithal. This expedition is an expedition to seek the wherewithal.”
“Yes,” she said, “and therefore you must be more careful than any one else. Because, you see, your life is something which does not belong to you, but with which you are trusted. I mean, if there is anything dangerous to be done, let some one else do it. What is she like? What is her name?”
“Her name is Millicent--Millicent Chyne.”
“And--what is she like?”
He leant back, and, interlocking his fingers, stretched his arms out with the palms of his hands outward--a habit of his when asked a question needing consideration.
“She is of medium height; her hair is brown. Her worst enemy admits, I believe, that she is pretty. Of course, I am convinced of it.”
“Of course,” replied Jocelyn steadily. “That is as it should be. And I have no doubt that you and her worst enemy are both quite right.”
He nodded cheerfully, indicating a great faith in his own judgment on the matter under discussion.
“I am afraid,” he said, “that I have not a photograph. That would be the correct thing, would it not? I ought to have one always with me in a locket round my neck, or somewhere. A curiously-wrought locket is the correct thing, I believe. People in books usually carry something of that description--and it is always curiously wrought. I don't know where they buy them.”
“I think they are usually inherited,” suggested Jocelyn.
“I suppose they are,” he went on in the same semi-serious tone. “And then I ought to have it always ready to clasp in my dying hand, where Joseph would find it and wipe away a furtive tear as he buried me. It is a pity. I am afraid I inherited nothing from my ancestors except a very practical mind.”
“I should have liked very much to see a photograph of Miss Chyne,” said Jocelyn, who had, apparently, not been listening.
“I hope some day you will see herself, at home in England. For you have no abiding city here.”
“Only a few more years now. Has she--are her parents living?”
“No, they are both dead. Indian people they were. Indian people have a tragic way of dying young. Millicent lives with her aunt, Lady Cantourne. And Lady Cantourne ought to have married my respected father.”
“Why did she not do so?”
He shrugged his shoulders--paused--sat up and flicked a large moth off the arm of his chair. Then, “Goodness only knows,” he said. “Goodness, and themselves. I suppose they found it out too late. That is one of the little risks of life.”
She answered nothing.
“Do you think,” he went on, “that there will be a special Hell in the Hereafter for parents who have sacrificed their children's lives to their own ambition? I hope there will be.”
“I have never given the matter the consideration it deserves,” she answered. “Was that the reason? Is Lady Cantourne a more important person than Lady Meredith?”
“Yes.”
She gave a little nod of comprehension, as if he had raised a curtain for her to see into his life--into the far perspective of it, reaching back into the dim distance of fifty years before. For our lives do reach back into the lives of our fathers and grandfathers; the beginnings made there come down into our daily existence, shaping our thought and action. That which stood between Sir John Meredith and his son was not so much the present personality of Millicent Chyne as the past shadows of a disappointed life, an unloved wife and an unsympathetic mother. And these things Jocelyn Gordon knew while she sat, gazing with thoughtful eyes, wherein something lived and burned of which she was almost ignorant--gazing through the tendrils of the creeping flowers that hung around them.
At last Jack Meredith rose briskly, watch in hand, and Jocelyn came back to things of earth with a quick gasping sigh which took her by surprise.
“Miss Gordon, will you do something for me?”
“With pleasure.”
He tore a leaf from his pocket-book, and, going to the table, he wrote on the paper with a pencil pendent at his watch-chain.
“The last few days,” he explained while he wrote, “have awakened me to the lamentable fact that human life is rather an uncertain affair.”
He came towards her, holding out the paper.
“If you hear--if anything happens to me, would you be so kind as to write to Millicent and tell her of it? That is the address.”
She took the paper, and read the address with a dull sort of interest.
“Yes,” she said. “Yes, if you like. But--nothing must happen to you.”
There was a slight unsteadiness in her voice, which made her stop suddenly. She did not fold the paper, but continued to read the address.
“No,” he said, “nothing will. But would you not despise a man who could not screw up his courage to face the possibility?”
He wondered what she was thinking about, for she did not seem to hear him.
A clock in the drawing-room behind them struck the half-hour, and the sound seemed to recall her to the present.
“Are you going now?” she asked.
“Yes,” he answered, vaguely puzzled. “Yes, I must go now.”
She rose, and for a moment he held her hand. He was distinctly conscious of something left unsaid--of many things. He even paused on the edge of the verandah, trying to think what it was that he had to say. Then he pushed aside the hanging flowers and passed out.
“Good-bye!” he said over his shoulder.
Her lips moved, but he heard no sound. She turned with a white, drawn face and sat down again. The paper was still in her hand. She consulted it again, reading in a whisper: “Millicent Chyne--Millicent!”
She turned the paper over and studied the back of it--almost as if she was trying to find what there was behind that name.
Through the trees there rose and fell the music of the distant surf. Somewhere near at hand a water-wheel, slowly irrigating the rice-fields, creaked and groaned after the manner of water-wheels all over Africa. In all there was that subtle sense of unreality--that utter lack of permanency which touches the heart of the white exile in tropic lands, and lets life slip away without allowing the reality of it to be felt.
The girl sat there with the name before her--written on the little slip of paper--the only memento he had left her.
| {
"id": "8939"
} |
19 | IVORY | 'Tis one thing to be tempted, Escalus, Another thing to fall.
One of the peculiarities of Africa yet to be explained is the almost supernatural rapidity with which rumour travels. Across the whole breadth of this darkest continent a mere bit of gossip has made its way in a month. A man may divulge a secret, say, at St. Paul de Loanda, take ship to Zanzibar, and there his own secret will be told to him.
Rumour met Maurice Gordon almost at the outset of his journey northward.
“Small-pox is raging on the Ogowe River,” they told him. “The English expedition is stricken down with it. The three leaders are dead.”
Maurice Gordon had not lived four years on the West African coast in vain. He took this for what it was worth. But if he had acquired scepticism, he had lost his nerve. He put about and sailed back to Loango.
“I wonder,” he muttered, as he walked up from the beach to his office that same afternoon--“I wonder if Durnovo is among them?”
And he was conscious of a ray of hope in his mind. He was a kind-hearted man, in his way, this Maurice Gordon of Loango; but he could not disguise from himself the simple fact that the death of Victor Durnovo would be a distinct convenience and a most desirable relief. Even the best of us--that is to say, the present writer and his reader--have these inconvenient little feelings. There are people who have done us no particular injury, to whom we wish no particular harm, but we feel that it would be very expedient and considerate of them to die.
Thinking these thoughts, Maurice Gordon arrived at the factory and went straight to his own office, where he found the object of them--Victor Durnovo--sitting in consumption of the office sherry.
Gordon saw at once that the rumour was true. There was a hunted unwholesome look in Durnovo's eyes. He looked shaken, and failed to convey a suggestion of personal dignity.
“Hulloa!” exclaimed the proprietor of the decanter. “You look a bit chippy. I have been told there is small-pox up at Msala.”
“So have I. I've just heard it from Meredith.”
“Just heard it--is Meredith down here too?”
“Yes, and the fool wants to go back to-night. I have to meet him on the beach at four o'clock.”
Maurice Gordon sat down, poured out for himself a glass of sherry, and drank it thoughtfully.
“Do you know, Durnovo,” he said emphatically, “I have my doubts about Meredith being a fool.”
“Indeed!” with a derisive laugh.
“Yes.”
Maurice Gordon looked over his shoulder to see that the door was shut.
“You'll have to be very careful,” he said. “The least slip might let it all out. Meredith has a quiet way of looking at one which disquiets me. He might find out.”
“Not he,” replied Durnovo confidently, “especially if we succeed; and we shall succeed--by God we shall!”
Maurice Gordon made a little movement of the shoulders, as indicating a certain uneasiness, but he said nothing.
There was a pause of considerable duration, at the end of which Durnovo produced a paper from his pocket and threw it down.
“That's good business,” he said.
“Two thousand tusks,” murmured Maurice Gordon. “Yes, that's good. Through Akmed, I suppose?”
“Yes. We can outdo these Arabs at their own trade.”
An evil smile lighted up Durnovo's sallow face. When he smiled, his dropping, curtain-like moustache projected in a way that made keen observers of the human face wonder what his mouth was like.
Gordon, who had been handling the paper with the tips of his finger, as if it were something unclean, threw it down on the table again.
“Ye--es,” he said slowly; “but it does not seem to dirty black hands as it does white. They know no better.”
“Lord!” ejaculated Durnovo. “Don't let us begin the old arguments all over again. I thought we settled that the trade was there; we couldn't prevent it, and therefore the best thing is to make hay while the sun shines, and then clear out of the country.”
“But suppose Meredith finds out?” reiterated Maurice Gordon, with a lamentable hesitation that precedes loss.
“If Meredith finds out, it will be the worse for him.”
A certain concentration of tone aroused Maurice Gordon's attention, and he glanced uneasily at his companion.
“No one knows what goes on in the heart of Africa,” said Durnovo darkly. “But we will not trouble about that; Meredith won't find out.”
“Where is he now?”
“With your sister, at the bungalow. A lady's man--that is what he is.”
Victor Durnovo was smarting under a sense of injury which was annoyingly indefinite. It was true that Jack Meredith had come at a very unpropitious moment; but it was equally clear that the intrusion could only have been the result of accident. It was really a case of the third person who is no company, with aggravated symptoms. Durnovo had vaguely felt in the presence of either a subtle possibility of sympathy between Jocelyn Gordon and Jack Meredith. When he saw them together, for only a few minutes as it happened, the sympathy rose up and buffeted him in the face, and he hated Jack Meredith for it. He hated him for a certain reposeful sense of capability which he had at first set down as conceit, and later on had learnt to value as something innate in blood and education which was not conceit. He hated him because his gentlemanliness was so obvious that it showed up the flaws in other men, as the masterpiece upon the wall shows up the weaknesses of the surrounding pictures. But most of all he hated him because Jocelyn Gordon seemed to have something in common with the son of Sir John Meredith--a world above the head of even the most successful trader on the coast--a world in which he, Victor Durnovo, could never live and move at ease.
Beyond this, Victor Durnovo cherished the hatred of the Found Out. He felt instinctively that behind the courteous demeanour of Jack Meredith there was an opinion--a cool, unbiassed criticism--of himself, which Meredith had no intention of divulging.
On hearing that Jack was at the bungalow with Jocelyn, Maurice Gordon glanced at the clock and wondered how he could get away from his present visitor. The atmosphere of Jack Meredith's presence was preferable to that diffused by Victor Durnovo. There was a feeling of personal safety and dignity in the very sound of his voice which set a weak and easily-led man upon his feet.
But Victor Durnovo had something to say to Gordon which circumstances had brought to a crisis.
“Look here,” he said, leaning forward and throwing away the cigarette he had been smoking. “This Simiacine scheme is going to be the biggest thing that has ever been run on this coast.”
“Yes,” said Gordon, with the indifference that comes from non-participation.
“And I'm the only business man in it,” significantly.
Gordon nodded his head, awaiting further developments.
“Which means that I could work another man into it. I might find out that we could not get on without him.”
The black eyes seemed to probe the good-natured, sensual face of Maurice Gordon, so keen, so searching was their glance.
“And I would be willing to do it--to make that man's fortune--provided--that he was--my brother-in-law.”
“What the devil do you mean?” asked Gordon, setting down the glass that was half raised to his lips.
“I mean that I want to marry--Jocelyn.”
And the modern school of realistic, mawkishly foul novelists, who hold that Love excuseth all, would have taken delight in the passionate rendering of the girl's name.
“Want to marry Jocelyn, do you?” answered Maurice, with a derisive little laugh. On the first impulse of the moment he gave no thought to himself or his own interests, and spoke with undisguised contempt. He might have been speaking to a beggar on the roadside.
Durnovo's eyes flashed dangerously, and his tobacco-stained teeth clenched for a moment over his lower lip.
“That is my desire--and intention.”
“Look here, Durnovo!” exclaimed Gordon. “Don't be a fool! Can't you see that it is quite out of the question?”
He attempted weakly to dismiss the matter by leaning forward on his writing-table, taking up his pen, and busying himself with a number of papers.
Victor Durnovo rose from his chair so hastily that in a flash Maurice Gordon's hand was in the top right-hand drawer of his writing-table. The good-natured blue eyes suddenly became fixed and steady. But Durnovo seemed to make an effort over himself, and walked to the window, where he drew aside the woven-grass blind and looked out into the glaring sunlight. Still standing there, he turned and spoke in a low, concentrated voice: “No,” he said, “I can't see that it is out of the question. On the contrary, it seems only natural that she should marry the man who is her brother's partner in many a little--speculation.”
Maurice Gordon, sitting there, staring hopelessly into the half-breed's yellow face, saw it all. He went back in a flash of recollection to many passing details which had been unnoted at the time--details which now fitted into each other like the links of a chain--and that chain was around him. He leapt forward in a momentary opening of the future, and saw himself ruined, disgraced, held up to the execration of the whole civilised world. He was utterly in this man's power--bound hand and foot. He could not say him no. And least of all could he say no to this demand, which had roused all the latent chivalry, gentlemanliness, brotherly love, that was in him. Maurice Gordon knew that Victor Durnovo possessed knowledge which Jocelyn would consider cheap at the price of her person.
There was one way out of it. His hand was still on the handle of the top right-hand drawer. He was a dead shot. His finger was within two inches of the stock of a revolver. One bullet for Victor Durnovo, another for himself. Then the old training of his school days--the training that makes an upright, honest gentleman--asserted itself, and he saw the cowardice of it. There was time enough for that later, when the crisis came. In the meantime, if the worst came to the worst, he could fight to the end.
“I don't think,” said Durnovo, who seemed to be following Gordon's thoughts, “that the idea would be so repellent to your sister as you seem to think.”
And a sudden ray of hope shot athwart the future into which his listener was staring. It might be so. One can never tell with women. Maurice Gordon had had considerable experience of the world, and, after all, he was only building up hope upon precedent. He knew, as well as you or I, that women will dance and flirt with--even marry--men who are not gentlemen. Not only for the moment, but as a permanency, something seems to kill their perception of a fact which is patent to every educated man in the room; and one never knows what it is. One can only surmise that it is that thirst for admiration which does more harm in the world than the thirst for alcoholic stimulant which we fight with societies and guilds, oaths and little snips of ribbon.
“The idea never entered my head,” said Gordon.
“It has never been out of mine,” replied Durnovo, with a little harsh laugh which was almost pathetic. “I don't want you to do anything now,” he went on more gently. It was wonderful how well he knew Maurice Gordon. The suggested delay appealed to one side of his nature, the softened tone to another. “There is time enough. When I come back I will speak of it again.”
“You have not spoken to her?”
“No, I have not spoken to her.”
Maurice Gordon shook his head.
“She is a queer girl,” he said, trying to conceal the hope that was in his voice. “She is cleverer than me, you know, and all that. My influence is very small, and would scarcely be considered.
“But your interests would,” suggested Durnovo. “Your sister is very fond of you, and--I think I have one or two arguments to put forward which she would recognise as uncommonly strong.”
The colour which had been returning slowly to Maurice Gordon's face now faded away again. His lips were dry and shrivelled as if he had passed through a sirocco.
“Mind,” continued Durnovo reassuringly, “I don't say I would use them unless I suspected that you were acting in opposition to my wishes.”
Gordon said nothing. His heart was throbbing uncomfortably--it seemed to be in his throat.
“I would not bring forward those arguments except as a last resource,” went on Victor Durnovo, with the deliberate cruelty of a tyrant. “I would first point out the advantages; a fourth share in the Simiacine scheme would make you a rich man--above suspicion--independent of the gossip of the market-place.”
Maurice Gordon winced visibly, and his eyes wavered as if he were about to give way to panic.
“You could retire and go home to England--to a cooler climate. This country might get too hot for your constitution--see?”
Durnovo came back into the centre of the room and stood by the writing-table. His attitude was that of a man holding a whip over a cowering dog.
He took up his hat and riding-whip with a satisfied little laugh, as if the dog had cringingly done his bidding.
“Besides,” he said, with a certain defiance of manner, “I may succeed without any of that--eh?”
“Yes,” Gordon was obliged to admit with a gulp, as if he were swallowing his pride, and he knew that in saying the word he was degrading his sister--throwing her at this man's feet as the price of his honour.
With a half-contemptuous nod Victor Durnovo turned, and went away to keep his appointment with Meredith.
| {
"id": "8939"
} |
20 | BROUGHT TO THE SCRATCH | Take heed of still waters; they quick pass away.
Guy Oscard was sitting on the natural terrace in front of Durnovo's house at Msala, and Marie attended to his simple wants with that patient dignity which suggested the recollection of better times, and appealed strongly to the manhood of her fellow-servant Joseph.
Oscard was not good at the enunciation of those small amenities which are supposed to soothe the feelings of the temporarily debased. He vaguely felt that this woman was not accustomed to menial service, but he knew that any suggestion of sympathy was more than he could compass. So he merely spoke to her more gently than to the men, and perhaps she understood, despite her chocolate-coloured skin.
They had inaugurated a strange, unequal friendship during the three days that Oscard had been left alone at Msala. Joseph had been promoted to the command of a certain number of the porters, and his domestic duties were laid aside. Thus Marie was called upon to attend to Guy Oscard's daily wants.
“I think I'll take coffee,” he was saying to her in reply to a question. “Yes--coffee, please, Marie.”
He was smoking one of his big wooden pipes, staring straight in front of him with a placidity natural to his bulk.
The woman turned away with a little smile. She liked this big man with his halting tongue and quiet ways. She liked his awkward attempts to conciliate the coquette Xantippe--to extract a smile from the grave Nestorius, and she liked his manner towards herself. She liked the poised pipe and the jerky voice as he said, “Yes--coffee, please, Marie.”
Women do like these things--they seem to understand them and to attach some strange, subtle importance of their own to them. For which power some of us who have not the knack of turning a pretty phrase or throwing off an appropriate pleasantry may well be thankful.
Presently she returned, bringing the coffee on a rough tray, also a box of matches and Oscard's tobacco pouch. Noting this gratuitous attention to his comfort, he looked up with a little laugh.
“Er--thank you,” he said. “Very kind.”
He did not put his pipe back to his lips--keenly alive to the fact that the exigency of the moment demanded a little polite exchange of commonplace.
“Children gone to bed?” he asked anxiously.
She paused in her slow, deft arrangement of the little table.
“Yes,” she answered.
He nodded as if the news were eminently satisfactory. “Nestorius,” he said, adhering to Meredith's pleasantry, “is the jolliest little chap I have met for a long time.”
“Yes,” she answered softly. “Yes--but listen!”
He raised his head, listening as she did--both looking down the river into the gathering darkness.
“I hear the sound of paddles,” she said. “And you?”
“Not yet. My ears are not so sharp as yours.”
“I am accustomed to it,” the woman said, with some emotion in her voice which he did not understand then. “I am always listening.”
Oscard seemed to be struck with this description of herself. It was so very apt--so comprehensive. The woman's attitude before the world was the attitude of the listener for some distant sound.
She poured out his coffee, setting the cup at his elbow. “Now you will hear,” she said, standing upright with that untrammelled dignity of carriage which is found wherever African blood is in the veins. “They have just come round Broken Tree Bend. There are two boats.”
He listened, and after a moment heard the regular glug-glug of the paddles stealing over the waters of the still tropic river, covering a wonderful distance.
“Yes,” he said, “I hear. Mr. Meredith said he would be back to-night.”
She gave a strange, little low laugh--almost the laugh of a happy woman.
“He is like that, Mr. Meredith,” she said; “what he says he does”--in the pretty English of one who has learnt Spanish first.
“Yes, Marie--he is like that.”
She turned, in her strangely subdued way, and went into the house to prepare some supper for the new-comers.
It was not long before the sound of the paddles was quite distinct, and then--probably on turning a corner of the river and coming in sight of the lights of Msala--Jack Meredith's cheery shout came floating through the night. Oscard took his pipe from his lips and sent back an answer that echoed against the trees across the river. He walked down to the water's edge, where he was presently joined by Joseph with a lantern.
The two boats came on to the sloping shore with a grating sound, and by the light of the waving lantern Oscard saw Durnovo and Jack land from the same boat.
The three men walked up to the house together. Marie was at the door, and bowed her head gravely in answer to Jack's salutation. Durnovo nodded curtly and said nothing.
In the sitting-room, by the light of the paraffin lamp, the two Englishmen exchanged a long questioning glance, quite different from the quick interrogation of a woman's eyes. There was a smile on Jack Meredith's face.
“All ready to start to-morrow?” he inquired.
“Yes,” replied Oscard.
And that was all they could say. Durnovo never left them alone together that night. He watched their faces with keen, suspicious eyes. Behind the moustache his lips were pursed up in restless anxiety. But he saw nothing--learnt nothing. These two men were inscrutable.
At eleven o'clock the next morning the Simiacine seekers left their first unhappy camp at Msala. They had tasted of misfortune at the very beginning, but after the first reverse they returned to their work with that dogged determination which is a better spirit than the wild enthusiasm of departure, where friends shout and flags wave, and an artificial hopefulness throws in its jarring note.
They had left behind them with the artifice of civilisation that subtle handicap of a woman's presence; and the little flotilla of canoes that set sail from the terrace at Msala one morning in November, not so many years ago, was essentially masculine in its bearing. The four white men--quiet, self-contained, and intrepid--seemed to work together with a perfect unity, a oneness of thought and action which really lay in the brain of one of them. No man can define a true leader; for one is too autocratic and the next too easily led; one is too quick-tempered, another too reserved. It would almost seem that the ideal leader is that man who knows how to extract from the brains of his subordinates all that is best and strongest therein--who knows how to suppress his own individuality, and merge it for the time being into that of his fellow-worker--whose influence is from within and not from without.
The most successful Presidents of Republics have been those who are, or pretend to be, nonentities, content to be mere pegs, standing still and lifeless, for things to be hung upon. Jack Meredith was, or pretended to be, this. He never assumed the airs of a leader. He never was a leader. He merely smoothed things over, suggested here, laughed there, and seemed to stand by, indifferent all the while.
In less than a week they left the river, hauling their canoes up on the bank, and hiding them in the tangle of the virgin underwood. A depot of provisions, likewise hidden, was duly made, and the long, weary march began.
The daily routine of this need not be followed, for there were weeks of long monotony, varied only by a new difficulty, a fresh danger, or a deplorable accident. Twice the whole company had to lay aside the baggage and assume arms, when Guy Oscard proved himself to be a cool and daring leader. Not twice, but two hundred times, the ring of Joseph's unerring rifle sent some naked savage crawling into the brake to die, with a sudden wonder in his half-awakened brain. They could not afford to be merciful; their only safeguard was to pass through this country, leaving a track of blood and fire and dread behind them.
This, however, is no record of travel in Central Africa. There are many such to be had at any circulating library, written by abler and more fantastic pens. Some of us who have wandered in the darkest continent have looked in vain for things seen by former travellers--things which, as the saying is, are neither here nor there. Indeed, there is not much to see in a vast, boundless forest with little life and no variety--nothing but a deadly monotony of twilit tangle. There is nothing new under the sun--even immediately under it in Central Africa. The only novelty is the human heart--Central Man. That is never stale, and there are depths still unexplored, heights still unattained, warm rivers of love, cold streams of hatred, and vast plains where strange motives grow. These are our business.
We have not to deal so much with the finding of the Simiacine as with the finders, and of these the chief at this time was Jack Meredith. It seemed quite natural that one duty after another should devolve upon him, and he invariably had time to do them all, and leisure to comment pleasantly upon it. But his chief care was Victor Durnovo.
As soon as they entered the forest, two hundred miles above Msala, the half-breed was a changed man. The strange restlessness asserted itself again--the man was nervous, eager, sincere. His whole being was given up to this search; his whole heart and soul were enveloped in it. At first he worked steadily, like a mariner treading his way through known waters; but gradually his composure left him, and he became incapable of doing other work.
Jack Meredith was at his side always. By day he walked near him as he piloted the column through the trackless forest. At night he slept in the same tent, stretched across the doorway. Despite the enormous fatigue, he slept the light sleep of the townsman, and often he was awakened by Durnovo talking aloud, groaning, tossing on his narrow bed.
When they had been on the march for two months--piloted with marvellous instinct by Durnovo--Meredith made one or two changes in the organisation. The caravan naturally moved slowly, owing to the enormous amount of baggage to be carried, and this delay seemed to irritate Victor Durnovo to such an extent that at last it was obvious that the man would go mad unless this enormous tension could be relieved.
“For God's sake,” he would shout, “hurry those men on! We haven't done ten miles to-day. Another man down--damn him!”
And more than once he had to be dragged forcibly away from the fallen porter, whom he battered with both fists. Had he had his will, he would have allowed no time for meals, and only a few hours' halt for rest. Guy Oscard did not understand it. His denser nerves were incapable of comprehending the state of irritation and unreasoning restlessness into which the climate and excitement had brought Durnovo. But Meredith, in his finer organisation, understood the case better. He it was who soothingly explained the necessity for giving the men a longer rest. He alone could persuade Durnovo to lie down at night and cease his perpetual calculations. The man's hands were so unsteady that he could hardly take the sights necessary to determine their position in this sea-like waste. And to Jack alone did Victor Durnovo ever approach the precincts of mutual confidence.
“I can't help it, Meredith,” he said one day, with a scared look, after a particularly violent outburst of temper. “I don't know what it is. I sometimes think I am going mad.”
And soon after that the change was made.
An advance column, commanded by Meredith and Durnovo, was selected to push on to the Plateau, while Oscard and Joseph followed more leisurely with the baggage and the slower travellers.
One of the strangest journeys in the vast unwritten history of commercial advance was that made by the five men from the camp of the main expedition across the lower slopes of a mountain range--unmarked on any map, unnamed by any geographer--to the mysterious Simiacine Plateau. It almost seemed as if the wild, bloodshot eyes of their guide could pierce the density of the forest where Nature had held unchecked, untrimmed sway for countless generations. Victor Durnovo noted a thousand indications unseen by his four companions. The journey no longer partook of the nature of a carefully calculated progress across a country untrodden by a white man's foot; it was a wild rush in a straight line through unbroken forest fastness, guided by an instinct that was stronger than knowledge. And the only Englishman in the party--Jack Meredith--had to choose between madness and rest. He knew enough of the human brain to be convinced that the only possible relief to this tension was success.
Victor Durnovo would never know rest now until he reached the spot where the Simiacine should be. If the trees were there, growing, as he said, in solitary state and order, strangely suggestive of human handiwork, then Victor Durnovo was saved. If no such spot was found, madness and death could only follow.
To save his companion's reason, Meredith more than once drugged his food; but when the land began to rise beneath their feet in tentative, billow-like inequalities--the deposit of a glacial age--Durnovo refused to stop for the preparation of food. Eating dry biscuits and stringy tinned meat as they went along, the four men--three blacks and one white--followed in the footsteps of their mad pilot.
“We're getting to the mountains--we're getting to the mountains! We shall be there to-night! Think of that, Meredith--to-night!” he kept repeating with a sickening monotony. And all the while he stumbled on. The perspiration ran down his face in one continuous stream; at times he paused to wipe it from his eyes with the back of his hands, and as these were torn and bleeding, there were smears of blood across his cheeks.
The night fell; the moon rose, red and glorious, and the beasts of this untrodden forest paused in their search for meat to watch with wondering, fearless eyes that strange, unknown animal--man.
It was Durnovo who, climbing wildly, first saw the break in the trees ahead. He gave a muffled cry of delight, and in a few minutes they were all rushing, like men possessed, up a bare slope of broken shale.
Durnovo reached the summit first. A faint, pleasant odour was wafted into their faces. They stood on the edge of a vast table-land melting away in the yellow moonlight. Studded all over, like sheep in a meadow, were a number of little bushes, and no other vegetation.
Victor Durnovo stooped over one of these. He buried his face among the leaves of it, and suddenly he toppled over.
“Yes,” he cried as he fell, “it's Simiacine!”
And he turned over with a groan of satisfaction, and lay like a dead man.
| {
"id": "8939"
} |
21 | THE FIRST CONSIGNMENT | Since all that I can ever do for thee Is to do nothing, may'st thou never see, Never divine, the all that nothing costeth me.
One morning, three months later, Guy Oscard drew up in line his flying column. He was going back to England with the first consignment of Simiacine. During the twelve weeks that lay behind there had been constant reference made to his little body of picked men, and the leader had selected with a grave deliberation that promised well.
The lost soldier that was in him was all astir in his veins as he reviewed his command in the cool air of early morning. The journey from Msala to the Plateau had occupied a busy two months. Oscard expected to reach Msala with his men in forty days. Piled up in neat square cases, such as could be carried in pairs by a man of ordinary strength, was the crop of Simiacine, roughly valued by Victor Durnovo at forty thousand pounds. Ten men could carry the whole of it, and the twenty cases set close together on the ground made a bed for Guy Oscard. Upon this improvised couch he gravely stretched his bulk every night all through the journey that followed.
Over the whole face of the sparsely vegetated table-land the dwarf bushes grew at intervals, each one in a little circle of its own, where no grass grew: for the dead leaves, falling, poisoned the earth. There were no leaves on the bushes now, for they had all been denuded, and the twisted branches stood out naked in the morning mist. Some of the bushes had been roughly pruned, to foster, if possible, a more bushy growth and a heavier crop of leaves near to the parent stem.
It was a strange landscape; and any passing traveller, knowing nothing of the Simiacine, must perforce have seen at once that these insignificant little trees were something quite apart in the vegetable kingdom. Each standing with its magic circle, no bird built its nest within the branches--no insect constructed its filmy home--no spider weaved its busy web from twig to twig.
Solitary, mournful, lifeless the Plateau which had nearly cost Victor Durnovo his life lay beneath the face of heaven, far above the surrounding country--the summit of an unnamed mountain--a land lying in the heart of a tropic country which was neither tropic, temperate, nor arctic. Fauna had it none, for it produced nothing that could sustain life. Flora it knew not, for the little trees, with their perennial fortune of brilliant brown-tinted leaves, monopolised vegetable life, and slew all comers. It seemed like some stray tract of another planet, where the condition of living things was different. There was a strange sense of having been thrown up--thrown up, as it were, into mid-heaven, there to hang for ever--neither this world nor the world to come. The silence of it all was such as would drive men mad if they came to think of it. It was the silence of the stars.
The men who had lived up here for three months did not look quite natural. There was a singular heaviness of the eyelids which all had noticed, though none had spoken of it. A craving for animal food, which could only be stayed by the consumption of abnormal quantities of meat, kept the hunters ever at work on the lower slopes of the mountain. Sleep was broken, and uncanny things happened in the night. Men said that they saw other men like trees, walking abroad with sightless eyes; and Joseph said, “Gammon, my festive darky--gammon!” but he, nevertheless, glanced somewhat uneasily towards his master whenever the natives said such things.
A clearing had been made on that part of the Plateau which was most accessible from below. The Simiacine trees had been ruthlessly cut away--even the roots were grubbed up and burnt--far away on the leeward side of the little kingdom. This was done because there arose at sunset a soft and pleasant odour from the bushes which seemed to affect the nerves, and even made the teeth chatter. It was, therefore, deemed wise that the camp should stand on bare ground.
It was on this ground, in front of the tents, that Guy Oscard drew up his quick-marching column before the sun had sprung up in its fantastic tropical way from the distant line of virgin forest. As he walked along the line, making a suggestion here, pulling on a shoulder-rope there, he looked staunch and strong as any man might wish to be. His face was burnt so brown that eyebrows and moustache stood out almost blonde, though in reality they were only brown. His eyes did not seem to be suffering from the heaviness noticeable in others; altogether, the climate and the mystic breath of the Simiacine grove did not appear to affect him as it did his companions. This was probably accounted for by the fact that, being chief of the hunters, most of his days had been passed on the lower slopes in search of game.
To him came presently Jack Meredith--the same gentle-mannered man, with an incongruously brown face and quick eyes seeing all. It is not, after all, the life that makes the man. There are gentle backwoodsmen, and ruffians among those who live in drawing-rooms.
“Well?” said Meredith, following the glance of his friend's eye as he surveyed his men.
Oscard took his pipe from his lips and looked gravely at him.
“Don't half like it, you know,” he said in a low voice; for Durnovo was talking with a head porter a few yards away.
“Don't half like what? --the flavour of that pipe? It looks a little strong.”
“No, leaving you here,” replied Oscard.
“Oh, that's all right, old chap! You can't take me with you, you know. I intended to stick to it when I came away from home, and I am not going to turn back now.”
Oscard gave a queer little upward jerk of the head, as if he had just collected further evidence in support of a theory which chronically surprised him. Then he turned away and looked down over the vast untrodden tract of Africa that lay beneath them. He kept his eyes fixed there, after the manner of a man who has no fluency in personal comment.
“You know,” he said jerkily, “I didn't think--I mean you're not the sort of chap I took you for. When I first saw you I thought you were a bit of a dandy and--all that. Not the sort of man for this work. I thought that the thing was bound to be a failure. I knew Durnovo, and had no faith in him. You've got a gentle way about you, and your clothes are so confoundedly neat. But--” Here he paused and pulled down the folds of his Norfolk jacket. “But I liked the way you shot that leopard the day we first met.”
“Beastly fluke,” put in Meredith, with his pleasant laugh.
Oscard contented himself with a denying shake of the head.
“Of course,” he continued, with obvious determination to get it all off his mind, “I know as well as you do that you are the chief of this concern--have been chief since we left Msala--and I never want to work under a better man.”
He put his pipe back between his lips and turned round with a contented smile, as much as to say, “There, that is the sort of man I am! When I want to say that sort of thing I can say it with the best of you.”
“We have pulled along very comfortably, haven't we?” said Meredith; “thanks to your angelic temper. And you'll deliver that packet of letters to the governor, won't you? I have sent them in one packet, addressed to him, as it is easier to carry. I will let you hear of us somehow within the next six months. Do not go and get married before I get home. I want to be your best man.”
Oscard laughed and gave the signal for the men to start, and the long caravan defiled before them. The porters nodded to Meredith with a great display of white teeth, while the head men, the captains of tens, stepped out of the ranks and shook hands. Before they had disappeared over the edge of the plateau, Joseph came forward to say good-bye to Oscard.
“And it is understood,” said the latter, “that I pay in to your account at Lloyd's Bank your share of the proceeds?”
Joseph grinned. “Yes, sir, if you please, presumin' it's a safe bank.”
“Safe as houses.”
“'Cos it's a tolerable big amount,” settling himself into his boots in the manner of a millionaire.
“Lot of money--about four hundred pounds! But you can trust me to see to it all right.”
“No fear, sir,” replied Joseph grandly. “I'm quite content, I'm sure, that you should have the--fingering o' the dibs.”
As he finished--somewhat lamely perhaps--his rounded periods, he looked very deliberately over Oscard's shoulder towards Durnovo, who was approaching them.
Meredith walked a little way down the slope with Oscard.
“Good-bye, old chap!” he said when the parting came. “Good luck, and all that. Hope you will find all right at home. By the way,” he shouted after him, “give my kind regards to the Gordons at Loango.”
And so the first consignment of Simiacine was sent from the Plateau to the coast.
Guy Oscard was one of those deceptive men who only do a few things, and do those few very well. In forty-three days he deposited the twenty precious cases in Gordon's godowns at Loango, and paid off the porters, of whom he had not lost one. These duties performed, he turned his steps towards the bungalow. He had refused Gordon's invitation to stay with him until the next day, when the coasting steamer was expected. To tell the truth, he was not very much prepossessed in Maurice's favour, and it was with a doubtful mind that he turned his steps towards the little house in the forest between Loango and the sea.
The room was the first surprise that awaited him, its youthful mistress the second. Guy Oscard was rather afraid of most women. He did not understand them, and probably he despised them. Men who are afraid or ignorant often do.
“And when did you leave them?” asked Jocelyn, after her visitor had explained who he was. He was rather taken aback by so much dainty refinement in remote Africa, and explained rather badly. But she helped him out by intimating that she knew all about him.
“I left them forty-four days ago,” he replied.
“And were they well?”
“She is very much interested,” reflected Oscard, upon whom her eagerness of manner had not been lost. “Surely, it cannot be that fellow Durnovo?”
“Oh, yes,” he replied with unconscious curtness.
“Mr. Durnovo cannot ever remain inland for long without feeling the effect of the climate.”
Guy Oscard, with the perspicacity of his sex, gobbled up the bait. “It IS Durnovo,” he reflected.
“Oh, he is all right,” he said; “wonderfully well, and so are the others--Joseph and Meredith. You know Meredith?”
Jocelyn was busy with a vase of flowers standing on the table at her elbow. One of the flowers had fallen half out, and she was replacing it--very carefully.
“Oh, yes,” she said, without ceasing her occupation, “we know Mr. Meredith.”
The visitor did not speak at once, and she looked up at him, over the flowers, with grave politeness.
“Meredith,” he said, “is one of the most remarkable men I have ever met.”
It was evident that this ordinarily taciturn man wanted to unburthen his mind. He was desirous of talking to some one of Jack Meredith; and perhaps Jocelyn reflected that she was as good a listener as he would find in Loango.
“Really,” she replied with a kindly interest. “How?”
He paused, not because he found it difficult to talk to this woman, but because he was thinking of something.
“I have read or heard somewhere of a steel gauntlet beneath a velvet glove.”
“Yes.”
“That describes Meredith. He is not the man I took him for. He is so wonderfully polite and gentle and pleasant. Not the qualities that make a good leader for an African exploring expedition--eh?”
Jocelyn gave a strange little laugh, which included, among other things, a subtle intimation that she rather liked Guy Oscard. Women do convey these small meanings sometimes, but one finds that they do not intend them to be acted upon.
“And he has kept well all the time?” she asked softly. “He did not look strong.”
“Oh, yes. He is much stronger than he looks.”
“And you--you have been all right?”
“Yes, thanks.”
“Are you going back to--them?”
“No, I leave to-morrow morning early by the Portuguese boat. I am going home to be married.”
“Indeed! Then I suppose you will wash your hands of Africa for ever?”
“Not quite,” he replied. “I told Meredith that I would be prepared to go up to him in case of emergency, but not otherwise. I shall, of course, still be interested in the scheme. I take home the first consignment of Simiacine; we have been very successful, you know. I shall have to stay in London to sell that. I have a house there.”
“Are you to be married at once?” inquired Jocelyn, with that frank interest which makes it so much easier for a man to talk of his own affairs to a woman than to one of his own sex.
“As soon as I can arrange it,” he answered with a little laugh. “There is nothing to wait for. We are both orphans, and, fortunately, we are fairly well off.”
He was fumbling in his breast-pocket, and presently he rose, crossed the room, and handed her, quite without afterthought or self-consciousness, a photograph in a morocco case.
Explanation was unnecessary, and Jocelyn Gordon looked smilingly upon a smiling, bright young face.
“She is very pretty,” she said honestly.
Whereupon Guy Oscard grunted unintelligibly.
“Millicent,” he said after a little pause--“Millicent is her name.”
“Millicent?” repeated Jocelyn--“Millicent WHAT?”
“Millicent Chyne.”
Jocelyn folded the morocco case together and handed it back to him.
“She is very pretty,” she repeated slowly, as if her mind could only reproduce--it was incapable of creation.
Oscard looked puzzled. Having risen he did not sit down again, and presently he took his leave, feeling convinced that Jocelyn was about to faint.
When he was gone the girl sat wearily down.
“Millicent Chyne,” she whispered. “What is to be done?”
“Nothing,” she answered to herself after a while. “Nothing. It is not my business. I can do nothing.”
She sat there--alone, as she had been all her life--until the short tropical twilight fell over the forest. Quite suddenly she burst into tears.
“It IS my business,” she sobbed. “It is no good pretending otherwise; but I can do nothing.”
| {
"id": "8939"
} |
22 | THE SECOND CONSIGNMENT | Who has lost all hope has also lost all fear.
Among others, it was a strange thing that Jocelyn felt no surprise at meeting the name of Millicent Chyne on the lips of another man. Women understand these things better than we do. They understand each other, and they seem to have a practical way of accepting human nature as it is which we never learn to apply to our fellowmen. They never bluster as we do, nor expect impossibilities from the frail.
Another somewhat singular residue left, as it were, in Jocelyn's mind when the storm of emotion had subsided was a certain indefinite tenderness for Millicent Chyne. She felt sure that Jack Meredith's feeling for her was that feeling vaguely called the right one, and, as such, unalterable. To this knowledge the subtle sympathy for Millicent was perhaps attributable. But navigation with pen and thought among the shoals and depths of a woman's heart is hazardous and uncertain.
Coupled with this--as only a woman could couple contradictions--was an unpardoning abhorrence for the deceit practised. But Jocelyn knew the world well enough to suspect that, if she were ever brought face to face with her meanness, Millicent would be able to bring about her own forgiveness. It is the knowledge of this lamentable fact that undermines the feminine sense of honour.
Lastly, there was a calm acceptance of the fact that Guy Oscard must and would inevitably go to the wall. There could be no comparison between the two men. Millicent Chyne could scarcely hesitate for a moment. That she herself must likewise suffer uncomplainingly, inevitably, seemed to be an equally natural consequence in Jocelyn Gordon's mind.
She could not go to Jack Meredith and say: “This woman is deceiving you, but I love you, and my love is a nobler, grander thing than hers. It is no passing fancy of a giddy, dazzled girl, but the deep strong passion of a woman almost in the middle of her life. It is a love so complete, so sufficing, that I know I could make you forget this girl. I could so envelop you with love, so watch over you and care for you, and tend you and understand you, that you MUST be happy. I feel that I could make you happier than any other woman in the world could make you.”
Jocelyn Gordon could not do this; and all the advanced females in the world, all the blue stockings and divided skirts, all the wild women and those who pant for burdens other than children, will never bring it to pass that women can say such things.
And precisely because she could not say this, Jocelyn felt hot and sick at the very thought that Jack Meredith should learn aught of Millicent Chyne from her. Her own inner motive in divulging what she had learnt from Guy Oscard could never for a moment be hidden behind a wish, however sincere, to act for the happiness of two honourable gentlemen.
Jocelyn had no one to consult--no one to whom she could turn, in the maddening difficulty of her position, for advice or sympathy. She had to work it out by herself, steering through the quicksands by that compass that knows no deviation--the compass of her own honour and maidenly reserve.
Just because she was so sure of her own love she felt that she could never betray the falseness of Millicent Chyne. She felt somehow that Millicent's fall in Jack Meredith's estimation would drag down with it the whole of her sex, and consequently herself. She did not dare to betray Millicent, because the honour of her sex must be held up by an exaggerated honour in herself. Thus her love for Jack Meredith tied her hands, while she stood idly by to see him wreck his own life by what could only be a miserable union.
With the clear sight of the onlooker, Jocelyn Gordon now saw that, by Jack Meredith's own showing, Millicent was quite unworthy of him. But she also remembered words, silences, and hints which demonstrated with lamentable plainness the fact that he loved her. She was old enough and sufficiently experienced to avoid the futile speculation as to what had attracted this love. She knew that men marry women who in the estimation of onlooking relatives are unworthy of them, and live happily ever afterwards, without deeming it necessary to explain to those relatives how it comes about.
Now it happened that this woman--Jocelyn Gordon--was not one of those who gracefully betray themselves at the right moment and are immediately covered with a most becoming confusion. She was strong to hold to her purpose, to subdue herself, to keep silent. And this task she set herself, having thought it all carefully out in the little flower-scented verandah, so full of pathetic association. But it must be remembered that she in no wise seemed to see the pathos in her own life. She was unconscious of romance. It was all plain fact, and the plainest was her love for Jack Meredith.
Her daily life was in no perceptible way changed. Maurice Gordon saw no difference. She had never been an hilarious person. Now she went about her household, her kindnesses, and unobtrusive good works with a quieter mien; but, when occasion or social duty demanded, she seemed perhaps a little readier than before to talk of indifferent topics, to laugh at indifferent wit. Those who have ears to hear and eyes wherewith to see learn to distrust the laugh that is too ready, the sympathy that flows in too broad a stream. Happiness is self-absorbed.
Four months elapsed, and the excitement created in the small world of Western Africa by the first dazzling success of the Simiacine Expedition began to subside. The thing took its usual course. At first the experts disbelieved, and then they prophesied that it could not last. Finally, the active period of envy, hatred, and malice gave way to a sullen tolerance not unmixed with an indefinite grudge towards Fortune who had favoured the brave once more.
Maurice Gordon was in daily expectation of news from that far-off favoured spot they vaguely called the Plateau. And Jocelyn did not pretend to conceal from herself the hope that filled her whole being--the hope that Jack Meredith might bring the news in person.
Instead, came Victor Durnovo.
He came upon her one evening when she was walking slowly home from a mild tea-party at the house of a missionary. Hearing footsteps on the sandy soil, she turned, and found herself face to face with Durnovo.
“Ah!” she exclaimed, and her voice thrilled with some emotion which he did not understand. “Ah, it is you!”
“Yes,” he said, holding her hand a little longer than was necessary. “It is I.” His journey from Msala through the more civilised reaches of the lower river, his voyage in the coasting boat, and his arrival at Loango, had partaken of the nature of a triumphal progress. Victor Durnovo was elated--like a girl in a new dress.
“I was coming along to see you,” he said, and there was a subtle offence in his tone.
She did not trouble to tell him that Maurice was away for ten days. She felt that he knew that. There was a certain truculence in his walk which annoyed her; but she was wonderingly conscious of the fact that she was no longer afraid of him. This feeling had as yet taken no definite shape. She did not know what she felt, but she knew that there was no fear in her mind.
“Have you been successful?” she asked, with a certain negative kindness of tone bred of this new self-confidence.
“I should think we had! Why, the lot that Oscard brought down was a fortune in itself. But you saw Oscard, of course. Did he stay at the bungalow?”
“No; he stayed at the hotel.”
“Did you like him?”
The question was accompanied by a momentary glance of the dark, jealous eyes.
“Yes, very much.”
“He is a nice fellow, first-rate fellow. Of course, he has his faults, but he and I got on splendidly. He's--engaged, you know.”
“So he told me.”
Durnovo glanced at her again searchingly, and looked relieved. He gave an awkward little laugh.
“And I understand,” he said, “that Meredith is in the same enviable position.”
“Indeed!”
Durnovo indulged in a meaning silence.
“When do you go back?” she asked carelessly.
“Almost at once,” in a tone that apologised for causing her necessary pain. “I must leave to-morrow or the next day. I do not like the idea of Meredith being left too long alone up there with a reduced number of men. Of course, I had to bring a pretty large escort. I brought down sixty thousand pounds worth of Simiacine.”
“Yes,” she said; “and you take all the men back to-morrow?”
He did not remember having stated for certain that he was leaving the next day.
“Or the day after,” he amended.
“Have you had any more sickness among the men?” she asked at once, in a tone of irony which made him wince.
“No,” he answered, “they have been quite all right.”
“What time do you start?” she asked. “There are letters for Mr. Meredith at the office. Maurice's head clerk will give them to you.”
She knew that these letters were from Millicent. She had actually had them in her hand. She had inhaled the faint, refined scent of the paper and envelopes.
“You will be careful that they are not lost, won't you?” she said, tearing at her own heart with a strange love of the pain. “They may be important.”
“Oh, I will deliver them sharp enough,” he answered. “I suppose I had better start to-morrow.”
“I should think so,” she replied quietly, with that gentle mendacity which can scarcely be grudged to women, because they are so poorly armed. “I should think so. You know what these men are. Every hour they have in Loango demoralises them more and more.”
They had reached the gate of the bungalow garden. She turned and held out her hand in an undeniable manner. He bade her good-bye and went his way, wondering vaguely what had happened to them both. The conversation had taken quite a different turn to what he had expected and intended. But somehow it had got beyond his control. He had looked forward to a very different ending to the interview. And now he found himself returning somewhat disconsolately to the wretched hotel in Loango--dismissed--sent back.
The next day he actually left the little West African coast town, turning his face northward with bad grace. Even at that distance, he feared Jack Meredith's half-veiled sarcasm. He knew that nothing could be hidden for long from the Englishman's suavely persistent inquiry and deduction. Besides, the natives were no longer safe. Meredith, with the quickness of a cultured linguist, had picked up enough of their language to understand them, while Joseph talked freely with them in that singular mixture of slang and vernacular which follows the redcoat all over the world. Durnovo had only been allowed to come down to the coast under a promise, gracefully veiled, but distinct enough, that he should only remain twenty-four hours in Loango.
Jocelyn avoided seeing him again. She was forced to forego the opportunity of hearing much that she wanted to learn because Durnovo, the source of the desired knowledge, was unsafe. But the relief from the suspense of the last few months was in itself a consolation. All seemed to be going on well at the Plateau. Danger is always discounted at sight; and Jocelyn felt comparatively easy respecting the present welfare of Jack Meredith, living as she did on the edge of danger.
Four days later she was riding through the native town of Loango, accompanied by a lady-friend, when she met Victor Durnovo. The sight of him gave her a distinct shock. She knew that he had left Loango three days before with all his men. There was no doubt about that. Moreover, his air was distinctly furtive--almost scared. It was evident that the chance meeting was as undesired by him as it was surprising to her.
“I thought you had left,” she said shortly, pulling up her horse with undeniable decision.
“Yes... but I have come back--for--for more men.”
She knew he was lying, and he felt that she knew.
“Indeed!” she said. “You are not a good starter.”
She turned her horse's head, nodded to her friend, bowed coldly to Durnovo, and trotted towards home. When she had reached the corner of the rambling, ill-paved street, she touched her horse. The animal responded. She broke into a gentle canter, which made the little children cease their play and stare. In the forest she applied the spurs, and beneath the whispering trees, over the silent sand, the girl galloped home as fast as her horse could lay legs to the ground.
Jocelyn Gordon was one of those women who rise slowly to the occasion, and the limit of their power seems at times to be only defined by the greatness of the need.
| {
"id": "8939"
} |
23 | MERCURY | So cowards never use their might But against such that will not fight.
On nearing the bungalow, Jocelyn turned aside into the forest where a little colony of huts nestled in a hollow of the sand-dunes.
“Nala,” she cried, “the paddle-maker. Ask him to come to me.”
She spoke in the dialect of the coast to some women who sat together before one of the huts.
“Nala--yes,” they answered. And they raised their strident voices.
In a few moments a man emerged from a shed of banana-leaves. He was a scraggy man--very lightly clad--and a violent squint handicapped him seriously in the matter of first impressions. When he saw Jocelyn he dropped his burden of wood and ran towards her. The African negro does not cringe. He is a proud man in his way. If he is properly handled, he is not only trustworthy--he is something stronger. Nala grinned as he ran towards Jocelyn.
“Nala,” she said, “will you go a journey for me?”
“I will go at once.”
“I came to you,” said Jocelyn, “because I know that you are an intelligent man and a great traveller.”
“I have travelled much,” he answered, “when I was younger.”
“Before you were married?” said the English girl. “Before little Nala came?”
The man grinned.
He looked back over his shoulder towards one of the huts, where a scraggy infant with a violent squint lay on its diaphragm on the sand.
“Where do you wish me to go?” asked the proud father.
“To Msala on the Ogowe river.”
“I know the Ogowe. I have been at Msala,” with the grave nod of a great traveller.
“When can you leave?”
He shrugged his shoulders.
“Now.”
Jocelyn had her purse in her hand.
“You can hire a dhow,” she said; “and on the river you may have as many rowers as you like. You must go very quickly to Msala. There you must ask about the Englishman's Expedition. You have heard of it?”
“Yes: the Englishman, Durnovo, and the soldier who laughs.”
“Yes. Some of the men are at Msala now. They were going up-country to join the other Englishman far away--near the mountains. They have stopped at Msala. Find out why they have not gone on, and come back very quickly to tell me. You understand, Nala?”
“Yes.”
“And I can trust you?”
“Yes: because you cured the little one when he had an evil spirit. Yes, you can trust me.”
She gave him money and rode on home. Before she reached the bungalow the paddle-maker passed her at a trot, going towards the sea.
She waited for three days, and then Victor Durnovo came again. Maurice was still away. There was an awful sense of impending danger in the very air in the loneliness of her position. Yet she was not afraid of Durnovo. She had left that fear behind. She went to the drawing-room to see him, full of resolution.
“I could not go away,” he said, after relinquishing her hand, “without coming to see you.”
Jocelyn said nothing. The scared look which she had last seen in his face was no longer there; but the eyes were full of lies.
“Jocelyn,” the man went on, “I suppose you know that I love you? It must have been plain to you for a long time.”
“No,” she answered, with a little catch in her breath. “No, it has not. And I am sorry to hear it now.”
“Why?” he asked, with a dull gleam which could not be dignified by the name of love.
“Because it can only lead to trouble.”
Victor Durnovo was standing with his back to the window, while Jocelyn, in the full light of the afternoon, stood before him. He looked her slowly up and down with a glance of approval which alarmed and disquieted her.
“Will you marry me?” he asked.
“No!”
His black moustache was pushed forward by some motion of the hidden lips.
“Why?”
“Do you want the real reason?” asked Jocelyn.
Victor Durnovo paused for a moment.
“Yes,” he said.
“Because I not only do not care for you, but I despise and distrust you.”
“You are candid,” he said, with an unpleasant little laugh.
“Yes.”
He moved a little to one side and drew a chair towards him, half-leaning, half-sitting on the back of it.
“Then,” he said, “I will be candid with you. I intend you to marry me; I have intended it for a long time. I am not going down on my knees to ask you to do it: that is not my way. But, if you drive me to it, I will make your brother Maurice go down on his knees and beg you to marry me.”
“I don't think you will do that,” answered the girl steadily. “Whatever your power over Maurice may be, it is not strong enough for that; you overrate it.”
“You think so?” he sneered.
“I am sure of it.”
Durnovo glanced hastily round the room in order to make sure that they were not overheard.
“Suppose,” he said, in a low, hissing voice, “that I possess knowledge that I have only to mention to one or two people to make this place too hot for Maurice Gordon. If he escaped the fury of the natives, it would be difficult to know where he could go to. England would be too hot for him. They wouldn't have him there; I could see to that. He would be a ruined man--an outcast--execrated by all the civilised world.”
He was watching her face all the while. He saw the colour leave even her lips, but they were steady and firm. A strange wonder crept into his heart. This woman never flinched. There was some reserved strength within herself upon which she was now drawing. His dealings had all been with half-castes--with impure blood and doubtful descendants of a mixed ancestry. He had never fairly roused a pure-bred English man or woman, and suddenly he began to feel out of his depth.
“What is your knowledge?” asked Jocelyn in a coldly measured voice.
“I think you had better not ask that; you will be sorry afterwards. I would rather that you thought quietly over what I have told you. Perhaps, on second thoughts, you will see your way to give me some--slight hope. I should really advise it.”
“I did not ask your advice. What is your knowledge?”
“You will have it?” he hissed.
“Yes.”
He leant forward, craning his neck, pushing his yellow face and hungering black eyes close into hers.
“Then, if you will have it, your brother--Maurice Gordon--is a slave-owner.”
She drew back as she might have done from some unclean animal. She knew that he was telling the truth. There might be extenuating circumstances. The real truth might have quite a different sound, spoken in different words; but there was enough of the truth in it, as Victor Durnovo placed it before her, to condemn Maurice before the world.
“Now will you marry me?” he sneered.
“No!”
Quick as thought she had seen the only loophole--the only possible way of meeting this terrible accusation.
He laughed; but there was a faint jangle of uneasiness in his laughter.
“Indeed!”
“Supposing,” said Jocelyn, “for one moment that there was a grain of truth in your fabrication, who would believe you? Who on this coast would take your word against the word of an English gentleman? Even if the whole story were true, which it is not, could you prove it? You are a liar, as well as a coward and a traitor! Do you think that the very servants in the stable would believe you? Do you think that the incident of the small-pox at Msala is forgotten? Do you think that all Loango, even to the boatmen on the beach, ignores the fact that you are here in Loango now because you are afraid to go through a savage country to the Simiacine Plateau as you are pledged to do? You were afraid of the small-pox once; there is something else that you are afraid of now. I do not know what it is, but I will find out. Coward! Go! Leave the house at once, before I call in the stable-boys to turn you out, and never dare to speak to me again!”
Victor Durnovo recoiled before her, conscious all the while that she had never been so beautiful as at that moment. But she was something far above him--a different creation altogether. He never knew what drove him from that room. It was the fear of something that he did not understand.
He heard her close the window after him as he walked away beneath the trees.
She stood watching him--proud, cold, terrible in her womanly anger. Then she turned, and suddenly sank down upon the sofa, sobbing.
But fortune decreed that she should have neither time to weep nor think. She heard the approaching footsteps of her old servant, and when the door was opened Jocelyn Gordon was reading a book, with her back turned towards the window.
“That man Nala, miss, the paddle-maker, wants to see you.”
“Tell him to go round to the verandah.”
Jocelyn went out by the open window, and presently Nala came grinning towards her. He was evidently very much pleased with himself--held himself erect, and squinted more violently than usual.
“I have been to Msala,” he said, with considerable dignity of manner.
“Yes, and what news have you?”
Nala squatted down on the chunam floor, and proceeded to unfold a leaf. The operation took some time. Within the outer covering there was a second envelope of paper, likewise secured by a string. Finally, the man produced a small note, which showed signs of having been read more than once. This he handed to Jocelyn with an absurd air of importance.
She opened the paper and read: “To MARIE AT MSALA,--Send at once to Mr. Durnovo, informing him that the tribes have risen and are rapidly surrounding the Plateau. He must return here at once with as large an armed force as he can raise. But the most important consideration is time. He must not wait for men from elsewhere, but must pick up as many as he can in Loango and on the way up to Msala. I reckon that we can hold out for four months without outside assistance, but after that period we shall be forced to surrender or to try and cut our way through WITHOUT the Simiacine. With a larger force we could beat back the tribes, and establish our hold on the Plateau by force of arms. This must be forwarded to Mr. Durnovo at once, wherever he is. The letter is in duplicate, sent by two good messengers, who go by different routes.
“JOHN MEREDITH.”
When Jocelyn looked up, dry-lipped, breathless, Nala was standing before her, beaming with self-importance.
“Who gave you this?”
“Marie at Msala.”
“Who is she?”
“Oh--Mr. Durnovo's woman at Msala. She keeps his house.”
“But this letter is for Mr. Durnovo,” cried Jocelyn, whose fear made her unreasonably angry. “Why has he not had it?”
Nala came nearer, with upraised forefinger and explanatory palm.
“Marie tell me,” he said, “that Mr. Meredith send two letters. Marie give Mr. Durnovo one. This--other letter.”
There was a strange glitter in the girl's blue eyes--something steely and unpleasant.
“You are sure of that? You are quite sure that Mr. Durnovo has had a letter like this?” she asked slowly and carefully, so that there could be no mistake.
“That is true,” answered the man.
“Have you any more news from Msala?”
Nala looked slightly hurt. He evidently thought that he had brought as much news as one man could be expected to carry.
“Marie has heard,” he said, “that there is much fighting up in the country.”
“She has heard no particulars--nothing more than that?”
“No: nothing.”
Jocelyn Gordon rose to this occasion also.
“Can you go,” she said, after a moment's thought, “to St. Paul de Loanda for me?”
The man laughed.
“Yes,” he answered simply.
“At once--now?”
“Oh, yes,” with a sigh.
Already Jocelyn was writing something on a sheet of paper.
“Take this,” she said, “to the telegraph office at St. Paul de Loanda, and send it off at once. Here is money. You understand? I will pay you when you bring back the receipt. If you have been very quick, I will pay you well.”
That same evening a second messenger started northward after Maurice Gordon with a letter telling him to come back at once to Loango.
| {
"id": "8939"
} |
24 | NEMESIS | Take heed of still waters.
Despite his assertion to Lady Cantourne, Guy Oscard stayed on in the gloomy house in Russell Square. He had naturally gone thither on his return from Africa, and during the months that followed he did not find time to think much of his own affairs. Millicent Chyne occupied all his thoughts--all his waking moments. It is marvellous how busily employed an active-minded young lady can keep a man.
In the ill-lighted study rendered famous by the great history which had emanated in the manuscript therefrom, Guy Oscard had interviewed sundry great commercial experts, and a cheque for forty-eight thousand pounds had been handed to him across the table polished bright by his father's studious elbow. The Simiacine was sold, and the first portion of it spent went to buy a diamond aigrette for the dainty head of Miss Millicent Chyne.
Guy Oscard was in the midst of the London season. His wealth and a certain restricted renown had soon made him popular. He had only to choose his society, and the selection was not difficult. Wherever Millicent Chyne went he went also, and to the lady's credit it must be recorded that no one beyond herself and Guy Oscard had hitherto noticed this fact. Millicent was nothing if not discreet. It was more or less generally known that she was engaged to Jack Meredith, who, although absent on some vaguely romantic quest of a fortune, was not yet forgotten. No word, however, was popularly whispered connecting her name with that of any other swain nearer home. Miss Chyne was too much of a woman of the world to allow that. But, in the meantime, she rather liked diamond aigrettes and the suppressed devotion of Guy Oscard.
It was the evening of a great ball, and Guy Oscard, having received his orders and instructions, was dining alone in Russell Square, when a telegram was handed to him. He opened it and spread the thin paper out upon the table-cloth. A word from that far, wild country, which seemed so much fitter a background to his simple bulk and strength than the cramped ways of London society--a message from the very heart of the dark continent--to him: “Meredith surrounded and in danger Durnovo false come at once Jocelyn Gordon.”
Guy Oscard pushed back his chair and rose at once, as if there were somebody waiting in the hall to see him.
“I do not want any more dinner,” he said, “I am going to Africa. Come and help me to pack my things.”
He studied Bradshaw and wrote a note to Millicent Chyne. To her he said the same as he had said to the butler, “I am going to Africa.”
There was something refreshingly direct and simple about this man. He did not enter into long explanations. He simply bore on in the line he had marked out. He rose from the table and never looked back. His attitude seemed to say, “I am going to Africa; kindly get out of my way.”
At three minutes to nine--that is to say, in one hour and a half--Guy Oscard took his seat in the Plymouth express. He had ascertained that a Madeira boat was timed to sail from Dartmouth at eight o'clock that evening. He was preceded by a telegram to Lloyd's agent at Plymouth: “Have fastest craft available, steam up ready to put to sea to catch the Banyan African steamer four o'clock to-morrow morning. Expense not to be considered.”
As the train crept out into the night, the butler of the gloomy house in Russell Square, who had finished the port, and was beginning to feel resigned, received a second shock. This came in the form of a carriage and pair, followed by a ring at the bell.
The man opened the door, and his fellow servitor of an eccentric class and generation stepped back on the door-step to let a young lady pass into the hall.
“Mr. Oscard?” she said curtly.
“Left 'ome, miss,” replied the butler, stiffly conscious of walnut-peel on his waistcoat.
“How long ago?”
“A matter of half an hour, miss.”
Millicent Chyne, whose face was drawn and white, moved farther into the hall. Seeing the dining-room door ajar, she passed into that stately apartment, followed by the butler.
“Mr. Oscard sent me this note,” she said, showing a crumpled paper, “saying that he was leaving for Africa to-night. He gives no explanation. Why has he gone to Africa?”
“He received a telegram while he was at dinner, miss,” replied the butler, whose knowledge of the world indicated the approach of at least a sovereign. “He rose and threw down his napkin, miss. 'I'm goin' to Africa,' he says. 'Come and help me pack.'”
“Did you see the telegram--by any chance?” asked Miss Chyne.
“Well, miss, I didn't rightly read it.”
Millicent had given way to a sudden panic on the receipt of Guy's note. A telegram calling him to Africa--calling with a voice which he obeyed with such alacrity that he had not paused to finish his dinner--could only mean that some disaster had happened--some disaster to Jack Meredith. And quite suddenly Millicent Chyne's world was emptied of all else but Jack Meredith. For a moment she forgot herself. She ran to the room where Lady Cantourne was affixing the family jewelry on her dress, and, showing the letter, said breathlessly that she must see Guy Oscard at once. Lady Cantourne, wise woman of the world that she was, said nothing. She merely finished her toilet, and, when the carriage was ready, they drove round by Russell Square.
“Who was it from?” asked Millicent.
“From a person named Gordon, miss.”
“And what did it say?”
“Well, miss, as I said before, I did not rightly see. But it seems that it said, 'Come at once.' I saw that.”
“And what else? Be quick, please.”
“I think there was mention of somebody bein' surrounded, miss. Some name like Denver, I think. No! Wait a bit; it wasn't that; it was somebody else.”
Finishing off the port had also meant beginning it, and the worthy butler's mind was not particularly clear.
“Was there any mention of Mr. Oscard's partner, Mr.--eh--Meredith?” asked Millicent, glancing at the clock.
“Yes, miss, there was that name, but I don't rightly remember in what connection.”
“It didn't say that he--” Millicent paused and drew in her breath with a jerk--“was dead, or anything like that?”
“Oh, no, miss.”
“Thank you. I--am sorry we missed Mr. Oscard.”
She turned and went back to Lady Cantourne, who was sitting in the carriage. And while she was dancing the second extra with the first comer at four o'clock the next morning, Guy Oscard was racing out of Plymouth Sound into the teeth of a fine, driving rain. On the bridge of the trembling tug-boat, by Oscard's side, stood a keen-eyed Channel pilot, who knew the tracks of the steamers up and down Channel as a gamekeeper knows the hare-tracks across a stubble-field. Moreover, the tug-boat caught the big steamer pounding down into the grey of the Atlantic Ocean, and in due time Guy Oscard landed on the beach at Loango.
He had the telegram still in his pocket, and he went, not to Maurice Gordon's office, but to the bungalow.
Jocelyn greeted him with a little inarticulate cry of joy.
“I did not think that you could possibly be here so soon,” she said.
“What news have you?” he asked, without pausing to explain. He was one of those men who are silenced by an unlimited capacity for prompt action.
“That,” she replied, handing him the note written by Jack Meredith to Marie at Msala.
Guy Oscard read it carefully.
“Dated seven weeks last Monday--nearly two months ago,” he muttered, half to himself.
He raised his head and looked out of the window. There were lines of anxiety round his eyes. Jocelyn never took her glance from his face.
“Nearly two months ago,” he repeated.
“But you will go?” she said--and something in her voice startled him.
“Of course I will go,” he replied. He looked down into her face with a vague question in his quiet eyes; and who knows what he saw there? Perhaps she was off her guard. Perhaps she read this man aright and did not care.
With a certain slow hesitation he laid his hand on her arm. There was something almost paternal in his manner which was in keeping with his stature.
“Moreover,” he went on, “I will get there in time. I have an immense respect for Meredith. If he said that he could hold out for four months, I should say that he could hold out for six. There is no one like Meredith, once he makes up his mind to take things seriously.”
It was not very well done, and she probably saw through it. She probably knew that he was as anxious as she was herself. But his very presence was full of comfort. It somehow brought a change to the moral atmosphere--a sense of purposeful direct simplicity which was new to the West African Coast.
“I will send over to the factory for Maurice,” said the girl. “He has been hard at work getting together your men. If your telegram had not come he was going up to the Plateau himself.”
Oscard looked slightly surprised. That did not sound like Maurice Gordon.
“I believe you are almost capable of going yourself,” said the big man with a slow smile.
“If I had been a man I should have been half-way there by this time.”
“Where is Durnovo?” he asked suddenly.
“I believe he is in Loango. He has not been to this house for more than a fortnight; but Maurice has heard that he is still somewhere in Loango.”
Jocelyn paused. There was an expression on Guy Oscard's face which she rather liked, while it alarmed her.
“It is not likely,” she went on, “that he will come here. I--I rather lost my temper with him, and said things which I imagine hurt his feelings.”
Oscard nodded gravely.
“I'm rather afraid of doing that myself,” he said; “only it will not be his feelings.”
“I do not think,” she replied, “that it would be at all expedient to say or do anything at present. He must go with you to the Plateau. Afterwards--perhaps.”
Oscard laughed quietly.
“Ah,” he said, “that sounds like one of Meredith's propositions. But he does not mean it any more than you do.”
“I do mean it,” replied Jocelyn quietly. There is no hatred so complete, so merciless, as the hatred of a woman for one who has wronged the man she loves. At such times women do not pause to give fair play. They make no allowance.
Jocelyn Gordon found a sort of fearful joy in the anger of this self-contained Englishman. It was an unfathomed mine of possible punishment over which she could in thought hold Victor Durnovo.
“Nothing,” she went on, “could be too mean--nothing could be mean enough--to mete out to him in payment of his own treachery and cowardice.”
She went to a drawer in her writing-table and took from it an almanac.
“The letter you have in your hand,” she said, “was handed to Mr. Durnovo exactly a month ago by the woman at Msala. From that time to this he has done nothing. He has simply abandoned Mr. Meredith.”
“He is in Loango?” inquired Oscard, with a premonitory sense of enjoyment in his voice.
“Yes.”
“Does he know that you have sent for me?”
“No,” replied Jocelyn.
Guy Oscard smiled.
“I think I will go and look for him,” he said.
At dusk that same evening there was a singular incident in the bar-room of the only hotel in Loango.
Victor Durnovo was there, surrounded by a few friends of antecedents and blood similar to his own. They were having a convivial time of it, and the consumption of whisky was greater than might be deemed discreet in such a climate as that of Loango.
Durnovo was in the act of raising his glass to his lips when the open doorway was darkened, and Guy Oscard stood before him. The half-breed's jaw dropped; the glass was set down again rather unsteadily on the zinc-covered counter.
“I want you,” said Oscard.
There was a little pause, an ominous silence, and Victor Durnovo slowly followed Oscard out of the room, leaving that ominous silence behind.
“I leave for Msala to-night,” said Oscard, when they were outside, “and you are coming with me.”
“I'll see you damned first!” replied Durnovo, with a courage born of Irish whisky.
Guy Oscard said nothing, but he stretched out his right hand suddenly. His fingers closed in the collar of Victor Durnovo's coat, and that parti-coloured scion of two races found himself feebly trotting through the one street of Loango.
“Le' go!” he gasped.
But the hand at his neck neither relinquished nor contracted. When they reached the beach the embarkation of the little army was going forward under Maurice Gordon's supervision. Victor looked at Gordon. He reflected over the trump card held in his hand, but he was too skilful to play it then.
| {
"id": "8939"
} |
25 | TO THE RESCUE | I must mix myself with action lest I wither by despair.
Jocelyn had not conveyed to her brother by word or hint the accusation brought against him by Victor Durnovo. But when he returned home it almost seemed as if he were conscious of the knowledge that was hers. She thought she detected a subtle difference in his manner towards herself--something apologetic and humble. This was really the result of Victor Durnovo's threat made in the office of the factory long before.
Maurice Gordon was not the sort of man to carry through the burden of a half-discovered secret. It needs a special temperament for this--one that is able to inspire fear in whomsoever it may be necessary to hold in check--a temperament with sufficient self-reliance and strength to play an open game steadily through to the end. Since Durnovo's plain-spoken threat had been uttered Gordon had thought of little else, and it was well known that Jocelyn's influence was all that prevented him from taking hopelessly to drink. When away from her at the sub-factories it is to be feared that he gave way to the temptation. There is nothing so wearing as a constant suspense, a never-resting fear; and if a man knows that both may be relieved by a slight over-indulgence he must be a strong man indeed if he can turn aside.
Gordon betrayed himself to Jocelyn in a thousand little ways. He consulted her wishes, deferred to her opinion, and sought her advice in a way which never had been his hitherto; and while both were conscious of this difference, both were alike afraid of seeking to explain it.
Jocelyn knew that her repulse of Victor Durnovo was only a temporary advantage; the position could not remain long undecided. Victor Durnovo would have to be met sooner or later. Each day increased the strength of her conviction that her brother was in the power of this man. Whether he had really allowed himself to be dragged into the horrors of even a slight connection with the slave-trade she could not tell; but she knew the world well enough to recognise the fact that Durnovo had only to make the accusation for it to be believed by the million sensation-mongers who are always on the alert for some new horror. She knew that should Durnovo breathe a word of this in the right quarter--that is to say, into the eager journalistic ear--there would hardly be a civilised country in the world where Maurice Gordon of Loango could dwell under his own name. She felt that they were all living on a slumbering volcano. It was one of those rare cases where human life seems no longer sacred; and this refined, educated, gentle English lady found herself face to face with the fact that Victor Durnovo's life would be cheap at the price of her own.
At this moment Providence, with the wisdom of which we sometimes catch a glimpse, laid another trouble upon her shoulders. While she was half distracted with the thought of her brother's danger, the news was put into her hand by the grinning Nala that Jack Meredith--the man she openly in her own heart loved--was in an even greater strait.
Here, at all events, was a peril that could be met, however heavy might be the odds. Her own danger, the horror of Maurice's crime, the hatred for Victor Durnovo, were all swallowed up in the sudden call to help Jack Meredith. And Jocelyn found at least a saving excitement in working night and day for the rescue of the man who was to be Millicent Chyne's husband.
Maurice aided her loyally. His influence with the natives was great; his knowledge of the country second only to Durnovo's. During the fortnight that elapsed between the despatch of the telegram to Guy Oscard and the arrival of that resourceful individual at Loango, the whole coast was astir with preparation and excitement. Thus it came about that Guy Oscard found a little army awaiting him, and to Maurice Gordon was the credit given. Victor Durnovo simply kept out of the way. The news that an expedition was being got together to go to the relief of Jack Meredith never reached him in his retreat. But after a fortnight spent in idleness in the neighbouring interior, he could stand the suspense no longer, and came down into the town, to be pounced upon at once by Guy Oscard.
As he stood on the beach near to Oscard, watching the embarkation of the men, his feelings were decidedly mixed. There was an immense relief from the anxiety of the last few weeks. He had stood on the verge of many crimes, and had been forcibly dragged back therefrom by the strong arm of Guy Oscard. It had been Victor Durnovo's intention not only to abandon Jack Meredith to his certain fate, but to appropriate to his own use the consignment of Simiacine, valued at sixty thousand pounds, which he had brought down to the coast. The end of it all was, of course, the possession of Jocelyn Gordon. The programme was simple; but, racked as he was by anxiety, weakened by incipient disease, and paralysed by chronic fear, the difficulties were too great to be overcome. To be a thorough villain one must possess, first of all, good health; secondly, untiring energy; and thirdly, a certain enthusiasm for wrong-doing for its own sake. Criminals of the first standard have always loved crime. Victor Durnovo was not like that. He only made use of crime, and had no desire to cultivate it for its own sake. To be forcibly dragged back, therefore, into the paths of virtue was in some ways a great relief. The presence of Guy Oscard, also, was in itself a comfort. Durnovo felt that no responsibility attached itself to him; he had entire faith in Oscard, and had only to obey.
Durnovo was not a person who suffered from too delicate a susceptibility. The shame of his present position did not affect him deeply. Indeed, he was one of those men who have no sense of shame before certain persons; and Guy Oscard was one of those. The position was not in itself one to be proud of, but the half-breed accepted it with wonderful equanimity, and presently he began to assist in the embarkation.
It was nearly dark when the little coast steamer secured by Maurice Gordon for the service turned her prow northward and steamed away.
“The truth is,” Durnovo took an early opportunity of saying to Oscard, “that my nerve is no longer up to this work. I should not care to undertake this business alone, despite my reputation on the coast. It is a wonderful thing how closely the nerves are allied to the state of one's health.”
“Wonderful!” acquiesced Guy Oscard, with a lack of irony which only made the irony keener.
“I've been too long in this d----d country,” exclaimed Durnovo, “that's the fact. I'm not the man I was.”
Guy Oscard smoked for some moments in silence; then he took his pipe from his lips.
“The only pity is,” he said judicially, “that you ever undertook to look for the Simiacine if you were going to funk it when the first difficulty arose.”
Without further comment he walked away, and entered into conversation with the captain of the steamer.
“All right,” muttered Durnovo between his teeth--“all right, my sarcastic grand gentleman. I'll be even with you yet.”
The strange part of it was that Guy Oscard never attempted to degrade Durnovo from his post of joint commander. This puzzled the half-breed sorely. It may have been that Oscard knew men better than his indifferent manner would have led the observer to believe. Durnovo's was just one of those natures which in good hands might have been turned to good account. Too much solitude, too much dealing with negro peoples, and, chiefly, too long a sojourn in the demoralising atmosphere of West Africa, had made a worse man of Victor Durnovo than Nature originally intended. He was not wholly bad. Badness is, after all, a matter of comparison, and, in order to draw correctly such a comparison, every allowance must be made for a difference in standard. Victor Durnovo's standard was not a high one; that was all. And in continuing to treat him as an equal, and trust him as such, Guy Oscard only showed that he was a cleverer man than the world took him to be.
In due time Msala was reached. As the canoes suitable for up-river traffic were by no means sufficient to transport the whole of the expeditionary force in one journey, a division was made. Durnovo took charge of the advance column, journeying up to the camp from which the long march through the forest was to begin, and sending back the canoes for Oscard and the remainder of the force. With these canoes he sent back word that the hostile tribes were within a few days' march, and that he was fortifying his camp.
This news seemed to furnish Guy Oscard with food for considerable thought, and after some space of time he called Marie.
She came, and, standing before him with her patient dignity of mien, awaited his communications. She never took her eyes off the letter in his hand. Oscard noticed the persistency of her gaze at the time, and remembered it again afterwards.
“Marie,” he said, “I have had rather serious news from Mr. Durnovo.”
“Yes?” rather breathlessly.
“It will not be safe for you to stay at Msala--you must take the children down to Loango.”
“Does he say that?” she asked, in her rapid, indistinct English.
“Who?”
“Vic--Mr. Durnovo.”
“No,” replied Oscard, wondering at the question.
“He does not say anything about me or the children?” persisted Marie.
“No.”
“And yet he says there is danger?”
There was a strange, angry look in her great dark eyes which Oscard did not understand.
“He says that the tribes are within two days' march of his camp.”
She gave an unpleasant little laugh.
“He does not seem to have thought of us at Msala.”
“I suppose,” said Oscard, folding the letter and putting it in his pocket, “that he thinks it is my duty to do what is best for Msala. That is why I asked you to speak to me.”
Mario did not seem to be listening. She was looking over his head up the river, in the direction from whence the message had come, and there was a singular hopelessness in her eyes.
“I cannot leave until he tells me to,” she said doggedly.
Guy Oscard took the pipe from his lips and examined the bowl of it attentively for a moment.
“Excuse me,” he said gently, “but I insist on your leaving with the children to-morrow. I will send two men down with you, and will give you a letter to Miss Gordon, who will see to your wants at Loango.”
She looked at him with a sort of wonder.
“You insist?” she said.
He raised his eyes to meet hers.
“Yes,” he answered.
She bowed her head in grave submission, and made a little movement as if to go.
“It is chiefly on account of the children,” he added.
Quite suddenly she smiled, and seemed to check a sob in her throat.
“Yes,” said she softly, “I know.” And she went into the house.
The next morning brought further rumours of approaching danger, and it seemed certain that this news must have filtered through Durnovo's fortified camp further up the river. This time the report was more definite. There were Arabs leading the tribes, and rumour further stated that an organised descent on Msala was intended. And yet there was no word from Durnovo--no sign to suggest that he had even thought of securing the safety of his housekeeper and the few aged negroes in charge of Msala. This news only strengthened Oscard's determination to send Marie down to the coast, and he personally superintended their departure before taking his seat in the canoe for the up-river voyage. The men of his division had all preceded him, and no one except his own boatmen knew that Msala was to be abandoned.
There was in Guy Oscard a dogged sense of justice which sometimes amounted to a cruel mercilessness. When he reached the camp he deliberately withheld from Durnovo the news that the Msala household had left the river station. Moreover, he allowed Victor Durnovo to further inculpate himself. He led him on to discuss the position of affairs, and the half-breed displayed an intimate knowledge of the enemy's doings. There was only one inference to be drawn, namely, that Victor Durnovo had abandoned his people at Msala with the same deliberation which had characterised his cowardly faithlessness to Jack Meredith.
Guy Oscard was a slow thinking man, although quick in action. He pieced all these things together. The pieces did not seem to fit just then--the construction was decidedly chaotic in its architecture. But later on the corner-stone of knowledge propped up the edifice, and everything slipped into its place.
Despite disquieting rumours, the expedition was allowed to depart from the river-camp unmolested. For two days they marched through the gloomy forest with all speed. On the third day one of the men of Durnovo's division captured a native who had been prowling on their heels in the line of march. Victor Durnovo sent captor and prisoner to the front of the column, with a message to Oscard that he would come presently and see what information was to be abstracted from the captive. At the midday halt Durnovo accordingly joined Oscard, and the man was brought before them. He was hardly worthy of the name, so disease-stricken, so miserable and half-starved was he.
At first Durnovo and he did not seem to be able to get to an understanding at all; but presently they hit upon a dialect in which they possessed a small common knowledge.
His news was not reassuring. In dealing with numbers he rarely condescended to the use of less than four figures, and his conception of a distance was very vague.
“Ask him,” said Oscard, “whether he knows that there is an Englishman with a large force on the top of a mountain far to the east.”
Durnovo translated, and the man answered with a smile. In reply to some further question the negro launched into a detailed narrative, to which Durnovo listened eagerly.
“He says,” said the latter to Oscard, “that the Plateau is in possession of the Masais. It was taken two months ago. The blacks were sold as slaves; the two Englishmen were tortured to death and their bodies burnt.”
Oscard never moved a muscle.
“Ask him if he is quite sure about it.”
“Quite,” replied Durnovo, after questioning. “By God! Oscard; what a pity! But I always knew it. I knew it was quite hopeless from the first.”
He passed his brown hand nervously over his face, where the perspiration stood in beads.
“Yes,” said Oscard slowly; “but I think we will go on all the same.”
“What!” cried Durnovo. “Go on?”
“Yes,” replied Guy Oscard; “we will go on, and if I find you trying to desert I'll shoot you down like a rat.”
| {
"id": "8939"
} |
26 | IN PERIL | He made no sign; the fires of Hell were round him, The Pit of Hell below.
“About as bad as they can be, sir. That's how things is.” Joseph set down his master's breakfast on the rough table that stood in front of his tent and looked at Jack Meredith.
Meredith had a way of performing most of his toilet outside his tent, and while Joseph made his discouraging report he was engaged in buttoning his waistcoat. He nodded gravely, but his manner was not that of a man who fully realised his position of imminent danger. Some men are like this--they die without getting at all flustered.
“There's not more nor two or three out of the whole lot that I can put any trust in,” continued Joseph.
Jack Meredith was putting on his coat.
“I know what a barrack-room mutiny is. I've felt it in the hatmosphere, so to speak, before now, sir.”
“And what does it feel like?” inquired Jack Meredith, lightly arranging his watch-chain.
But Joseph did not answer. He stepped backwards into the tent and brought two rifles. There was no need of answer; for this came in the sound of many voices, the clang and clatter of varied arms.
“Here they come, sir,” said the soldier-servant--respectful, mindful of his place even at this moment.
Jack Meredith merely sat down behind the little table where his breakfast stood untouched. He leant his elbow on the table and watched the approach of the disorderly band of blacks. Some ran, some hung back, but all were armed.
In front walked a small, truculent-looking man with broad shoulders and an aggressive head.
He planted himself before Meredith, and turning, with a wave of the hand, to indicate his followers, said in English: “These men--these friends of me--say they are tired of you. You no good leader. They make me their leader.”
He shrugged his shoulders with a hideous grin of deprecation.
“I not want. They make me. We go to join our friends in the valley.”
He pointed down into the valley where the enemy was encamped.
“We have agreed to take two hundred pounds for you. Price given by our friends in valley--” The man stopped suddenly. He was looking into the muzzle of a revolver with a fixed fascination. Jack Meredith exhibited no haste. He did not seem yet to have realised the gravity of the situation. He took very careful aim and pulled the trigger. A little puff of white smoke floated over their heads. The broad-shouldered man with the aggressive head looked stupidly surprised. He turned towards his supporters with a pained look of inquiry, as if there was something he did not quite understand, and then he fell on his face and lay quite still.
Jack Meredith looked on the blank faces with a glance of urbane inquiry.
“Has anybody else anything to say to me?” he asked.
There was a dead silence. Some one laughed rather feebly in the background.
“Then I think I will go on with my breakfast.”
Which he accordingly proceeded to do.
One or two of the mutineers dropped away and went back to their own quarters.
“Take it away,” said Meredith, indicating the body of the dead man with his teaspoon.
“And look here,” he cried out after them, “do not let us have any more of this nonsense! It will only lead to unpleasantness.”
Some of the men grinned. They were not particularly respectful in their manner of bearing away the mortal remains of their late leader. The feeling had already turned.
Joseph thought fit to clench matters later on in the day by a few remarks of his own.
“That's the sort o' man,” he said, more in resignation than in anger, “that the guv'nor is. He's quiet like and smooth-spoken, but when he does 'it he 'its 'ard, and when he shoots he shoots mortal straight. Now, what I says to you Christy Minstrels is this; we're all in the same box and we all want the same thing, although I admit there's a bit of a difference in our complexions. Some o' you jokers have got a fine richness of colour on your physiognimies that I don't pretend to emulate. But no matter. What you wants is to get out of this confounded old Platter, quick time, ain't it now? --to get down to Loango and go out on the bust, eh?”
The Christy Minstrels acquiesced.
“Then,” said Joseph, “obey orders and be hanged to yer.”
It had been apparent to Meredith for some weeks past that the man Nattoo, whom he had just shot, was bent on making trouble. His prompt action had not, therefore, been the result of panic, but the deliberate execution of a fore-ordained sentence. The only question was how to make the necessary execution most awe-inspiring and exemplary. The moment was well chosen, and served to strengthen, for the time being, the waning authority of these two Englishmen thus thrown upon their own resources in the heart of Africa.
The position was not a pleasant one. For three months the Plateau had been surrounded by hostile tribes, who made desultory raids from time to time. These, the little force on the summit was able to repulse; but a combined attack from, say, two sides at once would certainly have been successful. Meredith had no reason to suppose that his appeal for help had reached Msala, infested as the intervening forests were by cannibal tribes. Provisions were at a low ebb. There seemed to be no hope of outside aid, and disaffection was rife in his small force. Jack Meredith, who was no soldier, found himself called upon to defend a weak position, with unreliable men, for an indefinite period.
Joseph had a rough knowledge of soldiering and a very rudimentary notion of fortification. But he had that which served as well--the unerring eye for covert of a marksman. He was a dead shot at any range, and knowing what he could hit he also knew how to screen himself from the rifle of an enemy.
Above all, perhaps, was the quiet influence of a man who never flinched from danger nor seemed to be in the least disconcerted by its presence.
“It seems, sir,” said Joseph to his master later in the day, “that you've kinder stumped them. They don't understand you.”
“They must be kept in check by fear. There is no other way,” replied Meredith rather wearily. Of late he had felt less and less inclined to exert himself.
“Yes, sir. Those sort o' men.”
Meredith made no answer, and after a little pause Joseph repeated the words significantly, if ungrammatically.
“Those sort o' men.”
“What do you mean?”
“Slaves,” replied Joseph sharply, touching his hat without knowing why.
“Slaves! What the devil are you talking about?”
The man came a little nearer.
“Those forty men--leastwise thirty-four men--that we brought from Msala--Mr. Durnovo's men, that cultivate this 'ere Simiacine as they call it--they're different from the rest, sir.”
“Yes, of course they are. We do not hire them direct--we hire them from Mr. Durnovo and pay their wages to him. They are of a different tribe from the others--not fighting men but agriculturists.”
“Ah--” Joseph paused. “Strange thing, sir, but I've not seen 'em handling any of their pay yet.”
“Well, that is their affair.”
“Yessir.”
Having unburthened himself of his suspicion, the servant retired, shaking his head ominously. At any other time the words just recorded would have aroused Jack Meredith's attention, but the singular slothfulness that seemed to be creeping over his intellect was already acting as a clog on his mental energy.
The next morning he was unable to leave his bed, and lay all day in a state of semi-somnolence. Joseph explained to the men that the leader was so disgusted with their ungrateful conduct that he would not leave the tent. In the evening there was a slight attack made from the southern side. This Joseph was able to repulse, chiefly by his own long-range firing, assisted by a few picked rifles. But the situation was extremely critical. The roll of the big war-drum could be heard almost incessantly, rising with weird melancholy from the forest land beneath them.
Despite difficulties the new crop of Simiacine--the second within twelve months--had been picked, dried, and stored in cases. Without, on the Plateau, stood the bare trees, affording no covert for savage warfare--no screen against the deadly bullet. The camp was placed near one edge of the tableland, and on this exposed side the stockade was wisely constructed of double strength. The attacks had hitherto been made only from this side, but Joseph knew that anything in the nature of a combined assault would carry his defence before it. In his rough-and-ready way he doctored his master, making for him such soups and strength-giving food as he could. Once, very late in the night, when it almost seemed that the shadow of death lay over the little tent, he pounded up some of the magic Simiacine leaves and mixed them in the brandy which he administered from time to time.
Before sunrise the next morning the alarm was given again, and the little garrison was called to arms.
When Joseph left his master's tent he was convinced that neither of them had long to live; but he was of that hard material which is found in its very best form in the ranks and on the forecastle--men who die swearing. It may be very reprehensible--no doubt it is--but it is very difficult for a plain-going man to withhold his admiration for such as these. It shows, at all events, that Thomas Atkins and Jack are alike unafraid of meeting their Maker. It is their duty to fight either a living enemy or a cruel sea, and if a little profanity helps them to their duty, who are we that we may condemn them?
So Joseph went out with a rifle in each hand and a fine selection of epithets on his tongue.
“Now, you devils,” he said, “we're just going to fight like hell.”
And what else he said it booteth little.
He took his station on the roof of a hut in the centre of the little stockade, and from thence he directed the fire of his men. Crouching beneath him he had a disabled native who loaded each rifle in turn; and just by way of encouraging the others he picked off the prominent men outside the stockade with a deadly steadiness. By way of relieving the tension he indulged in an occasional pleasantry at the expense of the enemy.
“Now,” he would say, “there's a man lookin' over that bush with a green feather on his nut. It's a mistake to wear green feathers; it makes a body so conspicuous.”
And the wearer of the obnoxious feather would throw up his arms and topple backwards, down the hill.
If Joseph detected anything like cowardice or carelessness he pointed his rifle with a threatening frown towards the culprit, with instant effect. Presently, however, things began to get more serious. This was not the sudden assault of a single chief, but an organised attack. Before long Joseph ceased to smile. By sunrise he was off the roof, running from one weak point to another, encouraging, threatening, fighting, and swearing very hard. More than once the enemy reached the stockade, and--ominous sign--one or two of their dead lay inside the defence.
“Fight, yer devils--fight!” he cried in a hoarse whisper, for his voice had given way. “Hell--give 'em hell!”
He was everywhere at once, urging on his men, kicking them, pushing them, forcing them up to the stockade. But he saw the end. Half-dazed, the blacks fought on in silence. The grim African sun leapt up above the distant line of forest and shone upon one of the finest sights to be seen on earth--a soldier wounded, driven, desperate, and not afraid.
In the midst of it a hand was laid on Joseph's shoulder.
“There,” cried a voice, “THAT corner. See to it.”
Without looking round, Joseph obeyed, and the breached corner was saved. He only knew that his master, who was almost dead, had come to life again. There was no time for anything else.
For half an hour it was a question of any moment. Master and man were for the time being nothing better than madmen, and the fighting frenzy is wildly infectious.
At last there was a pause. The enemy fell back, and in the momentary silence the sound of distant firing reached the ears of the little band of defenders.
“What's that?” asked Meredith sharply. He looked like one risen from the dead.
“Fighting among themselves,” replied Joseph, who was wiping blood and grime from his eyes.
“Then one of them is fighting with an Express rifle.”
Joseph listened.
“By God!” he shouted, “by God, Mer--sir, we're saved!”
The enemy had apparently heard the firing too. Perhaps they also recognised the peculiar sharp “smack” of the Express rifle amidst the others. There was a fresh attack--an ugly rush of reckless men. But the news soon spread that there was firing in the valley and the sound of a white man's rifle. The little garrison plucked up heart, and the rifles, almost too hot to hold, dealt death around.
They held back the savages until the sound of the firing behind them was quite audible even amidst the heavy rattle of the musketry.
Then suddenly the firing ceased--the enemy had divided and fled. For a few moments there was a strange, tense silence. Then a voice--an English voice--cried: “Come on!”
The next moment Guy Oscard stood on the edge of the Plateau. He held up both arms as a signal to those within the stockade to cease firing, and then he came forward, followed by a number of blacks and Durnovo.
The gate was rapidly disencumbered of its rough supports and thrown open.
Jack Meredith stood in the aperture, holding out his hand.
“It's all right; it's--all right,” he said.
Oscard did not seem to take so cheerful a view of matters. He scrutinised Meredith's face with visible anxiety.
Then suddenly Jack lurched up against his rescuer, grabbing at him vaguely.
In a minute Oscard was supporting him back towards his tent.
“It's all right, you know,” explained Jack Meredith very gravely; “I am a bit weak--that is all. I am hungry--haven't had anything to eat for some time, you know.”
“Oh, yes,” said Oscard shortly; “I know all about it.”
| {
"id": "8939"
} |
27 | OFF DUTY | Chacun de vous peut-etre en son coeur solitaire Sous des ris passagers etouffe un long regret.
“Good-bye to that damned old Platter--may it be for ever!” With this valedictory remark Joseph shook his fist once more at the unmoved mountain and resumed his march.
“William,” he continued gravely to a native porter who walked at his side and knew no word of English, “there is some money that is not worth the making.”
The man grinned from ear to ear and nodded with a vast appreciation of what experience taught him to take as a joke.
“Remember that, my black diamond, and just mind the corner of your mouth don't get hitched over yer ear,” said Joseph, patting him with friendly cheerfulness.
Then he made his way forward to walk by the side of his master's litter and encourage the carriers with that mixture of light badinage and heavy swearing which composed his method of dealing with the natives.
Three days after the arrival of the rescuing force at the Plateau, Guy Oscard had organised a retreating party, commanded by Joseph, to convey Jack Meredith down to the coast. He knew enough of medicine to recognise the fact that this was no passing indisposition, but a thorough breakdown in health. The work and anxiety of the last year, added to the strange disquieting breath of the Simiacine grove, had brought about a serious collapse in the system which only months of rest and freedom from care could repair.
Before the retreating column was ready to march it was discovered that the hostile tribes had finally evacuated the country; which deliverance was brought about not by Oscard's blood-stained track through the forest, not by the desperate defence of the Plateau, but by the whisper that Victor Durnovo was with them. Truly a man's reputation is a strange thing.
And this man--the mighty warrior whose name was as good as an army in Central Africa--went down on his knees one night to Guy Oscard, imploring him to abandon the Simiacine Plateau, or at all events to allow him to go down to Loango with Meredith and Joseph.
“No,” said Oscard; “Meredith held this place for us when he could have left it safely. He has held it for a year. It is our turn now. We will hold it for him. I am going to stay, and you have to stay with me.”
For Jack Meredith, life was at this time nothing but a constant, never-ceasing fatigue. When Oscard helped him into the rough litter they had constructed for his comfort, he laid his head on the pillow, overcome with a dead sleep.
“Good-bye, old chap,” said Oscard, patting him on the shoulder.
“G'bye;” and Jack Meredith turned over on his side as if he were in bed, drew up the blanket, and closed his eyes. He did not seem to know where he was, and, what was worse, he did not seem to care. Oscard gave the signal to the bearers, and the march began. There is something in the spring of human muscles unlike any other motive power; the power of thought may be felt even on the pole of a litter, and one thing that modern invention can never equal is the comfort of being carried on the human shoulder. The slow swinging movement came to be a part of Jack Meredith's life--indeed, life itself seemed to be nothing but a huge journey thus peacefully accomplished. Through the flapping curtains an endless procession of trees passed before his half-closed eyes. The unintelligible gabble of the light-hearted bearers of his litter was all that reached his ears. And ever at his side was Joseph--cheerful, indefatigable, resourceful. There was in his mind one of the greatest happinesses of life--the sense of something satisfactorily accomplished--the peacefulness that comes when the necessity for effort is past and left behind--that lying down to rest which must surely be something like Death in its kindest form.
The awe inspired by Victor Durnovo's name went before the little caravan like a moral convoy and cleared their path. Thus guarded by the name of a man whom he hated, Jack Meredith was enabled to pass through a savage country literally cast upon a bed of sickness.
In due course the river was reached, and the gentle swing of the litter was changed for the smoother motion of the canoe. And it was at this period of the journey--in the forced restfulness of body entailed--that Joseph's mind soared to higher things, and he determined to write a letter to Sir John.
He was, he admitted even to himself, no great penman, and his epistolary style tended, perhaps, more to the forcible than to the finished.
“Somethin',” he reflected, “that'll just curl his back hair for 'im; that's what I'll write 'im.”
Msala had been devastated, and it was within the roofless walls of Durnovo's house that Joseph finally wrote out laboriously the projected capillary invigorator.
“HONOURED SIR” (he wrote),--“Trusting you will excuse the liberty, I take up my pen to advise you respectfully”--while writing this word Joseph closed his left eye--“that my master is taken seriously worse. Having been on the sick-list now for a matter of five weeks, he just lies on his bed as weak as a new-born babe, as the sayin' is, and doesn't take no notice of nothing. I have succeeded in bringing him down to the coast, which we hope to reach to-morrow, and when we get to Loango--a poor sort of place--I shall at once obtain the best advice obtainable--that is to be had. Howsoever, I may have to send for it; but money being no object to either master or me, respectfully I beg to say that every care will be took. Master having kind friends at Loango, I have no anxiety as to the future, but, honoured sir, it has been a near touch in the past--just touch and go, so to speak. Not being in a position to form a estimate of what is the matter with master, I can only respectfully mention that I take it to be a general kerlapse of the system, brought on, no doubt, by too long a living in the unhealthy platters of Central Africa. When I gets him to Loango I shall go straight to the house of Mr. and Miss Gordon, where we stayed before, and with no fear but what we will be received with every kindness and the greatest hospitality. Thank God, honoured sir, I've kept my health and strength wonderful, and am therefore more able to look after master. When we reach Loango I shall ask Miss Gordon kindly to write to you, sir, seeing as I have no great facility with my pen. --I am, honoured sir, your respectful servant to command, “JOSEPH ATKINSON, “Late Corporal 217th Regt.”
There were one or two round splashes on the paper suggestive, perhaps, of tears, but not indicative of those useless tributes. The truth was that it was a hot evening, and Joseph had, as he confessed, but little facility with the pen.
“There,” said the scribe, with a smile of intense satisfaction. “That will give the old 'un beans. Not that I don't respect him--oh no.”
He paused, and gazed thoughtfully at the evening star.
“Strange thing--life,” he muttered, “uncommon strange. Perhaps the old 'un is right; there's no knowin'. The ways o' Providence ARE mysterious--onnecessarily mysterious to my thinkin'.”
And he shook his head at the evening star, as if he was not quite pleased with it.
With a feeling of considerable satisfaction, Joseph approached the Bungalow at Loango three days later. The short sea voyage had somewhat revived Meredith, who had been desirous of walking up from the beach, but after a short attempt had been compelled to enter the spring cart which Joseph had secured.
Joseph walked by the side of this cart with an erect carriage, and a suppressed importance suggestive of ambulance duty in the old days.
As the somewhat melancholy cortege approached the house, Meredith drew back the dusky brown holland curtain and looked anxiously out. Nor were Joseph's eyes devoid of expectation. He thought that Jocelyn would presently emerge from the flower-hung trellis of the verandah; and he had rehearsed over and over again a neat, respectful speech, explanatory of his action in bringing a sick man to the house.
But the hanging fronds of flowers and leaf remained motionless, and the cart drove, unchallenged, round to the principal door.
A black servant--a stranger--held the handle, and stood back invitingly. Supported by Joseph's arm, Jack Meredith entered. The servant threw open the drawing-room door; they passed in. The room was empty. On the table lay two letters, one addressed to Guy Oscard, the other to Jack Meredith. Meredith felt suddenly how weak he was, and sat wearily down on the sofa.
“Give me that letter,” he said.
Joseph looked at him keenly. There was something forlorn and cold about the room--about the whole house--with the silent, smiling, black servants and the shaded windows.
Joseph handed the letter as desired, and then, with quick practised hands, he poured a small quantity of brandy into the cup of his flask. “Drink this first, sir,” he said.
Jack Meredith fumbled rather feebly at the letter. It was distinctly an effort to him to tear the paper.
“MY DEAR MEREDITH” (he read),--“Just a line to tell you that the Bungalow and its contents are at your service. Jocelyn and I are off home for two months' change of air. I have been a bit seedy. I leave this at the Bungalow, and we shall feel hurt if you do not make the house your home whenever you happen to come down to Loango. I have left a similar note for Oscard, in whose expedition to your relief I have all faith. --Yours ever, “MAURICE GORDON.”
“Here,” said Meredith to his servant, “you may as well read it for yourself.”
He handed the letter to Joseph and leant back with a strange rapidity of movement on the sofa. As he lay there with his eyes closed he looked remarkably like a dead man.
While Joseph was reading the letter the sound of bare feet on the cocoa-leaf matting made him turn round.
A small, rotund white figure of a child, clad in a cotton garment, stood in the doorway, finger in mouth, gazing gravely at the two occupants of the room.
“Nestorius!” exclaimed Joseph, “by all that's holy! Well, I AM glad to see you, my son. Where's Mammy, eh?”
Nestorius turned gravely round and pointed a small dusky finger in the direction of the servants' quarters. Then he replaced the finger between his lips and came slowly forward to examine Meredith, who had opened his eyes.
“Well, stout Nestorius. This is a bad case, is it not?” said the sick man.
“Bad case,” repeated Nestorius mechanically.
At that moment Marie came into the room, dignified, gentle, self-possessed.
“Ah, missis,” said Joseph, “I'm glad to see you. You're wanted badly, and that's the truth. Mr. Meredith's not at all well.”
Marie bowed gravely. She went to Meredith's side, and looked at him with a smile that was at once critical and encouraging. Nestorius holding on to her skirts looked up to her face, and seeing the smile, smiled too. He went further. He turned and smiled at Joseph as if to make things pleasant all round.
Marie stooped over the sofa and her clever dusky fingers moved to the cushions.
“You will be better in bed,” she said; “I will get Mr. Gordon's room made ready for you--yes?”
There are occasions when the mere presence of a woman supplies a distinct want. She need not be clever, or very capable; she need have no great learning or experience. She merely has to be a woman--the more womanly the better. There are times when a man may actually be afraid for the want of a woman, but that is usually for the want of one particular woman. There may be a distinct sense of fear--a fear of life and its possibilities--which is nothing else than a want--the want of a certain voice, the desire to be touched by a certain hand, the carping necessity (which takes the physical form of a pressure deep down in the throat) for the sympathy of that one person whose presence is different from the presence of other people. And failing that particular woman another can, in a certain degree, by her mere womanliness, stay the pressure of the want.
This was what Marie did for Jack Meredith, by coming into the room and bending over him and touching his cushions with a sort of deftness and savoir-faire. He did not define his feelings--he was too weak for that; but he had been conscious, for the first time in his life, of a distinct sense of fear when he read Maurice Gordon's letter. Of course he had thought of the possibility of death many times during the last five weeks; but he had no intention of dying. He set the fact plainly before himself that with care he might recover, but that at any moment some symptom could declare itself which would mean death.
Both he and Joseph had, without making mention of it to each other, counted entirely on finding the Gordons at home. It was more than a disappointment--very much more for Jack Meredith. But in real life we do not analyse our feelings as do men in books--more especially books of the mawko-religious tenor written by ladies. Jack Meredith only knew that he felt suddenly afraid of dying when he read Maurice Gordon's letter, and that when the half-caste woman came into the room and gently asserted her claim, as it were, to supreme authority in this situation, the fear seemed to be allayed.
Joseph, with something bright glistening in his keen, quick eyes, stood watching his face as if for a verdict.
“You are tired,” she said, “after your long journey.”
Then she turned to Joseph with that soft, natural way which seems to run through the negro blood, however much it may be diluted.
“Help Mr. Meredith,” she said, “to Mr. Gordon's room. I will go at once and see that the bed is prepared.”
| {
"id": "8939"
} |
28 | A SLOW RECOVERY | We dare not let our tears flow, lest, in truth, They fall upon our work which must be done.
“They was just in time,” said Joseph pleasantly to Marie that same evening, when Jack Meredith had been made comfortable for the night, and there was time to spare for supper.
“Ah!” replied the woman, who was busy with the supper-table.
Joseph glanced at her keenly. The exclamation not only displayed a due interest, but contained many questions. He stretched out his legs and wagged his head sapiently.
“And no mistake!” he said. “They timed it almost to the minute. We had sort of beaten them back for the time bein'. Mr. Meredith had woke up sudden, as I told you, and came into the thick of the melee, as we say in the service. Then we heard the firin' in the distance and the 'splat' of Mr. Oscard's Express rifle. I just turns, like this 'ere, my head over me shoulder, quite confidential, and I says, 'Good Lord, I thank yer.' I'm no hand at tracts and Bible-readin's, but I'm not such a blamed fool, Mistress Marie, as to think that this 'ere rum-go of a world made itself. No, not quite. So I just put in a word, quiet-like, to the Creator.”
Marie was setting before him such luxuries as she could command. She nodded encouragingly.
“Go on,” she said. “Tell me!”
“Cheddar cheese,” he said parenthetically, with an appreciative sniff. “Hav'n't seen a bit o' that for a long time! Well, then, up comes Mr. Oscard as cool as a cowcumber, and Mr. Meredith he gives a sort of little laugh and says, 'Open that gate.' Quite quiet, yer know. No high falutin' and potry and that. A few minutes before he had been fightin' and cussin' and shoutin', just like any Johnny in the ranks. Then he calms down and wipes the blood off'n his hand on the side of his pants, and says, 'Open that gate.' That's a nice piece of butter you've got there, mistress. Lord! it's strange I never missed all them things.”
“Bring your chair to the table,” said Marie, “and begin. You are hungry--yes?”
“Hungry ain't quite the word.”
“You will have some mutton--yes? And Mr. Durnovo, where was he?”
Joseph bent over his plate, with elbows well out, wielding his knife and fork with a more obvious sense of enjoyment than usually obtains in the politer circles.
“Mr. Durnovo,” he said, with one quick glance towards her. “Oh, he was just behind Mr. Oscard. And he follows 'im, and we all shake hands just as if we was meeting in the Row, except that most of our hands was a bit grimy and sticky-like with blood and grease off'n the cartridges.”
“And,” said Marie, in an indirectly interrogative way, as she helped him to a piece of sweet potato, “you were glad to see them, Mr. Oscard and Mr. Durnovo--yes?”
“Glad ain't quite the word,” replied Joseph, with his mouth full.
“And they were not hurt or--ill?”
“Oh, no!” returned Joseph, with another quick glance. “They were all right. But I don't like sitting here and eatin' while you don't take bit or sup yourself. Won't you chip in, Mistress Marie? Come now, do.”
With her deep, patient smile she obeyed him, eating little and carelessly, like a woman in some distress.
“When will they come down to Loango?” she asked suddenly, without looking at him.
“Ah! that I can't tell you. We left quite in a hurry, as one may say, with nothin' arranged. Truth is I think we all feared that the guv'nor had got his route. He looked very like peggin' out, and that's the truth. Howsomever, I hope for the best now.”
Marie said nothing, merely contenting herself with attending to his wants, which were numerous and frequent.
“That God-forsaken place, Msala,” said Joseph presently, “has been rather crumpled up by the enemy.”
“They have destroyed it--yes?”
“That is so. You're right, they 'ave destroyed it.”
Marie gave a quick little sigh--one of those sighs which the worldly-wise recognise at once.
“You don't seem over-pleased,” said Joseph.
“I was very happy there,” she answered.
Joseph leant back in his chair, fingering reflectively his beer-glass.
“I'm afraid, mistress,” he said half-shyly, “that your life can't have been a very happy one. There's some folk that is like that--through no fault of their own, too, so far as our mortal vision, so to speak, can reckon it up.”
“I have my troubles, like other people,” she answered softly.
Joseph inclined his head to one side and collected his breadcrumbs thoughtfully.
“Always seems to me,” he said, “that your married life can't have been so happy-like as--well, as one might say, you deserved, missis. But then you've got them clever little kids. I DO like them little kids wonderful. Not bein' a marrying man myself, I don't know much of such matters. But I've always understood that little 'uns--especially cunning little souls like yours--go a long way towards makin' up a woman's happiness.”
“Yes,” she murmured, with her slow smile.
“Been dead long--their pa?”
“He is not dead.”
“Oh--beg pardon.”
And Joseph drowned a very proper confusion in bitter beer.
“He has only ceased to care about me--or his children,” explained Marie.
Joseph shook his head; but whether denial of such a possibility was intended, or an expression of sympathy, he did not explain.
“I hope,” he said, with a somewhat laboured change of manner, “that the little ones are in good health.”
“Yes, thank you.”
Joseph pushed back his chair with considerable vigour, and passed the back of his hand convivially across his moustache.
“A square meal I call that,” he said, with a pleasant laugh, “and I thank you kindly.”
With a tact which is sometimes found wanting inside a better coat than he possessed, Joseph never again referred to that part of Marie's life which seemed to hang like a shadow over her being. Instead, he set himself the task of driving away the dull sense of care which was hers, and he succeeded so well that Jack Meredith, lying between sleep and death in his bedroom, sometimes heard a new strange laugh.
By daybreak next morning Joseph was at sea again, steaming south in a coasting-boat towards St. Paul de Loanda. He sent off a telegram to Maurice Gordon in England, announcing the success of the Relief Expedition, and then proceeded to secure the entire services of a medical man. With this youthful disciple of AEsculapius he returned forthwith to Loango and settled down with characteristic energy to nurse his master.
Meredith's progress was lamentably slow, but still it was progress, and in the right direction. The doctor, who was wise in the strange maladies of the West Coast, stayed for two days, and promised to return once a week. He left full instructions, and particularly impressed upon the two nurses the fact that the recovery would necessarily be so slow that their unpractised eyes could hardly expect to trace its progress.
It is just possible that Meredith could at this time have had no better nurse than Joseph. There was a military discipline about the man's method which was worth more than much feminine persuasion.
“Beef tea, sir,” he would announce with a face of wood, for the sixth time in one day.
“What, again? No, hang it! I can't.”
“Them's my orders, sir,” was Joseph's invariable reply, and he was usually in a position to produce documentary confirmation of his statement. The two men--master and servant--had grown so accustomed to the military discipline of a besieged garrison that it did not seem to occur to them to question the doctor's orders.
Nestorius--small, stout, and silent--was a frequenter of the sick-room, by desire of the invalid. After laboriously toiling up the shallow stairs--a work entailing huge effort of limbs and chin--he would stump gravely into the room without any form of salutation. There are some great minds above such trifles. His examination of the patient was a matter of some minutes. Then he would say, “Bad case,” with the peculiar mechanical diction that was his--the words that Meredith had taught him on the evening of his arrival. After making his diagnosis Nestorius usually proceeded to entertain the patient with a display of his treasures for the time being. These were not in themselves of great value: sundry pebbles, a trouser-button, two shells, and a glass stopper, formed, as it were, the basis of his collection, which was increased or diminished according to circumstances. Some of these he named; others were exhibited with a single adjective, uttered curtly, as between men who required no great tale of words wherewith to understand each other. A few were considered to be of sufficient value and importance to tell their own story and make their way in the world thereupon. He held these out with a face of grave and contemplative patronage.
“Never, Nestorius,” Meredith would say gravely, “in the course of a long and varied experience, have I seen a Worcester-sauce stopper of such transcendent beauty.”
Sometimes Nestorius clambered on to the bed, when the mosquito-curtains were up, and rested from his labours--a small curled-up form, looking very comfortable. And then, when his mother's soft voice called him, he was wont to gather up his belongings and take his departure. On the threshold he always paused, finger in mouth, to utter a valedictory “Bad case” before making his way downstairs with a shadowy, mystic smile.
Kind neighbours called, and well-meaning but mistaken dissenting missionaries left religious works of a morbid nature, eminently suitable to the sick-bed; but Joseph, Marie, and Nestorius were the only three who had free access to the quiet room.
And all the while the rain fell--night and day, morning, noon, and evening--as if the flood-gates had been left open by mistake.
“Sloobrious, no doubt,” said Joseph, “but blamed depressing.”
And he shook his head at the lowering sky with a tolerant smile, which was his way of taking Providence to task.
“Do y' know what I would like, missis?” he asked briskly of Marie one evening.
“No.”
“Well, I'd like to clap my eyes on Miss Gordon, just a stepping in at that open door--that's what we want. That sawbones feller is right when he says the progress will be slow. Slow! Slow ain't quite the word. No more ain't progress the word--that's my opinion. He just lies on that bed, and the most he can do is to skylark a bit with Nestorius. He don't take no interest in nothin', least of all in his victuals--and a man's in a bad way when he takes no interest in his victuals. Yes, I'll take another pancake, thankin' you kindly. You've got a rare light hand for pancakes. Rare--rare ain't quite the word.”
“But what could Miss Gordon do?” asked Marie.
“Well, she could kinder interest him in things--don't you see? Him and I we ain't got much in common--except his clothes and that confounded beef-tea and slushin's. And then there's Mr. Gordon. He's a good hearty sort, he is. Comes galamphin' into the room, kickin' a couple of footstools and upsettin' things promiscuous. It cheers a invalid up, that sort o' thing.”
Marie laughed in an awkward, unwonted way.
“But it do, missis,” pursued Joseph, “wonderful; and I can't do it myself. I tried the other day, and master only thought I'd been drinkin'.”
“You are impatient,” said Marie. “He is better, I know. I can see it. You see it yourself--yes?”
“A bit--just a bit. But he wants some one of his own station in life, without offence, Mistress Marie. Some one as will talk with him about books and evenin' parties and things. And--” he paused reflectively, “and Miss Gordon would do that.”
There was a little silence, during which another pancake met its fate.
“You know,” said Joseph, with sudden confidence, “he's goin' to marry a young lady at home, in London; a young lady of fashion, as they say--one of them that's got one smile for men and another for women. Not his sort, as I should have thought myself, knowin' him as I do.”
“Then why does he marry her?” asked Marie.
“Ah!” Joseph rose, and stretched out his arms with a freedom from restraint learnt in the barrack-room. “There you're asking me more than I can tell you. I suppose--it's the old story--I suppose he thinks that she is his sort.”
| {
"id": "8939"
} |
29 | A CHANCE ACQUAINTANCE | The pride that prompts the bitter jest.
A space had with some difficulty been cleared at the upper end of an aristocratic London drawing-room, and with considerable enthusiasm Miss Fitzmannering pranced into the middle of it. Miss Fitzmannering had kindly allowed herself to be persuaded to do “only a few steps” of her celebrated skirt-dance. Miss Eline Fitzmannering officiated at the piano, and later on, while they were brushing their hair, they quarrelled because she took the time too quickly.
The aristocratic assembly looked on with mixed feelings, and faces suitable to the same. The girls who could not skirt-dance yawned behind their fans--gauze preferred, because the Fitzmannerings could see through gauze if they could not see through anything else. The gifted products of fashionable Brighton schools, who could in their own way make exhibitions of themselves also, wondered who on earth had taught Miss Fitzmannering; and the servants at the door felt ashamed of themselves without knowing why.
Miss Fitzmannering had practised that skirt-dance--those few steps--religiously for the last month. She had been taught those same contortions by a young lady in THE profession, whom even Billy Fitzmannering raised his eyebrows at. And every one knows that Billy is not particular. The performance was not graceful, and the gentlemen present, who knew more about dancing--skirt or otherwise--than they cared to admit, pursed up the corners of their mouths and looked straight in front of them--afraid to meet the eye of some person or persons undefined.
But the best face there was that of Sir John Meredith. He was not bored, as were many of his juniors--at least, he did not look it. He was neither shocked nor disgusted, as apparently were some of his contemporaries--at least, his face betrayed neither of those emotions. He was keenly interested--suavely attentive. He followed each spasmodic movement with imperturbably pleasant eyes.
“My dear young lady,” he said, with one of his courtliest bows, when at last Miss Fitzmannering had had enough of it, “you have given us a great treat--you have, indeed.”
“A most unique performance,” he continued, turning gravely to Lady Cantourne, by whose side he had been standing; and, strange to say, her ladyship made a reproving little movement of the lips, and tapped his elbow surreptitiously, as if he were misbehaving himself.
He offered his arm with a murmur of refreshments, and she accepted.
“Well,” he said, when they were alone, or nearly so, “do you not admit that it was a most unique performance?”
“Hush!” replied the lady, either because she was a woman or because she was a woman of the world. “The poor girl cannot help it. She is forced into it by the exigencies of society, and her mother. It is not entirely her fault.”
“It will be entirely my fault,” replied Sir John, “if I see her do it again.”
“It does not matter about a man,” said Lady Cantourne, after a little pause; “but a woman cannot afford to make a fool of herself. She ought never to run the risk of being laughed at. And yet I am told that they teach that elegant accomplishment at fashionable schools.”
“Which proves that the schoolmistress is a knave as well as--the other thing.”
They passed down the long room together--a pattern, to the younger generation, of politeness and mutual respect. And that which one or other did not see was not worth comprehension.
“Who,” asked Sir John, when they had passed into the other room, “who is the tall fair girl who was sitting near the fireplace?”
He did not seem to think it necessary to ask Lady Cantourne whether she had noticed the object of his curiosity.
“I was just wondering,” replied Lady Cantourne, stirring her tea comfortably. “I will find out. She interests me. She is different from the rest.”
“And she does not let it be seen--that is what I like,” said Sir John. “The great secret of success in the world is to be different from other people and conceal the fact.” He stood his full height, and looked round with blinking, cynical eyes. “They are all very like each other, and they fail to conceal that.”
“I dislike a person,” said Lady Cantourne in her tolerant way, “who looks out of place anywhere. That girl would never look so.”
Sir John was still looking round, seeing all that there was to be seen, and much that was not intended for that purpose.
“Some of them,” he said, “will look self-conscious in heaven.”
“I hope so,” said Lady Cantourne quietly; “that is the least one may expect.”
“I trust that there will be no skirt--” Sir John broke off suddenly, with a quick smile. “I was about to be profane,” he said, taking her cup. “But I know you do not like it.”
She looked up at him with a wan little smile. She was wondering whether he remembered as well as she did that half an ordinary lifetime lay between that moment and the occasion when she reproved his profanity.
“Come,” she said, rising, “take me back to the drawing-room, and I will make somebody introduce me to the girl.”
Jocelyn Gordon, sitting near the fire, talking to a white-moustached explorer, and listening good-naturedly to a graphic account of travels which had been put in the background by more recent wanderers, was somewhat astounded when the hostess came up to her a few minutes later, and introduced a stout little lady, with twinkling, kindly eyes, by the name of Lady Cantourne. She had heard vaguely of Lady Cantourne as a society leader of the old school, but had no clue to this obviously intentional introduction.
“You are wondering,” said Lady Cantourne, when she had sent the explorer on his travels elsewhere in order that she might have his seat--“you are wondering why I asked to know you.”
She looked into the girl's face with bright, searching eyes.
“I am afraid I was,” admitted Jocelyn.
“I have two reasons: one vulgar--the other sentimental. The vulgar reason was curiosity. I like to know people whose appearance prepossesses me. I am an old woman--no, you need not shake your head, my dear! not with me--I am almost a very old woman, but not quite; and all my life I have trusted in appearances. And,” she paused, studying the lace of her fan, “I suppose I have not made more mistakes than other people. I have always made a point of trying to get to know people whose appearance I like. That is my vulgar reason. You do not mind my saying so--do you?”
Jocelyn laughed with slightly heightened colour, which Lady Cantourne noted with an appreciative little nod.
“My other reason is that, years ago at school, I knew a girl who was very like you. I loved her intensely--for a short time--as girls do at school, you know. Her name was Treseaton--the Honourable Julia Treseaton.”
“My mother!” said Jocelyn eagerly.
“I thought so. I did not think so at first, but when you spoke I was certain of it. She had a way with her lips. I am afraid she is dead.”
“Yes; she died nearly twenty-five years ago in Africa.”
“Africa--whereabouts in Africa?”
Then suddenly Jocelyn remembered where she had heard Lady Cantourne's name. It had only been mentioned to her once. And this was the aunt with whom Millicent Chyne lived. This cheery little lady knew Jack Meredith and Guy Oscard; and Millicent Chyne's daily life was part of her existence.
“The West Coast,” she answered vaguely. She wanted time to think--to arrange things in her mind. She was afraid of the mention of Jack's name in the presence of this woman of the world. She did not mind Maurice or Guy Oscard--but it was different with a woman. She could hardly have said a better thing, because it took Lady Cantourne some seconds to work out in her mind where the West Coast of Africa was.
“That is the unhealthy coast, is it not?” asked her ladyship.
“Yes.”
Jocelyn hardly heard the question. She was looking round with a sudden, breathless eagerness. It was probable that Millicent Chyne was in the rooms; and she never doubted that she would know her face.
“And I suppose you know that part of the world very well?” said Lady Cantourne, who had detected a change in her companion's manner.
“Oh yes.”
“Have you ever heard of a place called Loango?”
“Oh yes. I live there.”
“Indeed, how very interesting! I am very much interested in Loango just now, I must tell you. But I did not know that anybody lived there.”
“No one does by choice,” explained Jocelyn. “My father was a judge on the Coast, and since his death my brother Maurice has held an appointment at Loango. We are obliged to live there for eight months in the twelve.”
She knew it was coming. But, as chance would have it, it was easier than she could have hoped. For some reason Lady Cantourne looked straight in front of her when she asked the question.
“Then you have, no doubt, met a friend of mine--Mr. Meredith? Indeed, two friends; for I understand that Guy Oscard is associated with him in this wonderful discovery.”
“Oh yes,” replied Jocelyn, with a carefully modulated interest, “I have met them both. Mr. Oscard lunched with us shortly before we left Africa.”
“Ah, that was when he disappeared so suddenly. We never got quite to the base of that affair. He left at a moment's notice on receipt of a telegram or something, only leaving a short and somewhat vague note for my--for us. He wrote from Africa, I believe, but I never heard the details. I imagine Jack Meredith was in some difficulty. But it is a wonderful scheme this, is it not? They are certain to make a fortune, I understand.”
“So people say,” replied Jocelyn. It was a choice to tell all--to tell as much as she herself knew--or nothing. So she told nothing. She could not say that she had been forced by a sudden breakdown of her brother's health to leave Loango while Jack Meredith's fate was still wrapped in doubt. She could not tell Lady Cantourne that all her world was in Africa--that she was counting the days until she could go back thither. She could not lift for a second the veil that hid the aching, restless anxiety in her heart, the life-absorbing desire to know whether Guy Oscard had reached the Plateau in time. Her heart was so sore that she could not even speak of Jack Meredith's danger.
“How strange,” said Lady Cantourne, “to think that you are actually living in Loango, and that you are the last person who has spoken to Jack Meredith! There are two people in this house to-night who would like to ask you questions from now till morning, but neither of them will do it. Did you see me go through the room just now with a tall gentleman--rather old.”
“Yes,” answered Jocelyn.
“That was Sir John Meredith, Jack's father,” said Lady Cantourne in a lowered voice. “They have quarrelled, you know. People say that Sir John does not care--that he is heartless, and all that sort of thing. The world never says the other sort of thing, one finds. But--but I think I know to the contrary. He feels it very deeply. He would give worlds to hear some news of Jack; but he won't ask it, you know.”
“Yes,” said Jocelyn, “I understand.”
She saw what was coming, and she desired it intensely, while still feeling afraid--as if they were walking on some sacred ground and might at any moment make a false step.
“I should like Sir John to meet you,” said Lady Cantourne pleasantly. “Will you come to tea some afternoon? Strange to say, he asked who you were not half an hour ago. It almost seems like instinct, does it not? I do not believe in mystic things about spirits and souls going out to each other, and all that nonsense; but I believe in instinct. Will you come to-morrow? You are here to-night with Mrs. Sander, are you not? I know her. She will let you come alone. Five o'clock. You will see my niece Millicent. She is engaged to be married to Jack Meredith, you know. That is why they quarrelled--the father and son. You will find a little difficulty with her too. She is a difficult girl. But I dare say you will manage to tell her what she wants to know.”
“Yes,” said Jocelyn quietly--almost too quietly, “I shall manage.”
Lady Cantourne rose, and so did Jocelyn.
“You know,” she said, looking up into the girl's face, “it is a good action. That is why I ask you to do it. It is not often that one has the opportunity of doing a good action to which even one's dearest friend cannot attribute an ulterior motive. Who is that man over there?”
“That is my brother.”
“I should like to know him; but do not bring him to-morrow. We women are better alone--you understand?”
With a confidential little nod the good lady went away to attend to other affairs; possibly to carry through some more good actions of a safe nature.
It was plain to Jocelyn that Maurice was looking for some one. He had just come, and was making his way through the crowd. Presently she managed to touch his elbow.
“Oh, there you are!” he exclaimed; “I want you. Come out of this room.”
He offered her his arm, and together they made their way out of the crowded room into a smaller apartment where an amateur reciter was hovering disconsolately awaiting an audience.
“Here,” said Maurice, when they were alone, “I have just had this telegram.”
He handed her the thin, white submarine telegraph-form with its streaks of adhesive text.
“Relief entirely successful. Meredith Joseph returned Loango. Meredith bad health.”
Jocelyn drew a deep breath.
“So that's all right--eh?” said Maurice heartily.
“Yes,” answered Jocelyn, “that is all right.”
| {
"id": "8939"
} |
30 | OLD BIRDS | Angels call it heavenly joy; Infernal tortures the devils say; And men? They call it--Love.
“By the way, dear,” said Lady Cantourne to her niece the next afternoon, “I have asked a Miss Gordon to come to tea this afternoon. I met her last night at the Fitzmannerings. She lives in Loango and knows Jack. I thought you might like to know her. She is exceptionally ladylike and rather pretty.”
And straightway Miss Millicent Chyne went upstairs to put on her best dress.
We men cannot expect to understand these small matters--these exigencies, as it were, of female life. But we may be permitted to note feebly en passant through existence that there are occasions when women put on their best clothes without the desire to please. And, while Millicent Chyne was actually attiring herself, Jocelyn Gordon, in another house not so far away, was busy with that beautiful hair of hers, patting here, drawing out there, pinning, poking, pressing with all the cunning that her fingers possessed.
When they met a little later in Lady Cantourne's uncompromisingly solid and old-fashioned drawing-room, one may be certain that nothing was lost.
“My aunt tells me,” began Millicent at once, with that degage treatment of certain topics hitherto held sacred which obtains among young folks to-day, “that you know Loango.”
“Oh yes--I live there.”
“And you know Mr. Meredith?”
“Yes, and Mr. Oscard also.”
There was a little pause, while two politely smiling pairs of eyes probed each other.
“She knows something--how much?” was behind one pair of eyes.
“She cannot find out--I am not afraid of her,” behind the other.
And Lady Cantourne, the proverbial looker-on, slowly rubbed her white hands one over the other.
“Ah, yes,” said Millicent unblushingly--that was her strong point, blushing in the right place, but not in the wrong--“Mr. Oscard is associated with Mr. Meredith, is he not, in this hare-brained scheme?”
“I believe they are together in it--the Simiacine, you mean?” said Jocelyn.
“What else could she mean?” reflected the looker-on.
“Yes--the Simiacine. Such a singular name, is it not? I always say they will ruin themselves suddenly. People always do, don't they? But what do you think of it? I SHOULD like to know.”
“I think they certainly will make a fortune,” replied Jocelyn--and she noted the light in Millicent's eyes with a sudden feeling of dislike--“unless the risks prove too great and they are forced to abandon it.”
“What risks?” asked Millicent, quite forgetting to modulate her voice.
“Well, of course, the Ogowe river is most horribly unhealthy, and there are other risks. The natives in the plains surrounding the Simiacine Plateau are antagonistic. Indeed, the Plateau was surrounded and quite besieged when we left Africa.”
It may have hurt Millicent, but it hurt Jocelyn more--for the smile had left her hearer's face. She was off her guard, as she had been once before when Sir John was near, and Millicent's face betrayed something which Jocelyn saw at once with a sick heart--something that Sir John knew from the morning when he had seen Millicent open two letters--something that Lady Cantourne had known all along.
“And was Mr. Meredith on the Plateau when it was besieged?” asked Millicent, with a drawn, crooked smile.
“Yes,” answered Jocelyn. She could not help seizing the poor little satisfaction of this punishment; but she felt all the while that it was nothing to the punishment she was bearing, and would bear all her life. There are few more contradictory things than the heart of a woman who really loves. For one man it is very tender; for the rest of the world it is the hardest heart on earth if it is called upon to defend the object of its love or the love itself.
“But,” cried Millicent, “of course something was done. They could never leave Mr. Meredith unprotected.”
“Yes,” answered Jocelyn quietly, “Mr. Oscard went up and rescued him. My brother heard yesterday that the relief had been effected.”
Millicent smiled again in her light-hearted way.
“That is all right,” she said. “What a good thing we did not know! Just think, auntie dear, what a lot of anxiety we have been spared!”
“In the height of the season, too!” said Jocelyn.
“Ye--es,” replied Millicent, rather doubtfully.
Lady Cantourne was puzzled. There was something going on which she did not understand. Within the sound of the pleasant conversation there was the cliquetis of the foil; behind the polite smile there was the gleam of steel. She was rather relieved to turn at this moment and see Sir John Meredith entering the room with his usual courtly bow. He always entered her drawing-room like that. Ah! that little secret of a mutual respect. Some people who are young now will wish, before they have grown old, that they had known it.
He shook hands with Lady Cantourne and with Millicent. Then he stood with a deferential half-bow, waiting for the introduction to the girl who was young enough to be his daughter--almost to be his granddaughter. There was something pathetic and yet proud in this old man's uncompromising adherence to the lessons of his youth.
“Sir John Meredith--Miss Gordon.”
The beginning--the thin end of the wedge, as the homely saying has it--the end which we introduce almost every day of our lives, little suspecting to what it may broaden out.
“I had the pleasure of seeing you last night,” said Sir John at once, “at Lady Fitzmannering's evening party, or 'At Home,' I believe we call them nowadays. Some of the guests read the invitation too much au pied de la lettre for my taste. They were so much at home that I, fearing to intrude, left rather early.”
“I believe the skirt-dancing frightened you away, Sir John,” said Millicent merrily.
“Even old birds, my dear young lady, may sometimes be alarmed by a scarecrow.”
“I missed you quite early in the evening,” put in Lady Cantourne, sternly refusing to laugh. She had not had an opportunity of seeing him since her conversation with Jocelyn, and the dangers of the situation were fully appreciated by such an experienced woman of the world.
“They began to clear the upper end of the room,” he explained, “and I assisted them in the most practical manner in my power.”
He was beginning to wonder why he had been invited--nay, almost commanded--to come, by an imperious little note. And of late, whenever Sir John began to wonder he began also to feel old. His fingers strayed towards his unsteady lips as if he were about to make one of those little movements of senile helplessness to which he sometimes gave way.
For a moment Lady Cantourne hesitated between two strokes of social diplomacy--but only for a moment. She had heard the bell ring, and trusted that at the other end of the wire there might be one of those fatuous young men who nibbled at that wire like foolish fish round a gilt spoon-bait. Her ladyship decided to carry on the social farce a few minutes longer, instead of offering the explanation which all were awaiting.
“We women,” she said, “were not so easily deterred from our social duties.”
At this moment the door opened, and there entered a complex odour of hairwash and perfumery--a collar which must have been nearly related to a cuff, and a pair of tight patent-leather boots, all attached to and somewhat overpowering a young man.
“Ah, my dear Mr. Grubb,” said Lady Cantourne, “how good of you to call so soon! You will have some tea. Millicent, give Mr. Grubb some tea.”
“Not too strong,” added Sir John, apparently to himself, under the cover of Mr. Grubb's somewhat scrappy greeting.
Then Lady Cantourne went to the conservatory and left Sir John and Jocelyn at the end of the long room together. There is nothing like a woman's instinct. Jocelyn spoke at once.
“Lady Cantourne,” she said, “kindly asked me to meet you to-day on purpose. I live at Loango; I know your son, Mr. Meredith, and we thought you might like to hear about him and about Loango.”
She knew that with a man like Sir John any indirect approach to the subject would be courting failure. His veiled old eyes suddenly lighted up, and he turned to glance over his shoulder.
“Yes,” he said, with a strange hesitation, “yes--you are kind. Of course I am interested. I wonder,” he went on, with a sudden change of manner, “I wonder how much you know?”
His unsteady hand was resting on her gloved fingers, and he blinked at it as if wondering how it got there.
Jocelyn did not seem to notice.
“I know,” she answered, “that you have had a difference of opinion--but no one else knows. You must not think that Mr. Meredith has spoken of his private affairs to any one else. The circumstances were exceptional, and Mr. Meredith thought that it was due to me to give me an explanation.”
Sir John looked a little puzzled, and Jocelyn went on rather hastily to explain “My brother and Mr. Meredith were at Eton together. They met somewhere up the Coast, and my brother asked Mr. Meredith to come and stay. It happened that Maurice was away when Mr. Meredith arrived, and I did not know who he was, so he explained.”
“I see,” said Sir John. “And you and your brother have been kind to my boy.”
Somehow he seemed to have forgotten to be cynical. He had never known what it is to have a daughter, and she was ignorant of the pleasant everyday amenities of a father's love. As there is undoubtedly such a thing as love at first sight, so must there be sympathy at first sight. For Jocelyn it was comprehensible--nay, it was most natural. This was Jack's father. In his manner, in everything about him, there were suggestions of Jack. This seemed to be a creature hewn, as it were, from the same material, moulded on the same lines, with slightly divergent tools. And for him--who can tell? The love that was in her heart may have reached out to meet almost as great a love locked up in his proud soul. It may have shown itself to him, openly, fearlessly, recklessly, as love sometimes does when it is strong and pure.
He had carefully selected a seat within the shadow of the curtains; but Jocelyn saw quite suddenly that he was an older man than she had taken him to be the evening before. She saw through the deception of the piteous wig--the whole art that strove to conceal the sure decay of the body, despite the desperate effort of a mind still fresh and vigorous.
“And I dare say,” he said, with a somewhat lame attempt at cynicism, “that you have heard no good of me?”
But Jocelyn would have none of that. She was no child to be abashed by sarcasm, but a woman, completed and perfected by her love.
“Excuse me,” she said sharply; “but that is not the truth, and you know it. You know as well as I do that your son would never say a word against you.”
Sir John looked hastily round. Lady Cantourne had come into the room and was talking to the two young people: Millicent was glancing uneasily over Mr. Grubb's brainless cranium towards them. Sir John's stiff, unsteady fingers fumbled for a moment round his lips.
“Yes,” he said, “I was wrong.”
“He has always spoken of you with the greatest love and respect,” said Jocelyn; “more than that, with admiration. But he very rarely spoke of you at all, which I think means more.”
Sir John blinked, and suddenly pulled himself together with a backward jerk of the arms which was habitual with him. It almost seemed as if he said to himself, as he squared his shoulders, “Come, no giving way to old age!”
“Has his health been good?” he asked, rather formally.
“I believe so, until quite lately. My brother heard yesterday by telegram that he was at Loango in broken health,” replied Jocelyn.
Sir John was looking at her keenly--his hard blue eyes like steel between the lashless lids.
“You disquiet me,” he said. “I have a sort of feeling that you have bad news to tell me.”
“No,” she answered, “not exactly. But it seems to me that no one realises what he is doing out in Africa--what risks he is running.”
“Tell me,” he said, drawing in his chair. “I will not interrupt you. Tell me all you know from beginning to end. I am naturally--somewhat interested.”
So Jocelyn told him. And what she said was only a recapitulation of facts known to such as have followed these pages to this point. But the story did not sound quite the same as that related to Millicent. It was fuller, and there were certain details touched upon lightly which had before been emphasised--details of dangers run and risks incurred. Also was it listened to in a different spirit, without shallow comment, with a deeper insight. Suddenly he broke into the narrative. He saw--keen old worldling that he was--a discrepancy.
“But,” he said, “there was no one in Loango connected with the scheme who”--he paused, touching her sleeve with a bony finger--“who sent the telegram home to young Oscard--the telegram calling him out to Jack's relief?”
“Oh,” she explained lightly, “I did. My brother was away, so there was no one else to do it, you see!”
“Yes--I see.”
And perhaps he did.
Lady Cantourne helped them skilfully. But there came a time when Millicent would stand it no longer, and the amiable Grubb wriggled out of the room, crushed by a too obvious dismissal.
Sir John rose at once, and when Millicent reached them they were talking of the previous evening's entertainment.
Sir John took his leave. He bowed over Jocelyn's hand, and Millicent, watching them keenly, could see nothing--no gleam of a mutual understanding in the politely smiling eyes.
“Perhaps,” he said, “I may have the pleasure of meeting you again?”
“I am afraid it is doubtful,” she answered, with something that sounded singularly like exultation in her voice. “We are going back to Africa almost at once.”
And she, also, took her leave of Lady Cantourne.
| {
"id": "8939"
} |
31 | SEED-TIME | What Fate does, let Fate answer for.
One afternoon Joseph had his wish. Moreover he had it given to him even as he desired, which does not usually happen. We are given a part, or the whole, so distorted that we fail to recognise it.
Joseph looked up from his work and saw Jocelyn coming into the bungalow garden.
He went out to meet her, putting on his coat as he went.
“How is Mr. Meredith?” she asked at once. Her eyes were very bright, and there was a sort of breathlessness in her manner which Joseph did not understand.
“He is a bit better, miss, thank you kindly. But he don't make the progress I should like. It's the weakness that follows the malarial attack that the doctor has to fight against.”
“Where is he?” asked Jocelyn.
“Well, miss, at the moment he is in the drawing-room. We bring him down there for the change of air in the afternoon. Likely as not, he's asleep.”
And presently Jack Meredith, lying comfortably somnolent on the outskirts of life, heard light footsteps, but hardly heeded them. He knew that some one came into the room and stood silently by his couch for some seconds. He lazily unclosed his eyelids for a moment, not in order to see who was there, but with a view of intimating that he was not asleep. But he was not wholly conscious. To men accustomed to an active, energetic life, a long illness is nothing but a period of complete rest. In his more active moments Jack Meredith sometimes thought that this rest of his was extending into a dangerously long period, but he was too weak to feel anxiety about anything.
Jocelyn moved away and busied herself noiselessly with one or two of those small duties of the sick-room which women see and men ignore. But she could not keep away. She came back and stood over him with a silent sense of possession which made that moment one of the happiest of her life. She remembered it in after years, and the complex feelings of utter happiness and complete misery that filled it.
At last a fluttering moth gave the excuse her heart longed for, and her fingers rested for a moment, light as the moth itself, on his hair. There was something in the touch which made him open his eyes--uncomprehending at first, and then filled with a sudden life.
“Ah!” he said, “you--you at last!”
He took her hand in both of his. He was weakened by illness and a great fatigue. Perhaps he was off his guard, or only half awake.
“I never should have got better if you had not come,” he said. Then, suddenly, he seemed to recall himself, and rose with an effort from his recumbent position.
“I do not know,” he said, with a return of his old half-humorous manner, “whether to thank you first for your hospitality or to beg your pardon for making such unscrupulous use of it.”
She was looking at him closely as he stood before her, and all her knowledge of human ills as explored on the West Coast of Africa, all her experience, all her powers of observation, were on the alert. He did not look very ill. The brown of a year's sunburn such as he had gone through on the summit of an equatorial mountain where there was but little atmosphere between earth and sun, does not bleach off in a couple of months. Physically regarded, he was stronger, broader, heavier-limbed, more robust, than when she had last seen him--but her knowledge went deeper than complexion, or the passing effort of a strong will.
“Sit down,” she said quietly. “You are not strong enough to stand about.”
He obeyed her with a little laugh.
“You do not know,” he said, “how pleasant it is to see you--fresh and English-looking. It is like a tonic. Where is Maurice?”
“He will be here soon,” she replied; “he is attending to the landing of the stores. We shall soon make you strong and well; for we have come laden with cases of delicacies for your special delectation. Your father chose them himself at Fortnum and Mason's.”
He winced at the mention of his father's name, and drew in his legs in a peculiar, decisive way.
“Then you knew I was ill?” he said, almost suspiciously.
“Yes, Joseph telegraphed.”
“To whom?” sharply.
“To Maurice.”
Jack Meredith nodded his head. It was perhaps just as well that the communicative Joseph was not there at that moment.
“We did not expect you for another ten days,” said Meredith after a little pause, as if anxious to change the subject. “Marie said that your brother's leave was not up until the week after next.”
Jocelyn turned away, apparently to close the window. She hesitated. She could not tell him what had brought them back sooner--what had demanded of Maurice Gordon the sacrifice of ten days of his holiday.
“We do not always take our full term,” she said vaguely.
And he never saw it. The vanity of man is a strange thing. It makes him see intentions that were never conceived; and without vanity to guide his perception man is as blind a creature as walks upon this earth.
“However,” he said, as if to prove his own density, “I am selfishly very glad that you had to come back sooner. Not only on account of the delicacies--I must ask you to believe that. Did my eye brighten at the mention of Fortnum and Mason? I am afraid it did.”
She laughed softly. She did not pause to think that it was to be her daily task to tend him and help to make him stronger in order that he might go away without delay. She only knew that every moment of the next few weeks was going to be full of a greater happiness than she had ever tasted. As we get deeper into the slough of life most of us learn to be thankful that the future is hidden--some of us recognise the wisdom and the mercy which decree that even the present be only partly revealed.
“As a matter of fact,” she said lightly, “I suppose that you loathe all food?”
“Loathe it,” he replied. He was still looking at her, as if in enjoyment of the Englishness and freshness of which he had spoken. “Simply loathe it. All Joseph's tact and patience are required to make me eat even eleven meals in the day. He would like thirteen.”
At this moment Maurice came in--Maurice--hearty, eager, full of life. He blustered in almost as Joseph had prophesied, kicking the furniture, throwing his own vitality into the atmosphere. Jocelyn knew that he liked Jack Meredith--and she knew more. She knew, namely, that Maurice Gordon was a different man when Jack Meredith was in Loango. From Meredith's presence he seemed to gather a sense of security and comfort even as she did--a sense which in herself she understood (for women analyse love), but which in her brother puzzled her.
“Well, old chap,” said Maurice, “glad to see you. I AM glad to see you. Thank Heaven you were bowled over by that confounded malaria, for otherwise we should have missed you.”
“That is one way of looking at it,” answered Meredith. But he did not go so far as to say that it was a way which had not previously suggested itself to him.
“Of course it is. The best way, I take it. Well--how do you feel? Come, you don't look so bad.”
“Oh--much better, thanks. I have got on splendidly the last week, and better still the last five minutes! The worst of it is that I shall be getting well too soon and shall have to be off.”
“Home?” inquired Maurice significantly.
Jocelyn moved uneasily.
“Yes, home.”
“We don't often hear people say that they are sorry to leave Loango,” said Maurice.
“_I_ will oblige you whenever you are taken with the desire,” answered Jack lightly; “Loango has been a very good friend to me. But I am afraid there is no choice. The doctor speaks very plain words about it. Besides, I am bound to go home.”
“To sell the Simiacine?” inquired Maurice.
“Yes.”
“Have you the second crop with you?”
“Yes.”
“And the trees have improved under cultivation?”
“Yes,” answered Jack rather wonderingly. “You seem to know a lot about it.”
“Of course I do,” replied Maurice boisterously.
“From Durnovo?”
“Yes; he even offered to take me into partnership.”
Jack turned on him in a flash.
“Did he indeed? On what conditions?”
And then, when it was too late, Maurice saw his mistake. It was not the first time that the exuberance of his nature had got him into a difficulty.
“Oh, I don't know,” he replied vaguely. “It's a long story. I'll tell you about it some day.”
Jack would have left it there for the moment. Maurice Gordon had made his meaning quite clear by glancing significantly towards his sister. Her presence, he intimated, debarred further explanation.
But Jocelyn would not have it thus. She shrewdly suspected the nature of the bargain proposed by Durnovo, and a sudden desire possessed her to have it all out--to drag this skeleton forth and flaunt it in Jack Meredith's face. The shame of it all would have a certain sweetness behind its bitterness; because, forsooth, Jack Meredith alone was to witness the shame. She did not pause to define the feeling that rose suddenly in her heart. She did not know that it was merely the pride of her love--the desire that Jack Meredith, though he would never love her, should know once for all that such a man as Victor Durnovo could be nothing but repugnant to her.
“If you mean,” she said, “that you cannot tell Mr. Meredith because I am here, you need not hesitate on that account.”
Maurice laughed awkwardly, and muttered something about matters of business. He was not good at this sort of thing. Besides, there was the initial handicapping knowledge that Jocelyn was so much cleverer than himself.
“Whether it is a matter of business or not,” she cried with glittering eyes, “I want you to tell Mr. Meredith now. He has a right to know. Tell him upon what condition Mr. Durnovo proposed to admit you into the Simiacine.”
Maurice still hesitated, bewildered, at a loss--as men are when a seemingly secure secret is suddenly discovered to the world. He would still have tried to fend it off; but Jack Meredith, with his keener perception, saw that Jocelyn was determined--that further delay would only make the matter worse.
“If your sister wants it,” he said, “you had better tell me. I am not the sort of man to act rashly--on the impulse of the moment.”
Still Maurice tried to find some means of evasion.
“Then,” cried Jocelyn, with flaming cheeks, “_I_ will tell you. You were to be admitted into the Simiacine scheme by Mr. Durnovo if you could persuade or force me to marry him.”
None of them had foreseen this. It had come about so strangely, and yet so easily, in the midst of their first greeting.
“Yes,” admitted Maurice, “that was it.”
“And what answer did you give?” asked Jocelyn.
“Oh, I told him to go and hang himself--or words to that effect,” was the reply, delivered with a deprecating laugh.
“Was that your final answer?” pursued Jocelyn, inexorable. Her persistence surprised Jack. Perhaps it surprised herself.
“Yes, I think so.”
“Are you sure?”
“Well, he cut up rough and threatened to make things disagreeable; so I think I said that it was no good his asking me to do anything in the matter, as I didn't know your feelings.”
“Well, you can tell him,” cried Jocelyn hotly, “that never, under any circumstances whatever, would I dream even of the possibility of marrying him.”
And the two men were alone.
Maurice Gordon gazed blankly at the closed door.
“How was I to know she'd take it like that?” he asked helplessly.
And for once the polished gentleman of the world forgot himself--carried away by a sudden unreasoning anger which surprised him almost as much as it did Maurice Gordon.
“Why, you damned fool,” said Jack, “any idiot would have known that she would take it like that. How could she do otherwise? You, her brother, ought to know that to a girl like Miss Gordon the idea of marrying such a low brute as Durnovo could only be repugnant. Durnovo--why, he is not good enough to sweep the floor that she has stood upon! He's not fit to speak to her; and you go on letting him come to the house, sickening her with his beastly attentions! You're not capable of looking after a lady! I would have kicked Durnovo through that very window myself, only”--he paused, recalling himself with a little laugh--“only it was not my business.”
Maurice Gordon sat down forlornly. He tapped his boot with his cane.
“Oh, it's very well for you,” he answered; “but I'm not a free agent. _I_ can't afford to make an enemy of Durnovo.”
“You need not have made an enemy of him,” said Jack, and he saved Maurice Gordon by speaking quickly--saved him from making a confession which could hardly have failed to alter both their lives.
“It will not be very difficult,” he went on; “all she wants is your passive resistance. She does not want you to help HIM--do you see? She can do the rest. Girls can manage these things better than we think, if they want to. The difficulty usually arises from the fact that they are not always quite sure that they do want to. Go and beg her pardon. It will be all right.”
So Maurice Gordon went away also, leaving Jack Meredith alone in the drawing-room with his own thoughts.
| {
"id": "8939"
} |
32 | AN ENVOY | What we love perfectly For its own sake we love,... ... That which is best for it is best for us.
“Feel like gettin' up to breakfast, do you, sir?” said Joseph to his master a few days later. “Well, I am glad. Glad ain't quite the word, though!”
And he proceeded to perform the duties attendant on his master's wardrobe with a wise, deep-seated shake of the head. While setting the shaving necessaries in order on the dressing-table, he went further--he winked gravely at himself in the looking-glass.
“You've made wonderful progress the last few days, sir,” he remarked. “I always told Missis Marie that it would do you a lot of good to have Mr. Gordon to heart you up with his cheery ways--and Miss Gordon too, sir.”
“Yes, but they would not have been much good without all your care before they came. I had turned the corner a week ago--I felt it myself.”
Joseph grinned--an honest, open grin of self-satisfaction. He was not one of those persons who like their praise bestowed with subtlety.
“Wonderful!” he repeated to himself as he went to the well in the garden for his master's bath-water. “Wonderful! but I don't understand things--not bein' a marryin' man.”
During the last few days Jack's progress had been rapid enough even to satisfy Joseph. The doctor expressed himself fully reassured, and even spoke of returning no more. But he repeated his wish that Jack should leave for England without delay.
“He is quite strong enough to be moved now,” he finished by saying. “There is no reason for further delay.”
“No,” answered Jocelyn, to whom the order was spoken. “No--none. We will see that he goes by the next boat.”
The doctor paused. He was a young man who took a strong--perhaps too strong--a personal interest in his patients. Jocelyn had walked with him as far as the gate, with only a parasol to protect her from the evening sun. They were old friends. The doctor's wife was one of Jocelyn's closest friends on the Coast.
“Do you know anything about Meredith's future movements?” he asked. “Does he intend to come out here again?”
“I could not tell you. I do not think they have settled yet. But I think that when he gets home he will probably stay there.”
“Best thing he can do--best thing he can do. It will never do for him to risk getting another taste of malaria--tell him so, will you? Good-bye.”
“Yes, I will tell him.”
And Jocelyn Gordon walked slowly back to tell the man she loved that he must go away from her and never come back. The last few days had been days of complete happiness. There is no doubt that women have the power of enjoying the present to a greater degree than men. They can live in the bliss of the present moment with eyes continually averted from the curtain of the near future which falls across that bliss and cuts it off. Men allow the presence of the curtain to mar the present brightness.
These days had been happier for Jocelyn than for Jack, because she was conscious of the fulness of every moment, while he was merely rejoicing in comfort after hardship, in pleasant society after loneliness. Even with the knowledge that it could not last, that beyond the near future lay a whole lifetime of complete solitude and that greatest of all miseries, the desire of an obvious impossibility--even with this she was happier than he; because she loved him and she saw him daily getting stronger; because their relative positions brought out the best and the least romantic part of a woman's love--the subtle maternity of it. There is a fine romance in carrying our lady's kerchief in an inner pocket, but there is something higher and greater and much more durable in the darning of a sock; for within the handkerchief there is chiefly gratified vanity, while within the sock there is one of those small infantile boots which have but little meaning for us.
Jocelyn entered the drawing-room with a smile.
“He is very pleased,” she said. “He does not seem to want to see you any more, and he told me to be inhospitable.”
“As how?”
“He told me to turn you out. You are to leave by the next steamer.”
He felt a sudden unaccountable pang of disappointment at her smiling eyes.
“This is no joking matter,” he said half seriously. “Am I really as well as that?”
“Yes.”
“The worst of it is that you seem rather pleased.”
“I am--at the thought that you are so much better.” She paused and turned quite away, busying herself with a pile of books and magazines. “The other,” she went on too indifferently, “was unfortunately to be foreseen. It is the necessary drawback.”
He rose suddenly and walked to the window.
“The grim old necessary drawback,” he said, without looking towards her.
There was a silence of some duration. Neither of them seemed to be able to find a method of breaking it without awkwardness. It was she who spoke at last.
“He also said,” she observed in a practical way, “that you must not come out to Africa again.”
He turned as if he had been stung.
“Did he make use of that particular word?” he asked.
“Which particular word?”
“Must.”
Jocelyn had not foreseen the possibility that the doctor was merely repeating to her what he had told Jack on a previous visit.
“No,” she answered. “I think he said 'better not.'”
“And you make it into 'must.'”
She laughed, with a sudden light-heartedness which remained unexplained.
“Because I know you both,” she answered. “For him 'better not' stands for 'must.' With you 'better not' means 'doesn't matter.'”
“'Better not' is so weak that if one pits duty against it it collapses. I cannot leave Oscard in the lurch, especially after his prompt action in coming to my relief.”
“Yes,” she replied guardedly. “I like Mr. Oscard's way of doing things.”
The matter of the telegram summoning Oscard had not yet been explained. She did not want to explain it at that moment; indeed, she hoped that the explanation would never be needed.
“However,” she added, “you will see when you get home.”
He laughed.
“The least pleasant part of it is,” he said, “your evident desire to see the last of me. Could you not disguise that a little--just for the sake of my feelings?”
“Book your passage by the next boat and I will promptly descend to the lowest depths of despair,” she replied lightly.
He shrugged his shoulders with a short laugh.
“This is hospitality indeed,” he said, moving towards the door.
Then suddenly he turned and looked at her gravely.
“I wonder,” he said slowly, “if you are doing this for a purpose. You said that you met my father--” “Your father is not the man to ask any one's assistance in his own domestic affairs, and anything I attempted to do could only be looked upon as the most unwarrantable interference.”
“Yes,” said Meredith seriously. “I beg your pardon. You are right.”
He went to his own room and summoned Joseph.
“When is the next boat home?” he asked.
“Boat on Thursday, sir.”
Meredith nodded. After a little pause he pointed to a chair.
“Just sit down,” he said. “I want to talk over this Simiacine business with you.”
Joseph squared his shoulders, and sat down with a face indicative of the gravest attention. Sitting thus he was no longer a servant, but a partner in the Simiacine. He even indulged in a sidelong jerk of the head, as if requesting the attention of some absent friend in a humble sphere of life to this glorious state of affairs.
“You know,” said Meredith, “Mr. Durnovo is more or less a blackguard.”
Joseph drew in his feet, having previously hitched his trousers up at the knees.
“Yes, sir,” he said, glancing up. “A blackguard--a damned blackguard,” he added unofficially under his breath.
“He wants continual watching and a special treatment. He requires someone constantly at his heels.”
“Yes, sir,” admitted Joseph, with some fervour.
“Now I am ordered home by the doctor,” went on Meredith. “I must go by the next boat, but I don't like to go and leave Mr. Oscard in the lurch, with no one to fall back upon but Durnovo--you understand.”
Joseph's face had assumed the habitual look of servitude--he was no longer a partner, but a mere retainer, with a half-comic resignation in his eyes.
“Yes, sir,” scratching the back of his neck. “I am afraid I understand. You want me to go back to that Platter--that God-forsaken Platter, as I may say.”
“Yes,” said Meredith. “That is about it. I would go myself--” “God bless you! I know you would!” burst in Joseph. “You'd go like winkin'. There's no one knows that better nor me, sir; and what I says is--like master, like man. Game, sir--game it is! I'll go. I'm not the man to turn my back on a pal--a--a partner, sir, so to speak.”
“You see,” said Meredith, with the deep insight into men that made command so easy to him--“you see there is no one else. There is not another man in Africa who could do it.”
“That's true, sir.”
“And I think that Mr. Oscard will be looking for you.”
“And he won't need to look long, sir. But I should like to see you safe on board the boat. Then I'm ready to go.”
“Right. We can both leave by Thursday's boat, and we'll get the captain to drop you and your men at Lopez. We can get things ready by then, I think.”
“Easy, sir.”
The question thus settled, there seemed to be no necessity to prolong the interview. But Joseph did not move. Meredith waited patiently.
“I'll go up, sir, to the Platter,” said the servant at length, “and I'll place myself under Mr. Oscard's orders; but before I go I want to give you notice of resignation. I resigns my partnership in this 'ere Simiacine at six months from to-day. It's a bit too hot, sir, that's the truth. It's all very well for gentlemen like yourself and Mr. Oscard, with fortunes and fine houses, and, as sayin' goes, a wife apiece waiting for you at home--it's all very well for you to go about in this blamed country, with yer life in yer hand, and not a tight grip at that. But for a poor soldier-man like myself, what has smelt the regulation powder all 'is life and hasn't got nothing to love and no gal waiting for him at home--well, it isn't good enough. That's what I say, sir, with respects.”
He added the last two words by way of apology for having banged a very solid fist on the table. Meredith smiled.
“So you've had enough of it?” he said.
“Enough ain't quite the word, sir. Why, I'm wore to a shadow with the trouble and anxiety of getting you down here.”
“Fairly substantial shadow,” commented Meredith.
“May be, sir. But I've had enough of moneymakin'. It's too dear at the price. And if you'll let an old servant speak his mind it ain't fit for you, this 'ere kind of work. It's good enough for black-scum and for chocolate-birds like Durnovo; but this country's not built for honest white men--least of all for born and bred gentlemen.”
“Yes--that's all very well in theory, Joseph, and I'm much obliged to you for thinking of me. But you must remember that we live in an age where money sanctifies everything. Your hands can't get dirty if there is money inside them.”
Joseph laughed aloud.
“Ah, that's your way of speaking, sir, that's all. And I'm glad to hear it. You have not spoken like that for two months and more.”
“No--it is only my experience of the world.”
“Well, sir, talkin' of experience, I've had about enough, as I tell you, and I beg to place my resignation in your hands. I shall do the same by Mr. Oscard if I reach that Platter, God willin', as the sayin' is.”
“All right, Joseph.”
Still there was something left to say. Joseph paused and scratched the back of his neck pensively with one finger.
“Will you be writin' to Mr. Oscard, sir, for me to take?”
“Yes.”
“Then I should be obliged if you would mention the fact that I would rather not be left alone with that blackguard Durnovo, either up at the Platter or travelling down. That man's got on my nerves, sir; and I'm mortal afraid of doing him a injury. He's got a long neck--you've noticed that, perhaps. There was a little Gourkha man up in Cabul taught me a trick--it's as easy as killing a chicken--but you want a man wi' a long neck--just such a neck as Durnovo's.”
“But what harm has the man done you,” asked Meredith, “that you think so affectionately of his neck?”
“No harm, sir, but we're just like two cats on a wall, watchin' each other and hating each other like blue poison. There's more villainy at that man's back than you think for--mark my words.”
Joseph moved towards the door.
“Do you KNOW anything about him--anything shady?” cried Meredith after him.
“No, sir. I don't KNOW anything. But I suspects a whole box full. One of these days I'll find him out, and if I catch him fair there'll be a rough and tumble. It'll be a pretty fight, sir, for them that's sittin' in the front row.”
Joseph rubbed his hands slowly together and departed, leaving his master to begin a long letter to Guy Oscard.
And at the other end of the passage, in her room with the door locked, Jocelyn Gordon was sitting, hard-eyed, motionless. She had probably saved the life of Jack Meredith, and in doing so had only succeeded in sending him away from her.
| {
"id": "8939"
} |
33 | DARK DEALING | Only an honest man doing his duty.
When Jack Meredith said that there was not another man in Africa who could make his way from Loango to the Simiacine Plateau he spoke no more than the truth. There were only four men in all the world who knew the way, and two of them were isolated on the summit of a lost mountain in the interior. Meredith himself was unfit for the journey. There remained Joseph.
True, there were several natives who had made the journey, but they were as dumb and driven animals, fighting as they were told, carrying what they were given to carry, walking as many miles as they were considered able to walk. They hired themselves out like animals, and as the beasts of the field they did their work--patiently, without intelligence. Half of them did not know where they were going--what they were doing; the other half did not care. So much work, so much wage, was their terse creed. They neither noted their surroundings nor measured distance. At the end of their journey they settled down to a life of ease and leisure, which was to last until necessity drove them to work again. Such is the African. Many of them came from distant countries, a few were Zanzibaris, and went home made men.
If any doubt the inability of such men to steer a course through the wood, let him remember that three months' growth in an African forest will obliterate the track left by the passage of an army. If any hold that men are not created so dense and unambitious as has just been represented, let him look nearer home in our own merchant service. The able-bodied seaman goes to sea all his life, but he never gets any nearer navigating the ship--and he a white man.
In coming down to Loango, Joseph had had the recently-made track of Oscard's rescuing party to guide him day by day. He knew that this was now completely overgrown. The Simiacine Plateau was once more lost to all human knowledge.
And up there--alone amidst the clouds--Guy Oscard was, as he himself tersely put it, “sticking to it.” He had stuck to it to such good effect that the supply of fresh young Simiacine was daily increasing in bulk. Again, Victor Durnovo seemed to have regained his better self. He was like a full-blooded horse--tractable enough if kept hard at work. He was a different man up on the Plateau to what he was down at Loango. There are some men who deteriorate in the wilds, while others are better, stronger, finer creatures away from the luxury of civilisation and the softening influence of female society. Of these latter was Victor Durnovo.
Of one thing Guy Oscard soon became aware, namely, that no one could make the men work as could Durnovo. He had merely to walk to the door of his tent to make every picker on the little Plateau bend over his tree with renewed attention. And while above all was eagerness and hurry, below, in the valley, this man's name insured peace.
The trees were now beginning to show the good result of pruning and a regular irrigation. Never had the leaves been so vigorous, never had the Simiacine trees borne such a bushy, luxuriant growth since the dim dark days of the Flood.
Oscard relapsed into his old hunting ways. Day after day he tranquilly shouldered his rifle, and alone, or followed by one attendant only, he disappeared into the forest, only to emerge therefrom at sunset. What he saw there he never spoke of. Sure it was that he must have seen strange things, for no prying white man had set foot in these wilds before him; no book has ever been written of that country that lies around the Simiacine Plateau.
He was not the man to worry himself over uncertainties. He had an enormous faith in the natural toughness of an Englishman, and while he crawled breathlessly in the track of the forest monsters he hardly gave a thought to Jack Meredith. Meredith, he argued to himself, had always risen to the occasion: why should he not rise to this? He was not the sort of man to die from want of staying power, which, after all, is the cause of more deaths than we dream of. And when he had recovered he would either return or send back Joseph with a letter containing those suggestions of his which were really orders.
Of Millicent Chyne he thought more often, with a certain tranquil sense of a good time to come. In her also he placed a perfect faith. A poet has found out that, if one places faith in a man, it is probable that the man will rise to trustworthiness--of woman he says nothing. But of these things Guy Oscard knew little. He went his own tranquilly strong way, content to buy his own experience.
He was thinking of Millicent Chyne one misty morning while he walked slowly backwards and forwards before his tent. His knowledge of the country told him that the mist was nothing but the night's accumulation of moisture round the summit of the mountain--that down in the valleys it was clear, and that half an hour's sunshine would disperse all. He was waiting for this result when he heard a rifle-shot far away in the haze beneath him; and he knew that it was Joseph--probably making one of those marvellous long shots of his which roused a sudden sigh of envy in the heart of this mighty hunter whenever he witnessed them.
Oscard immediately went to his tent and came out with his short-barrelled, evil-looking rifle on his arm. He fired both barrels in quick succession and waited, standing gravely on the edge of the Plateau. After a short silence two answering reports rose up through the mist to his straining ears.
He turned and found Victor Durnovo standing at his side.
“What is that?” asked the half-breed.
“It must be Joseph,” answered Guy, “or Meredith. It can be nobody else.”
“Let us hope that it is Meredith,” said Durnovo with a forced laugh, “but I doubt it.”
Oscard looked down in his sallow, powerful face. He was not quick at such things, but at that moment he felt strangely certain that Victor Durnovo was hoping that Meredith was dead.
“I hope it isn't,” he answered, and without another word he strode away down the little pathway from the summit into the clouds, loading his rifle as he went.
Durnovo and his men, working among the Simiacine bushes, heard from time to time a signal shot as the two Englishmen groped their way towards each other through the everlasting night of the African forest.
It was midday before the new-comers were espied making their way painfully up the slope, and Joseph's welcome was not so much in Durnovo's handshake, in Guy Oscard's silent approval, as in the row of grinning, good-natured black faces behind Durnovo's back.
That night laughter was heard in the men's camp for the first time for many weeks--nay, several months. According to the account that Joseph gave to his dusky admirers, he had been on terms of the closest familiarity with the wives, and families of all who had such at Loango or on the Coast. He knew the mother of one, had met the sweetheart of another, and confessed that it was only due to the fact that he was not “a marryin' man” that he had not stayed at Loango for the rest of his life. It was somewhat singular that he had nothing but good news to give.
Durnovo heard the clatter of tongues, and Guy Oscard, smoking his contemplative pipe in a camp-chair before his hut door, noticed that the sound did not seem very welcome.
Joseph's arrival with ten new men seemed to give a fresh zest to the work, and the carefully-packed cases of Simiacine began to fill Oscard's tent to some inconvenience. Thus things went on for two tranquil weeks.
“First,” Oscard had said, “let us get the crop in and then we can arrange what is to be done about the future.”
So the crop received due attention; but the two leaders of the men--he who led by fear and he who commanded by love--were watching each other.
One evening, when the work was done, Oscard's meditations were disturbed by the sound of angry voices behind the native camp. He turned naturally towards Durnovo's tent, and saw that he was absent. The voices rose and fell: there was a singular accompanying roar of sound which Oscard never remembered having heard before. It was the protesting voice of a mass of men--and there is no sound like it--none so disquieting. Oscard listened attentively, and suddenly he was thrown up on his feet by a pistol-shot.
At the same moment Joseph emerged from behind the tents, dragging some one by the collar. The victim of Joseph's violence was off his feet, but still struggling and kicking.
Guy Oscard saw the flash of a second shot, apparently within a few inches of Joseph's face; but he came on, dragging the man with him, whom from his clothing Oscard saw to be Durnovo.
Joseph was spitting out wadding and burnt powder.
“Shoot ME, would yer--yer damned skulking chocolate-bird? I'll teach you! I'll twist that brown neck of yours.”
He shook him as a terrier shakes a rat, and seemed to shake things off him--among others a revolver which described a circle in the air and fell heavily on the ground, where the concussion discharged a cartridge.
“'Ere, sir,” cried Joseph, literally throwing Durnovo down on the ground at Oscard's feet, “that man has just shot one o' them poor niggers, so 'elp me God!”
Durnovo rose slowly to his feet, as if the shaking had disturbed his faculties.
“And the man hadn't done 'im no harm at all. He's got a grudge against him. I've seen that this last week and more. It's a man as was kinder fond o' me, and we understood each other's lingo. That's it--he was afraid of my 'earing things that mightn't be wholesome for me to know. The man hadn't done no harm. And Durnovo comes up and begins abusing 'im, and then he strikes 'im, and then he out with his revolver and shoots 'im down.”
Durnovo gave an ugly laugh. He had readjusted his disordered dress and was brushing the dirt from his knees.
“Oh, don't make a fool of yourself,” he said in a hissing voice; “you don't understand these natives at all. The man raised his hand to me. He would have killed me if he had had the chance. Shooting was the only thing left to do. You can only hold these men by fear. They expect it.”
“Of course they expect it,” shouted Joseph in his face; “of course they expect it, Mr. Durnovo.”
“Why?”
“Because they're SLAVES. Think I don't know that?”
He turned to Oscard.
“This man, Mr. Oscard,” he said, “is a slave-owner. Them forty that joined at Msala was slaves. He's shot two of 'em now; this is his second. And what does he care? --they're his slaves. Oh! shame on yer!” turning again to Durnovo; “I wonder God lets yer stand there. I can only think that He doesn't want to dirty His hand by strikin' yer down.”
Oscard had taken his pipe from his lips. He looked bigger, somehow, than ever. His brown face was turning to an ashen colour, and there was a dull, steel-like gleam in his blue eyes. The terrible, slow-kindling anger of this Northerner made Durnovo catch his breath. It was so different from the sudden passion of his own countrymen.
“Is this true?” he asked.
“It's a lie, of course,” answered Durnovo, with a shrug of the shoulders. He moved away as if he were going to his tent, but Oscard's arm reached out. His large brown hand fell heavily on the half-breed's shoulder.
“Stay,” he said; “we are going to get to the bottom of this.”
“Good,” muttered Joseph, rubbing his hands slowly together; “this is prime.”
“Go on,” said Oscard to him.
“Where's the wages you and Mr. Meredith has paid him for those forty men?” pursued Joseph. “Where's the advance you made him for those men at Msala? Not one ha'penny of it have they fingered. And why? Cos they're slaves! Fifteen months at fifty pounds--let them as can reckon tot it up for theirselves. That's his first swindle--and there's others, sir! Oh, there's more behind. That man's just a stinkin' hotbed o' crime. But this 'ere slave-owning is enough to settle his hash, I take it.”
“Let us have these men here--we will hear what they have to say,” said Oscard in the same dull tone that frightened Victor Durnovo.
“Not you!” he went on, laying his hand on Durnovo's shoulder again; “Joseph will fetch them, thank you.”
So the forty--or the thirty-seven survivors, for one had died on the journey up and two had been murdered--were brought. They were peaceful, timorous men, whose manhood seemed to have been crushed out of them; and slowly, word by word, their grim story was got out of them. Joseph knew a little of their language, and one of the head fighting men knew a little more, and spoke a dialect known to Oscard. They were slaves they said at once, but only on Oscard's promise that Durnovo should not be allowed to shoot them. They had been brought from the north by a victorious chief, who in turn had handed them over to Victor Durnovo in payment of an outstanding debt for ammunition supplied.
The great African moon rose into the heavens and shone her yellow light upon this group of men. Overhead all was peace: on earth there was no peace. And yet it was one of Heaven's laws that Victor Durnovo had broken.
Guy Oscard went patiently through to the end of it. He found out all that there was to find; and he found out something which surprised him. No one seemed to be horror-struck. The free men stood stolidly looking on, as did the slaves. And this was Africa--the heart of Africa, where, as Victor Durnovo said, no one knows what is going on. Oscard knew that he could apply no law to Victor Durnovo except the great law of humanity. There was nothing to be done, for one individual may not execute the laws of humanity. All were assembled before him--the whole of the great Simiacine Expedition except the leader, whose influence lay over one and all only second to his presence.
“I leave this place at sunrise to-morrow,” said Guy Oscard to them all. “I never want to see it again. I will not touch one penny of the money that has been made. I speak for Mr. Meredith and myself--” “Likewise me--damn it!” put in Joseph.
“I speak as Mr. Meredith himself would have spoken. There is the Simiacine--you can have it. I won't touch it. And now who is going with me--who leaves with me to-morrow morning?”
He moved away from Durnovo.
“And who stays with me?” cried the half-breed, “to share and share alike in the Simiacine?”
Joseph followed Oscard, and with him a certain number of the blacks, but some stayed. Some went over to Durnovo and stood beside him. The slaves spoke among themselves, and then they all went over to Durnovo.
So that which the placid moon shone down upon was the break-up of the great Simiacine scheme. Victor Durnovo had not come off so badly. He had the larger half of the men by his side. He had all the finest crop the trees had yielded--but he had yet to reckon with high Heaven.
| {
"id": "8939"
} |
34 | AMONG THORNS | We shut our hearts up nowadays, Like some old music-box that plays Unfashionable airs.
Sir John Meredith was sitting stiffly in a straight-backed chair by his library fire. In his young days men did not loll in deep chairs, with their knees higher than their heads. There were no such chairs in this library, just as there was no afternoon tea except for ladies. Sir John Meredith was distressed to observe a great many signs of the degeneration of manhood, which he attributed to the indulgence in afternoon tea. Sir John had lately noticed another degeneration, namely, in the quality of the London gas. So serious was this falling off that he had taken to a lamp in the evening, which lamp stood on the table at his elbow.
Some months earlier--that is to say, about six months after Jack's departure--Sir John had called casually upon an optician. He stood upright by the counter, and frowned down on a mild-looking man who wore the strongest spectacles made, as if in advertisement of his own wares.
“They tell me,” he said, “that you opticians make glasses now which are calculated to save the sight in old age.”
“Yes, sir,” replied the optician, with wriggling white fingers. “We make a special study of that. We endeavour to save the sight--to store it up, as it were, in--a middle life, for use in old age. You see, sir, the pupil of the eye--” Sir John held up a warning hand.
“The pupil of the eye is your business, as I understand from the sign above your shop--at all events, it is not mine,” he said. “Just give me some glasses to suit my sight, and don't worry me with the pupil of the eye.”
He turned towards the door, threw back his shoulders, and waited.
“Spectacles, sir?” inquired the man meekly.
“Spectacles, sir!” cried Sir John. “No, sir. Spectacles be damned! I want a pair of eyeglasses.”
And these eyeglasses were affixed to the bridge of Sir John Meredith's nose, as he sat stiffly in the straight-backed chair.
He was reading a scientific book which society had been pleased to read, mark, and learn, without inwardly digesting, as is the way of society with books. Sir John read a good deal--he had read more lately, perhaps, since entertainments and evening parties had fallen off so lamentably--and he made a point of keeping up with the mental progress of the age.
His eyebrows were drawn down, as if the process of storing up eyesight for his old age was somewhat laborious. At times he turned and glanced over his shoulder impatiently at the lamp.
The room was very still in its solid old-fashioned luxury. Although it was June a small wood fire burned in the grate, and the hiss of a piece of damp bark was the only sound within the four walls. From without, through the thick curtains, came at intervals the rumble of distant wheels. But it was just between times, and the fashionable world was at its dinner. Sir John had finished his, not because he dined earlier than the rest of the world--he could not have done that--but because a man dining by himself, with a butler and a footman to wait upon him, does not take very long over his meals.
He was in full evening dress, of course, built up by his tailor, bewigged, perfumed, and cunningly aided by toilet-table deceptions.
At times his weary old eyes wandered from the printed page to the smouldering fire, where a whole volume seemed to be written--it took so long to read. Then he would pull himself together, glance at the lamp, readjust the eyeglasses, and plunge resolutely into the book. He did not always read scientific books. He had a taste for travel and adventure--the Arctic regions, Asia, Siberia, and Africa--but Africa was all locked away in a lower drawer of the writing-table. He did not care for the servants to meddle with his books, he told himself. He did not tell anybody that he did not care to let the servants see him reading his books of travel in Africa.
There was nothing dismal or lonely about this old man sitting in evening dress in a high-backed chair, stiffly reading a scientific book of the modern, cheap science tenor--not written for scientists, but to step in when the brain is weary of novels and afraid of communing with itself. Oh, no! A gentleman need never be dull. He has his necessary occupations. If he is a man of intellect he need never be idle. It is an occupation to keep up with the times.
Sometimes after dinner, while drinking his perfectly made black coffee, Sir John would idly turn over the invitation cards on the mantelpiece--the carriage was always in readiness--but of late the invitations had not proved very tempting. There was no doubt that society was not what it used to be. The summer was not what it used to be, either. The evenings were so confoundedly cold. So he often stayed at home and read a book.
He paused in the midst of a scientific definition and looked up with listening eyes. He had got into the way of listening to the passing wheels. Lady Cantourne sometimes called for him on her way to a festivity, but it was not that.
The wheels he heard had stopped--perhaps it was Lady Cantourne. But he did not think so. She drove behind a pair, and this was not a pair. It was wonderful how well he could detect the difference, considering the age of his ears.
A few minutes later the butler silently threw open the door, and Jack stood in the threshold. Sir John Meredith's son had been given back to him from the gates of death.
The son, like the father, was in immaculate evening dress. There was a very subtle cynicism in the thought of turning aside on such a return as this to dress--to tie a careful white tie and brush imperceptibly ruffled hair.
There was a little pause, and the two tall men stood, half-bowing with a marvellous similarity of attitude, gazing steadily into each other's eyes. And one cannot help wondering whether it was a mere accident that Jack Meredith stood motionless on the threshold until his father said: “Come in.”
“Graves,” he continued to the butler, with that pride of keeping up before all the world which was his, “bring up coffee. You will take coffee?” to his son while they shook hands.
“Thanks, yes.”
The butler closed the door behind him. Sir John was holding on to the back of his high chair in rather a constrained way--almost as if he were suffering pain. They looked at each other again, and there was a resemblance in the very manner of raising the eyelid. There was a stronger resemblance in the grim waiting silence which neither of them would break.
At last Jack spoke, approaching the fire and looking into it.
“You must excuse my taking you by surprise at this--unusual hour.” He turned; saw the lamp, the book, and the eyeglasses--more especially the eyeglasses, which seemed to break the train of his thoughts. “I only landed at Liverpool this afternoon,” he went on, with hopeless politeness. “I did not trouble you with a telegram, knowing that you object to them.”
The old man bowed gravely.
“I am always glad to see you,” he said suavely. “Will you not sit down?”
And they had begun wrong. It is probable that neither of them had intended this. Both had probably dreamed of a very different meeting. But both alike had counted without that stubborn pride which will rise up at the wrong time and in the wrong place--the pride which Jack Meredith had inherited by blood and teaching from his father.
“I suppose you have dined,” said Sir John, when they were seated, “or may I offer you something?”
“Thanks, I dined on the way up--in a twilit refreshment-room, with one waiter and a number of attendant black-beetles.”
Things were going worse and worse.
Sir John smiled, and he was still smiling when the man brought in coffee.
“Yes,” he said conversationally, “for speed combined with discomfort I suppose we can hold up heads against any country. Seeing that you are dressed, I supposed that you had dined in town.”
“No. I drove straight to my rooms, and kept the cab while I dressed.”
What an important matter this dressing seemed to be! And there were fifteen months behind it--fifteen months which had aged one of them and sobered the other.
Jack was sitting forward in his chair with his immaculate dress-shoes on the fender--his knees apart, his elbows resting on them, his eyes still fixed on the fire. Sir John looked keenly at him beneath his frowning, lashless lids. He saw the few grey hairs over Jack's ears, the suggested wrinkles, the drawn lines about his mouth.
“You have been ill?” he said.
Joseph's letter was locked away in the top drawer of his writing-table.
“Yes, I had rather a bad time--a serious illness. My man nursed me through it, however, with marked success; and--the Gordons, with whom I was staying, were very kind.”
“I had the pleasure of meeting Miss Gordon.”
Jack's face was steady--suavely impenetrable.
Sir John moved a little, and set his empty cup upon the table.
“A charming girl,” he added.
“Yes.”
There was a little pause.
“You are fortunate in that man of yours,” Sir John said. “A first-class man.”
“Yes--he saved my life.”
Sir John blinked, and for the first time his fingers went to his mouth, as if his lips had suddenly got beyond his control.
“If I may suggest it,” he said rather indistinctly, “I think it would be well if we signified our appreciation of his devotion in some substantial way. We might well do something between us.”
He paused and threw back his shoulders.
“I should like to give him some substantial token of my--gratitude.”
Sir John was nothing if not just.
“Thank you,” answered Jack quietly. He turned his head a little, and glanced, not at his father, but in his direction. “He will appreciate it, I know.”
“I should like to see him to-morrow.”
Jack winced, as if he had made a mistake.
“He is not in England,” he explained. “I left him behind me in Africa. He has gone back to the Simiacine Plateau.”
The old man's face dropped rather piteously.
“I am sorry,” he said, with one of the sudden relapses into old age that Lady Cantourne dreaded. “I may not have a chance of seeing him to thank him personally. A good servant is so rare nowadays. These modern democrats seem to think that it is a nobler thing to be a bad servant than a good one. As if we were not all servants!”
He was thirsting for details. There were a thousand questions in his heart, but not one on his lips.
“Will you have the kindness to remember my desire,” he went on suavely, “when you are settling up with your man?”
“Thank you,” replied Jack; “I am much obliged to you.”
“And in the meantime as you are without a servant you may as well make use of mine. One of my men--Henry--who is too stupid to get into mischief--a great recommendation by the way--understands his business. I will ring and have him sent over to your rooms at once.”
He did so, and they sat in silence until the butler had come and gone.
“We have been very successful with the Simiacine--our scheme,” said Jack suddenly.
“Ah!”
“I have brought home a consignment valued at seventy thousand pounds.”
Sir John's face never changed.
“And,” he asked, with veiled sarcasm, “do you carry out the--er--commercial part of the scheme?”
“I shall begin to arrange for the sale of the consignment to-morrow. I shall have no difficulty--at least, I anticipate none. Yes, I do the commercial part--as well as the other. I held the Plateau against two thousand natives for three months, with fifty-five men. But I do the commercial part as well.”
As he was looking into the fire still, Sir John stole a long comprehensive glance at his son's face. His old eyes lighted up with pride and something else--possibly love. The clock on the mantelpiece struck eleven. Jack looked at it thoughtfully, then he rose.
“I must not keep you any longer,” he said, somewhat stiffly.
Sir John rose also.
“I dare say you are tired; you need rest. In some ways you look stronger, in others you look fagged and pulled down.”
“It is the result of my illness,” said Jack. “I am really quite strong.”
He paused, standing on the hearthrug, then suddenly he held out his hand.
“Good-night,” he said.
“Good-night.”
Sir John allowed him to go to the door, to touch the handle, before he spoke.
“Then--” he said, and Jack paused. “Then we are no farther on?”
“In what way?”
“In respect to the matter over which we unfortunately disagreed before you went away?”
Jack turned, with his hand on the door.
“I have not changed my mind in any respect,” he said gently. “Perhaps you are inclined to take my altered circumstances into consideration--to modify your views.”
“I am getting rather old for modification,” answered Sir John suavely.
“And you see no reason for altering your decision?”
“None.”
“Then I am afraid we are no farther on.” He paused. “Good-night,” he added gently, as he opened the door.
“Good-night.”
| {
"id": "8939"
} |
35 | ENGAGED | Well, there's the game. I throw the stakes.
Lady Cantourne was sitting alone in her drawing-room, and the expression of her usually bright and smiling face betokened considerable perturbation.
Truth to tell, there were not many things in life that had power to frighten her ladyship very much. Hers had been a prosperous life as prosperity is reckoned. She had married a rich man who had retained his riches while he lived and had left them to her when he died. And that was all the world knew of Lady Cantourne. Like the majority of us, she presented her character and not herself to her neighbours; and these held, as neighbours do, that the cheery, capable little woman of the world whom they met everywhere was Lady Cantourne. Circumstances alter us less than we think. If we are of a gay temperament--gay we shall be through all. If sombre, no happiness can drive that sombreness away. Lady Cantourne was meant for happiness and a joyous motherhood. She had had neither; but she went on being “meant” until the end--that is to say, she was still cheery and capable. She had thrown an open letter on the little table at her side--a letter from Jack Meredith announcing his return to England, and his natural desire to call and pay his respects in the course of the afternoon.
“So,” she had said before she laid the letter aside, “he is home again--and he means to carry it through?”
Then she had settled down to think, in her own comfortable chair (for if one may not be happy, comfort is at all events within the reach of some of us), and the troubled look had supervened.
Each of our lives is like a book with one strong character moving through its pages. The strong character in Lady Cantourne's book had been Sir John Meredith. Her whole life seemed to have been spent on the outskirts of his--watching it. And what she had seen had not been conducive to her own happiness.
She knew that the note she had just received meant a great deal to Sir John Meredith. It meant that Jack had come home with the full intention of fulfilling his engagement to Millicent Chyne. At first she had rather resented Sir John's outspoken objection to her niece as his son's wife. But during the last months she had gradually come round to his way of thinking; not, perhaps, for the first time in her life. She had watched Millicent. She had studied her own niece dispassionately, as much from Sir John Meredith's point of view as was possible under the circumstances. And she had made several discoveries. The first of these had been precisely that discovery which one would expect from a woman--namely, the state of Millicent's own feelings.
Lady Cantourne had known for the last twelve months--almost as long as Sir John Meredith had known--that Millicent loved Jack. Upon this knowledge came the humiliation--the degradation--of one flirtation after another; and not even after, but interlaced. Guy Oscard in particular, and others in a minor degree, had passed that way. It was a shameless record of that which might have been good in a man prostituted and trampled under foot by the vanity of a woman. Lady Cantourne was of the world worldly; and because of that, because the finest material has a seamy side, and the highest walks in life have the hardiest weeds, she knew what love should be. Here was a love--it may be modern, advanced, chic, fin-de-siecle, up-to-date, or anything the coming generation may choose to call it--but it was eminently cheap and ephemeral because it could not make a little sacrifice of vanity. For the sake of the man she loved--mark that! --not only the man to whom she was engaged, but whom she loved--Millicent Chyne could not forbear pandering to her own vanity by the sacrifice of her own modesty and purity of thought. There was the sting for Lady Cantourne.
She was tolerant and eminently wise, this old lady who had made one huge mistake long ago; and she knew that the danger, the harm, the low vulgarity lay in the little fact that Millicent Chyne loved Jack Meredith, according to her lights.
While she still sat there the bell rang, and quite suddenly she chased away the troubled look from her eyes, leaving there the keen, kindly gaze to which the world of London society was well accustomed. When Jack Meredith came into the room, she rose to greet him with a smile of welcome.
“Before I shake hands,” she said, “tell me if you have been to see your father.”
“I went last night--almost straight from the station. The first person I spoke to in London, except a cabman.”
So she shook hands.
“You know,” she said, without looking at him--indeed, carefully avoiding doing so--“life is too short to quarrel with one's father. At least it may prove too short to make it up again--that is the danger.”
She sat down, with a graceful swing of her silken skirt which was habitual with her--the remnant of a past day.
Jack Meredith winced. He had seen a difference in his father, and Lady Cantourne was corroborating it.
“The quarrel was not mine,” he said. “I admit that I ought to have known him better. I ought to have spoken to him before asking Millicent. It was a mistake.”
Lady Cantourne looked up suddenly.
“What was a mistake?”
“Not asking his--opinion first.”
She turned to the table where his letter lay, and fingered the paper pensively.
“I thought, perhaps, that you had found that the other was a mistake--the engagement.”
“No,” he answered.
Lady Cantourne's face betrayed nothing. There was no sigh, of relief or disappointment. She merely looked at the clock.
“Millicent will be in presently,” she said; “she is out riding.”
She did not think it necessary to add that her niece was riding with a very youthful officer in the Guards. Lady Cantourne never made mischief from a sense of duty, or any mistaken motive of that sort. Some people argue that there is very little that is worth keeping secret; to which one may reply that there is still less worth disclosing.
They talked of other things--of his life in Africa, of his success with the Simiacine, of which discovery the newspapers were not yet weary--until the bell was heard in the basement, and thereafter Millicent's voice in the hall.
Lady Cantourne rose deliberately and went downstairs to tell her niece that he was in the drawing-room, leaving him there, waiting, alone.
Presently the door opened and Millicent hurried in. She threw her gloves and whip--anywhere--on the floor, and ran to him.
“Oh, Jack!” she cried.
It was very prettily done. In its way it was a poem. But while his arms were still round her she looked towards the window, wondering whether he had seen her ride up to the door accompanied by the very youthful officer in the Guards.
“And, Jack--do you know,” she went on, “all the newspapers have been full of you. You are quite a celebrity. And are you really as rich as they say?”
Jack Meredith was conscious of a very slight check--it was not exactly a jar. His feeling was that rather of a man who thinks that he is swimming in deep water, and finds suddenly that he can touch the bottom.
“I think I can safely say that I am not,” he answered.
And it was from that eminently practical point that they departed into the future--arranging that same, and filling up its blanks with all the wisdom of lovers and the rest of us.
Lady Cantourne left them there for nearly an hour, in which space of time she probably reflected they could build up as rosy a future as was good for them to contemplate. Then she returned to the drawing-room, followed by a full-sized footman bearing tea.
She was too discreet a woman--too deeply versed in the sudden changes of the human mind and heart--to say anything until one of them should give her a distinct lead. They were not shy and awkward children. Perhaps she reflected that the generation to which they belonged is not one heavily handicapped by too subtle a delicacy of feeling.
Jack Meredith gave her the lead before long.
“Millicent,” he said, without a vestige of embarrassment, “has consented to be openly engaged now.”
Lady Cantourne nodded comprehensively.
“I think she is very wise,” she said.
There was a little pause.
“I KNOW she is very wise,” she added, turning and laying her hand on Jack's arm. The two phrases had quite a different meaning. “She will have a good husband.”
“So you can tell EVERYBODY now,” chimed in Millicent in her silvery way. She was blushing and looking very pretty with her hair blown about her ears by her last canter with the youthful officer, who was at that moment riding pensively home with a bunch of violets in his coat which had not been there when he started from the stable.
She had found out casually from Jack that Guy Oscard was exiled vaguely to the middle of Africa for an indefinite period. The rest--the youthful officer and the others--did not give her much anxiety. They, she argued to herself, had nothing to bring against her. They may have THOUGHT things--but who can prevent people from thinking things? Besides, “I thought” is always a poor position.
There were, it was true, a good many men whom she would rather not tell herself. But this difficulty was obviated by requesting Lady Cantourne to tell everybody. Everybody would tell everybody else, and would, of course, ask if these particular persons in question had been told; if not, they would have to be told at once. Indeed there would be quite a competition to relieve Millicent of her little difficulty. Besides, she could not marry more than one person. Besides--besides--besides--the last word of Millicent and her kind.
Lady Cantourne was not very communicative during that dainty little tea a trois, but she listened smilingly to Jack's optimistic views and Millicent's somewhat valueless comments.
“I am certain,” said Millicent, at length boldly attacking the question that was in all their minds, “that Sir John will be all right now. Of course, it is only natural that he should not like Jack to--to get engaged yet. Especially before, when it would have made a difference to him--in money, I mean. But now that Jack is independent--you know, auntie, that Jack is richer than Sir John--is it not nice?”
“Very,” answered Lady Cantourne, in a voice rather suggestive of humouring a child's admiration of a new toy; “very nice indeed.”
“And all so quickly!” pursued Millicent. “Only a few months--not two years, you know. Of course, at first, the time went horribly slow; but afterwards, when one got accustomed to it, life became tolerable. You did not expect me to sit and mope all day, did you, Jack?”
“No, of course not,” replied Jack; and quite suddenly, as in a flash, he saw his former self, and wondered vaguely whether he would get back to that self.
Lady Cantourne was rather thoughtful at that moment. She could not help coming back and back to Sir John.
“Of course,” she said to Jack, “we must let your father know at once. The news must not reach him from an outside source.”
Jack nodded.
“If it did,” he said, “I do not think the 'outside source' would get much satisfaction out of him.”
“Probably not; but I was not thinking of the 'outside source' or the outside effect. I was thinking of his feelings,” replied Lady Cantourne rather sharply. She had lately fallen into the habit of not sparing Millicent very much; and that young lady, bright and sweet and good-natured, had not failed to notice it. Indeed, she had spoken of it to several people--to partners at dances and others. She attributed it to approaching old age.
“I will write and tell him,” said Jack quietly.
Lady Cantourne raised her eyebrows slightly, but made no spoken comment.
“I think,” she said, after a little pause, “that Millicent ought to write too.”
Millicent shuddered prettily. She was dimly conscious that her handwriting--of an exaggerated size, executed with a special broad-pointed pen purchasable in only one shop in Regent Street--was not likely to meet with his approval. A letter written thus--two words to a line--on note-paper that would have been vulgar had it not been so very novel, was sure to incur prejudice before it was fully unfolded by a stuffy, old-fashioned person.
“I will try,” she said; “but you know, auntie dear, I CANNOT write a long explanatory letter. There never seems to be time, does there? Besides, I am afraid Sir John disapproves of me. I don't know why; I'm sure I have tried”--which was perfectly true.
Even funerals and lovers must bow to meal-times, and Jack Meredith was not the man to outstay his welcome. He saw Lady Cantourne glance at the clock. Clever as she was, she could not do it without being seen by him.
So he took his leave, and Millicent went to the head of the stairs with him.
He refused the pressing invitation of a hansom-cabman, and proceeded to walk leisurely home to his rooms. Perhaps he was wondering why his heart was not brimming over with joy. The human heart has a singular way of seeing farther than its astute friend and coadjutor, the brain. It sometimes refuses to be filled with glee, when outward circumstances most distinctly demand that state. And at other times, when outward things are strong, not to say opaque, the heart is joyful, and we know not why.
Jack Meredith knew that he was the luckiest man in London. He was rich, in good health, and he was engaged to be married to Millicent Chyne, the acknowledged belle of his circle. She had in no way changed. She was just as pretty, as fascinating, as gay as ever; and something told him that she loved him--something which had not been there before he went away, something that had come when the overweening vanity of youth went. And it was just this knowledge to which he clung with a nervous mental grip. He did not feel elated as he should; he was aware of that, and he could not account for it. But Millicent loved him, so it must be all right. He had always cared for Millicent. Everything had been done in order that he might marry her--the quarrel with his father, the finding of the Simiacine, the determination to get well which had saved his life--all this so that he might marry Millicent. And now he was going to marry her, and it must be all right. Perhaps, as men get older, the effervescent elation of youth leaves them; but they are none the less happy. That must be it.
| {
"id": "8939"
} |
36 | NO COMPROMISE | Where he fixed his heart he set his hand To do the thing he willed.
“MY DEAR SIR JOHN,--It is useless my pretending to ignore your views respecting Jack's marriage to Millicent; and I therefore take up my pen with regret to inform you that the two young people have now decided to make public their engagement. Moreover, I imagine it is their intention to get married very soon. You and I have been friends through a longer spell of years than many lives and most friendships extend, and at the risk of being considered inconsequent I must pause to thank you--well--to thank you for having been so true a friend to me all through my life. If that life were given to me to begin again, I should like to retrace the years back to a point when--little more than a child--I yielded to influence and made a great mistake. I should like to begin my life over again from there. When you first signified your disapproval of Millicent as a wife for Jack, I confess I was a little nettled; but on the strength of the friendship to which I have referred I must ask you to believe that never from the moment that I learnt your opinion have I by thought or action gone counter to it. This marriage is none of my doing. Jack is too good for her--I see that now. You are wiser than I--you always have been. If any word of mine can alleviate your distress at this unwelcome event, let it be that I am certain that Millicent has the right feeling for your boy; and from this knowledge I cannot but gather great hopes. All may yet come to your satisfaction. Millicent is young, and perhaps a little volatile, but Jack inherits your strength of character; he may mould her to better things than either you or I dream of. I hope sincerely that it may be so. If I have appeared passive in this matter it is not because I have been indifferent; but I know that my yea or nay could carry no weight. --Your old friend, “CAROLINE CANTOURNE.”
This letter reached Sir John Meredith while he was waiting for the announcement that dinner was ready. The announcement arrived immediately afterwards, but he did not go down to dinner until he had read the letter. He fumbled for his newly-purchased eyeglasses, because Lady Cantourne's handwriting was thin and spidery, as became a lady of standing; also the gas was so d----d bad. He used this expression somewhat freely, and usually put a “Sir” after it as his father had done before him.
His eyes grew rather fierce as he read; then they suddenly softened, and he threw back his shoulders as he had done a thousand times on the threshold of Lady Cantourne's drawing-room. He read the whole letter very carefully and gravely, as if all that the writer had to say was worthy of his most respectful attention. Then he folded the paper and placed it in the breast-pocket of his coat. He looked a little bowed and strangely old, as he stood for a moment on the hearthrug thinking. It was his practice to stand thus on the hearthrug from the time that he entered the drawing-room, dressed, until the announcement of dinner; and the cook far below in the basement was conscious of the attitude of the master as the pointer of the clock approached the hour.
Of late Sir John had felt a singular desire to sit down whenever opportunity should offer; but he had always been found standing on the hearthrug by the butler, and, hard old aristocrat that he was, he would not yield to the somewhat angular blandishments of the stiff-backed chair.
He stood for a few moments with his back to the smouldering fire, and, being quite alone, he perhaps forgot to stiffen his neck; for his head drooped, his lips were unsteady. He was a very old man.
A few minutes later, when he strode into the dining-room where butler and footman awaited him, he was erect, imperturbable, impenetrable.
At dinner it was evident that his keen brain was hard at work. He forgot one or two of the formalities which were religiously observed at that solitary table. He hastened over his wine, and then he went to the library. There he wrote a telegram, slowly, in his firm ornamental handwriting.
It was addressed to “Gordon, Loango,” and the gist of it was--“Wire whereabouts of Oscard--when he may be expected home.”
The footman was despatched in a hansom cab, with instructions to take the telegram to the head office of the Submarine Telegraph Company, and there to arrange prepayment of the reply.
“I rather expect Mr. Meredith,” said Sir John to the butler, who was trimming the library lamp while the footman received his instructions. “Do not bring coffee until he comes.”
And Sir John was right. At half-past eight Jack arrived. Sir John was awaiting him in the library, grimly sitting in his high-backed chair, as carefully dressed as for a great reception.
He rose when his son entered the room, and they shook hands. There was a certain air of concentration about both, as if they each intended to say more than they had ever said before. The coffee was duly brought. This was a revival of an old custom. In bygone days Jack had frequently come in thus, and they had taken coffee before going together in Sir John's carriage to one of the great social functions at which their presence was almost a necessity. Jack had always poured out the coffee--to-night he did not offer to do so.
“I came,” he said suddenly, “to give you a piece of news which I am afraid will not be very welcome.”
Sir John bowed his head gravely.
“You need not temper it,” he said, “to me.”
“Millicent and I have decided to make our engagement known,” retorted Jack at once.
Sir John bowed again. To any one but his son his suave acquiescence would have been maddening.
“I should have liked,” continued Jack, “to have done it with your consent.”
Sir John winced. He sat upright in his chair and threw back his shoulders. If Jack intended to continue in this way, there would be difficulties to face. Father and son were equally determined. Jack had proved too cunning a pupil. The old aristocrat's own lessons were being turned against him, and the younger man has, as it were, the light of the future shining upon his game in such a case as this, while the elder plays in the gathering gloom.
“You know,” said Sir John gravely, “that I am not much given to altering my opinions. I do not say that they are of any value; but, such as they are, I usually hold to them. When you did me the honour of mentioning this matter to me last year, I gave you my opinion.”
“And it has in no way altered?”
“In no way. I have found no reason to alter it.”
“Can you modify it?” asked Jack gently.
“No.”
“Not in any degree?”
Jack drew a deep breath.
“No.”
He emitted the breath slowly, making an effort so that it did not take the form of a sigh.
“Will you, at all events, give me your reasons?” he asked. “I am not a child.”
Sir John fumbled at his lips--he glanced sharply at his son.
“I think,” he said, “that it would be advisable not to ask them.”
“I should like to know why you object to my marrying Millicent,” persisted Jack.
“Simply because I know a bad woman when I see her,” retorted Sir John deliberately.
Jack raised his eyebrows. He glanced towards the door, as if contemplating leaving the room without further ado. But he sat quite still. It was wonderful how little it hurt him. It was more--it was significant. Sir John, who was watching, saw the glance and guessed the meaning of it. An iron self-control had been the first thing he had taught Jack--years before, when he was in his first knickerbockers. The lesson had not been forgotten.
“I am sorry you have said that,” said the son.
“Just,” continued the father, “as I know a good one.”
He paused, and they were both thinking of the same woman--Jocelyn Gordon.
Sir John had said his say about Millicent Chyne; and his son knew that that was the last word. She was a bad woman. From that point he would never move.
“I think,” said Jack, “that it is useless discussing that point any longer.”
“Quite. When do you intend getting married?”
“As soon as possible.”
“A mere question for the dressmaker?” suggested Sir John suavely.
“Yes.”
Sir John nodded gravely.
“Well,” he said, “you are, as you say, no longer a child--perhaps I forget that sometimes. If I do, I must ask you to forgive me. I will not attempt to dissuade you. You probably know your own affairs best--” He paused, drawing his two hands slowly back on his knees, looking into the fire as if his life was written there.
“At all events,” he continued, “it has the initial recommendation of a good motive. I imagine it is what is called a love-match. I don't know much about such matters. Your mother, my lamented wife, was an excellent woman--too excellent, I take it, to be able to inspire the feeling in a mere human being--perhaps the angels... she never inspired it in me, at all events. My own life has not been quite a success within this room; outside it has been brilliant, active, full of excitement. Engineers know of machines which will stay upright so long as the pace is kept up; some of us are like that. I am not complaining. I have had no worse a time than my neighbours, except that it has lasted longer.”
He leant back suddenly in his chair with a strange little laugh. Jack was leaning forward, listening with that respect which he always accorded to his father.
“I imagine,” went on Sir John, “that the novelists and poets are not very far wrong. It seems that there is such a thing as a humdrum happiness in marriage. I have seen quite elderly people who seem still to take pleasure in each other's society. With the example of my own life before me, I wanted yours to be different. My motive was not entirely bad. But perhaps you know your own affairs best. What money have you?”
Jack moved uneasily in his chair.
“I have completed the sale of the last consignment of Simiacine,” he began categorically. “The demand for it has increased. We have now sold two hundred thousand pounds worth in England and America. My share is about sixty thousand pounds. I have invested most of that sum, and my present income is a little over two thousand a year.”
Sir John nodded gravely.
“I congratulate you,” he said; “you have done wonderfully well. It is satisfactory in one way, in that it shows that, if a gentleman chooses to go into these commercial affairs, he can do as well as the bourgeoisie. It leads one to believe that English gentlemen are not degenerating so rapidly as I am told the evening Radical newspapers demonstrate for the trifling consideration of one halfpenny. But”--he paused with an expressive gesture of the hand--“I should have preferred that this interesting truth had been proved by the son of some one else.”
“I think,” replied Jack, “that our speculation hardly comes under the category of commerce. It was not money that was at risk, but our own lives.”
Sir John's eyes hardened.
“Adventure,” he suggested rather indistinctly, “travel and adventure. There is a class of men one meets frequently who do a little exploring and a great deal of talking. Faute de mieux, they do not hesitate to interest one in the special pill to which they resort when indisposed, and they are not above advertising a soap. You are not going to write a book, I trust?”
“No. It would hardly serve our purpose to write a book.”
“In what way?” inquired Sir John.
“Our purpose is to conceal the whereabouts of the Simiacine Plateau.”
“But you are not going back there?” exclaimed Sir John unguardedly.
“We certainly do not intend to abandon it.”
Sir John leant forward again with his two hands open on his knees, thinking deeply.
“A married man,” he said, “could hardly reconcile it with his conscience to undertake such a perilous expedition.”
“No,” replied Jack, with quiet significance.
Sir John gave a forced laugh.
“I see,” he said, “that you have outwitted me. If I do not give my consent to your marriage without further delay, you will go back to Africa.”
Jack bowed his head gravely.
There was a long silence, while the two men sat side by side, gazing into the fire.
“I cannot afford to do that,” said the father at length; “I am getting too old to indulge in the luxury of pride. I will attend your marriage. I will smile and say pretty things to the bridesmaids. Before the world I will consent under the condition that the ceremony does not take place before two months from this date.”
“I agree to that,” put in Jack.
Sir John rose and stood on the hearthrug, looking down from his great height upon his son.
“But,” he continued, “between us let it be understood that I move in no degree from my original position. I object to Millicent Chyne as your wife. But I bow to the force of circumstances. I admit that you have a perfect right to marry whom you choose--in two months time.”
So Jack took his leave.
“In two months' time,” repeated Sir John, when he was alone, with one of his twisted, cynic smiles, “in two months time--qui vivra verra.”
| {
"id": "8939"
} |
37 | FOUL PLAY | Oh, fairest of creation, last and best Of all God's works!
For one or two days after the public announcement of her engagement, Millicent was not quite free from care. She rather dreaded the posts. It was not that she feared one letter in particular, but the postman's disquietingly urgent rap caused her a vague uneasiness many times a day.
Sir John's reply to her appealing little letter came short and sharp. She showed it to no one.
“MY DEAR MISS CHYNE,--I hasten to reply to your kind letter of to-day announcing your approaching marriage with my son. There are a certain number of trinkets which have always been handed on from generation to generation. I will at once have these cleaned by the jeweller, in order that they may be presented to you immediately after the ceremony. Allow me to urge upon you the advisability of drawing up and signing a prenuptial marriage settlement. --Yours sincerely, “JOHN MEREDITH.”
Millicent bit her pretty lip when she perused this note. She made two comments, at a considerable interval of time.
“Stupid old thing!” was the first; and then, after a pause, “I HOPE they are all diamonds.”
Close upon the heels of this letter followed a host of others. There was the gushing, fervent letter of the friend whose joy was not marred by the knowledge that a wedding present must necessarily follow. Those among one's friends who are not called upon to offer a more substantial token of joy than a letter are always the most keenly pleased to hear the news of an engagement. There was the sober sheet (crossed) from the elderly relative living in the country, who, never having been married herself, takes the opportunity of giving four pages of advice to one about to enter that parlous state. There was the fatherly letter from the country rector who christened Millicent, and thinks that he may be asked to marry her in a fashionable London church--and so to a bishopric. On heavily-crested stationery follow the missives of the ladies whose daughters would make sweet bridesmaids. Also the hearty congratulations of the slight acquaintance, who is going to Egypt for the winter, and being desirous of letting her house without having to pay one of those horrid agents, “sees no harm in mentioning it.” The house being most singularly suitable for a young married couple. Besides these, the thousand and one who wished to be invited to the wedding in order to taste cake and champagne at the time, and thereafter the sweeter glory of seeing their names in the fashionable news.
All these Millicent read with little interest, and answered in that conveniently large calligraphy which made three lines look like a note, and magnified a note into a four-page letter. The dressmakers' circulars--the tradesmen's illustrated catalogues of things she could not possibly want, and the jewellers' delicate photographs interested her a thousand times more. But even these did not satisfy her. All these people were glad--most of them were delighted. Millicent wanted to hear from those who were not delighted, not even pleased, but in despair. She wanted to hear more of the broken hearts. But somehow the broken hearts were silent. Could it be that they did not care? Could it be that THEY were only flirting? She dismissed these silly questions with the promptness which they deserved. It was useless to think of it in that way--more useless, perhaps, than she suspected; for she was not deep enough, nor observant enough, to know that the broken hearts in question had been much more influenced by the suspicion that she cared for them than by the thought that they cared for her. She did not know the lamentable, vulgar fact that any woman can be a flirt if she only degrade her womanhood to flattery. Men do not want to love so much as to be loved. Such is, moreover, their sublime vanity that they are ready to believe any one who tells them, however subtly--mesdames, you cannot be too subtle for a man's vanity to find your meaning--that they are not as other men.
To the commonplace observer it would, therefore, appear (erroneously, no doubt) that the broken hearts having been practically assured that Millicent Chyne did not care for them, promptly made the discovery that the lack of feeling was reciprocal. But Millicent did not, of course, adopt this theory. She knew better. She only wondered why several young men did not communicate, and she was slightly uneasy lest in their anger they should do or say something indiscreet.
There was no reason why the young people should wait. And when there is no reason why the young people should wait, there is every reason why they should not do so. Thus it came about that in a week or so Millicent was engaged in the happiest pursuit of her life. She was buying clothes without a thought of money. The full joy of the trousseau was hers. The wives of her guardians having been morally bought, dirt cheap, at the price of an anticipatory invitation to the wedding, those elderly gentlemen were with little difficulty won over to a pretty little femininely vague scheme of withdrawing just a little of the capital--said capital to be spent in the purchase of a really GOOD trousseau, you know. The word “good” emanating from such a source must, of course, be read as “novel,” which in some circles means the same thing.
Millicent entered into the thing in the right spirit. Whatever the future might hold for her--and she trusted that it might be full of millinery--she was determined to enjoy the living present to its utmost. Her life at this time was a whirl of excitement--excitement of the keenest order--namely, trying on.
“You do not know what it is,” she said, with a happy little sigh, to those among her friends who probably never would, “to stand the whole day long being pinned into linings by Madame Videpoche.”
And despite the sigh, she did it with an angelic sweetness of temper which quite touched the heart of Madame Videpoche, while making no difference in the bill.
Lady Cantourne would not have been human had she assumed the neutral in this important matter. She frankly enjoyed it all immensely.
“You know, Sir John,” she said in confidence to him one day at Hurlingham, “I have always dressed Millicent.”
“You need not tell me that,” he interrupted gracefully. “On ne peut s'y tromper.”
“And,” she went on almost apologetically, “whatever my own feelings on the subject may be, I cannot abandon her now. The world expects much from Millicent Chyne. I have taught it to do so. It will expect more from Millicent--Meredith.”
The old gentleman bowed in his formal way.
“And the world must not be disappointed,” he suggested cynically.
“No,” she answered, with an energetic little nod, “it must not. That is the way to manage the world. Give it what it expects; and just a little more to keep its attention fixed.”
Sir John tapped with his gloved finger pensively on the knob of his silver-mounted cane.
“And may I ask your ladyship,” he inquired suavely, “what the world expects of me?”
He knew her well enough to know that she never made use of the method epigrammatic without good reason.
“A diamond crescent,” she answered stoutly. “The fashion-papers must be able to write about the gift of the bridegroom's father.”
“Ah--and they prefer a diamond crescent?”
“Yes,” answered Lady Cantourne. “That always seems to satisfy them.”
He bowed gravely and continued to watch the polo with that marvellously youthful interest which was his.
“Does the world expect anything else?” he asked presently.
“No, I think not,” replied Lady Cantourne, with a bright little absent smile. “Not just now.”
“Will you tell me if it does?”
He had risen; for there were other great ladies on the ground to whom he must pay his old-fashioned respects.
“Certainly,” she answered, looking up at him.
“I should deem it a favour,” he continued. “If the world does not get what it expects, I imagine it will begin to inquire why; and if it cannot find reasons it will make them.”
In due course the diamond crescent arrived.
“It is rather nice of the old thing,” was Millicent's comment. She held the jewel at various angles in various lights. There was no doubt that this was the handsomest present she had received--sent direct from the jeweller's shop with an uncompromising card inside the case. She never saw the irony of it; but Sir John had probably not expected that she would. He enjoyed it alone--as he enjoyed or endured most things.
Lady Cantourne examined it with some curiosity.
“I have never seen such beautiful diamonds,” she said simply.
There were other presents to be opened and examined. For the invitations had not been sent out, and many were willing to pay handsomely for the privilege of being mentioned among the guests. It is, one finds, after the invitations have been issued that the presents begin to fall off.
But on this particular morning the other presents fell on barren ground. Millicent only half heeded them. She could not lay the diamond crescent finally aside. Some people have the power of imparting a little piece of their individuality to their letters, and even to a commonplace gift. Sir John was beginning to have this power over Millicent. She was rapidly falling into a stupid habit of feeling uneasy whenever she thought of him. She was vaguely alarmed at his uncompromising adherence to the position he had assumed. She had never failed yet to work her will with men--young and old--by a pretty persistence, a steady flattery, a subtle pleading manner. But Sir John had met all her wiles with his adamantine smile. He would not openly declare himself an enemy--which she argued to herself would have been much nicer of him. He was merely a friend of her aunt's, and from that contemplative position he never stepped down. She could not quite make out what he was “driving at,” as she herself put it. He never found fault, but she knew that his disapproval of her was the result of long and careful study. Perhaps in her heart--despite all her contradictory arguments--she knew that he was right.
“I wonder,” she said half-aloud, taking up the crescent again, “why he sent it to me?”
Lady Cantourne, who was writing letters at a terrible rate, glanced sharply up. She was beginning to be aware of Millicent's unspoken fear of Sir John. Moreover, she was clever enough to connect it with her niece's daily increasing love for the man who was soon to be her husband.
“Well,” she answered, “I should be rather surprised if he gave you nothing.”
There was a little pause, only broken by the scratching of Lady Cantourne's quill pen.
“Auntie!” exclaimed the girl suddenly, “why does he hate me? You have known him all your life--you must know why he hates me so.”
Lady Cantourne shrugged her shoulders.
“I suppose,” went on Millicent with singular heat, “that some one has been telling him things about me--horrid things--false things--that I am a flirt, or something like that; I am sure I'm not.”
Lady Cantourne was addressing an envelope, and did not make any reply.
“Has he said anything to you, Aunt Caroline?” asked Millicent in an aggrieved voice.
Lady Cantourne laid aside her letter.
“No,” she answered slowly, “but I suppose there are things which he does not understand.”
“Things?”
Her ladyship looked up steadily.
“Guy Oscard, for instance,” she said; “I don't quite understand Guy Oscard, Millicent.”
The girl turned away impatiently. She was keenly alive to the advantage of turning her face away. For in her pocket she had at that moment a letter from Guy Oscard--the last relic of the old excitement which was so dear to her, and which she was already beginning to miss. Joseph had posted this letter in Msala nearly two months before. It had travelled down from the Simiacine Plateau with others, in a parcel beneath the mattress of Jack Meredith's litter. It was a letter written in good faith by an honest, devoted man to the woman whom he looked upon already as almost his wife--a letter which no man need have been ashamed of writing, but which a woman ought not to have read unless she intended to be the writer's wife.
Millicent had read this letter more than once. She liked it because it was evidently sincere. The man's heart could be heard beating in every line of it. Moreover, she had made inquiries that very morning at the Post Office about the African mail. She wanted the excitement of another letter like that.
“Oh, Guy Oscard!” she replied innocently to Lady Cantourne; “that was nothing.”
Lady Cantourne kept silence, and presently she returned to her letters.
| {
"id": "8939"
} |
38 | THE ACCURSED CAMP | Here--judge if hell, with all its power to damn, Can add one curse to the foul thing I am-- There are some places in the world where a curse seems to brood in the atmosphere. Msala was one of these. Perhaps these places are accursed by the deeds that have been done there. Who can tell?
Could the trees--the two gigantic palms that stood by the river's edge--could these have spoken, they might perhaps have told the tale of this little inland station in that country where, as the founder of the hamlet was in the habit of saying, no one knows what is going on.
All went well with the retreating column until they were almost in sight of Msala, when the flotilla was attacked by no less than three hippopotamuses. One canoe was sunk, and four others were so badly damaged that they could not be kept afloat with their proper complement of men. There was nothing for it but to establish a camp at Msala, and wait there until the builders had repaired the damaged canoes.
The walls of Durnovo's house were still standing, and here Guy Oscard established himself with as much comfort as circumstances allowed. He caused a temporary roof of palm-leaves to be laid on the charred beams, and within the principal room--the very room where the three organisers of the great Simiacine scheme had first laid their plans--he set up his simple camp furniture.
Oscard was too great a traveller, too experienced a wanderer, to be put out of temper by this enforced rest. The men had worked very well hitherto. It had, in its way, been a great feat of generalship, this leading through a wild country of men unprepared for travel, scantily provisioned, disorganised by recent events. No accident had happened, no serious delay had been incurred, although the rate of progress had necessarily been very slow. Nearly six weeks had elapsed since Oscard with his little following had turned their backs for ever on the Simiacine Plateau. But now the period of acute danger had passed away. They had almost reached civilisation. Oscard was content.
When Oscard was content he smoked a slower pipe than usual--watching each cloud of smoke vanish into thin air. He was smoking very slowly this, the third evening of their encampment at Msala. There had been heavy rain during the day, and the whole lifeless forest was dripping with a continuous, ceaseless clatter of heavy drops on tropic foliage; with a united sound like a widespread whisper.
Oscard was sitting in the windowless room without a light, for a light only attracted a myriad of heavy-winged moths. He was seated before the long French window, which, since the sash had gone, had been used as a door. Before him, in the glimmering light of the mystic Southern Cross, the great river crept unctuously, silently to the sea. It seemed to be stealing away surreptitiously while the forest whispered of it. On its surface the reflection of the great stars of the southern hemisphere ran into little streaks of silver, shimmering away into darkness.
All sound of human life was still. The natives were asleep. In the next room, Joseph in his hammock was just on the barrier between the waking and the sleeping life--as soldiers learn to be. Oscard would not have needed to raise his voice to call him to his side.
The leader of this hurried retreat had been sitting there for two hours. The slimy moving surface of the river had entered into his brain; the restless silence of the African forest alone kept him awake. He hardly realised that the sound momentarily gaining strength within his ears was that of a paddle--a single, weakly, irregular paddle. It was not a sound to wake a sleeping man. It came so slowly, so gently through the whisper of the dripping leaves that it would enter into his slumbers and make itself part of them.
Guy Oscard only realised the meaning of that sound when a black shadow crept on to the smooth evenness of the river's breast. Oscard was eminently a man of action. In a moment he was on his feet, and in the darkness of the room there was the gleam of a rifle-barrel. He came back to the window--watching.
He saw the canoe approach the bank. He heard the thud of the paddle as it was thrown upon the ground. In the gloom, to which his eyes were accustomed, he saw a man step from the boat to the shore and draw the canoe up. The silent midnight visitor then turned and walked up towards the house. There was something familiar in the gait--the legs were slightly bowed. The man was walking with great difficulty, staggering a little at each step. He seemed to be in great pain.
Guy Oscard laid aside his rifle. He stepped forward to the open window.
“Is that you, Durnovo?” he said, without raising his voice.
“Yes,” replied the other. His voice was muffled, as if his tongue was swollen, and there was a startling break in it.
Oscard stepped aside, and Durnovo passed into his own house.
“Got a light?” he said, in the same muffled way.
In the next room Joseph could be heard striking a match, and a moment later he entered the room, throwing a flood of light before him.
“GOOD GOD!” cried Guy Oscard. He stepped back as if he had been struck, with his hand shielding his eyes.
“Save us!” ejaculated Joseph in the same breath.
The thing that stood there--sickening their gaze--was not a human being at all. Take a man's eyelids away, leaving the round balls staring, blood-streaked; cut away his lips, leaving the grinning teeth and red gums; shear off his ears--that which is left is not a man at all. This had been done to Victor Durnovo. Truly the vengeance of man is crueller than the vengeance of God!
Could he have seen himself, Victor Durnovo would never have shown that face--or what remained of it--to a human being. He could only have killed himself. Who can tell what cruelties had been paid for, piece by piece, in this loathsome mutilation? The slaves had wreaked their terrible vengeance; but the greatest, the deepest, the most inhuman cruelty was in letting him go.
“They've made a pretty mess of me,” said Durnovo in a sickening, lifeless voice--and he stood there, with a terrible caricature of a grin.
Joseph set down the lamp with a groan, and went back into the dark room beyond, where he cast himself upon the ground and buried his face in his hands.
“O Lord!” he muttered. “O God in heaven--kill it, kill it!”
Guy Oscard never attempted to run away from it. He stood slowly gulping down his nauseating horror. His teeth were clenched; his face, through the sunburn, livid; the blue of his eyes seemed to have faded into an ashen grey. The sight he was looking on would have sent three men out of five into gibbering idiocy.
Then at last he moved forward. With averted eyes he took Durnovo by the arm.
“Come,” he said, “lie down upon my bed. I will try and help you. Can you take some food?”
Durnovo threw himself down heavily on the bed. There was a punishment sufficient to expiate all his sins in the effort he saw that Guy Oscard had had to make before he touched him. He turned his face away.
“I haven't eaten anything for twenty-four hours,” he said, with a whistling intonation.
“Joseph,” said Oscard, returning to the door of the inner room--his voice sounded different, there was a metallic ring in it--“get something for Mr. Durnovo--some soup or something.”
Joseph obeyed, shaking as if ague were in his bones.
Oscard administered the soup. He tended Durnovo with all the gentleness of a woman, and a fortitude that was above the fortitude of men. Despite himself, his hands trembled--big and strong as they were; his whole being was contracted with horror and pain. Whatever Victor Durnovo had been, he was now an object of such pity that before it all possible human sins faded into spotlessness. There was no crime in all that human nature has found to commit for which such cruelty as this would be justly meted out in punishment.
Durnovo spoke from time to time, but he could see the effect that his hissing speech had upon his companion, and in time he gave it up. He told haltingly of the horrors of the Simiacine Plateau--of the last grim tragedy acted there--how, at last, blinded with his blood, maimed, stupefied by agony, he had been hounded down the slope by a yelling, laughing horde of torturers.
There was not much to be done, and presently Guy Oscard moved away to his camp-chair, where he sat staring into the night. Sleep was impossible. Strong, hardened, weather-beaten man that he was, his nerves were all a-tingle, his flesh creeping and jumping with horror. Gradually he collected his faculties enough to begin to think about the future. What was he to do with this man? He could not take him to Loango. He could not risk that Jocelyn or even Maurice Gordon should look upon this horror.
Joseph had crept back into the inner room, where he had no light, and could be heard breathing hard, wide awake in his hammock.
Suddenly the silence was broken by a loud cry: “Oscard! Oscard!”
In a moment Joseph and Oscard were at the bedside.
Durnovo was sitting up, and he grabbed at Oscard's arm.
“For God's sake!” he cried. “For God's sake, man, don't let me go to sleep!”
“What do you mean?” asked Oscard. They both thought that he had gone mad. Sleep had nothing more to do with Durnovo's eyes--protruding, staring, terrible to look at.
“Don't let me go to sleep,” he repeated. “Don't! Don't!”
“All right,” said Oscard soothingly; “all right. We'll look after you.”
He fell back on the bed. In the flickering light his eyeballs gleamed.
Then quite suddenly he rose to a sitting position again with a wild effort.
“I've got it! I've got it!” he cried.
“Got what?”
“The sleeping sickness!”
The two listeners knew of this strange disease. Oscard had seen a whole village devastated by it, the habitants lying about their own doors, stricken down by a deadly sleep from which they never woke. It is known on the West Coast of Africa, and the cure for it is unknown.
“Hold me!” cried Durnovo. “Don't let me sleep!”
His head fell forward even as he spoke, and the staring wide-open eyes that could not sleep made a horror of him.
Oscard took him by the arms, and held him in a sitting position. Durnovo's fingers were clutching at his sleeve.
“Shake me! God! shake me!”
Then Oscard took him in his strong arms, and set him on his feet. He shook him gently at first, but as the dread somnolence crept on he shook harder, until the mutilated inhuman head rolled upon the shoulders.
“It's a sin to let that man live,” exclaimed Joseph, turning away in horror.
“It's a sin to let ANY man die,” replied Oscard, and with his great strength he shook Durnovo like a garment.
And so Victor Durnovo died. His stained soul left his body in Guy Oscard's hands, and the big Englishman shook the corpse, trying to awake it from that sleep which knows no earthly waking.
So, after all, Heaven stepped in and laid its softening hand on the judgment of men. But there was a strange irony in the mode of death. It was strange that this man, who never could have closed his eyes again, should have been stricken down by the sleeping sickness.
They laid the body on the floor, and covered the face, which was less gruesome in death, for the pity of the eyes had given place to peace.
The morning light, bursting suddenly through the trees as it does in Equatorial Africa, showed the room set in order and Guy Oscard sleeping in his camp-chair. Behind him, on the floor, lay the form of Victor Durnovo. Joseph, less iron-nerved than the great big-game hunter, was awake and astir with the dawn. He, too, was calmer now. He had seen death face to face too often to be appalled by it in broad daylight.
So they buried Victor Durnovo between the two giant palms at Msala, with his feet turned towards the river which he had made his, as if ready to arise when the call comes and undertake one of those marvellous journeys of his which are yet a household word on the West Coast.
The cloth fluttered as they lowered him into his narrow resting-place, and the face they covered had a strange mystic grin, as if he saw something that they could not perceive. Perhaps he did. Perhaps he saw the Simiacine Plateau, and knew that, after all, he had won the last throw; for up there, far above the table-lands of Central Africa, there lay beneath high Heaven a charnel-house. Hounded down the slope by his tormentors, he had left a memento behind him surer than their torturing knives, keener than their sharpest steel--he had left the sleeping sickness behind him.
His last journey had been worthy of his reputation. In twenty days he had covered the distance between the Plateau and Msala, stumbling on alone, blinded, wounded, sore-stricken, through a thousand daily valleys of death. With wonderful endurance he had paddled night and day down the sleek river without rest, with the dread microbe of the sleeping sickness slowly creeping through his veins.
He had lived in dread of this disease, as men do of a sickness which clutches them at last; but when it came he did not recognise it. He was so racked by pain that he never recognised the symptoms; he was so panic-stricken, so paralysed by the nameless fear that lay behind him, that he could only think of pressing forward. In the night hours he would suddenly rise from his precarious bed under the shadow of a fallen tree and stagger on, haunted by a picture of his ruthless foes pressing through the jungle in pursuit. Thus he accomplished his wonderful journey alone through trackless forests; thus he fended off the sickness which gripped him the moment that he laid him down to rest.
He had left it--a grim legacy--to his torturers, and before he reached the river all was still on the Simiacine Plateau.
And so we leave Victor Durnovo. His sins are buried with him, and beneath the giant palms at Msala lies Maurice Gordon's secret.
And so we leave Msala, the accursed camp. Far up the Ogowe river, on the left bank, the giant palms still stand sentry, and beneath their shade the crumbling walls of a cursed house are slowly disappearing beneath luxuriant growths of grass and brushwood.
| {
"id": "8939"
} |
39 | THE EXTENUATING CIRCUMSTANCE | Yet I think at God's Tribunal Some large answer you shall hear.
In a dimly-lighted room in the bungalow at Loango two women had been astir all night. Now, as dawn approached, one of them, worn out with watching, wearied with that blessed fatigue of anxiety which dulls the senses, had laid her down on the curtain-covered bed to sleep.
While Marie slept Jocelyn Gordon walked softly backwards and forwards with Nestorius in her arms. Nestorius was probably dying. He lay in the Englishwoman's gentle arms--a little brown bundle of flexile limbs and cotton night-shirt. It was terribly hot. All day the rain had been pending; all night it had held off until the whole earth seemed to pulsate with the desire for relief. Jocelyn kept moving, so that the changing air wafted over the little bare limbs might allay the fever. She was in evening dress, having, indeed, been called from the drawing-room by Marie; and the child's woolly black head was pressed against her breast as if to seek relief from the inward pressure on the awakening brain.
A missionary possessing some small knowledge of medicine had been with them until midnight, and, having done his best, had gone away, leaving the child to the two women. Maurice had been in twice, clumsily, on tiptoe, to look with ill-concealed awe at the child, and to whisper hopes to Marie which displayed a ludicrous, if lamentable, ignorance of what he was talking about.
“Little chap's better,” he said; “I'm sure of it. See, Marie, his eyes are brighter. Devilish hot, though, isn't he--poor little soul?”
Then he stood about, awkwardly sympathetic.
“Anything I can do for you, Jocelyn?” he asked, and then departed, only too pleased to get away from the impending calamity.
Marie was not emotional. She seemed to have left all emotion behind, in some other phase of her life which was shut off from the present by a thick curtain. She was patient and calm, but she was not so clever with the child as was Jocelyn. Perhaps her greater experience acted as a handicap in her execution of those small offices to the sick which may be rendered useless at any moment. Perhaps she knew that Nestorius was wanted elsewhere. Or it may only have been that Jocelyn was able to soothe him sooner, because there is an unwritten law that those who love us best are not always the best nurses for us.
When, at last, sleep came to the child, it was in Jocelyn's arms that he lay with that utter abandonment of pose which makes a sleeping infant and a sleeping kitten more graceful than any living thing. Marie leant over Nestorius until her dusky cheek almost touched Jocelyn's fair English one.
“He is asleep,” she whispered.
And her great dark eyes probed Jocelyn's face as if wondering whether her arms, bearing that burden, told her that this was the last sleep.
Jocelyn nodded gravely, and continued the gentle swaying motion affected by women under such circumstances.
Nestorius continued to sleep, and at last Marie, overcome by sleep herself, lay down on her bed.
Thus it came about that the dawn found Jocelyn moving softly in the room, with Nestorius asleep in her arms. A pink light came creeping through the trees, presently turning to a golden yellow, and, behold! it was light. It was a little cooler, for the sea-breeze had set in. The cool air from the surface of the water was rushing inland to supply the place of the heated atmosphere rising towards the sun. With the breeze came the increased murmur of the distant surf. The dull continuous sound seemed to live amidst the summits of the trees far above the low-built house. It rose and fell with a long-drawn, rhythmic swing. Already the sounds of life were mingling with it--the low of a cow--the crowing of the cocks--the hum of the noisier daylight insect-life.
Jocelyn moved to the window, and her heart suddenly leapt to her throat.
On the brown turf in front of the house were two men, stretched side by side, as if other hands had laid them there, dead. One man was much bigger than the other. He was of exceptional stature. Jocelyn recognised them almost immediately--Guy Oscard and Joseph. They had arrived during the night, and, not wishing to disturb the sleeping household, had lain them down in the front garden to sleep with a quiet conscience beneath the stars. The action was so startlingly characteristic, so suggestive of the primeval, simple man whom Oscard represented as one born out of time, that Jocelyn laughed suddenly.
While she was still at the window, Marie rose and came to her side. Nestorius was still sleeping. Following the direction of her mistress's eyes, Marie saw the two men. Joseph was sleeping on his face, after the manner of Thomas Atkins all the world over. Guy Oscard lay on his side, with his head on his arm.
“That is so like Mr. Oscard,” said Marie, with her patient smile, “so like--so like. It could be no other man--to do a thing like that.”
Jocelyn gave Nestorius back to his mother, and the two women stood for a moment looking out at the sleepers, little knowing what the advent of these two men brought with it for one of them. Then the Englishwoman went to change her dress, awaking her brother as she passed his room.
It was not long before Maurice Gordon had hospitably awakened the travellers and brought them in to change their torn and ragged clothes for something more presentable. It would appear that Nestorius was not particular. He did not mind dying on the kitchen table if need be. His mother deposited him on this table on a pillow, while she prepared the breakfast with that patient resignation which seemed to emanate from having tasted of the worst that the world has to give.
Joseph was ready the first, and he promptly repaired to the kitchen, where he set to work to help Marie, with his customary energy.
It was Marie who first perceived a difference in Nestorius. His dusky little face was shining with a sudden, weakening perspiration, his limbs lay lifelessly, with a lack of their usual comfortable-looking grace.
“Go!” she said quickly. “Fetch Miss Gordon!”
Jocelyn came, and Maurice and Guy Oscard; for they had been together in the dining-room when Joseph delivered Marie's message.
Nestorius was wide awake now. When he saw Oscard his small face suddenly expanded into a brilliant grin.
“Bad case!” he said.
It was rather startling, until Marie spoke.
“He thinks you are Mr. Meredith,” she said. “Mr. Meredith taught him to say 'Bad case!'”
Nestorius looked from one to the other with gravely speculative eyes, which presently closed.
“He is dying--yes!” said the mother, looking at Jocelyn.
Oscard knew more of this matter than any of them. He went forward and leant over the table. Marie removed a piece of salted bacon that was lying on the table near to the pillow. With the unconsciousness of long habit she swept some crumbs away with her apron. Oscard was trying to find the pulse in the tiny wrist, but there was not much to find.
“I am afraid he is very ill,” he said.
At this moment the kettle boiled over, and Marie had to turn away to attend to her duties.
When she came back Oscard was looking, not at Nestorius, but at her.
“We spent four days at Msala,” he said, in a tone that meant that he had more to tell her.
“Yes?”
“The place is in ruins, as you know.”
She nodded with a peculiar little twist of the lips as if he were hurting her.
“And I am afraid I have some bad news for you. Victor Durnovo, your master--” “Yes--tell quickly!”
“He is dead. We buried him at Msala. He died in my arms.”
At this moment Joseph gave a little gasp and turned away to the window, where he stood with his broad back turned towards them. Maurice Gordon, as white as death, was leaning against the table. He quite forgot himself. His lips were apart, his jaw had dropped; he was hanging breathlessly on Guy Oscard's next word.
“He died of the sleeping sickness,” said Oscard. “We had come down to Msala before him--Joseph and I. I broke up the partnership, and we left him in possession of the Simiacine Plateau. But his men turned against him. For some reason his authority over them failed. He was obliged to make a dash for Msala, and he reached it, but the sickness was upon him.”
Maurice Gordon drew a sharp sigh of relief which was almost a sob. Marie was standing with her two hands on the pillow where Nestorius lay. Her deep eyes were fixed on the Englishman's sunburnt, strongly gentle face.
“Did he send a message for me--yes?” she said softly.
“No,” answered Oscard. “He--there was no time.”
Joseph at the window had turned half round.
“He was my husband,” said Marie in her clear, deep tones; “the father of this little one, which you call Nestorius.”
Oscard bowed his head without surprise. Jocelyn was standing still as a statue, with her hand on the dying infant's cheek. No one dared to look at her.
“It is all right,” said Marie bluntly. “We were married at Sierra Leone by the English chaplain. My father, who is dead, kept a hotel at Sierra Leone, and he knew the ways of the--half-castes. He said that the Protestant Church at Sierra Leone was good enough for him, and we were married there. And then Victor brought me away from my people to this place and to Msala. Then he got tired of me--he cared no more. He said I was ugly.”
She pronounced it “ogly,” and seemed to think that the story finished there. At all events, she added nothing to it. But Joseph thought fit to contribute a post scriptum.
“You'd better tell 'em, mistress,” he said, “that he tried to starve yer and them kids--that he wanted to leave yer at Msala to be massacred by the tribes, only Mr. Oscard sent yer down 'ere. You'd better tell 'em that.”
“No,” she replied, with a faint smile. “No, because he was my husband.”
Guy Oscard was looking very hard at Joseph, and, catching his eye, made a little gesture commanding silence. He did not want him to say too much.
Joseph turned away again to the window, and stood thus, apart, till the end.
“I have no doubt,” said Oscard to Marie, “that he would have sent some message to you had he been able; but he was very ill--he was dying--when he reached Msala. It was wonderful that he got there at all. We did what we could for him, but it was hopeless.”
Marie raised her shoulders with her pathetic gesture of resignation.
“The sleeping sickness,” she said, “what will you? There is no remedy. He always said he would die of that. He feared it.”
In the greater sorrow she seemed to have forgotten her child, who was staring open-eyed at the ceiling. The two others--the boy and girl--were playing on the doorstep with some unconsidered trifles from the dust-heap--after the manner of children all the world over.
“He was not a good man,” said Marie, turning to Jocelyn, as if she alone of all present would understand. “He was not a good husband, but--” she shrugged her shoulders with one of her patient, shadowy smiles--“it makes so little difference--yes?”
Jocelyn said nothing. None of them had aught to say to her. For each in that room could lay a separate sin at Victor Durnovo's door. He was gone beyond the reach of human justice to the Higher Court where the Extenuating Circumstance is fully understood. The generosity of that silence was infectious, and they told her nothing. Had they spoken she would perforce have believed them; but then, as she herself said, it would have made “so little difference.” So Victor Durnovo leaves these pages, and all we can do is to remember the writing on the ground. Who amongst us dares to withhold the Extenuating Circumstance? Who is ready to leave this world without that crutch to lean upon? Given a mixed blood--evil black with evil white and what can the result be but evil? Given the climate of Western Africa and the mental irritation thereof, added to a lack of education and the natural vice inherent in man, and you have--Victor Durnovo.
Nestorius--the shameless--stretched out his little bare limbs and turned half over on his side. He looked from one face to the other with the grave wonder that was his. He had never been taken much notice of. His short walks in life had been very near the ground, where trifles look very large, and from whence those larger stumbling-blocks which occupy our attention are quite invisible. He had been the third--the solitary third child who usually makes his own interest in life, and is left by or leaves the rest of his family.
It was not quite clear to him why he was the centre of so much attention. His mind did not run to the comprehension of the fact that he was the wearer of borrowed plumes--the sable plumes of King Death.
He had always wanted to get on to the kitchen table--there was much there that interested him, and supplied him with food for thought. He had risked his life on more than one occasion in attempts to scale that height with the assistance of a saucepan that turned over and poured culinary delicacies on his toes, or perhaps a sleeping cat that got up and walked away much annoyed. And now that he was at last at this dizzy height he was sorry to find that he was too tired to crawl about and explore the vast possibilities of it. He was rather too tired to convey his forefinger to his mouth, and was forced to work out mental problems without that aid to thought.
Presently his eyes fell on Guy Oscard's face, and again his own small features expanded into a smile.
“Bad case!” he said, and, turning over, he nestled down into the pillow, and he had the answer to the many questions that puzzled his small brain.
| {
"id": "8939"
} |
40 | SIR JOHN'S LAST CARD | 'Tis better playing with a lion's whelp Than with an old one dying.
As through an opera runs the rhythm of one dominant air, so through men's lives there rings a dominant note, soft in youth, strong in manhood, and soft again in old age. But it is always there, and whether soft in the gentler periods, or strong amidst the noise and clang of the perihelion, it dominates always and gives its tone to the whole life.
The dominant tone of Sir John Meredith's existence had been the high clear note of battle. He had always found something or some one to fight from the very beginning, and now, in his old age, he was fighting still. His had never been the din and crash of warfare by sword and cannon, but the subtler, deeper combat of the pen. In his active days he had got through a vast amount of work--that unchronicled work of the Foreign Office which never comes, through the cheap newspapers, to the voracious maw of a chattering public. His name was better known on the banks of the Neva, the Seine, the Bosphorus, or the swift-rolling Iser than by the Thames; and grim Sir John was content to have it so.
His face had never been public property, the comic papers had never used his personality as a peg upon which to hang their ever-changing political principles. But he had always been “there,” as he himself vaguely put it. That is to say, he had always been at the back--one of those invisible powers of the stage by whose command the scene is shifted, the lights are lowered for the tragedy, or the gay music plays on the buffoon. Sir John had no sympathy with a generation of men and women who would rather be laughed at and despised than unnoticed. He belonged to an age wherein it was held better to be a gentleman than the object of a cheap and evanescent notoriety--and he was at once the despair and the dread of newspaper interviewers, enterprising publishers, and tuft-hunters.
He was so little known out of his own select circle that the porters in Euston Station asked each other in vain who the old swell waiting for the four o'clock “up” from Liverpool could be. The four o'clock was, moreover, not the first express which Sir John had met that day. His stately carriage-and-pair had pushed its way into the crowd of smaller and humbler vehicular fry earlier in the afternoon, and on that occasion also the old gentleman had indulged in a grave promenade upon the platform.
He was walking up and down there now, with his hand in the small of his back, where of late he had been aware of a constant aching pain. He was very upright, however, and supremely unconscious of the curiosity aroused by his presence in the mind of the station canaille. His lips were rather more troublesome than usual, and his keen eyes twinkled with a suppressed excitement.
In former days there had been no one equal to him in certain diplomatic crises where it was a question of brow-beating suavely the uppish representative of some foreign State. No man could then rival him in the insolently aristocratic school of diplomacy which England has made her own. But in his most dangerous crisis he had never been restless, apprehensive, pessimistic, as he was at this moment. And after all it was a very simple matter that had brought him there. It was merely the question of meeting a man as if by accident, and then afterwards making that man do certain things required of him. Moreover, the man was only Guy Oscard--learned if you will in forest craft, but a mere child in the hand of so old a diplomatist as Sir John Meredith.
That which made Sir John so uneasy was the abiding knowledge that Jack's wedding-day would dawn in twelve hours. The margin was much too small, through, however, no fault of Sir John's. The West African steamer had been delayed--unaccountably--two days. A third day lost in the Atlantic would have overthrown Sir John Meredith's plan. He had often cut things fine before, but somehow now--not that he was getting old, oh no! --but somehow the suspense was too much for his nerves. He soon became irritated and distrustful. Besides the pain in his back wearied him and interfered with the clear sequence of his thoughts.
The owners of the West African steamer had telegraphed that the passengers had left for London in two separate trains. Guy Oscard was not in the first--there was no positive reason why he should be in the second. More depended upon his being in this second express than Sir John cared to contemplate.
The course of his peregrinations brought him into the vicinity of an inspector whose attitude betokened respect while his presence raised hope.
“Is there any reason to suppose that your train is coming?” he inquired of the official.
“Signalled now, my lord,” replied the inspector, touching his cap.
“And what does that mean?” uncompromisingly ignorant of technical parlance.
“It will be in in one minute, my lord.”
Sir John's hand was over his lips as he walked back to the carriage, casting as it were the commander's eye over the field.
“When the crowd is round the train you come and look for me,” he said to the footman, who touched his cockaded hat in silence.
At that moment the train lumbered in, the engine wearing that inanely self-important air affected by locomotives of the larger build. From all quarters an army of porters besieged the platform, and in a few seconds Sir John was in the centre of an agitated crowd. There was one other calm man on that platform--another man with no parcels, whom no one sought to embrace. His brown face and close-cropped head towered above a sea of agitated bonnets. Sir John, whose walk in life had been through crowds, elbowed his way forward and deliberately walked against Guy Oscard.
“D--n it!” he exclaimed, turning round. “Ah--Mr. Oscard--how d'ye do?”
“How are you?” replied Guy Oscard, really glad to see him.
“You are a good man for a crowd; I think I will follow in your wake,” said Sir John. “A number of people--of the baser sort. Got my carriage here somewhere. Fool of a man looking for me in the wrong place, no doubt. Where are you going? May I offer you a lift? This way. Here, John, take Mr. Oscard's parcels.”
He could not have done it better in his keenest day. Guy Oscard was seated in the huge, roomy carriage before he had realised what had happened to him.
“Your man will look after your traps, I suppose?” said Sir John, hospitably drawing the fur rug from the opposite seat.
“Yes,” replied Guy, “although he is not my man. He is Jack's man, Joseph.”
“Ah, of course; excellent servant, too. Jack told me he had left him with you.”
Sir John leant out of the window and asked the footman whether he knew his colleague Joseph, and upon receiving an answer in the affirmative he gave orders--acting as Guy's mouthpiece--that the luggage was to be conveyed to Russell Square. While these orders were being executed the two men sat waiting in the carriage, and Sir John lost no time.
“I am glad,” he said, “to have this opportunity of thanking you for all your kindness to my son in this wild expedition of yours.”
“Yes,” replied Oscard, with a transparent reserve which rather puzzled Sir John.
“You must excuse me,” said the old gentleman, sitting rather stiffly, “if I appear to take a somewhat limited interest in this great Simiacine discovery, of which there has been considerable talk in some circles. The limit to my interest is drawn by a lamentable ignorance. I am afraid the business details are rather unintelligible to me. My son has endeavoured, somewhat cursorily perhaps, to explain the matter to me, but I have never mastered the--er--commercial technicalities. However, I understand that you have made quite a mint of money, which is the chief consideration--nowadays.”
He drew the rug more closely round his knees and looked out of the window, deeply interested in a dispute between two cabmen.
“Yes--we have been very successful,” said Oscard. “How is your son now? When I last saw him he was in a very bad way. Indeed, I hardly expected to see him again!”
Sir John was still interested in the dispute, which was not yet settled.
“He is well, thank you. You know that he is going to be married.”
“He told me that he was engaged,” replied Oscard; “but I did not know that anything definite was fixed.”
“The most definite thing of all is fixed--the date. It is to-morrow.”
“To-morrow?”
“Yes. You have not much time to prepare your wedding garments.”
“Oh,” replied Oscard, with a laugh, “I have not been bidden.”
“I expect the invitation is awaiting you at your house. No doubt my son will want you to be present--they would both like you to be there, no doubt. But come with me now; we will call and see Jack. I know where to find him. In fact, I have an appointment with him at a quarter to five.”
It may seem strange that Guy Oscard should not have asked the name of his friend's prospective bride, but Sir John was ready for that. He gave his companion no time. Whenever he opened his lips Sir John turned Oscard's thoughts aside.
What he had told him was strictly true. He had an appointment with Jack--an appointment of his own making.
“Yes,” he said, in pursuance of his policy of choking questions, “he is wonderfully well, as you will see for yourself.”
Oscard submitted silently to this high-handed arrangement. He had not known Sir John well. Indeed, all his intercourse with him has been noted in these pages. He was rather surprised to find him so talkative and so very friendly. But Guy Oscard was not a very deep person. He was sublimely indifferent to the Longdrawn Motive. He presumed that Sir John made friends of his son's friends; and in his straightforward acceptance of facts he was perfectly well aware that by his timely rescue he had saved Jack Meredith from the hands of the tribes. The presumption was that Sir John knew of this, and it was only natural that he should be somewhat exceptionally gracious to the man who had saved his son's life.
It would seem that Sir John divined these thoughts, for he presently spoke of them.
“Owing to an unfortunate difference of opinion with my son we have not been very communicative lately,” he said, with that deliberation which he knew how to assume when he desired to be heard without interruption. “I am therefore almost entirely ignorant of your African affairs, but I imagine Jack owes more to your pluck and promptness than has yet transpired. I gathered as much from one or two conversations I had with Miss Gordon when she was in England. I am one of Miss Gordon's many admirers.”
“And I am another,” said Oscard frankly.
“Ah! Then you are happy enough to be the object of a reciprocal feeling which for myself I could scarcely expect. She spoke of you in no measured language. I gathered from her that if you had not acted with great promptitude the--er--happy event of to-morrow could not have taken place.”
The old man paused, and Guy Oscard, who looked somewhat distressed and distinctly uncomfortable, could find no graceful way of changing the conversation.
“In a word,” went on Sir John in a very severe tone, “I owe you a great debt. You saved my boy's life.”
“Yes, but you see,” argued Oscard, finding his tongue at last, “out there things like that don't count for so much.”
“Oh--don't they?” There was the suggestion of a smile beneath Sir John's grim eyebrows.
“No,” returned Oscard rather lamely, “it is a sort of thing that happens every day out there.”
Sir John turned suddenly, and with the courtliness that was ever his he indulged in a rare exhibition of feeling. He laid his hand on Guy Oscard's stalwart knee.
“My dear Oscard,” he said, and when he chose he could render his voice very soft and affectionate, “none of these arguments apply to me because I am not out there. I like you for trying to make little of your exploit. Such conduct is worthy of you--worthy of a gentleman; but you cannot disguise the fact that Jack owes his life to you and I owe you the same, which, between you and me I may mention, is more valuable to me than my own. I want you to remember always that I am your debtor, and if--if circumstances should ever seem to indicate that the feeling I have for you is anything but friendly and kind, do me the honour of disbelieving those indications--you understand?”
“Yes,” replied Oscard untruthfully.
“Here we are at Lady Cantourne's,” continued Sir John, “where, as it happens, I expect to meet Jack. Her ladyship is naturally interested in the affair of to-morrow, and has kindly undertaken to keep us up to date in our behaviour. You will come in with me?”
Oscard remembered afterwards that he was rather puzzled--that there was perhaps in his simple mind the faintest tinge of a suspicion. At the moment, however, there was no time to do anything but follow. The man had already rung the bell, and Lady Cantourne's butler was holding the door open. There was something in his attitude vaguely suggestive of expectation. He never took his eyes from Sir John Meredith's face, as if on the alert for an unspoken order.
Guy Oscard followed his companion into the hall, and the very scent of the house--for each house speaks to more senses than one--made his heart leap in his broad breast. It seemed as if Millicent's presence was in the very air. This was more than he could have hoped. He had not intended to call this afternoon, although the visit was only to have been postponed for twenty-four hours.
Sir John Meredith's face was a marvel to see. It was quite steady. He was upright and alert, with all the intrepidity of his mind up in arms. There was a light in his eyes--a gleam of light from other days, not yet burnt out.
He laid aside his gold-headed cane and threw back his shoulders.
“Is Mr. Meredith upstairs?” he said to the butler.
“Yes--sir.”
The man moved towards the stairs.
“You need not come!” said Sir John, holding up his hand.
The butler stood aside and Sir John led the way up to the drawing-room.
At the door he paused for a moment. Guy Oscard was at his heels. Then he opened the door rather slowly, and motioned gracefully with his left hand to Oscard to pass in before him.
Oscard stepped forward. When he had crossed the threshold Sir John closed the door sharply behind him and turned to go downstairs.
| {
"id": "8939"
} |
41 | A TROIS | Men serve women kneeling; when they get on their feet they go away.
Guy Oscard stood for a moment on the threshold. He heard the door close behind him, and he took two steps farther forward.
Jack Meredith and Millicent were at the fireplace. There was a heap of disordered paper and string upon the table, and a few wedding presents standing in the midst of their packing.
Millicent's pretty face was quite white. She looked from Meredith to Oscard with a sudden horror in her eyes. For the first time in her life she was at a loss--quite taken aback.
“Oh-h!” she whispered, and that was all.
The silence that followed was tense as if something in the atmosphere was about to snap; and in the midst of it the wheels of Sir John's retreating carriage came to the ears of the three persons in the drawing-room.
It was only for a moment, but in that moment the two men saw clearly. It was as if the veil from the girl's mind had fallen--leaving her thoughts confessed, bare before them. In the same instant they both saw--they both sped back in thought to their first meeting, to the hundred links of the chain that brought them to the present moment--they KNEW; and Millicent felt that they knew.
“Are YOU going to be married to-morrow?” asked Guy Oscard deliberately. He never was a man to whom a successful appeal for the slightest mitigation of justice could have been made. His dealings had ever been with men, from whom he had exacted as scrupulous an honour as he had given. He did not know that women are different--that honour is not their strong point.
Millicent did not answer. She looked to Meredith to answer for her; but Meredith was looking at Oscard, and in his lazy eyes there glowed the singular affection and admiration which he had bestowed long time before on this simple gentleman--his mental inferior.
“Are YOU going to be married to-morrow?” repeated Oscard, standing quite still, with a calmness that frightened her.
“Yes,” she answered rather feebly.
She knew that she could explain it all. She could have explained it to either of them separately, but to both together, somehow it was difficult. Her mind was filled with clamouring arguments and explanations and plausible excuses; but she did not know which to select first. None of them seemed quite equal to this occasion. These men required something deeper, and stronger, and simpler than she had to offer them.
Moreover, she was paralysed by a feeling that was quite new to her--a horrid feeling that something had gone from her. She had lost her strongest, her single arm: her beauty. This seemed to have fallen from her. It seemed to count for nothing at this time. There is a time that comes as surely as death will come in the life of every beautiful woman--a time wherein she suddenly realises how trivial a thing her beauty is--how limited, how useless, how ineffectual!
Millicent Chyne made a little appealing movement towards Meredith, who relentlessly stepped back. It was the magic of the love that filled his heart for Oscard. Had she wronged any man in the world but Guy Oscard, that little movement--full of love and tenderness and sweet contrition--might have saved her. But it was Oscard's heart that she had broken; for broken they both knew it to be, and Jack Meredith stepped back from her touch as from pollution. His superficial, imagined love for her had been killed at a single blow. Her beauty was no more to him at that moment than the beauty of a picture.
“Oh, Jack!” she gasped; and had there been another woman in the room that woman would have known that Millicent loved him with the love that comes once only. But men are not very acute in such matters--they either read wrong or not at all.
“It is all a mistake,” she said breathlessly, looking from one to the other.
“A most awkward mistake,” suggested Meredith, with a cruel smile that made her wince.
“Mr. Oscard must have mistaken me altogether,” the girl went on, volubly addressing herself to Meredith--she wanted nothing from Oscard. “I may have been silly, perhaps, or merely ignorant and blind. How was I to know that he meant what he said?”
“How, indeed?” agreed Meredith, with a grave bow.
“Besides, he has no business to come here bringing false accusations against me. He has no right--it is cruel and ungentlemanly. He cannot prove anything; he cannot say that I ever distinctly gave him to understand--er, anything--that I ever promised to be engaged or anything like that.”
She turned upon Oscard, whose demeanour was stolid, almost dense. He looked very large and somewhat difficult to move.
“He has not attempted to do so yet,” suggested Jack suavely, looking at his friend.
“I do not see that it is quite a question of proofs,” said Oscard quietly, in a voice that did not sound like his at all. “We are not in a court of justice, where ladies like to settle these questions now. If we were I could challenge you to produce my letters. There is no doubt of my meaning in them.”
“There are also my poor contributions to--your collection,” chimed in Jack Meredith. “A comparison must have been interesting to you, by the same mail presumably, under the same postmark.”
“I made no comparison,” the girl cried defiantly. “There was no question of comparison.”
She said it shamelessly, and it hurt Meredith more than it hurt Guy Oscard, for whom the sting was intended.
“Comparison or no comparison,” said Jack Meredith quickly, with the keenness of a good fencer who has been touched, “there can be no doubt of the fact that you were engaged to us both at the same time. You told us both to go out and make a fortune wherewith to buy--your affections. One can only presume that the highest bidder--the owner of the largest fortune--was to be the happy man. Unfortunately we became partners, and--such was the power of your fascination--we made the fortune; but we share and share alike in that. We are equal, so far as the--price is concerned. The situation is interesting and rather--amusing. It is your turn to move. We await your further instructions in considerable suspense.”
She stared at him with bloodless lips. She did not seem to understand what he was saying. At last she spoke, ignoring Guy Oscard's presence altogether.
“Considering that we are to be married to-morrow, I do not think that you should speak to me like that,” she said with a strange, concentrated eagerness.
“Pardon me, we are not going to be married to-morrow.”
Her brilliant teeth closed on her lower lip with a snap, and she stood looking at him, breathing so hard that the sound was almost a sob.
“What do you mean?” she whispered hoarsely.
He raised his shoulders in polite surprise at her dulness of comprehension.
“In the unfortunate circumstances in which you are placed,” he explained, “it seems to me that the least one can do is to offer every assistance in one's power. Please consider me hors de concours. In a word--I scratch.”
She gasped like a swimmer swimming for life. She was fighting for that which some deem dearer than life--namely, her love. For it is not only the good women who love, though these understand it best and see farther into it.
“Then you can never have cared for me,” she cried. “All that you have told me,” and her eyes flashed triumphantly across Oscard, “all that you promised and vowed was utterly false--if you turn against me at the first word of a man who was carried away by his own vanity into thinking things that he had no business to think.”
If Guy Oscard was no great adept at wordy warfare, he was at all events strong in his reception of punishment. He stood upright and quiescent, betraying by neither sign nor movement that her words could hurt him.
“I beg to suggest again,” said Jack composedly, “that Oscard has not yet brought any accusations against you. You have brought them all yourself.”
“You are both cruel and cowardly,” she exclaimed, suddenly descending to vituperation. “Two to one. Two men--GENTLEMEN--against one defenceless girl. Of course I am not able to argue with you. Of course you can get the best of me. It is so easy to be sarcastic.”
“I do not imagine,” retorted Jack, “that anything that we can say or do will have much permanent power of hurting you. For the last two years you have been engaged in an--intrigue, such as a thin-skinned or sensitive person would hardly of her own free will undertake. You may be able to explain it to yourself--no doubt you are--but to our more limited comprehensions it must remain inexplicable. We can only judge from appearances.”
“And of course appearances go against me--they always do against a woman,” she cried rather brokenly.
“You would have been wise to have taken that peculiarity into consideration sooner,” replied Jack Meredith coldly. “I admit that I am puzzled; I cannot quite get at your motive. Presumably it is one of those--SWEET feminine inconsistencies which are so charming in books.”
There was a little pause. Jack Meredith waited politely to hear if she had anything further to say. His clean-cut face was quite pallid; the suppressed anger in his eyes was perhaps more difficult to meet than open fury. The man who never forgets himself before a woman is likely to be an absolute master of women.
“I think,” he added, “that there is nothing more to be said.”
There was a dead silence. Millicent Chyne glanced towards Guy Oscard. He could have saved her yet--by a simple lie. Had he been an impossibly magnanimous man, such as one meets in books only, he could have explained that the mistake was all his, that she was quite right, that his own vanity had blinded him into a great and unwarranted presumption. But, unfortunately, he was only a human being--a man who was ready to give as full a measure as he exacted. The unfortunate mistake to which he clung was that the same sense of justice, the same code of honour, must serve for men and women alike. So Millicent Chyne looked in vain for that indulgence which is so inconsistently offered to women, merely because they are women--the indulgence which is sometimes given and sometimes withheld, according to the softness of the masculine heart and the beauty of the suppliant feminine form. Guy Oscard was quite sure of his own impressions. This girl had allowed him to begin loving her, had encouraged him to go on, had led him to believe that his love was returned. And in his simple ignorance of the world he did not see why these matters should be locked up in his own breast from a mistaken sense of chivalry to be accorded where no chivalry was due.
“No,” he answered. “There is nothing more to be said.”
Without looking towards her, Jack Meredith made a few steps towards the door--quietly, self-composedly, with that perfect savoir-faire of the social expert that made him different from other men. Millicent Chyne felt a sudden plebeian desire to scream. It was all so heartlessly well-bred. He turned on his heel with a little half-cynical bow.
“I leave my name with you,” he said. “It is probable that you will be put to some inconvenience. I can only regret that this--denouement did not come some months ago. You are likely to suffer more than I, because I do not care what the world thinks of me. Therefore you may tell the world what you choose about me--that I drink, that I gamble, that I am lacking in--honour! Anything that suggests itself to you, in fact. You need not go away; I will do that.”
She listened with compressed lips and heaving shoulders; and the bitterest drop in her cup was the knowledge that he despised her. During the last few minutes he had said and done nothing that lowered him in her estimation--that touched in any way her love for him. He had not lowered himself in any way, but he had suavely trodden her under foot. His last words--the inexorable intention of going away--sapped her last lingering hope. She could never regain even a tithe of his affection.
“I think,” he went on, “that you will agree with me in thinking that Guy Oscard's name must be kept out of this entirely. I give you carte blanche except that.”
With a slight inclination of the head he walked to the door. It was characteristic of him that although he walked slowly he never turned his head nor paused.
Oscard followed him with the patient apathy of the large and mystified.
And so they left her--amidst the disorder of the half-unpacked wedding presents--amidst the ruin of her own life. Perhaps, after all, she was not wholly bad. Few people are; they are only bad enough to be wholly unsatisfactory and quite incomprehensible. She must have known the risk she was running, and yet she could not stay her hand. She must have known long before that she loved Jack Meredith, and that she was playing fast and loose with the happiness of her whole life. She knew that hundreds of girls around her were doing the same, and, with all shame be it mentioned, not a few married women. But they seemed to be able to carry it through without accident or hindrance. And illogically, thoughtlessly, she blamed her own ill-fortune.
She stood looking blankly at the door which had closed behind three men--one old and two young--and perhaps she realised the fact that such creatures may be led blindly, helplessly, with a single hair, but that that hair may snap at any moment.
She was not thinking of Guy Oscard. Him she had never loved. He had only been one of her experiments, and by his very simplicity--above all, by his uncompromising honesty--he had outwitted her.
It was characteristic of her that at that moment she scarcely knew the weight of her own remorse. It sat lightly on her shoulders then, and it was only later on, when her beauty began to fade, when years came and brought no joy for the middle-aged unmarried woman, that she began to realise what it was that she had to carry through life with her. At that moment a thousand other thoughts filled her mind--such thoughts as one would expect to find there. How was the world to be deceived? The guests would have to be put off--the wedding countermanded--the presents returned. And the world--her world--would laugh in its sleeve. There lay the sting.
| {
"id": "8939"
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42 | A STRONG FRIENDSHIP | Still must the man move sadlier for the dreams That mocked the boy.
“Where are you going?” asked Meredith, when they were in the street.
“Home.”
They walked on a few paces together.
“May I come with you?” asked Meredith again.
“Certainly; I have a good deal to tell you.”
They called a cab, and singularly enough they drove all the way to Russell Square without speaking. These two men had worked together for many months, and men who have a daily task in common usually learn to perform it without much interchange of observation. When one man gets to know the mind of another, conversation assumes a place of secondary importance. These two had been through more incidents together than usually fall to the lot of man--each knew how the other would act and think under given circumstances; each knew what the other was thinking now.
The house in Russell Square, the quiet house in the corner where the cabs do not pass, was lighted up and astir when they reached it. The old butler held open the door with a smile of welcome and a faint aroma of whisky. The luggage had been discreetly removed. Joseph had gone to Mr. Meredith's chambers. Guy Oscard led the way to the smoking-room at the back of the house--the room wherein the eccentric Oscard had written his great history--the room in which Victor Durnovo had first suggested the Simiacine scheme to the historian's son.
The two survivors of the originating trio passed into this room together, and closed the door behind them.
“The worst of one's own private tragedies is that they are usually only comedies in disguise,” said Jack Meredith oracularly.
Guy Oscard grunted. He was looking for his pipe.
“If we heard this of any two fellows except ourselves we should think it an excellent joke,” went on Meredith.
Oscard nodded. He lighted his pipe, and still he said nothing.
“Hang it!” exclaimed Jack Meredith, suddenly throwing himself back in his chair, “it is a good joke.”
He laughed softly, and all the while his eyes, watchful, wise, anxious, were studying Guy Oscard's face.
“He is harder hit than I am,” he was reflecting. “Poor old Oscard!”
The habit of self-suppression was so strong upon him--acquired as a mere social duty--that it was only natural for him to think less of himself than of the expediency of the moment. The social discipline is as powerful an agent as that military discipline that makes a man throw away his own life for the good of the many.
Oscard laughed, too, in a strangely staccato manner.
“It is rather a sudden change,” observed Meredith; “and all brought about by your coming into that room at that particular moment--by accident.”
“Not by accident,” corrected Oscard, speaking at last. “I was brought there and pushed into the room.”
“By whom?”
“By your father.”
Jack Meredith sat upright. He drew his curved hand slowly down over his face--keen and delicate as was his mind--his eyes deep with thought.
“The Guv'nor,” he said slowly. “The Guv'nor--by God!”
He reflected for some seconds.
“Tell me how he did it,” he said curtly.
Oscard told him, rather incoherently, between the puffs. He did not attempt to make a story of it, but merely related the facts as they had happened to him. It is probable that to him the act was veiled which Jack saw quite distinctly.
“That is the sort of thing,” was Meredith's comment when the story was finished, “that takes the conceit out of a fellow. I suppose I have more than my share. I suppose it is good for me to find that I am not so clever as I thought I was--that there are plenty of cleverer fellows about, and that one of them is an old man of seventy-nine. The worst of it is that he was right all along. He saw clearly where you and I were--damnably blind.”
He rubbed his slim brown hands together, and looked across at his companion with a smile wherein the youthful self-confidence was less discernible than of yore. The smile faded as he looked at Oscard. He was thinking that he looked older and graver--more of a middle-aged man who has left something behind him in life--and the sight reminded him of the few grey hairs that were above his own temples.
“Come,” he said more cheerfully, “tell me your news. Let us change the subject. Let us throw aside light dalliance and return to questions of money. More important--much more satisfactory. I suppose you have left Durnovo in charge? Has Joseph come home with you?”
“Yes, Joseph has come home with me. Durnovo is dead.”
“Dead!”
Guy Oscard took his pipe from his lips.
“He died at Msala of the sleeping sickness. He was a bigger blackguard than we thought. He was a slave-dealer and a slave-owner. Those forty men we picked up at Msala were slaves belonging to him.”
“Ach!” It was a strange exclamation, as if he had burnt his fingers. “Who knows of this?” he asked immediately. The expediency of the moment had presented itself to his mind again.
“Only ourselves,” returned Oscard. “You, Joseph, and I.” “That is all right, and the sooner we forget that the better. It would be a dangerous story to tell.”
“So I concluded,” said Oscard, in his slow, thoughtful way. “Joseph swears he won't breathe a word of it.”
Jack Meredith nodded. He looked rather pale beneath the light of the gas.
“Joseph is all right,” he said. “Go on.”
“It was Joseph who found it out,” continued Oscard, “up at the Plateau. I paraded the whole crowd, told them what I had found out, and chucked up the whole concern in your name and mine. Next morning I abandoned the Plateau with such men as cared to come. Nearly half of them stayed with Durnovo. I thought it was in order that they might share in the Simiacine--I told them they could have the whole confounded lot of the stuff. But it was not that; they tricked Durnovo there. They wanted to get him to themselves. In going down the river we had an accident with two of the boats, which necessitated staying at Msala. While we were waiting there, one night after ten o'clock the poor devil came, alone, in a canoe. They had simply cut him in slices--a most beastly sight. I wake up sometimes even now dreaming of it, and I am not a fanciful sort of fellow. Joseph went into his room and was simply sick; I didn't know that you could be made sick by anything you saw. The sleeping sickness was on Durnovo then; he had brought it with him from the Plateau. He died before morning.”
Oscard ceased speaking and returned to his pipe. Jack Meredith, looking haggard and worn, was leaning back in his chair.
“Poor devil!” he exclaimed. “There was always something tragic about Durnovo. I did hate that man, Oscard. I hated him and all his works.”
“Well, he's gone to his account now.”
“Yes, but that does not make him any better a man while he was alive. Don't let us cant about him now. The man was an unmitigated scoundrel--perhaps he deserved all he got.”
“Perhaps he did. He was Marie's husband.”
“The devil he was!”
Meredith fell into a long reverie. He was thinking of Jocelyn and her dislike for Durnovo, of the scene in the drawing-room of the bungalow at Loango; of a thousand incidents all connected with Jocelyn.
“How I hate that man!” he exclaimed at length. “Thank God--he is dead--because I should have killed him.”
Guy Oscard looked at him with a slow pensive wonder. Perhaps he knew more than Jack Meredith knew himself of the thoughts that conceived those words--so out of place in that quiet room, from those suave and courtly lips.
All the emotions of his life seemed to be concentrated into this one day of Jack Meredith's existence. Oscard's presence was a comfort to him--the presence of a calm, strong man is better than many words.
“So this,” he said, “is the end of the Simiacine. It did not look like a tragedy when we went into it.”
“So far as I am concerned,” replied Oscard, with quiet determination, “it certainly is the end of the Simiacine! I have had enough of it. I, for one, am not going to look for that Plateau again.”
“Nor I. I suppose it will be started as a limited liability company by a German in six months. Some of the natives will leave landmarks as they come down so as to find their way back.”
“I don't think so!”
“Why?”
Oscard took his pipe from his lips.
“When Durnovo came down to Msala,” he explained, “he had the sleeping sickness on him. Where did he get it from?”
“By God!” ejaculated Jack Meredith, “I never thought of that. He got it up at the Plateau. He left it behind him. They have got it up there now.”
“Not now--” “What do you mean, Oscard?”
“Merely that all those fellows up there are dead. There is ninety thousand pounds worth of Simiacine packed ready for carrying to the coast, standing in a pile on the Plateau, and there are thirty-four dead men keeping watch over it.”
“Is it as infectious as that?”
“When it first shows itself, infectious is not the word. It is nothing but a plague. Not one of those fellows can have escaped.”
Jack Meredith sat forward and rubbed his two hands pensively over his knees.
“So,” he said, “only you and I and Joseph know where the Simiacine Plateau is.”
“That is so,” answered Oscard.
“And Joseph won't go back?”
“Not if you were to give him that ninety thousand pounds worth of stuff.”
“And you will not go back?”
“Not for nine hundred thousand pounds. There is a curse on that place.”
“I believe there is,” said Meredith.
And such was the end of the great Simiacine Scheme--the wonder of a few seasons. Some day, when the great Sahara is turned into an inland sea, when steamers shall ply where sand now flies before the desert wind, the Plateau may be found again. Some day, when Africa is cut from east to west by a railway line, some adventurous soul will scale the height of one of many mountains, one that seems no different from the rest and yet is held in awe by the phantom-haunted denizens of the gloomy forest, and there he will find a pyramid of wooden cases surrounded by bleached and scattered bones where vultures have fed.
In the meantime the precious drug will grow scarcer day by day, and the human race will be poorer by the loss of one of those half-matured discoveries which have more than once in the world's history been on the point of raising the animal called man to a higher, stronger, finer development of brain and muscle than we can conceive of under existing circumstances. Who can tell? Perhaps the strange solitary bush may be found growing elsewhere--in some other continent across the ocean. The ways of Nature are past comprehension, and no man can say who sows the seed that crops up in strange places. The wind bloweth where it listeth, and none can tell what germs it bears. It seems hardly credible that the Plateau, no bigger than a cricket field, far away in the waste land of Central Africa, can be the only spot on this planet where the magic leaf grows in sufficient profusion to supply suffering humanity with an alleviating drug, unrivalled--a strength-giving herb, unapproached in power. But as yet no other Simiacine has been found and the Plateau is lost.
And the end of it was two men who had gone to look for it two years before--young and hearty--returning from the search successful beyond their highest hopes, with a shadow in their eyes and grey upon their heads.
They sat for nearly two hours in that room in the quiet house in Russell Square, where the cabs do not pass; and their conversation was of money. They sat until they had closed the Simiacine account, never to be reopened. They discussed the question of renouncement, and, after due consideration, concluded that the gain was rightly theirs seeing that the risk had all been theirs. Slaves and slave-owner had both taken their cause to a Higher Court, where the defendant has no worry and the plaintiff is at rest. They were beyond the reach of money--beyond the glitter of gold--far from the cry of anguish. A fortune was set aside for Marie Durnovo, to be held in trust for the children of the man who had found the Simiacine Plateau; another was apportioned to Joseph.
“Seventy-seven thousand one hundred and four pounds for you,” said Jack Meredith at length, laying aside his pen, “seventy-seven thousand one hundred and four pounds for me.”
“And,” he added, after a little pause, “it was not worth it.”
Guy Oscard smoked his pipe and shook his head.
“Now,” said Jack Meredith, “I must go. I must be out of London by to-morrow morning. I shall go abroad--America or somewhere.”
He rose as he spoke, and Oscard made no attempt to restrain him.
They went out into the passage together. Oscard opened the door and followed his companion to the step.
“I suppose,” said Meredith, “we shall meet some time--somewhere?”
“Yes.”
They shook hands.
Jack Meredith went down the steps almost reluctantly. At the foot of the short flight he turned and looked up at the strong, peaceful form of his friend.
“What will you do?” he said.
“I shall go back to my big-game,” replied Guy Oscard. “I am best at that. But I shall not go to Africa.”
| {
"id": "8939"
} |
43 | A LONG DEBT | The life unlived, the deed undone, the tear Unshed.
“I rather expect--Lady Cantourne,” said Sir John to his servants when he returned home, “any time between now and ten o'clock.”
The butler, having a vivid recollection of an occasion when Lady Cantourne was shown into a drawing-room where there were no flowers, made his preparations accordingly. The flowers were set out with that masculine ignorance of such matters which brings a smile--not wholly of mirth--to a woman's face. The little-used drawing-room was brought under the notice of the housekeeper for that woman's touch which makes a drawing-room what it is. It was always ready--this room, though Sir John never sat in it. But for Lady Cantourne it was always more than ready.
Sir John went to the library and sat rather wearily down in the stiff-backed chair before the fire. He began by taking up the evening newspaper, but failed to find his eyeglasses, which had twisted up in some aggravating manner with his necktie. So he laid aside the journal and gave way to the weakness of looking into the fire.
Once or twice his head dropped forward rather suddenly, so that his clean-shaven chin touched his tie-pin, and this without a feeling of sleepiness warranting the relaxation of the spinal column. He sat up suddenly on each occasion and threw back his shoulders.
“Almost seems,” he muttered once, “as if I were getting to be an old man.”
After that he remembered nothing until the butler, coming in with the lamp, said that Lady Cantourne was in the drawing-room. The man busied himself with the curtains, carefully avoiding a glance in his master's direction. No one had ever found Sir John asleep in a chair during the hours that other people watch, and this faithful old servant was not going to begin to do so now.
“Ah,” said Sir John, surreptitiously composing his collar and voluminous necktie, “thank you.”
He rose and glanced at the clock. It was nearly seven. He had slept through the most miserable hour of Millicent Chyne's life.
At the head of the spacious staircase he paused in front of the mirror, half hidden behind exotics, and pressed down his wig behind either ear. Then he went into the drawing-room.
Lady Cantourne was standing impatiently on the hearthrug, and scarcely responded to his bow.
“Has Jack been here?” she asked.
“No.”
She stamped a foot, still neat despite its long journey over a road that had never been very smooth. Her manner was that of a commander-in-chief, competent but unfortunate, in the midst of a great reverse.
“He has not been here this afternoon?”
“No,” answered Sir John, closing the door behind him.
“And you have not heard anything from him?”
“Not a word. As you know, I am not fortunate enough to be fully in his confidence.”
Lady Cantourne glanced round the room as if looking for some object upon which to fix her attention. It was a characteristic movement which he knew, although he had only seen it once or twice before. It indicated that if there was an end to Lady Cantourne's wit, she had almost reached that undesirable bourne.
“He has broken off his engagement,” she said, looking her companion very straight in the face, “NOW--at the eleventh hour. Do you know anything about it?”
She came closer to him, looking up from her compact little five-feet-two with discerning eyes.
“John!” she exclaimed.
She came still nearer and laid her gloved hands upon his sleeve.
“John! you know something about this.”
“I should like to know more,” he said suavely. “I am afraid--Millicent will be inconvenienced.”
Lady Cantourne looked keenly at him for a moment. Physically she almost stood on tip-toe, mentally she did it without disguise. Then she turned away and sat on a chair which had always been set apart for her.
“It is a question,” she said gravely, “whether any one has a right to punish a woman so severely.”
The corner of Sir John's mouth twitched.
“I would rather punish her than have Jack punished for the rest of his life.”
“Et moi?” she snapped impatiently.
“Ah!” with a gesture learnt in some foreign court, “I can only ask your forgiveness. I can only remind you that she is not your daughter--if she were she would be a different woman--while he IS my son.”
Lady Cantourne nodded as if to indicate that he need explain no more.
“How did you do it?” she asked quietly.
“I did not do it. I merely suggested to Guy Oscard that he should call on you. Millicent and her fiance--the other--were alone in the drawing-room when we arrived. Thinking that I might be de trop I withdrew, and left the young people to settle it among themselves, which they have apparently done! I am, like yourself, a great advocate for allowing young people to settle things among themselves. They are also welcome to their enjoyment of the consequences so far as I am concerned.”
“But Millicent was never engaged to Guy Oscard.”
“Did she tell you so?” asked Sir John, with a queer smile.
“Yes.”
“And you believed her?”
“Of course--and you?”
Sir John smiled his courtliest smile.
“I always believe a lady,” he answered, “before her face. Mr. Guy Oscard gave it out in Africa that he was engaged to be married, and he even declared that he was returning home to be married. Jack did the same in every respect. Unfortunately there was only one fond heart waiting for the couple of them at home. That is why I thought it expedient to give the young people an opportunity of settling it between themselves.”
The smile left his worn old face. He moved uneasily and walked to the fireplace, where he stood with his unsteady hands moving idly, almost nervously, among the ornaments on the mantelpiece. He committed the rare discourtesy of almost turning his back upon a lady.
“I must ask you to believe,” he said, looking anywhere but at her, “that I did not forget you in the matter. I may seem to have acted with an utter disregard for your feelings--” He broke off suddenly, and, turning, he stood on the hearthrug with his feet apart, his hands clasped behind his back, his head slightly bowed.
“I drew on the reserve of an old friendship,” he said. “You were kind enough to say the other day that you were indebted to me to some extent. You are indebted to me to a larger extent than you perhaps realise. You owe me fifty years of happiness--fifty years of a life that might have been happy had you decided differently when--when we were younger. I do not blame you now--I never have blamed you. But the debt is there--you know my life, you know almost every day of it--you cannot deny the debt. I drew upon that.”
And the white-haired woman raised her hand.
“Don't,” she said gently, “please don't say any more. I know all that your life has been, and why. You did quite right. What is a little trouble to me, a little passing inconvenience, the tattle of a few idle tongues, compared with what Jack's life is to you? I see now that I ought to have opposed it strongly instead of letting it take its course. You were right--you always have been right, John. There is a sort of consolation in the thought. I like it. I like to think that you were always right and that it was I who was wrong. It confirms my respect for you. We shall get over this somehow.”
“The young lady,” suggested Sir John, “will get over it after the manner of her kind. She will marry some one else, let us hope, before her wedding-dress goes out of fashion.”
“Millicent will have to get over it as she may. Her feelings need scarcely be taken into consideration.”
Lady Cantourne made a little movement towards the door. There was much to see to--much of that women's work which makes weddings the wild, confused ceremonies that they are.
“I am afraid,” said Sir John, “that I never thought of taking them into consideration. As you know, I hardly considered yours. I hope I have not overdrawn that reserve.”
He had crossed the room as he spoke to open the door for her. His fingers were on the handle, but he did not turn it, awaiting her answer. She did not look at him, but past him towards the shaded lamp with that desire to fix her attention upon some inanimate object which he knew of old.
“The reserve,” she answered, “will stand more than that. It has accumulated--with compound interest. But I deny the debt of which you spoke just now. There is no debt. I have paid it, year by year, day by day. For each one of those fifty years of unhappiness I have paid a year--of regret.”
He opened the door and she passed out into the brilliantly lighted passage and down the stairs, where the servants were waiting to open the door and help her to her carriage.
Sir John did not go downstairs with her.
Later on he dined in his usual solitary grandeur. He was as carefully dressed as ever. The discipline of his household--like the discipline under which he held himself--was unrelaxed.
“What wine is this?” he asked when he had tasted the port.
“Yellow seal, sir,” replied the butler confidentially.
Sir John sipped again.
“It is a new bin,” he said.
“Yes, sir. First bottle of the lower bin, sir.”
Sir John nodded with an air of self-satisfaction. He was pleased to have proved to himself and to the “damned butler,” who had caught him napping in the library, that he was still a young man in himself, with senses and taste unimpaired. But his hand was at the small of his back as he returned to the library.
He was not at all sure about Jack--did not know whether to expect him or not. Jack did not always do what one might have expected him to do under given circumstances. And Sir John rather liked him for it. Perhaps it was that small taint of heredity which is in blood, and makes it thicker than water.
“Nothing like blood, sir,” he was in the habit of saying, “in horses, dogs, and men.” And thereafter he usually threw back his shoulders.
The good blood that ran in his veins was astir to-night. The incidents of the day had aroused him from the peacefulness that lies under a weight of years (we have to lift the years one by one and lay them aside before we find it), and Sir John Meredith would have sat very upright in his chair were it not for that carping pain in his back.
He waited for an hour with his eyes almost continually on the clock, but Jack never came. Then he rang the bell.
“Coffee,” he said. “I like punctuality, if you please.”
“Thought Mr. Meredith might be expected, sir,” murmured the butler humbly.
Sir John was reading the evening paper, or appearing to read it, although he had not his glasses.
“Oblige me by refraining from thought,” he said urbanely.
So the coffee was brought, and Sir John consumed it in silent majesty. While he was pouring out his second cup--of a diminutive size--the bell rang. He set down the silver coffee-pot with a clatter, as if his nerves were not quite so good as they used to be. It was not Jack, but a note from him.
“MY DEAR FATHER,--Circumstances have necessitated the breaking off of my engagement at the last moment. To-morrow's ceremony will not take place. As the above-named circumstances were partly under your control, I need hardly offer an explanation. I leave town and probably England to-night. --I am, your affectionate son, “JOHN MEREDITH.”
There were no signs of haste or discomposure. The letter was neatly written in the somewhat large calligraphy, firm, bold, ornate, which Sir John had insisted on Jack's learning. The stationery bore a club crest. It was an eminently gentlemanly communication. Sir John read it and gravely tore it up, throwing it into the fire, where he watched it burn.
Nothing was farther from his mind than sentiment. He was not much given to sentiment, this hard-hearted old sire of an ancient stock. He never thought of the apocryphal day when he, being laid in his grave, should at last win the gratitude of his son.
“When I am dead and gone you may be sorry for it” were not the words that any man should hear from his lips.
More than once during their lives Lady Cantourne had said: “You never change your mind, John,” referring to one thing or another. And he had invariably answered: “No, I am not the sort of man to change.”
He had always known his own mind. When he had been in a position to rule he had done so with a rod of iron. His purpose had ever been inflexible. Jack had been the only person who had ever openly opposed his desire. In this, as in other matters, his indomitable will had carried the day, and in the moment of triumph it is only the weak who repine. Success should have no disappointment for the man who has striven for it if his will be strong.
Sir John rather liked the letter. It could only have been written by a son of his--admitting nothing, not even defeat. But he was disappointed. He had hoped that Jack would come--that some sort of a reconciliation would be patched up. And somehow the disappointment affected him physically. It attacked him in the back, and intensified the pain there. It made him feel weak and unlike himself. He rang the bell.
“Go round,” he said to the butler, “to Dr. Damer, and ask him to call in during the evening if he has time.”
The butler busied himself with the coffee tray, hesitating, desirous of gaining time.
“Anything wrong, sir? I hope you are not feeling ill,” he said nervously.
“Ill, sir,” cried Sir John. “D--n it, no; do I look ill? Just obey my orders if you please.”
| {
"id": "8939"
} |
44 | MADE UP | My faith is large in Time, And that which shapes it to some perfect end.
“MY DEAR JACK,--At the risk of being considered an interfering old woman, I write to ask you whether you are not soon coming to England again. As you are aware, your father and I knew each other as children. We have known each other ever since--we are now almost the only survivors of our generation. My reason for troubling you with this communication is that during the last six months I have noticed a very painful change in your father. He is getting very old--he has no one but servants about him. You know his manner--it is difficult for any one to approach him, even for me. If you could come home--by accident--I think that you will never regret it in after life. I need not suggest discretion as to this letter. Your affectionate friend, “CAROLINE CANTOURNE.”
Jack Meredith read this letter in the coffee-room of the Hotel of the Four Seasons at Wiesbaden. It was a lovely morning--the sun shone down through the trees of the Friedrichstrasse upon that spotless pavement, of which the stricken wot; the fresh breeze came bowling down from the Taunus mountains all balsamic and invigorating--it picked up the odours of the Seringa and flowering currant in the Kurgarten, and threw itself in at the open window of the coffee-room of the Hotel of the Four Seasons.
Jack Meredith was restless. Such odours as are borne on the morning breeze are apt to make those men restless who have not all that they want. And is not their name legion? The morning breeze is to the strong the moonlight of the sentimental. That which makes one vaguely yearn incites the other to get up and take.
By the train leaving Wiesbaden for Cologne, “over Mainz,” as the guide-book hath it, Jack Meredith left for England, in which country he had not set foot for fifteen months. Guy Oscard was in Cashmere; the Simiacine was almost forgotten as a nine days' wonder except by those who live by the ills of mankind. Millicent Chyne had degenerated into a restless society “hack.” With great skill she had posed as a martyr. She had allowed it to be understood that she, having remained faithful to Jack Meredith through his time of adversity, had been heartlessly thrown over when fortune smiled upon him and there was a chance of his making a more brilliant match. With a chivalry which was not without a keen shaft of irony, father and son allowed this story to pass uncontradicted. Perhaps a few believed it; perhaps they had foreseen the future. It may have been that they knew that Millicent Chyne, surrounded by the halo of whatever story she might invent, would be treated with a certain careless nonchalance by the older men, with a respectful avoidance by the younger. Truly women have the deepest punishment for their sins here on earth; for sooner or later the time will come--after the brilliancy of the first triumph, after the less pure satisfaction of the skilled siren--the time will come when all that they want is an enduring, honest love. And it is written that an enduring love cannot, with the best will in the world, be bestowed on an unworthy object. If a woman wishes to be loved purely she must have a pure heart, and NO PAST, ready for the reception of that love. This is a sine qua non. The woman with a past has no future.
The short March day was closing in over London with that murky suggestion of hopelessness affected by metropolitan eventide when Jack Meredith presented himself at the door of his father's house.
In his reception by the servants there was a subtle suggestion of expectation which was not lost on his keen mind. There is no patience like that of expectation in an old heart. Jack Meredith felt vaguely that he had been expected thus, daily for many months past.
He was shown into the library, and the tall form standing there on the hearthrug had not the outline for which he had looked. The battle between old age and a stubborn will is long. But old age wins. It never raises the siege. It starves the garrison out. Sir John Meredith's head seemed to have shrunk. The wig did not fit at the back. His clothes, always bearing the suggestion of emptiness, seemed to hang on ancient-given lines as if the creases were well established. The clothes were old. The fateful doctrine of not-worth-while had set in.
Father and son shook hands, and Sir John walked feebly to the stiff-backed chair, where he sat down in shamefaced silence. He was ashamed of his infirmities. His was the instinct of the dog that goes away into some hidden corner to die.
“I am glad to see you,” he said, using his two hands to push himself further back in his chair.
There was a little pause. The fire was getting low. It fell together with a feeble, crumbling sound.
“Shall I put some coals on?” asked Jack.
A simple question--if you will. But it was asked by the son in such a tone of quiet, filial submission, that a whole volume could not contain all that it said to the old man's proud, unbending heart.
“Yes, my boy, do.”
And the last six years were wiped away like evil writing from a slate.
There was no explanation. These two men were not of those who explain themselves, and in the warmth of explanation say things which they do not fully mean. The opinions that each had held during the years they had left behind had perhaps been modified on both sides, but neither sought details of the modification. They knew each other now, and each respected the indomitable will of the other.
They inquired after each other's health. They spoke of events of a common interest. Trifles of everyday occurrence seemed to contain absorbing details. But it is the everyday occurrence that makes the life. It was the putting on of the coals that reconciled these two men.
“Let me see,” said John, “you gave up your rooms before you left England, did you not?”
“Yes.”
Jack drew forward his chair and put his feet out towards the fire. It was marvellous how thoroughly at home he seemed to be.
“Then,” continued Sir John, “where is your luggage?”
“I left it at the club.”
“Send along for it. Your room is--er, quite ready for you. I shall be glad if you will make use of it as long as you like. You will be free to come and go as if you were in your own house.”
Jack nodded with a strange, twisted little smile, as if he were suffering from cramp in the legs. It was cramp--at the heart.
“Thanks,” he said, “I should like nothing better. Shall I ring?”
“If you please.”
Jack rang, and they waited in the fading daylight without speaking. At times Sir John moved his limbs, his hand on the arm of the chair and his feet on the hearth-rug, with the jerky, half-restless energy of the aged which is not pleasant to see.
When the servant came, it was Jack who gave the orders, and the butler listened to them with a sort of enthusiasm. When he had closed the door behind him he pulled down his waistcoat with a jerk, and as he walked downstairs he muttered “Thank 'eaven!” twice, and wiped away a tear from his bibulous eye.
“What have you been doing with yourself since I saw you?” inquired Sir John conversationally when the door was closed.
“I have been out to India--merely for the voyage. I went with Oscard, who is out there still, after big-game.”
Sir John Meredith nodded.
“I like that man,” he said, “he is tough. I like tough men. He wrote me a letter before he went away. It was the letter of--one gentleman to another. Is he going to spend the rest of his life 'after big-game'?”
Jack laughed.
“It seems rather like it. He is cut out for that sort of life. He is too big for narrow streets and cramped houses.”
“And matrimony?”
“Yes--and matrimony.”
Sir John was leaning forward in his chair, his two withered hands clasped on his knees.
“You know,” he said slowly, blinking at the fire, “he cared for that girl--more than you did, my boy.”
“Yes,” answered Jack softly.
Sir John looked towards him, but he said nothing. His attitude was interrogatory. There were a thousand questions in the turn of his head, questions which one gentleman could not ask another.
Jack met his gaze. They were still wonderfully alike, these two men, though one was in his prime while the other was infirm. On each face there was the stamp of a long-drawn, silent pride; each was a type of those haughty conquerors who stepped, mail-clad, on our shore eight hundred years ago. Form and feature, mind and heart, had been handed down from father to son, as great types are.
“One may have the right feeling and bestow it by mistake on the wrong person,” said Jack.
Sir John's fingers were at his lips.
“Yes,” he said rather indistinctly, “while the right person is waiting for it.”
Jack looked up sharply, as if he either had not heard or did not understand.
“While the right person is waiting for it,” repeated Sir John deliberately.
“The right person--?”
“Jocelyn Gordon,” exclaimed Sir John, “is the right person.”
Jack shrugged his shoulders and leant back so that the firelight did not shine upon his face. “So I found out eighteen months ago,” he said, “when it was too late.”
“There is no such thing as too late for that,” said Sir John in his great wisdom. “Even if you were both quite old it would not be too late. I have known it for longer than you. I found it out two years ago.”
Jack looked across the room into the keen, worldly-wise old face.
“How?” he inquired.
“From her. I found it out the moment she mentioned your name. I conducted the conversation in such a manner that she had frequently to say it, and whenever your name crossed her lips she--gave herself away.”
Jack shook his head with an incredulous smile.
“Moreover,” continued Sir John, “I maintain that it is not too late.”
There followed a silence; both men seemed to be wrapped in thought, the same thoughts with a difference of forty years of life in the method of thinking them.
“I could not go to her with a lame story like that,” said Jack. “I told her all about Millicent.”
“It is just a lame story like that that women understand,” answered Sir John. “When I was younger I thought as you do. I thought that a man must needs bring a clean slate to the woman he asks to be his wife. It is only his hands that must be clean. Women see deeper into these mistakes of ours than we do; they see the good of them where we only see the wound to our vanity. Sometimes one would almost be inclined to think that they prefer a few mistakes in the past because it makes the present surer. Their romance is a different thing from ours--it is a better thing, deeper and less selfish. They can wipe the slate clean and never look at it again. And the best of them--rather like the task.”
Jack made no reply. Sir John Meredith's chin was resting on his vast necktie. He was looking with failing eyes into the fire. He spoke like one who was sure of himself--confident in his slowly accumulated store of that knowledge which is not written in books.
“Will you oblige me?” he asked.
Jack moved in his chair, but he made no answer. Sir John did not indeed expect it. He knew his son too well.
“Will you,” he continued, “go out to Africa and take your lame story to Jocelyn just as it is?”
There was a long silence. The old worn-out clock on the mantelpiece wheezed and struck six.
“Yes,” answered Jack at length, “I will go.”
Sir John nodded his head with a sigh of relief. All, indeed, comes to him who waits.
“I have seen a good deal of life,” he said suddenly, arousing himself and sitting upright in the stiff-backed chair, “here and there in the world; and I have found that the happiest people are those who began by thinking that it was too late. The romance of youth is only fit to write about in books. It is too delicate a fabric for everyday use. It soon wears out or gets torn.”
Jack did not seem to be listening.
“But,” continued Sir John, “you must not waste time. If I may suggest it, you will do well to go at once.”
“Yes,” answered Jack, “I will go in a month or so. I should like to see you in a better state of health before I leave you.”
Sir John pulled himself together. He threw back his shoulders and stiffened his neck.
“My health is excellent,” he replied sturdily. “Of course I am beginning to feel my years a little, but one must expect to do that after--eh--er--sixty. C'est la vie.”
He made a little movement of the hands.
“No,” he went on, “the sooner you go the better.”
“I do not like leaving you,” persisted Jack.
Sir John laughed rather testily.
“That is rather absurd,” he said; “I am accustomed to being left. I have always lived alone. You will do me a favour if you will go now and take your passage out to Africa.”
“Now--this evening?”
“Yes--at once. These offices close about half-past six, I believe. You will just have time to do it before dinner.”
Jack rose and went towards the door. He went slowly, almost reluctantly.
“Do not trouble about me,” said Sir John, “I am accustomed to being left.”
He repeated it when the door had closed behind his son.
The fire was low again. It was almost dying. The daylight was fading every moment. The cinders fell together with a crumbling sound, and a greyness crept into their glowing depths. The old man sitting there made no attempt to add fresh fuel.
“I am accustomed,” he said, with a half-cynical smile, “to being left.”
| {
"id": "8939"
} |
45 | THE TELEGRAM | How could it end in any other way? You called me, and I came home to your heart.
“They tell me, sir, that Missis Marie--that is, Missis Durnovo--has gone back to her people at Sierra Leone.”
Thus spoke Joseph to his master one afternoon in March, not so many years ago. They were on board the steamer Bogamayo, which good vessel was pounding down the West Coast of Africa at her best speed. The captain reckoned that he would be anchored at Loango by half-past seven or eight o'clock that evening. There were only seven passengers on board, and dinner had been ordered an hour earlier for the convenience of all concerned. Joseph was packing his master's clothes in the spacious cabin allotted to him. The owners of the steamer had thought it worth their while to make the finder of the Simiacine as comfortable as circumstances allowed. The noise of that great drug had directed towards the West Coast of Africa that floating scum of ne'er-do-welldom which is ever on the alert for some new land of promise.
“Who told you that?” asked Jack, drying his hands on a towel.
“One of the stewards, sir--a man that was laid up at Sierra Leone in the hospital.”
Jack Meredith paused for a moment before going on deck. He looked out through the open porthole towards the blue shadow on the horizon which was Africa--a country that he had never seen three years before, and which had all along been destined to influence his whole life.
“It was the best thing she could do,” he said. “It is to be hoped that she will be happy.”
“Yes, sir, it is. She deserves it, if that goes for anything in the heavenly reckonin'. She's a fine woman--a good woman that, sir.”
“Yes.”
Joseph was folding a shirt very carefully.
“A bit dusky,” he said, smoothing out the linen folds reflectively, “but I shouldn't have minded that if I had been a marryin' man, but--but I'm not.”
He laid the shirt in the portmanteau and looked up. Jack Meredith had gone on deck.
While Maurice and Jocelyn Gordon were still at dinner that same evening, a messenger came announcing the arrival of the Bogamayo in the roads. This news had the effect of curtailing the meal. Maurice Gordon was liable to be called away at any moment thus by the arrival of a steamer. It was not long before he rose from the table and lighted a cigar preparatory to going down to his office, where the captain of the steamer was by this time probably awaiting him. It was a full moon, and the glorious golden light of the equatorial night shone through the high trees like a new dawn. Hardly a star was visible; even those of the southern hemisphere pale beside the southern moon.
Maurice Gordon crossed the open space of cultivated garden and plunged into the black shadow of the forest. His footsteps were inaudible. Suddenly he ran almost into the arms of a man.
“Who the devil is that?” he cried.
“Meredith,” answered a voice.
“Meredith--Jack Meredith, is that you?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I'm blowed!” exclaimed Maurice Gordon, shaking hands--“likewise glad. What brought you out here again?”
“Oh, pleasure!” replied Jack, with his face in the shade.
“Pleasure! you've come to the wrong place for that. However, I'll let you find out that for yourself. Go on to the bungalow; I'll be back in less than an hour. You'll find Jocelyn in the verandah.”
When Maurice left her, Jocelyn went out into the verandah. It was the beginning of the hot season. At midday the sun on his journey northward no longer cast a shadow. Jocelyn could not go out in the daytime at this period of the year. For fresh air she had to rely upon a long, dreamy evening in the verandah.
She sat down in her usual chair, while the moonlight, red and glowing, made a pattern on the floor and on her white dress with the shadows of the creepers. The sea was very loud that night, rising and falling like the breath of some huge sleeping creature.
Jocelyn Gordon fell into a reverie. Life was very dull at Loango. There was too much time for thought and too little to think about. This girl only had the past, and her past was all comprised in a few months--the few months still known at Loango as the Simiacine year. She had lapsed into a bad habit of thinking that her life was over, that the daylight of it had waned, and that there was nothing left now but the grey remainder of the evening. She was wondering now why it had all come--why there had been any daylight at all. Above these thoughts she wondered why the feeling was still in her heart that Jack Meredith had not gone out of her life for ever. There was no reason why she should ever meet him again. He was, so far as she knew, married to Millicent Chyne more than a year ago, although she had never seen the announcement of the wedding. He had drifted into Loango and into her life by the merest accident, and now that the Simiacine Plateau had been finally abandoned there was no reason why any of the original finders should come to Loango again.
And the creepers were pushed aside by one who knew the method of their growth. A silver glory of moonlight fell on the verandah floor, and the man of whom she was thinking stood before her.
“You!” she exclaimed.
“Yes.”
She rose, and they shook hands. They stood looking at each other for a few moments, and a thousand things that had never been said seemed to be understood between them.
“Why have you come?” she asked abruptly.
“To tell you a story.”
She looked up with a sort of half smile, as if she suspected some pleasantry of which she had not yet detected the drift.
“A long story,” he explained, “which has not even the merit of being amusing. Please sit down again.”
She obeyed him.
The curtain of hanging leaves and flowers had fallen into place again; the shadowed tracery was on her dress and on the floor once more.
He stood in front of her and told her his story, as Sir John had suggested. He threw no romance into it--attempted no extenuation--but related the plain, simple facts of the last few years with the semi-cynical suggestion of humour that was sometimes his. And the cloak of pride that had fallen upon his shoulders made him hide much that was good, while he dragged forward his own shortcomings. She listened in silence. At times there hovered round her lips a smile. It usually came when he represented himself in a bad light, and there was a suggestion of superior wisdom in it, as if she knew something of which he was ignorant.
He was never humble. It was not a confession. It was not even an explanation, but only a story--a very lame story indeed--which gained nothing by the telling. And he was not the hero of it.
And all came about as wise old Sir John Meredith had predicted. It is not our business to record what Jocelyn said. Women--the best of them--have some things in their hearts which can only be said once to one person. Men cannot write them down; printers cannot print them.
The lame story was told to the end, and at the end it was accepted. When Sir John's name was mentioned--when the interview in the library of the great London house was briefly touched upon--Jack saw the flutter of a small lace pocket-handkerchief, and at no other time. The slate was wiped clean, and it almost seemed that Jocelyn preferred it thus with the scratches upon it where the writing had been.
Maurice Gordon did not come back in an hour. It was nearly ten o'clock before they heard his footstep on the gravel. By that time Jocelyn had heard the whole story. She had asked one or two questions which somehow cast a different light upon the narrative, and she had listened to the answers with a grave, judicial little smile--the smile of a judge whose verdict was pre-ordained, whose knowledge had nothing to gain from evidence.
Because she loved him she took his story and twisted it and turned it to a shape of her own liking. Those items which he had considered important she passed over as trifles; the trifles she magnified into the corner-stones upon which the edifice was built. She set the lame story upon its legs and it stood upright. She believed what he had never told; and much that he related she chose to discredit--because she loved him. She perceived motives where he assured her there were none; she recognised the force of circumstances where he took the blame to himself--because she loved him. She maintained that the past was good, that he could not have acted differently, that she would not have had it otherwise--because she loved him.
And who shall say that she was wrong?
Jack went out to meet Maurice Gordon when they heard his footsteps, and as they walked back to the house he told him. Gordon was quite honest about it.
“I hoped,” he said, “when I ran against you in the wood, that that was why you had come back. Nothing could have given me greater happiness. Hang it, I AM glad, old chap!”
They sat far into the night arranging their lives. Jack was nervously anxious to get back to England. He could not rid his mind of the picture he had seen as he left his father's presence to go and take his passage to Africa--the picture of an old man sitting in a stiff-backed chair before a dying fire. Moreover, he was afraid of Africa; the Irritability of Africa had laid its hand upon him almost as soon as he had set his foot upon its shore. He was afraid of the climate for Jocelyn; he was afraid of it for himself. The happiness that comes late must be firmly held to; nothing must be forgotten to secure it, or else it may slip between the fingers at the last moment.
Those who have snatched happiness late in life can tell of a thousand details carefully attended to--a whole existence laid out in preparation for it, of health fostered, small pleasures relinquished, days carefully spent.
Jack Meredith was nervously apprehensive that his happiness might even now slip through his fingers. Truly, climatic influence is a strange and wonderful thing. It was Africa that had done this, and he was conscious of it. He remembered Victor Durnovo's strange outburst on their first meeting a few miles below Msala on the Ogowe river, and the remembrance only made him the more anxious that Jocelyn and he should turn their backs upon the accursed West Coast for ever.
Before they went to bed that night it was all arranged. Jack Meredith had carried his point. Maurice and Jocelyn were to sail with him to England by the first boat. Jocelyn and he compiled a telegram to be sent off first thing by a native boat to St. Paul de Loanda. It was addressed to Sir John Meredith, London, and signed “Meredith, Loango.” The text of it was: “I bring Jocelyn home by first boat.”
. . .
And the last words, like the first, must be of an old man in London. We found him in the midst of a brilliant assembly; we leave him alone. We leave him lying stiffly on his solemn fourpost bed, with his keen, proud face turned fearlessly towards his Maker. His lips are still; they wear a smile which even in death is slightly cynical. On the table at his bedside lies a submarine telegram from Africa. It is unopened.
| {
"id": "8939"
} |
1 | LE ROI EST MORT | "There; that's it. That's where they buried Frenchman," said Andrew--known as River Andrew. For there was another Andrew who earned his living on the sea.
River Andrew had conducted the two gentlemen from "The Black Sailor" to the churchyard by their own request. A message had been sent to him in the morning that this service would be required of him, to which he had returned the answer that they would have to wait until the evening. It was his day to go round Marshford way with dried fish, he said; but in the evening they could see the church if they still set their minds on it.
River Andrew combined the light duties of grave-digger and clerk to the parish of Farlingford in Suffolk with a small but steady business in fish of his own drying, nets of his own netting, and pork slain and dressed by his own weather-beaten hands.
For Farlingford lies in that part of England which reaches seaward toward the Fatherland, and seems to have acquired from that proximity an insatiable appetite for sausages and pork. On these coasts the killing of pigs and the manufacture of sausages would appear to employ the leisure of the few, who for one reason or another have been deemed unfit for the sea. It is not our business to inquire why River Andrew had never used the fickle element. All that lay in the past. And in a degree he was saved from the disgrace of being a landsman by the smell of tar and bloaters that heralded his coming, by the blue jersey and the brown homespun trousers which he wore all the week, and by the saving word which distinguished him from the poor inland lubbers who had no dealings with water at all.
He had this evening laid aside his old sou'wester--worn in fair and foul weather alike--for his Sunday hat. His head-part was therefore official and lent additional value to the words recorded. He spoke them, moreover, with a dim note of aggressiveness which might only have been racy of a soil breeding men who are curt and clear of speech. But there was more than an East Anglian bluffness in the statement and the manner of its delivery, as his next observation at once explained.
"Passen thinks it's over there by the yew-tree--but he's wrong. That there one was a wash-up found by old Willem the lighthouse keeper one morning early. No! this is where Frenchman was laid by."
He indicated with the toe of his sea-boot a crumbling grave which had never been distinguished by a headstone. The grass grew high all over Farlingford churchyard, almost hiding the mounds where the forefathers slept side by side with the nameless "wash-ups," to whom they had extended a last hospitality.
River Andrew had addressed his few remarks to the younger of his two companions, a well-dressed, smartly set-up man of forty or thereabouts, who in turn translated the gist of them into French for the information of his senior, a little white-haired gentleman whom he called "Monsieur le Marquis."
He spoke glibly enough in either tongue, with a certain indifference of manner. This was essentially a man of cities, and one better suited to the pavement than the rural quiet of Farlingford. To have the gift of tongues is no great recommendation to the British born, and River Andrew looked askance at this fine gentleman while he spoke French. He had received letters at the post-office under the name of Dormer Colville: a name not unknown in London and Paris, but of which the social fame had failed to travel even to Ipswich, twenty miles away from this mouldering churchyard.
"It's getting on for twenty-five years come Michaelmas," put in River Andrew. "I wasn't digger then; but I remember the burial well enough. And I remember Frenchman--same as if I see him yesterday."
He plucked a blade of grass from the grave and placed it between his teeth.
"He were a mystery, he were," he added, darkly, and turned to look musingly across the marshes toward the distant sea. For River Andrew, like many hawkers of cheap wares, knew the indirect commercial value of news.
The little white-haired Frenchman made a gesture of the shoulders and outspread hands indicative of a pious horror at the condition of this neglected grave. The meaning of his attitude was so obvious that River Andrew shifted uneasily from one foot to the other.
"Passen," he said, "he don't take no account of the graves. He's what you might call a bookworm. Always a sitting indoors reading books and pictures. Butcher Franks turns his sheep in from time to time. But along of these tempests and the hot sun the grass has shot up a bit. Frenchman's no worse off than others. And there's some as are fallen in altogether."
He indicated one or two graves where the mound had sunk, and suggestive hollows were visible in the grass. "First, it's the coffin that bu'sts in beneath the weight, then it's the bones," he added, with that grim realism which is begotten of familiarity.
Dormer Colville did not trouble to translate these general truths. He suppressed a yawn as he contemplated the tottering headstones of certain master-mariners and Trinity-pilots taking their long rest in the immediate vicinity. The churchyard lay on the slope of rising ground upon which the village of Farlingford straggled upward in one long street. Farlingford had once been a town of some commercial prosperity. Its story was the story of half a dozen ports on this coast--a harbour silted up, a commerce absorbed by a more prosperous neighbour nearer to the railway.
Below the churchyard was the wide street which took a turn eastward at the gates and led straight down to the river-side. Farlingford Quay--a little colony of warehouses and tarred huts--was separated from Farlingford proper by a green, where the water glistened at high tide. In olden days the Freemen of Farlingford had been privileged to graze their horses on the green. In these later times the lord of the manor pretended to certain rights over the pasturage, which Farlingford, like one man, denied him.
"A mystery," repeated River Andrew, waiting very clearly for Mr. Dormer Colville to translate the suggestive word to the French gentleman. But Colville only yawned. "And there's few in Farlingford as knew Frenchman as well as I did."
Mr. Colville walked toward the church porch, which seemed to appeal to his sense of the artistic; for he studied the Norman work with the eye of a connoisseur. He was evidently a cultured man, more interested in a work of art than in human story.
River Andrew, seeing him depart, jingled the keys which he carried in his hand, and glanced impatiently toward the older man. The Marquis de Gemosac, however, ignored the sound as completely as he had ignored River Andrew's remarks. He was looking round him with eyes which had once been dark and bright, and were now dimly yellow. He looked from tomb to tomb, vainly seeking one that should be distinguished, if only by the evidence of a little care at the hands of the living. He looked down the wide grass-grown street--partly paved after the manner of the Netherlands--toward the quay, where the brown river gleamed between the walls of the weather-beaten brick buildings. There was a ship lying at the wharf, half laden with hay; a coasting craft from some of the greater tidal rivers, the Orwell or the Blackwater. A man was sitting on a piece of timber on the quay, smoking as he looked seaward. But there was no one else in sight. For Farlingford was half depopulated, and it was tea-time. Across the river lay the marshes, unbroken by tree or hedge, barren of even so much as a hut. In the distance, hazy and grey in the eye of the North Sea, a lighthouse stood dimly, like a pillar of smoke. To the south--so far as the eye could pierce the sea haze--marshes. To the north--where the river ran between bare dykes--marshes.
And withal a silence which was only intensified by the steady hum of the wind through the gnarled branches of the few churchyard trees which turn a crouching back toward the ocean.
In all the world--save, perhaps, in the Arctic world--it would be hard to find a picture emphasising more clearly the fact that a man's life is but a small matter, and the memory of it like the seed of grass upon the wind to be blown away and no more recalled.
The bearer of one of the great names of France stood knee-deep in the sun-tanned grass and looked slowly round as if seeking to imprint the scene upon his memory. He turned to glance at the crumbling church behind him, built long ago by men speaking the language in which his own thoughts found shape. He looked slowly from end to end of the ill-kept burial ground, crowded with the bones of the nameless and insignificant dead, who, after a life passed in the daily struggle to wrest a sufficiency of food from a barren soil, or the greater struggle to hold their own against a greedy sea, had faded from the memory of the living, leaving naught behind them but a little mound where the butcher put his sheep to graze.
Monsieur de Gemosac was so absorbed in his reflections that he seemed to forget his surroundings and stood above the grave, pointed out to him by River Andrew, oblivious to the cold wind that blew in from the sea, deaf to the clink of the sexton's inviting keys, forgetful of his companion who stood patiently waiting within the porch. The Marquis was a little bent man, spare of limb, heavy of shoulder, with snow-white hair against which his skin, brown and wrinkled as a walnut shell, looked sallow like old ivory. His face was small and aquiline; not the face of a clever man, but clearly the face of an aristocrat. He had the grand manner too, and that quiet air of self-absorption which usually envelops the bearers of historic names.
Dormer Colville watched him with a good-natured patience which pointed, as clearly as his attitude and yawning indifference, to the fact that he was not at Farlingford for his own amusement. Presently he lounged back again toward the Marquis and stood behind him. "The wind is cold, Marquis," he said, pleasantly. "One of the coldest spots in England. What would Mademoiselle say if I allowed you to take a chill?"
De Gemosac turned and looked at him over his shoulder with a smile full of pathetic meaning. He spread out his arms in a gesture indicative of horror at the bleakness of the surroundings; at the mournfulness of the decaying village; the dreary hopelessness of the mouldering church and tombs.
"I was thinking, my friend," he said. "That was all. It is not surprising ... that one should think."
Colville heaved a sigh and said nothing. He was, it seemed, essentially a sympathetic man; not of a thoughtful habit himself, but tolerant of thought in others. It was abominably windy and cold, although the corn was beginning to ripen; but he did not complain. Neither did he desire to hurry his companion in any way.
He looked at the crumbling grave with a passing shadow in his clever and worldly eyes, and composed himself to await his friend's pleasure.
In his way he must have been a philosopher. His attitude did not suggest that he was bored, and yet it was obvious that he was eminently out of place in this remote spot. He had nothing in common, for instance, with River Andrew, and politely yawned that reminiscent fish-curer into silence. His very clothes were of a cut and fashion never before seen in Farlingford. He wore them, too, with an air rarely assumed even in the streets of Ipswich.
Men still dressed with care at this time; for d'Orsay was not yet dead, though his fame was tarnished. Mr. Dormer Colville was not a dandy, however. He was too clever to go to that extreme and too wise not to be within reach of it in an age when great tailors were great men, and it was quite easy to make a reputation by clothes alone.
Not only was his dress too fine for Farlingford, but his personality was not in tune with this forgotten end of England. His movements were too quick for a slow-moving race of men; no fools, and wiser than their midland brethren; slow because they had yet to make sure that a better way of life had been discovered than that way in which their Saxon forefathers had always walked.
Colville seemed to look at the world with an exploiting eye. He had a speculative mind. Had he lived at the end of the Victorian era instead of the beginning he might have been a notable financier. His quick glance took in all Farlingford in one comprehensive verdict. There was nothing to be made of it. It was uninteresting because it obviously had no future, nor encouraged any enterprise. He looked across the marshes indifferently, following the line of the river as it made its devious way between high dykes to the sea. And suddenly his eye lighted. There was a sail to the south. A schooner was standing in to the river mouth, her sails glowing rosily in the last of the sunset light.
Colville turned to see whether River Andrew had noticed, and saw that landsman looking skyward with an eye that seemed to foretell the early demise of a favouring wind.
"That's 'The Last Hope,'" he said, in answer to Dormer Colville's question. "And it will take all Seth Clubbe's seamanship to save the tide. 'The Last Hope.' There's many a 'Hope,' built at Farlingford, and that's the last, for the yard is closed and there's no more building now."
The Marquis de Gemosac had turned away from the grave, but as Colville approached him he looked back to it with a shake of the head.
"After eight centuries of splendour, my friend," he said. "Can that be the end--that?"
"It is not the end," answered Colville, cheerfully, "It is only the end of a chapter. _Le roi est mort--vive le roi! _" He pointed with his stick, as he spoke, to the schooner creeping in between the dykes.
| {
"id": "8942"
} |
2 | VIVE LE ROI | "The Last Hope" had been expected for some days. It was known in Farlingford that she was foul, and that Captain Clubbe had decided to put her on the slip-way at the end of the next voyage. Captain Clubbe was a Farlingford man. "The Last Hope" was a Farlingford built ship, and Seth Clubbe was not the captain to go past his own port for the sake of saving a few pounds.
"Farlingford's his nation," they said of him down at the quay. "Born and bred here, man and boy. He's not likely to put her into a Thames dry-dock while the slip-way's standing empty."
All the village gossips naturally connected the arrival of the two gentlemen from London with the expected return of "The Last Hope." Captain Clubbe was known to have commercial relations with France. It was currently reported that he could speak the language. No one could tell the number of his voyages backward and forward from the Bay to Bristol, to Yarmouth, and even to Bergen, carrying salt-fish to those countries where their religion bids them eat that which they cannot supply from their own waters, and bringing back wine from Bordeaux and brandy from Charente.
It is not etiquette, however, on these wind-swept coasts to inquire too closely into a man's business, and, as in other places, the talk was mostly among those who knew the least--namely, the women. There had been a question of repairing the church. The generation now slowly finding its way to its precincts had discussed the matter since their childhood and nothing had come of it.
One bold spirit put forth the suggestion that the two gentlemen were London architects sent down by the Queen to see to the church. But the idea fell to the ground before the assurance from Mrs. Clopton's own lips that the old gentleman was nothing but a Frenchman.
Mrs. Clopton kept "The Black Sailor," and knew a deal more than she was ready to tell people; which is tantamount to saying that she was a woman in a thousand. It had leaked out, however, that the spokesman of the party, Mr. Dormer Colville, had asked Mrs. Clopton whether it was true that there was claret in the cellars of "The Black Sailor." And any one having doubts could satisfy himself with a sight of the empty bottles, all mouldy, standing in the back yard of the inn.
They were wine-merchants from France, concluded the wiseacres of Farlingford over their evening beer. They had come to Farlingford to see Captain Clubbe. What could be more natural! For Farlingford was proud of Captain Clubbe. It so often happens that a man going out into the world and making a great name there, forgets his birthplace and the rightful claim to a gleam of reflected glory which the relations of a great man--who have themselves stayed at home and done nothing--are always ready to consider their due reward for having shaken their heads over him during the earlier struggles.
Though slow of tongue, the men of Farlingford were of hospitable inclination. They were sorry for Frenchmen, as for a race destined to smart for all time under the recollection of many disastrous defeats at sea. And of course they could not help being ridiculous. Heaven had made them like that while depriving them of any hope of ever attaining to good seamanship. Here was a foreigner, however, cast up in their midst, not by the usual channel indeed, but by a carriage and pair from Ipswich. He must feel lonesome, they thought, and strange. They, therefore, made an effort to set him at his ease, and when they met him in "the street" jerked their heads at him sideways. The upward jerk is less friendly and usually denotes the desire to keep strictly within the limits of acquaintanceship. To Mr. Dormer Colville they gave the upward lift of the chin as to a person too facile in speech to be desirable.
The dumbness of the Marquis do Gemosac appealed perhaps to a race of seafaring men very sparingly provided by nature with words in which to clothe thoughts no less solid and sensible by reason of their terseness. It was at all events unanimously decided that everything should be done to make the foreigner welcome until the arrival of "The Last Hope." A similar unanimity characterised the decision that he must without delay be shown Frenchman's grave.
River Andrew's action and the unprecedented display of his Sunday hat on a week-day were nothing but the outcome of a deep-laid scheme. Mrs. Clopton had been instructed to recommend the gentlemen to inspect the church, and the rest had been left to the wit of River Andrew, a man whose calling took him far and wide, and gave him opportunities of speech with gentlefolk.
These opportunities tempted River Andrew to go beyond his instructions so far as to hint that he could, if encouraged, make disclosures of interest respecting Frenchman. Which was untrue; for River Andrew knew no more than the rest of Farlingford of a man who, having been literally cast up by the sea at their gates, had lived his life within those gates, had married a Farlingford woman, and had at last gone the way of all Farlingford without telling any who or what he was.
From sundry open cottage doors and well-laden tea-tables glances of inquiry were directed toward the strangers' faces as they walked down the street after having viewed the church. Some prescient females went so far as to state that they could see quite distinctly in the elder gentleman's demeanour a sense of comfort and consolation at the knowledge thus tactfully conveyed to him that he was not the first of his kind to be seen in Farlingford.
Hard upon the heels of the visitors followed River Andrew, wearing his sou'wester now and carrying the news that "The Last Hope" was coming up on the top of the tide.
Farlingford lies four miles from the mouth of the river, and no ship can well arrive unexpected at the quay; for the whole village may see her tacking up under shortened sail, heading all ways, sometimes close-hauled, and now running free as she follows the zigzags of the river.
Thus, from the open door, the villagers calculated the chances of being able to finish the evening meal at leisure and still be down at the quay in time to see Seth Clubbe bring his ship alongside. One by one the men of Farlingford, pipe in mouth, went toward the river, not forgetting the kindly, sideward jerk of the head for the old Frenchman already waiting there.
It was nearly the top of the tide and the clear green water swelled and gurgled round the weedy piles of the quay, bringing on its surface tokens from the sea--shadowy jelly-fish, weed, and froth. "The Last Hope" was quite close at hand now, swinging up in mid-stream. The sun had set and over the marshes the quiet of evening brooded hazily. Captain Clubbe had taken in all sail except a jib. His anchor was swinging lazily overside, ready to drop. The watchers on the quay could note the gentle rise and fall of the crack little vessel as the tide lifted her from behind. She seemed to be dancing to her home like a maiden back from school. The swing of her tapering masts spoke of the heaving seas she had left behind.
It was characteristic of Farlingford that no one spoke. River Andrew was already in his boat, ready to lend a hand should Captain Clubbe wish to send a rope ashore. But it was obvious that the captain meant to anchor in the stream for the night: so obvious that if any one on shore had mentioned the conclusion his speech would have called for nothing but a contemptuous glance from the steady blue eyes all round him.
It was equally characteristic of a Farlingford ship that there were no greetings from the deck. Those on shore could clearly perceive the burly form of Captain Clubbe, standing by the weather rigging. Wives could distinguish their husbands, and girls their lovers; but, as these were attending to their business with a taciturn concentration, no hand was raised in salutation.
The wind had dropped now. For these are coasts of quiet nights and boisterous days. The tide was almost slack. "The Last Hope" was scarcely moving, and in the shadowy light looked like a phantom ship sailing out of a dreamy sunset sky.
Suddenly the silence was broken, so unexpectedly, so dramatically, that the old Frenchman, to whose nature such effects would naturally appeal with a lightning speed, rose to his feet and stood looking with startled eyes toward the ship. A clear strong voice had broken joyously into song, and the words it sang were French: "C'est le Hasard, Qui, tôt ou tard, Ici bas nous seconde; Car, D'un bout du monde A l'autre bout, Le Hasard seul fait tout."
Not only were the words incongruous with their quaint, sadly gay air of a dead epoch of music and poetry; but the voice was in startling contrast to the tones of a gruff and slow-speaking people. For it was a clear tenor voice with a ring of emotion in it, half laughter, half tears, such as no Briton could compass himself, or hear in another without a dumb feeling of shame and shyness.
But those who heard it on the shore--and all Farlingford was there by this time--only laughed curtly. Some of the women exchanged a glance and made imperfectly developed gestures, as of a tolerance understood between mothers for anything that is young and inconsequent.
"We've gotten Loo Barebone back at any rate," said a man, bearing the reputation of a wit. And after a long pause one or two appreciators answered: "You're right," and laughed good-humouredly.
The Marquis de Gemosac sat down again, with a certain effort at self-control, on the balk of timber which had been used by some generations of tide-watchers. He turned and exchanged a glance with Dormer Colville, who stood at his side leaning on his gold-headed cane. Colville's expression seemed to say: "I told you what it would be. But wait: there is more to come."
His affable eyes made a round of the watching faces, and even exchanged a sympathetic smile with some, as if to hint that his clothes were only fine because he belonged to a fine generation, but that his heart was as human as any beating under a homelier coat.
"There's Passen," said one woman to another, behind the corner of her apron, within Colville's hearing. "It takes a deal to bring him out o' doors nowadays, and little Sep and--Miss Miriam."
Dormer Colville heard the words. And he heard something unspoken in the pause before the mention of the last name. He did not look at once in the direction indicated by a jerk of the speaker's thumb, but waited until a change of position enabled him to turn his head without undue curiosity. He threw back his shoulders and stretched his legs after the manner of one cramped by standing too long in one attitude.
A hundred yards farther up the river, where the dyke was wider, a grey-haired man was walking slowly toward the quay. In front of him a boy of ten years was endeavouring to drag a young girl toward the jetty at a quicker pace than she desired. She was laughing at his impetuosity and looking back toward the man who followed them with the abstraction and indifference of a student.
Colville took in the whole picture in one quick comprehensive glance. But he turned again as the singer on board "The Last Hope" began another verse. The words were clearly audible to such as knew the language, and Colville noted that the girl turned with a sudden gravity to listen to them.
"Un tel qu'on vantait Par hasard était D'origine assez minoe; Par hasard il plut, Par hasard il fut Baron, ministre, et prince."
Captain Clubbe's harsh voice broke into the song with the order to let go the anchor. As the ship swung to the tide the steersman, who wore neither coat nor waistcoat, could be seen idly handling the wheel still, though his duties were necessarily at an end. He was a young man, and a gay salutation of his unemployed hand toward the assembled people--as if he were sure that they were all friends--stamped him as the light-hearted singer, so different from the Farlingford men, so strongly contrasted to his hearers, who nevertheless jerked their heads sideways in response. He had, it seemed, rightly gauged the feelings of these cold East Anglians. They were his friends.
River Andrew's boat was alongside "The Last Hope" now. Some one had thrown him a rope, which he had passed under his bow thwart and now held with one hand, while with the other he kept his distance from the tarry side of the ship. There was a pause until the schooner felt her moorings, then Captain Clubbe looked over the side and nodded a curt salutation to River Andrew, bidding him, by the same gesture, wait a minute until he had donned his shore-going jacket. The steersman was pulling on his coat while he sought among the crowd the faces of his more familiar friends. He was, it seemed, a privileged person, and took it for granted that he should go ashore with the captain. He was, perhaps, one of those who seemed to be privileged at their birth by Fate, and pass through life on the sunny side with a light step and laughing lips.
Captain Clubbe was the first to step ashore, with one comprehensive nod of the head for all Farlingford. Close on his heels the younger sailor was already returning the greetings of his friends.
"Hullo, Loo!" they said; or, "How do, Barebone?" For their tongues are no quicker than their limbs, and to this day, "How do?" is the usual greeting.
The Marquis de Gemosac, who was sitting in the background, gave a sharp little exclamation of surprise when Barebone stepped ashore, and turned to Dormer Colville to say in an undertone: "Ah--but you need say nothing."
"I promised you," answered Colville, carelessly, "that I should tell you nothing till you had seen him."
| {
"id": "8942"
} |
3 | THE RETURN OF "THE LAST HOPE" | Not only France, but all Europe, had at this time to reckon with one who, if, as his enemies said, was no Bonaparte, was a very plausible imitation of one.
In 1849 France, indeed, was kind enough to give the world a breathing space. She had herself just come through one of those seething years from which she alone seems to have the power of complete recovery. Paris had been in a state of siege for four months; not threatened by a foreign foe, but torn to pieces by internal dissension. Sixteen thousand had been killed and wounded in the streets. A ministry had fallen. A ministry always does fall in France. Bad weather may bring about such a descent at any moment. A monarchy had been thrown down--a king had fled. Another king; and one who should have known better than to put his trust in a people.
Half a dozen generals had attempted to restore order in Paris and confidence in France. Then, at the very end of 1848, the fickle people elected this Napoleon, who was no Bonaparte, President of the new Republic, and Europe was accorded a breathing space. At the beginning of 1849 arrangements were made for it--military arrangements--and the year was almost quiet.
It was in the summer of the next year, 1850, that the Marquis de Gemosac journeyed to England. It was not his first visit to the country. Sixty years earlier he had been hurried thither by a frenzied mother, a little pale-faced boy, not bright or clever, but destined to pass through days of trial and years of sorrow which the bright and clever would scarcely have survived. For brightness must always mean friction, while cleverness will continue to butt its head against human limitations so long as men shall walk this earth.
He had been induced to make this journey thus, in the evening of his days, by the Hope, hitherto vain enough, which many Frenchmen had pursued for half a century. For he was one of those who refused to believe that Louis XVII had died in the prison of the Temple.
Not once, but many times, Dormer Colville laughingly denied any responsibility in the matter.
"I will not even tell the story as it was told to me," he said to the Marquis de Gemosac, to the Abbé Touvent and to the Comtesse de Chantonnay, whom he met frequently enough at the house of his cousin, Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence, in that which is now the Province of the Charente Inférieure. "I will not even tell you the story as it was told to me, until one of you has seen the man. And then, if you ask me, I will tell you. It is nothing to me, you understand. I am no dreamer, but a very material person, who lives in France because he loves the sunshine, and the cuisine, and the good, kind hearts, which no government or want of government can deteriorate."
And Madame de Chantonnay, who liked Dormer Colville--with whom she admitted she always felt herself in sympathy--smiled graciously in response to his gallant bow. For she, too, was a materialist who loved the sunshine and the cuisine; more especially the cuisine.
Moreover, Colville never persuaded the Marquis de Gemosac to come to England. He went so far as to represent, in a realistic light, the discomforts of the journey, and only at the earnest desire of many persons concerned did he at length enter into the matter and good-naturedly undertake to accompany the aged traveller.
So far as his story was concerned, he kept his word, entertaining the Marquis on the journey and during their two days' sojourn at the humble inn at Farlingford with that flow of sympathetic and easy conversation which always made Madame de Chantonnay protest that he was no Englishman at all, but all that there was of the most French. Has it not been seen that Colville refused to translate the dark sayings of River Andrew by the side of the grass-grown grave, which seemed to have been brought to the notice of the travellers by the merest accident?
"I promised you that I should tell you nothing until you had seen him," he repeated, as the Marquis followed with his eyes the movements of the group of which the man they called Loo Barebone formed the centre.
No one took much notice of the two strangers. It is not considered good manners in a seafaring community to appear to notice a new-comer. Captain Clubbe was naturally the object of universal attention. Was he not bringing foreign money into Farlingford, where the local purses needed replenishing now that trade had fallen away and agriculture was so sorely hampered by the lack of roads across the marsh?
Clubbe pushed his way through the crowd to shake hands with the Rev. Septimus Marvin, who seemed to emerge from a visionary world of his own in order to perform that ceremony and to return thither on its completion.
Then the majority of the onlookers straggled homeward, leaving a few wives and sweethearts waiting by the steps, with patient eyes fixed on the spidery figures in the rigging of "The Last Hope." Dormer Colville and the Marquis de Gemosac were left alone, while the rector stood a few yards away, glaring abstractedly at them through his gold-rimmed spectacles as if they had been some strange flotsam cast up by the high tide.
"I remember," said Colville to his companion, "that I have an introduction to the pastor of the village, who, if I am not mistaken, is even now contemplating opening a conversation. It was given to me by my banker in Paris, who is a Suffolk man. You remember, Marquis, John Turner, of the Rue Lafayette?"
"Yes--yes," answered the Marquis, absently. He was still watching the retreating villagers, with eyes old and veiled by the trouble that they had seen.
"I will take this opportunity of presenting myself," said Colville, who was watching the little group from the rectory without appearing to do so. He rose as he spoke and went toward the clergyman, who was probably much younger than he looked. For he was ill-dressed and ill-shorn, with straggling grey hair hanging to his collar. He had a musty look, such as a book may have that is laid on a shelf in a deserted room and never opened or read. Septimus Marvin, the world would say, had been laid upon a shelf when he was inducted to the spiritual cure of Farlingford. But no man is ever laid on a shelf by Fate. He climbs up there of his own will, and lies down beneath the dust of forgetfulness because he lacks the heart to arise and face the business of life.
Seeing that Dormer Colville was approaching him, he came forward with a certain scholarly ease of manner as if he had once mixed with the best on an intellectual equality.
Colville's manners were considered perfect, especially by those who were unable to detect a fine line said to exist between ease and too much ease. Mr. Marvin recollected John Turner well. Ten years earlier he had, indeed, corresponded at some length with the Paris banker respecting a valuable engraving. Was Mr. Colville interested in engravings? Colville confessed to a deep and abiding pleasure in this branch of art, tempered, he admitted with a laugh, by a colossal ignorance. He then proceeded to give the lie to his own modesty by talking easily and well of mezzotints and etchings.
"But," he said, interrupting himself with evident reluctance, "I am forgetting my obligations. Let me present to you my companion, an old friend, the Marquis de Gemosac."
The two gentlemen bowed, and Mr. Marvin, knowing no French, proceeded to address the stranger in good British Latin, after the manner of the courtly divines of his day. Which Latin, from its mode of pronunciation, was entirely unintelligible to its hearer.
In return, the rector introduced the two strangers to his niece, Miriam Liston.
"The mainstay of my quiet house," he added, with his vague and dreamy smile.
"I have already heard of you," said Dormer Colville at once, with his modest deference, "from my cousin, Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence."
He seemed, as sailors say, never to be at a loose end; but to go through life with a facile readiness, having, as it were, his hands full of threads among which to select, with a careless affability, one that must draw him nearer to high and low, men and women, alike.
They talked together for some minutes, and, soon after the discovery that Mariam Liston was as good a French scholar as himself, and therefore able to converse with the Marquis de Gemosac, Colville regretted that it was time for them to return to their simple evening meal at "The Black Sailor."
"Well," said Colville to Monsieur de Gemosac, as they walked slowly across the green toward the inn, embowered in its simple cottage-garden, all ablaze now with hollyhocks and poppies--"well, after your glimpse at this man, Marquis, are you desirous to see more of him?"
"My friend," answered the Frenchman, with a quick gesture, descriptive of a sudden emotion not yet stilled, "he took my breath away. I can think of nothing else. My poor brain is buzzing still, and I know not what answers I made to that pretty English girl. Ah! You smile at my enthusiasm; you do not know what it is to have a great hope dangling before the eyes all one's life. And that face--that face!"
In which judgment the Marquis was no doubt right. For Dormer Colville was too universal a man to be capable of concentrated zeal upon any one object. He laughed at the accusation.
"After dinner," he answered, "I will tell you the little story as it was told to me. We can sit on this seat, outside the inn, in the scent of the flowers and smoke our cigarette."
To which proposal Monsieur de Gemosac assented readily enough. For he was an old man, and to such the importance of small things, such as dinner or a passing personal comfort, are apt to be paramount. Moreover, he was a remnant of that class to which France owed her downfall among the nations; a class represented faithfully enough by its King, Louis XVI, who procrastinated even on the steps of the guillotine.
The wind went down with the sun, as had been foretold by River Andrew, and the quiet of twilight lay on the level landscape like sleep when the two travellers returned to the seat at the inn door. A distant curlew was whistling cautiously to its benighted mate, but all other sounds were still. The day was over.
"You remember," said Colville to his companion, "that six months after the execution of the King, a report ran through Paris and all France that the Dillons had succeeded in rescuing the Dauphin from the Temple."
"That was in July, 1793--just fifty-seven years ago--the news reached me in Austria," answered the Marquis.
Colville glanced sideways at his companion, whose face was set with a stubbornness almost worthy of the tenacious Bourbons themselves.
"The Queen was alive then," went on the Englishman, half diffidently, as if prepared for amendment or correction. "She had nearly three months to live. The separation from her children had only just been carried out. She was not broken by it yet. She was in full possession of her health and energy. She was one of the cleverest women of that time. She was surrounded by men, some of whom were frankly half-witted, others who were drunk with excess of a sudden power for which they had had no preparation. Others, again, were timorous or cunning. All were ignorant, and many had received no education at all. For there are many ignorant people who have been highly educated, Marquis."
He gave a short laugh and lighted a cigarette. "Mind," he continued, after a pause devoted to reflection which appeared to be neither deep nor painful, for he smiled as he gazed across the hazy marshes, "mind, I am no enthusiast, as you yourself have observed. I plead no cause. She was not my Queen, Marquis, and France is not my country. I endeavour to look at the matter with the eye of common-sense and wisdom. And I cannot forget that Marie Antoinette was at bay: all her senses, all her wit alert. She can only have thought of her children. Human nature would dictate such thoughts. One cannot forget that she had devoted friends, and that these friends possessed unlimited money. Do you think, Marquis, that any one man of that rabble was above the reach--of money?"
And Mr. Dormer Colville's reflective smile, as he gazed at the distant sea, would seem to indicate that, after a considerable experience of men and women, he had reluctantly arrived at a certain conclusion respecting them.
"No man born of woman, Marquis, is proof against bribery or flattery--or both."
"One can believe anything that is bad of such dregs of human-kind, my friend," said Monsieur de Gemosac, contemptuously.
"I speak to one," continued Colville, "who has given the attention of a lifetime to the subject. If I am wrong, correct me. What I have been told is that a man was found who was ready, in return for a certain sum paid down, to substitute his own son for the little Dauphin--to allow his son to take the chance of coming alive out of that predicament. One can imagine that such a man could be found in France at that period."
Monsieur de Gemosac turned, and looked at his companion with a sort of surprise.
"You speak as if in doubt, Monsieur Colville," he said, with a sudden assumption of that grand manner with which his father had faced the people on the Place de la Révolution--had taken a pinch of snuff in the shadow of the guillotine one sunny July day. "You speak as if in doubt. Such a man was found. I have spoken with him: I, who speak to you."
| {
"id": "8942"
} |
4 | THE MARQUIS'S CREED | Dormer Colville smiled doubtfully. He was too polite, it seemed, to be sceptical, and by his attitude expressed a readiness to be convinced as much from indifference as by reasoning.
"It is intolerable," said the Marquis de Gemosac, "that a man of your understanding should be misled by a few romantic writers in the pay of the Orleans."
"I am not misled, Marquis; I am ignorant," laughed Colville. "It is not always the same thing."
Monsieur de Gemosac threw away his cigarette and turned eagerly toward his companion.
"Listen," he said. "I can convince you in a few words."
And Colville leaned back against the weather-worn seat with the air of one prepared to give a post-prandial attention.
"Such a man was found as you yourself suggest. A boy was found who could not refuse to run that great risk, who could not betray himself by indiscreet speech--because he was dumb. In order to allay certain rumours which were going the round of Europe, the National Convention sent three of its members to visit the Dauphin in prison, and they themselves have left a record that he answered none of their questions and spoke no word to them. Why? Because he was dumb. He merely sat and looked at them solemnly, as the dumb look. It was not the Dauphin at all. He was hidden in the loft above. The visit of the Conventionals was not satisfactory. The rumours were not stilled by it. There is nothing so elusive or so vital as a rumour. Ah! you smile, my friend."
"I always give a careful attention to rumours," admitted Colville. "More careful than that which one accords to official announcements."
"Well, the dumb boy was not satisfactory. Those who were paid for this affair began to be alarmed. Not for their pockets. There was plenty of money. Half the crowned heads in Europe, and all the women, were ready to open their purses for the sake of a little boy, whose ill-treatment appealed to their soft hearts: who in a sense was sacred, for he was descended from sixty-six kings. No! Barras and all the other scoundrels began to perceive that there was only one way out of the difficulty into which they had blundered. The Dauphin must die! So the dumb boy disappeared. One wonders whither he went and what his fate might be--" "With so much to tell," put in Dormer Colville, musingly; "so much unspoken."
It was odd how the _rôles_ had been reversed. For the Marquis de Gemosac was now eagerly seeking to convince his companion. The surest way to persuade a man is to lead him to persuade himself.
"The only solution was for the Dauphin to die--in public. So another substitution was effected," continued Monsieur de Gemosac. "A dying boy from the hospital was made to play the part of the Dauphin. He was not at all like him; for he was tall and dark--taller and darker than a son of Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette could ever have been. The prison was reconstructed so that the sentry on guard could not see his prisoner, but was forced to call to him in order to make sure that he was there. It was a pity that he did not resemble the Dauphin at all, this scrofulous child. But they were in a hurry, and they were at their wits' ends. And it is not always easy to find a boy who will die in a given time. This boy had to die, however, by some means or other. It was for France, you understand, and the safety of the Great Republic."
"One hopes that he appreciated his privilege," observed Colville, philosophically.
"And he must die in public, duly certified for by persons of undoubted integrity. They called in, at the last moment, Desault, a great doctor of that day. But Desault was, unfortunately, honest. He went home and told his assistant that this was not the Dauphin, and that, whoever he might be, he was being poisoned. The assistant's name was Choppart, and this Choppart made up a medicine, on Desault's prescription, which was an antidote to poison."
Monsieur de Gemosac paused, and, turning to his companion, held up one finger to command his full attention.
"Desault died, my friend, four days later, and Choppart died five days after him, and the boy in the Temple died three days after Choppart. And no one knows what they died of. They were pretty bunglers, those gentlemen of the Republic! Of course, they called in others in a hurry; men better suited to their purpose. And one of these, the citizen Pelletan, has placed on record some preposterous lies. These doctors certified that this was the Dauphin. They had never seen him before, but what matter? Great care was taken to identify the body. Persons of position, who had never seen the son of Louis XVI, were invited to visit the Temple. Several of them had the temerity to protect themselves in the certificate. 'We saw what we were informed was the body of the Dauphin,' they said."
Again the old man turned, and held up his hand in a gesture of warning.
"If they wanted a witness whose testimony was without question--whose word would have laid the whole question in that lost and forgotten grave for ever--they had one in the room above. For the Dauphin's sister was there, Marie Thérèse Charlotte, she who is now Duchess of Angoulême. Why did they not bring her down to see the body, to testify that her brother was dead and the line of Louis XVI ended? Was it chivalry? I ask you if these had shown chivalry to Madame de Lamballe? to Madame Elizabeth? to Marie Antoinette? Was it kindness toward a child of unparalleled misfortune? I ask you if they had been kind to those whom they called the children of the tyrant? No! They did not conduct her to that bedside, because he who lay there was not her brother. Are we children, Monsieur, to be deceived by a tale of a sudden softness of heart? They wished to spare this child the pain! Had they ever spared any one pain--the National Assembly?"
And the Marquis de Gemosac's laugh rang with a hatred which must, it seems, outlive the possibility of revenge.
"There was to be a public funeral. Such a ceremony would have been of incalculable value at that time. But, at the last minute, their courage failed them. The boy was thrown into a forgotten corner of a Paris churchyard, at nine o'clock one night, without witnesses. The spot itself cannot now be identified. Do you tell me that that was the Dauphin? Bah! my friend, the thing was too childish!"
"The ignorant and the unlettered," observed Colville, with the air of making a concession, "are always at a disadvantage--even in crime."
"That the Dauphin was, in the mean time, concealed in the garret of the Tower appears to be certain. That he was finally conveyed out of the prison in a clothes-basket is as certain, Monsieur, as it is certain that the sun will rise to-morrow. And I believe that the Queen knew, when she went to the guillotine, that her son was no longer in the Temple. I believe that Heaven sent her that one scrap of comfort, tempered as it was by the knowledge that her daughter remained a prisoner in their hands. But it was to her son that her affections were given. For the Duchess never had the gift of winning love. As she is now--a cold, hard, composed woman--so she was in her prison in the Temple at the age of fifteen. You may take it from one who has known her all his life. And from that moment to this--" The Marquis paused, and made a gesture with his hands, descriptive of space and the unknown.
"From that moment to this--nothing. Nothing of the Dauphin."
He turned in his seat and looked questioningly up toward the crumbling church, with its square tower, stricken, years ago, by lightning; with its grass-grown graveyard marked by stones all grey and hoary with immense age and the passage of cold and stormy winters.
"Who knows," he added, "what may have become of him? Who can say where he lies? For a life begun as his began was not likely to be a long one. Though troubles do not kill. Witness myself, who am five years his senior."
Colville looked at him in obedience to an inviting gesture of the hand; looked as at something he did not understand, something beyond his understanding, perhaps. For the troubles had not been Monsieur de Gemosac's own troubles, but those of his country.
"And the Duchess?" said the Englishman at length, after a pause, "at Frohsdorf--what does she say--or think?"
"She says nothing," replied the Marquis de Gemosac, sharply. "She is silent, because the world is listening for every word she may utter. What she thinks ... Ah! who knows? She is an old woman, my friend, for she is seventy-one. Her memories are a millstone about her neck. No wonder she is silent. Think what her life has been. As a child, three years of semi-captivity at the Tuileries, with the mob howling round the railings. Three and a half years a prisoner in the Temple. Both parents sent to the guillotine--her aunt to the same. All her world--massacred. As a girl, she was collected, majestic; or else she could not have survived those years in the Temple, alone--the last of her family. What must her thoughts have been, at night in her prison? As a woman, she is cold, sad, unemotional. No one ever lived through such troubles with so little display of feeling. The Restoration, the Hundred Days, the second Restoration, Louis XVIII, and his flight to England; Charles X and his abdication; her own husband, the Duc d'Angoulême--the Dauphin for many years, the King for half an hour--these are some of her experiences. She has lived for forty years in exile in Mittau, Memel, Warsaw, Königsberg, Prague, England; and now she is at Frohsdorf, awaiting the end. You ask me what she says? She says nothing, but she knows--she has always known--that her brother did not die in the Temple."
"Then--" suggested Colville, who certainly had acquired the French art of putting much meaning into one word.
"Then why not seek him? you would ask. How do you know that she has not done so, my friend, with tears? But as years passed on, and brought no word of him, it became less and less desirable. While Louis XVIII continued to reign there was no reason to wish to find Louis XVII, you understand. For there was still a Bourbon, of the direct line, upon the throne. Louis XVIII would scarcely desire it. One would not expect him to seek very diligently for one who would deprive him of the crown. Charles X, knowing he must succeed his brother, was no more enthusiastic in the search. And the Duchess d'Angoulême herself, you ask? I can see the question in your face."
"Yet," conceded Colville. "For, after all, he was her brother."
"Yes--and if she found him, what would be the result? Her uncle would be driven from the throne; her father-in-law would not inherit; her own husband, the Dauphin, would be Dauphin no longer. She herself could never be Queen of France. It is a hard thing to say of a woman--" Monsieur de Gemosac paused for a moment in reflection.
"Yes," he said at length, "a hard thing. But this is a hard world, Monsieur Colville, and will not allow either men or women to be angels. I have known and served the Duchess all my life, and I confess that she has never lost sight of the fact that, should Louis XVII be found, she herself would never be Queen of France. One is not a Bourbon for nothing."
"One is not a stateswoman and a daughter of kings for nothing," amended Colville, with his tolerant laugh; for he was always ready to make allowances. "Better, perhaps, that France should be left quiet, under the _régime_ she had accepted, than disturbed by the offer of another _régime_, which might be less acceptable. You always remind me--you, who deal with France--of a lion-tamer at a circus. You have a very slight control over your performing beasts. If they refuse to do the trick you propose, you do not press it, but pass on to another trick; and the bars of the cage always appear to the onlooker to be very inadequate. Perhaps it was better, Marquis, to let the Dauphin go; to pass him over, and proceed to the tricks suitable to the momentary humour of your wild animals."
The Marquis de Gemosac gave a curt laugh, which thrilled with a note of that fearful joy known to those who seek to control the uncontrollable.
"At that time," he admitted, "it might be so. But not now. At that time there lived Louis XVIII and Charles X, and his sons, the Duc d'Angoulême and the Duc de Berri, who might reasonably be expected to have sons in their turn. There were plenty of Bourbons, it seemed. And now--where are they? What is left of them?"
He gave a nod of the head toward the sea that lay between him and Germany.
"One old woman, over there, at Frohsdorf, the daughter of Marie Antoinette, awaiting the end of her bitter pilgrimage--and this Comte de Chambord. This man who will not when he may. No, my friend, it has never been so necessary to find Louis XVII as it is now. Necessary for France--for the whole world. This Prince President, this last offshoot of a pernicious republican growth, will drag us all in the mud if he gets his way with France. And those who have watched with seeing eyes have always known that such a time as the present must eventually come. For France will always be the victim of a clever adventurer. We have foreseen it, and for that reason we have treated as serious possibilities these false Dauphins who have sprung up like mushrooms all over Europe and even in America. And what have they proved? What have the Bourbons proved in frustrating their frauds? That the son of Louis XVI did not die in the Temple. That is all. And Madame herself has gathered further strength to her conviction that the little King was not buried in that forgotten corner of the graveyard of Sainte Marguérite. At the same time, she knows that none of these--neither Naundorff, nor Havergault, nor Bruneau, nor de Richemont, nor any other pretender--was her brother. No! The King, either because he did not know he was King, or because he had had enough of royalty, never came forward and never betrayed his whereabouts. He was to be sought; he is still to be sought. And it is now that he is wanted."
"That is why I offer to tell you this story now. That is my reason for bringing you to Farlingford now," said Colville, quietly. It seemed that he must have awaited, as the wise do in this world, the propitious moment, and should it never come they are content to forego their purpose. He gave a light laugh and stretched out his long legs, contemplating his strapped trousers and neat boots with the eye of a connoisseur. "And should I be the humble means of doing a good turn to France and others, will France--and others--remember it, I wonder. Perhaps I hold in my hands the Hope of France, Marquis."
He paused, and lapsed for a moment into thought. It was eight o'clock, and the long northern twilight was fading into darkness now. The bell of Captain Clubbe's ship rang out the hour--a new sound in the stillness of this forgotten town.
"The Last Hope," added Dormer Colville, with a queer laugh.
| {
"id": "8942"
} |
5 | ON THE DYKE | Neither had spoken again when their thoughts were turned aside from that story which Colville, instead of telling, had been called upon to hear.
For the man whose story it presumably was passed across the green ere the sound of the ship's bell had died away. He had changed his clothes, or else it would have appeared that he was returning to his ship. He walked with his head thrown up, with long lithe steps, with a gait and carnage so unlike the heavy tread of men wearing sea-boots all their working days, that none would have believed him to be born and bred in Farlingford. For it is not only in books that history is written, but in the turn of a head, in the sound of a voice, in the vague and dreamy thoughts half formulated by the human mind 'twixt sleeping and waking.
Monsieur de Gemosac paused, with his cigarette held poised halfway to his lips, and watched the man go past, while Dormer Colville, leaning back against the wall, scanned him sideways between lowered lids.
It would seem that Barebone must have an appointment. He walked without looking about him, like one who is late. He rather avoided than sought the greeting of a friend from the open cottage-doors as he passed on. On reaching the quay he turned quickly to the left, following the path that led toward the dyke at the riverside.
"He is no sailor at heart," commented Colville. "He never even glanced at his ship."
"And yet it was he who steered the ship in that dangerous river."
"He may be skilful in anything he undertakes," suggested Colville, in explanation. "It is Captain Clubbe who will tell us that. For Captain Clubbe has known him since his birth, and was the friend of his father."
They sat in silence watching the shadowy figure on the dyke, outlined dimly against the hazy horizon. He was walking, still with haste as if to a certain destination, toward the rectory buried in its half circle of crouching trees. And already another shadow was hurrying from the house to meet him. It was the boy, little Sep Marvin, and in the stillness of the evening his shrill voice could be heard in excited greeting.
"What have you brought? What have you brought?" he was crying, as he ran toward Barebone. They seemed to have so much to say to each other that they could not wait until they came within speaking distance. The boy took Barebone's hand, and turning walked back with him to the old house peeping over the dyke toward the sea. He could scarcely walk quietly, for joy at the return of his friend, and skipped from side to side, pouring out questions and answering them himself as children and women do.
But Barebone gave him only half of his attention and looked before him with grave eyes, while the boy talked of nests and knives. Barebone was looking toward the garden, concealed like an entrenchment behind the dyke. It was a quiet evening, and the rector was walking slowly backward and forward on the raised path, made on the dyke itself, like a ship-captain on his quarter-deck, with hands clasped behind his bent back and eyes that swept the horizon at each turn with a mechanical monotony. At one end of the path, which was worn smooth by the Reverend Septimus Marvin's pensive foot, the gleam of a white dress betrayed the presence of his niece, Miriam Liston.
"Ah, is that you?" asked the rector, holding out a limp hand. "Yes. I remember Sep was allowed to sit up till half-past eight in the hope that you might come round to see us. Well, Loo, and how are you? Yes--yes."
And he looked vaguely out to sea, repeating below his breath the words "Yes--yes" almost in a whisper, as if communing secretly with his own thoughts out of hearing of the world.
"Of course I should come round to see you," answered Barebone. "Where else should I go? So soon as we had had tea and I could change my clothes and get away from that dear Mrs. Clubbe. It seems so strange to come back here from the racketing world--and France is a racketing world of its own--and find everything in Farlingford just the same."
He had shaken hands with the rector and with Miriam Liston as he spoke, and his speech was not the speech of Farlingford men at all, but rather of Septimus Marvin himself, of whose voice he had acquired the ring of education, while adding to it a neatness and quickness of enunciation which must have been his own; for none in Suffolk could have taught it to him.
"Just the same," he repeated, glancing at the book Miriam had laid aside for a moment to greet him and had now taken up again. "That book must be very large print," he said, "for you to be able to read by this light."
"It is large print," answered the girl, with a friendly laugh, as she returned to it.
"And you are still resolved to be a sailor?" inquired Marvin, looking at him with kind eyes for ever asleep, it would appear, in some long slumber which must have been the death of one of the sources of human energy--of ambition or of hope.
"Until I find a better calling," answered Loo Barebone, with his eager laugh. "When I am away I wonder how any can be content to live in Farlingford and let the world go by. And when I am here I wonder how any can be so foolish as to fret and fume in the restless world while he might be sitting quietly at Farlingford."
"Ah," murmured the rector, musingly, "you are for the world. You, with your capacities, your quickness for learning, your--well, your lightness of heart, my dear Loo. That goes far in the great world. To be light of heart--to amuse. Yes, you are for the world. You might do something there."
"And nothing in Farlingford?" inquired Barebone, gaily; but he turned, as he spoke, and glanced once more at Miriam Liston as if in some dim way the question could not be answered by any other. She was absorbed in her book again. The print must indeed have been large and clear, for the twilight was fading fast.
She looked up and met his glance with direct and steady eyes of a clear grey. A severe critic of that which none can satisfactorily define--a woman's beauty--would have objected that her face was too wide, and her chin too square. Her hair, which was of a bright brown, grew with a singular strength and crispness round a brow which was serene and square. In her eyes there shone the light of tenacity, and a steady purpose. A student of human nature must have regretted that the soul looking out of such eyes should have been vouchsafed to a woman. For strength and purpose in a man are usually exercised for the good of mankind, while in a woman such qualities must, it would seem, benefit no more than one man of her own generation, and a few who may follow her in the next.
"There is nothing," she said, turning to her book again, "for a man to do in Farlingford."
"And for a woman--?" inquired Barebone, without looking at her.
"There is always something--everywhere."
And Septimus Marvin's reflective "Yes--yes," as he paused in his walk and looked seaward, came in appropriately as a grave confirmation of Miriam's jesting statement.
"Yes--yes," he repeated, turning toward Barebone, who stood listening to the boy's chatter. "You find us as you left us, Loo. Was it six months ago? Ah! How time flies when one remains stationary. For you, I dare say, it seems more."
"For me--oh yes, it seems more," replied Barebone, with his gay laugh, and a glance toward Miriam.
"A little older," continued the rector. "The church a little mouldier. Farlingford a little emptier. Old Godbold is gone--the last of the Godbolds of Farlingford, which means another empty cottage in the street."
"I saw it as I came down," answered Barebone. "They look like last year's nests--those empty cottages. But you have been all well, here at the rectory, since we sailed? The cottages--well, they are only cottages after all."
Miriam's eyes were raised for a moment from her book.
"Is it like that they talk in France?" she asked. "Are those the sentiments of the great republic?"
Barebone laughed aloud.
"I thought I could make you look up from your book," he answered. "One has merely to cast a slur upon the poor--your dear poor of Farlingford--and you are up in arms in an instant. But I am not the person to cast a slur, since I am one of the poor of Farlingford myself, and owe it to charity--to the charity of the rectory--that I can read and write."
"But it came to you very naturally," observed Marvin, looking vaguely across the marshes to the roofs of the village, "to suggest that those who live in cottages are of a different race of beings--" He broke off, following his own thoughts in silence, as men soon learn to do who have had no companion by them capable of following whithersoever they may lead.
"Did it?" asked Barebone, sharply. He turned to look at his old friend and mentor with a sudden quick distress. "I hope not. I hope it did not sound like that. For you have never taught me such thoughts, have you? Quite the contrary. And I cannot have learned it from Clubbe."
He broke off with a laugh of relief, for he had perceived that Septimus Marvin's thoughts were already elsewhere.
"Perhaps you are right," he added, turning to Miriam. "It may be that one should go to a republic in order to learn--once for all--that all men are not equal."
"You say it with so much conviction," was the retort, "that you must have known it before."
"But I do not know it. I deny such knowledge. Where could I have learned such a principle?"
He spread out his arms in emphatic denial. For he was quick in all his gestures--quick to laugh or be grave--quick, with the rapidity of a woman to catch a thought held back by silence or concealed in speech.
Marvin merely looked at him with a dreamy smile and lapsed again into those speculations which filled his waking moments; for the business of life never received his full attention. He contemplated the world from afar off, and was like that blind man at Bethsaida who saw men as trees walking, and rubbed his eyes and wondered. He turned at the sound of the church clock and looked at his son, whose attitude towards Barebone was that of an admiring younger brother.
"Sep," he said, "your extra half-hour has passed. You will have time tomorrow and for many days to come to exchange views with Loo."
The boy was old before his time, as the children of elderly parents always are.
"Very well," he said, with a grave nod. "But you must not tell Loo where those young herons are after I am gone to bed."
He went slowly toward the house, looking back suspiciously from time to time.
"Herons? no. Why should I? Where are they?" muttered Mr. Marvin, vaguely, and he absent-mindedly followed his son, leaving Miriam Liston sitting in the turf shelter, built like an embrasure in the dyke, and Barebone standing a little distance from her, looking at her.
A silence fell upon them--the silence that follows the departure of a third person when those who are left behind turn a new page. Miriam laid her book upon her lap and looked across the river now slowly turning to its ebb. She did not look at Barebone, but her eyes were conscious of his proximity. Her attitude, like his, seemed to indicate the knowledge that this moment had been inevitable from the first, and that there was no desire on either part to avoid it or to hasten its advent.
"I had a haunting fear as we came up the river," he said at length, quietly and with an odd courtesy of manner, "that you might have gone away. That is the calamity always hanging over this quiet house."
He spoke with the ease of manner which always indicates a long friendship, or a close _camaraderie_, resulting from common interests or a common endeavour.
"Why should I go away?" she asked.
"On the other hand, why should you stay?"
"Because I fancy I am wanted," she replied, in the lighter tone which he had used. "It is gratifying to one's vanity, you know, whether it be true or not."
"Oh, it is true enough. One cannot imagine what they would do without you."
He was watching Septimus Marvin as he spoke. Sep had joined him and was walking gravely by his side toward the house. They were ill-assorted.
"But there is a limit even to self-sacrifice and--well, there is another world open to you."
She gave a curt laugh as if he had touched a topic upon which they would disagree.
"Oh--yes," he laughed. "I leave myself open to a _tu quoque_, I know. There are other worlds open to me also, you would say."
He looked at her with his gay and easy smile; but she made no answer, and her resolute lips closed together sharply. The subject had been closed by some past conversation or incident which had left a memory.
"Who are those two men staying at 'The Black Sailor?'" she asked, changing the subject, or only turning into a by-way, perhaps. "You saw them."
She seemed to take it for granted that he should have seen them, though he had not appeared to look in their direction.
"Oh--yes. I saw them, but I do not know who they are. I came straight here as soon as I could."
"One of them is a Frenchman," she said, taking no heed of the excuse given for his ignorance of Farlingford news.
"The old man--I thought so. I felt it when I looked at him. It was perhaps a fellow feeling. I suppose I am a Frenchman after all. Clubbe always says I am one when I am at the wheel and let the ship go off the wind."
Miriam was looking along the dyke, peering into the gathering darkness.
"One of them is coming toward us now," she said, almost warningly. "Not the Marquis de Gemosac, but the other--the Englishman."
"Confound him," muttered Barebone. "What does he want?"
And to judge from Mr. Dormer Colville's pace it would appear that he chiefly desired to interrupt their _tête-à-tête_.
| {
"id": "8942"
} |
6 | THE STORY OF THE CASTAWAYS | When River Andrew stated that there were few at Farlingford who knew more of Frenchman than himself, it is to be presumed that he spoke by the letter, and under the reserve that Captain Clubbe was not at the moment on shore.
For Captain Clubbe had known Frenchman since boyhood.
"I understand," said Dormer Colville to him two or three days after the arrival of "The Last Hope," "that the Marquis de Gemosac cannot do better than apply to you for some information he desires to possess. In fact, it is on that account that we are here."
The introduction had been a matter requiring patience. For Captain Clubbe had not laid aside in his travels a certain East Anglian distrust of the unknown. He had, of course, noted the presence of the strangers when he landed at Farlingford quay, but his large, immobile face had betrayed no peculiar interest. There had been plenty to tell him all that was known of Monsieur de Gemosac and Dormer Colville, and a good deal that was only surmised. But the imagination of even the darksome River Andrew failed to soar successfully under the measuring blue eye, and the total lack of comment of Captain Clubbe.
There was, indeed, little to tell, although the strangers had been seen to go to the rectory in quite a friendly way, and had taken a glass of sherry in the rector's study. Mrs. Clacy was responsible for this piece of news, and her profession giving her the _entrée_ to almost every back door in Farlingford enabled her to gather news at the fountain-head. For Mrs. Clacy went out to oblige. She obliged the rectory on Mondays, and Mrs. Clubbe, with what was technically described as the heavy wash, on Tuesdays. Whatever Mrs. Clacy was asked to do she could perform with a rough efficiency. But she always undertook it with reluctance. It was not, she took care to mention, what she was accustomed to, but she would do it to oblige. Her charge was eighteen-pence a day with her dinner, and (she made the addition with a raised eyebrow, and the resigned sigh of one who takes her meals as a duty toward those dependent on her) a bit of tea at the end of the day.
It was on a Wednesday that Dormer Colville met Captain Clubbe face to face in the street, and was forced to curb his friendly smile and half-formed nod of salutation. For Captain Clubbe went past him with a rigid face and steadily averted eyes, like a walking monument. For there was something in the captain's deportment dimly suggestive of stone, and the dignity of stillness. His face meant security, his large limbs a slow, sure action.
Colville and Monsieur de Gemosac were on the quay in the afternoon at high tide when "The Last Hope" was warped on to the slip-way. All Farlingford was there too, and Captain Clubbe carried out the difficult task with hardly any words at all from a corner of the jetty, with Loo Barebone on board as second in command.
Captain Clubbe could not fail to perceive the strangers, for they stood a few yards from him, Monsieur de Gemosac peering with his yellow eyes toward the deck of "The Last Hope," where Barebone stood on the forecastle giving the orders transmitted to him by a sign from his taciturn captain. Colville seemed to take a greater interest in the proceedings, and noted the skill and precision of the crew with the air of a seaman.
Presently, Septimus Marvin wandered down the dyke and stood irresolutely at the far corner of the jetty. He always approached his flock with diffidence, although they treated him kindly enough, much as they treated such of their own children as were handicapped in the race of life by some malformation or mental incapacity.
Colville approached him and they stood side by side until "The Last Hope" was safely moored and chocked. Then it was that the rector introduced the two strangers to Captain Clubbe. It being a Wednesday, Clubbe must have known all that there was to know, and more, of Monsieur de Gemosac and Dormer Colville; for Mrs. Clacy, it will be remembered, obliged Mrs. Clubbe on Tuesdays. Nothing, however, in the mask-like face, large and square, of the ship-captain indicated that he knew aught of his new acquaintances, or desired to know more. And when Colville frankly explained their presence in Farlingford, Captain Clubbe nodded gravely and that was all.
"We can wait, however, until a more suitable opportunity presents itself," Colville hastened to add. "You are busy, as even a landsman can perceive, and cannot be expected to think of anything but your vessel until the tide leaves her high and dry."
He turned and explained the situation to the Marquis, who shrugged his shoulders impatiently as if at the delay. For he was a southerner, and was, perhaps, ignorant of the fact that in dealing with any born on the shores of the German Ocean nothing is gained and, more often than not, all is lost by haste.
"You hear," Colville added, turning to the Captain, and speaking in a curter manner; for so strongly was he moved by that human kindness which is vaguely called sympathy that his speech varied according to his listener. "You hear the Marquis only speaks French. It is about a fellow-countryman of his buried here. Drop in and have a glass of wine with us some evening; to-night, if you are at liberty."
"What I can tell you won't take long," said Clubbe, over his shoulder; for the tide was turning, and in a few minutes would be ebbing fast.
"Dare say not. But we have a good bin of claret at 'The Black Sailor,' and shall be glad of your opinion on it."
Clubbe nodded, with a curt laugh, which might have been intended to deprecate the possession of any opinion on a vintage, or to express his disbelief that Dormer Colville desired to have it.
Nevertheless, his large person loomed in the dusk of the trees soon after sunset, in the narrow road leading from his house to the church and the green.
Monsieur de Gemosac and his companion were sitting on the bench outside the inn, leaning against the sill of their own parlour-window, which stood open. The Captain had changed his clothes, and now wore those in which he went to church and to the custom-house when in London or other large cities.
"There walks a just man," commented Dormer Colville, lightly, and no longer word could have described Captain Clubbe more aptly. He would rather have stayed in his own garden this evening to smoke his pipe in contemplative silence. But he had always foreseen that the day might come when it would be his duty to do his best by Loo Barebone. He had not sought this opportunity, because, being a wise as well as a just man, he was not quite sure that he knew what the best would be.
He shook hands gravely with the strangers, and by his manner seemed to indicate his comprehension of Monsieur de Gemosac's well-turned phrases of welcome. Dormer Colville appeared to be in a silent humour, unless perchance he happened to be one of those rare beings who can either talk or hold their tongues as occasion may demand.
"You won't want me to put my oar in, I see," observed he, tentatively, as he drew forward a small table whereon were set three glasses and a bottle of the celebrated claret.
"I can understand French, but I don't talk it," replied the Captain, stolidly.
"And if I interpret as we go along, we shall sit here all night, and get very little said."
Colville explained the difficulty to the Marquis de Gemosac, and agreed with him that much time would be saved if Captain Clubbe would be kind enough to tell in English all that he knew of the nameless Frenchman buried in Farlingford churchyard, to be translated by Colville to Monsieur de Gemosac at another time. As Clubbe understood this, and nodded in acquiescence, there only remained to them to draw the cork and light their cigars.
"Not much to tell," said Clubbe, guardedly. "But what there is, is no secret, so far as I know. It has not been told because it was known long ago, and has been forgotten since. The man's dead and buried, and there's an end of him."
"Of him, yes, but not of his race," answered Colville.
"You mean the lad?" inquired the Captain, turning his calm and steady gaze to Colville's face. The whole man seemed to turn, ponderously and steadily, like a siege-gun.
"That is what I meant," answered Colville. "You understand," he went on to explain, as if urged thereto by the fixed glance of the clear blue eye--"you understand, it is none of my business. I am only here as the Marquis de Gemosac's friend. Know him in his own country, where I live most of the time."
Clubbe nodded.
"Frenchman was picked up at sea fifty-five years ago this July," he narrated, bluntly, "by the 'Martha and Mary' brig of this port. I was apprentice at the time. Frenchman was a boy with fair hair and a womanish face. Bit of a cry-baby I used to think him, but being a boy myself I was perhaps hard on him. He was with his--well, his mother."
Captain Clubbe paused. He took the cigar from his lips and carefully replaced the outer leaf, which had wrinkled. Perhaps he waited to be asked a question. Colville glanced at him sideways and did not ask it.
"Dark night," the Captain continued, after a short silence, "and a heavy sea, about mid-channel off Dieppe. We sighted a French fishing-boat yawing about abandoned. Something queer about her, the skipper thought. Those were queer times in France. We hailed her, and getting no answer put out a boat and boarded her. There was nobody on board but a woman and a child. Woman was half mad with fear. I have seen many afraid, but never one like that. I was only a boy myself, but I remember thinking it wasn't the sea and drowning she was afraid of. We couldn't find out the smack's name. It had been painted out with a tar-brush, and she was half full of water. The skipper took the woman and child off, and left the fishing-smack as we found her yawing about--all sail set. They reckoned she would founder in a few minutes. But there was one old man on board, the boatswain, who had seen many years at sea, who said that she wasn't making any water at all, because he had been told to look for the leak and couldn't find it. He said that the water had been pumped into her so as to waterlog her; and it was his belief that she had not been abandoned many minutes, that the crew were hanging about somewhere near in a boat waiting to see if we sighted her and put men on board."
Mr. Dormer Colville was attending to the claret, and pressed Captain Clubbe by a gesture of the hand to empty his glass.
"Something wrong somewhere?" he suggested, in a conversational way.
"By daylight we were ramping up channel with three French men-of-war after us," was Captain Clubbe's comprehensive reply. "As chance had it, the channel squadron hove in sight round the Foreland, and the Frenchmen turned and left us."
Clubbe marked a pause in his narrative by a glass of claret, taken at one draught like beer.
"Skipper was a Farlingford man, name of Doy," he continued. "Long as he lived he was pestered by inquiries from the French government respecting a Dieppe fishing-smack supposed to have been picked up abandoned at sea. He had picked up no fishing-smack, and he answered no letters about it. He was an old man when it happened, and he died at sea soon after my indentures expired. The woman and child were brought here, where nobody could speak French, and, of course, neither of them could speak any English. The boy was white-faced and frightened at first, but he soon picked up spirit. They were taken in and cared for by one and another--any who could afford it. For Farlingford has always bred seafaring men ready to give and take."
"So we were told yesterday by the rector. We had a long talk with him in the morning. A clever man, if--" Dormer Colville did not complete the remark, but broke off with a sigh. He had no doubt seen trouble himself. For it is not always the ragged and unkempt who have been sore buffeted by the world, but also such as have a clean-washed look almost touching sleekness.
"Yes," said Clubbe, slowly and conclusively. "So you have seen the parson."
"Of course," Colville remarked, cheerfully, after a pause; for we cannot always be commiserating the unfortunate. "Of course, all this happened before his time, and Monsieur de Gemosac does not want to learn from hearsay, you understand, but at first hand. I fancy he would, for instance, like to know when the woman, the--mother died."
Clubbe was looking straight in front of him. He turned in his disconcerting, monumental way and looked at his questioner, who had imitated with a perfect ingenuousness his own brief pause before the word mother. Colville smiled pleasantly at him.
"I tell you frankly, Captain," he said, "it would suit me better if she wasn't the mother."
"I am not here to suit you," murmured Captain Clubbe, without haste or hesitation.
"No. Well, let us say for the present that she was the mother. We can discuss that another time. When did she die?"
"Seven years after landing here."
Colville made a mental calculation and nodded his head with satisfaction at the end of it. He lighted another cigarette.
"I am a business man, Captain," he said at length. "Fair dealing and a clean bond. That is what I have been brought up to. Confidence for confidence. Before we go any further--" He paused and seemed to think before committing himself. Perhaps he saw that Captain Clubbe did not intend to go much further without some _quid pro quo_. "Before we go any further, I think I may take it upon myself to let you into the Marquis's confidence. It is about an inheritance, Captain. A great inheritance and--well, that young fellow may well be the man. He may be born to greater things than a seafaring life, Captain."
"I don't want any marquis to tell me that," answered Clubbe, with his slow judicial smile. "For I've brought him up since the cradle. He's been at sea with me in fair weather and foul--and he is not the same as us."
| {
"id": "8942"
} |
7 | ON THE SCENT | Dormer Colville attached so much importance to the Captain's grave jest that he interpreted it at once to Monsieur de Gemosac.
"Captain Clubbe," he said, "tells us that he does not need to be informed that this Loo Barebone is the man we seek. He has long known it."
Which was a near enough rendering, perhaps, to pass muster in the hearing of two persons imperfectly acquainted with the languages so translated. Then, turning again to the sailor, he continued: "Monsieur de Gemosac would naturally wish to know whether there were papers or any other means of identification found on the woman or the child?"
"There were a few papers. The woman had a Roman Catholic Missal in her pocket, and the child a small locket with a miniature portrait in it."
"Of the Queen Marie Antoinette?" suggested Colville, quickly.
"It may well have been. It is many years since I saw it. It was faded enough. I remember that it had a fall, and would not open afterward. No one has seen it for twenty-five years or so."
"The locket or the portrait?" inquired Colville, with a light laugh, with which to disclaim any suggestion of a cross-examination.
"The portrait."
"And the locket?"
"My wife has it somewhere, I believe."
Colville gave an impatient laugh. For the peaceful air of Farlingford had failed to temper that spirit of energy and enterprise which he had acquired in cities--in Paris, most likely. He had no tolerance for quiet ways and a slow, sure progress, such as countrymen seek, who are so leisurely that the years slide past and death surprises them before they have done anything in the world but attend to its daily demand for a passing effort.
"Ah!" he cried, "but all that must be looked into if we are to do anything for this young fellow. You will find the Marquis anxious to be up and doing at once. You go so slowly in Farlingford, Captain. The world is hurrying on and this chance will be gone past before we are ready. Let us get these small proofs of identity collected together as soon as possible. Let us find that locket. But do not force it open. Give it to me as it is. Let us find the papers."
"There are no papers," interrupted Captain Clubbe, with a calm deliberation quite untouched by his companion's hurry.
"No papers?"
"No; for Frenchman burnt them before my eyes."
Dormer Colville meditated for a moment in silence. Although his manner was quick, he was perhaps as deliberate in his choice of a question as was Captain Clubbe in answering it.
"Why did he do that? Did he know who he was? Did he ever say anything to you about his former life--his childhood--his recollections of France?"
"He was not a man to say much," answered Clubbe, himself no man to repeat much.
Colville had been trying for some time to study the sailor's face, quietly through his cigar smoke.
"Look here, Captain," he said, after a pause. "Let us understand each other. There is a chance, just a chance, that we can prove this Loo Barebone to be the man we think him, but we must all stand together. We must be of one mind and one purpose. We four, Monsieur de Gemosac, you, Barebone, and my humble self. I fancy--well, I fancy it may prove to be worth our while."
"I am willing to do the best I can for Loo," was the reply.
"And I am willing to do the best I can for Monsieur de Gemosac, whose heart is set on this affair. And," Colville added, with his frank laugh, "let us hope that we may have our reward; for I am a poor man myself, and do not like the prospect of a careful old age. I suppose, Captain, that if a man were overburdened with wealth he would scarcely follow a seafaring life, eh?"
"Then there is money in it?" inquired Clubbe, guardedly.
"Money," laughed the other. "Yes--there is money for all concerned, and to spare."
Captain Clubbe had been born and bred among a people possessing little wealth and leading a hard life, only to come to want in old age. It was natural that this consideration should carry weight. He was anxious to do his best for the boy who had been brought up as his own son. He could think of nothing better than to secure him from want for the rest of his days. There were many qualities in Loo Barebone which he did not understand, for they were quite foreign to the qualities held to be virtues in Farlingford; such as perseverance and method, a careful economy, and a rigid common sense. Frenchman had brought these strange ways into Farlingford when he was himself only a boy of ten, and they had survived his own bringing up in some of the austerest houses in the town, so vitally as to enable him to bequeath them almost unchastened to his son.
As has been noted, Loo had easily lived down the prejudices of his own generation against an un-English gaiety, and inconsequence almost amounting to emotion. And nothing is, or was in the solid days before these trumpet-blowing times, so unwelcome in British circles as emotion.
Frenchman had no doubt prepared the way for his son; but the peculiarities of thought and manner which might be allowed to pass in a foreigner would be less easily forgiven in Loo, who had Farlingford blood in his veins. For his mother had been a Clubbe, own cousin, and, as gossips whispered, once the sweetheart of Captain Clubbe himself and daughter of Seth Clubbe of Maiden's Grave, one of the largest farmers on the Marsh.
"It cannot be for no particular purpose that the boy has been created so different from any about him," Captain Clubbe muttered, reflectively, as he thought of Dormer Colville's words. For he had that simple faith in an Almighty Purpose, without which no wise man will be found to do business on blue water.
"It is strange how a man may be allowed to inherit from a grandfather he has never seen a trick of manner, or a face which are not the manner or face of his father," observed Colville, adapting himself, as was his habit, to the humour of his companion. "There must, as you suggest, be some purpose in it. God writes straight on crooked lines, Captain."
Thus Dormer Colville found two points of sympathy with this skipper of a slow coaster, who had never made a mistake at sea nor done an injustice to any one serving under him; a simple faith in the Almighty Purpose and a very honest respect for money. This was the beginning of a sort of alliance between four persons of very different character which was to influence the whole lives of many.
They sat on the tarred seat set against the weather-beaten wall of "The Black Sailor" until darkness came stealing in from the sea with the quiet that broods over flat lands, and an unpeopled shore. Colville had many questions to ask and many more which he withheld till a fitter occasion. But he learnt that Frenchman had himself stated his name to be Barebone when he landed, a forlorn and frightened little boy, on this barren shore, and had never departed from that asseveration when he came to learn the English language and marry an English wife. Captain Clubbe told also how Frenchman, for so he continued to be called long after his real name had been written twice in the parish register, had soon after his marriage destroyed the papers carefully preserved by the woman whom he never called mother, though she herself claimed that title.
She had supported herself, it appeared, by her needle, and never seemed to want money, which led the villagers to conclude that she had some secret store upon which to draw when in need. She had received letters from France, which were carefully treasured by her until her death, and for long afterward by Frenchman, who finally burnt all at his marriage, saying that he was now an Englishman and wanted to retain no ties with France. At this time, Clubbe remembered, Louis XVIII was firmly established on the throne of France, the Restoration--known as the Second--having been brought about by the Allied Powers with a high hand after the Hundred Days and the final downfall of Napoleon.
Frenchman may well have known that it might be worth his while to return to France and seek fortune there; but he never spoke of this knowledge nor made reference to the recollections of his childhood, which cast a cold reserve over his soul and steeped it with such a deadly hatred of France and all things French, that he desired to sever all memories that might link him with his native country or awake in the hearts of any children he should beget the desire to return thither.
A year after his marriage his wife died, and thus her son, left to the care of a lonely and misanthropic father, was brought up a Frenchman after all, and lisped his first words in that tongue.
"He lived long enough to teach him to speak French and think like a Frenchman, and then he died," said Captain Clubbe--"a young man reckoning by years, but in mind he was an older man than I am today."
"And his secret died with him?" suggested Dormer Colville, looking at the end of his cigar with a queer smile. But Captain Clubbe made no answer.
"One may suppose that he wanted it to die with him, at all events," added Colville, tentatively.
"You are right," was the reply, a local colloquialism in common use, as a clincher to a closed argument or an unwelcome truth. Captain Clubbe rose as he spoke and intimated his intention of departing, by jerking his head sideways at Monsieur de Gemosac, who, however, held out his hand with a Frenchman's conscientious desire to follow the English custom.
"I'll be getting home," said Clubbe, simply. As he spoke he peered across the marsh toward the river, and Colville, following the direction of his gaze, saw the black silhouette of a large lug-sail against the eastern sky, which was softly grey with the foreglow of the rising moon.
"What is that?" asked Colville.
"That's Loo Barebone going up with the sea-breeze. He has been down to the rectory. He mostly goes there in the evening. There is a creek, you know, runs down from Maiden's Grave to the river."
"Ah!" answered Colville, thoughtfully, almost as if the creek and the large lug-sail against the sky explained something which he had not hitherto understood.
"I thought he might have come with you this evening," he added, after a pause. "For I suppose everybody in Farlingford knows why we are here. He does not seem very anxious to seek his fortune in France."
"No," answered Clubbe, lifting his stony face to the sky and studying the little clouds that hovered overhead awaiting the moon. "No--you are right."
Then he turned with a jerk of the head and left them. The Marquis de Gemosac watched him depart, and made a gesture toward the darkness of the night, into which he had vanished, indicative of a great despair.
"But," he exclaimed, "they are of a placidity--these English. There is nothing to be done with them, my friend, nothing to be done with such men as that. Now I understand how it is that they form a great nation. It is merely because they stand and let you thump them until you are tired, and then they proceed to do what they intended to do from the first."
"That is because we know that he who jumps about most actively will be the first to feel fatigue, Marquis," laughed Colville, pleasantly. "But you must not judge all England from these eastern people. It is here that you will find the concentrated essence of British tenacity and stolidity--the leaven that leavens the whole."
"Then it is our misfortune to have to deal with these concentrated English--that is all."
The Marquis shrugged his shoulders with that light despair which is incomprehensible to any but men of Latin race.
"No, Marquis! there you are wrong," corrected Dormer Colville, with a sudden gravity, "for we have in Captain Clubbe the very man we want--one of the hardest to find in this chattering world--a man who will not say too much. If we can only make him say what we want him to say he will not ruin all by saying more. It is so much easier to say a word too much than a word too little. And remember he speaks French as well as English, though, being British, he pretends that he cannot."
Monsieur de Gemosac turned to peer at his companion in the darkness.
"You speak hopefully, my friend," he said. "There is something in your voice--" "Is there?" laughed Colville, who seemed elated. "There may well be. For that man has been saying things in that placid monotone which would have taken your breath away had you been able to understand them. A hundred times I rejoiced that you understood no English, for your impatience, Marquis, might have silenced him as some rare-voiced bird is silenced by a sudden movement. Yes, Marquis, there is a locket containing a portrait of Marie Antoinette. There are other things also. But there is one draw-back. The man himself is not anxious to come forward. There are reasons, it appears, here in Farlingford, why he should not seek his fortune elsewhere. To-morrow morning--" Dormer Colville rose and yawned audibly. It almost appeared that he regretted having permitted himself a moment's enthusiasm on a subject which scarcely affected his interests.
"To-morrow morning I will see to it."
| {
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8 | THE LITTLE BOY WHO WAS A KING | The Reverend Septimus Marvin had lost his wife five years earlier. It was commonly said that he had never been the same man since. Which was untrue. Much that is commonly said will, on investigation, be found to be far from the truth. Septimus Marvin had, so to speak, been the same man since infancy. He had always looked vaguely at the world through spectacles; had always been at a loss among his contemporaries--a generation already tainted by that shallow spirit of haste which is known to-day as modernity--at a loss for a word; at a loss for a companion soul.
He was a scholar and a learned historian. His companions were books, and he communed in spirit with writers who were dead and gone.
Had he ever been a different man his circumstances would assuredly have been other. His wife, for instance, would in all human probability have been alive. His avocation might have been more suited to his capabilities. He was not intended for a country parish, and that practical, human comprehension of the ultimate value of little daily details, without which a pastor never yet understood his flock, was not vouchsafed to him.
"Passen takes no account o' churchyard," River Andrew had said, and neither he nor any other in Farlingford could account for the special neglect to which was abandoned that particular corner of the burial ground where the late Mrs. Marvin reposed beneath an early Victorian headstone of singular hideousness.
Mr. Marvin always went round the other way.
"Seems as he has forgotten her wonderful quick," commented the women of Farlingford. But perhaps they were wrong. If he had forgotten, he might be expected to go round by the south side of the church by accident occasionally, especially as it was the shorter way from the rectory to the porch. He was an absent-minded man, but he always remembered, as River Andrew himself admitted, to go north about. And his wife's grave was overgrown by salted grass as were the rest.
Farlingford had accepted him, when his College, having no use for such a dreamer elsewhere, gave him the living, not only with resignation, but with equanimity. This remote parish, cut off from the busier mainland by wide heaths and marshes, sparsely provided with ill-kept roads, had never looked for a bustling activity in its rectors. Their forefathers had been content with a gentleman, given to sport and the pursuits of a country squire, marked on the seventh day by a hearty and robust godliness. They would have preferred Parson Marvin to have handled a boat and carried a gun. But he had his good qualities. He left them alone. And they are the most independent people in the world.
When his wife died, his sister, the widow of an Indian officer, bustled eastward, from a fashionable Welsh watering-place, just to satisfy herself, as she explained to her West-country friends, that he would not marry his cook before six months elapsed. After that period she proposed to wash her hands of him. She was accompanied by her only child, Miriam, who had just left school.
Six months later Septimus Marvin was called upon to give away his sister to a youthful brother officer of her late husband, which ceremony he performed with a sigh of relief audible in the farthest recess of the organ loft. While the wedding-bells were still ringing, the bride, who was not dreamy or vague like her brother, gave Septimus to understand that he had promised to provide Miriam with a home--that he really needed a woman to keep things going at the rectory and to watch over the tender years of little Sep--and that Miriam's boxes were packed.
Septimus had no recollection of the promise. And his sister was quite hurt that he should say such a thing as that on her wedding day and spoil everything. He had no business to make the suggestion if he had not intended to carry it out. So the bride and bridegroom went away in a shower of good wishes and rice to the life of organized idleness, for which the gentleman's education and talents eminently befitted him, and Miriam returned to Farlingford with Septimus.
In those days the railway passed no nearer to Farlingford than Ipswich, and before the arrival of their train at that station Miriam had thoroughly elucidated the situation. She had discovered that she was not expected at the rectory, and that Septimus had never offered of his own free will the home which he now kindly pressed upon her--two truths which the learned historian fondly imagined to be for ever locked up in his own heart, which was a kind one and the heart of a gentleman.
Miriam also learned that Septimus was very poor. She did not need to be informed that he was helpless. Her instinct had told her that long ago. She was only nineteen, but she looked at men and women with those discerning grey eyes, in which there seemed to lurk a quiet light like the light of stars, and saw right through them. She was woman enough--despite the apparent inconsequence of the schoolroom, which still lent a vagueness to her thoughts and movements--to fall an easy victim to the appeal of helplessness. Years, it would appear, are of no account in certain feminine instincts. Miriam had probably been woman enough at ten years of age to fly to the rescue of the helpless.
She did not live permanently at the rectory, but visited her mother from time to time, either in England, or at one of the foreign resorts of idle people. But the visits, as years went by, became shorter and rarer. At twenty-one Miriam came into a small fortune of her own, left by her father in the hands of executors, one of whom was that John Turner, the Paris banker, who had given Dormer Colville a letter of introduction to Septimus Marvin. The money was sorely needed at the rectory, and Miriam drew freely enough on John Turner.
"You are an extravagant girl," said that astute financier to her, when they met at the house of Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence, at Royan, in France. "I wonder what you spend it on! But I don't trouble my head about it. You need not explain, you understand. But you can come to me when you want advice or help. You will find me--in the background. I am a fat old man, in the background. Useful enough in my way, perhaps, even to a pretty girl with a sound judgment."
There were many, who, like Loo Barebone, reflected that there were other worlds open to Miriam Liston. At first she went into those other worlds, under the flighty wing of her mother, and looked about her there. Captain and Mrs. Duncan belonged to the Anglo-French society, which had sprung into existence since the downfall of Napoleon I, and was in some degree the outcome of the part played by Great Britain in the comedy of the Bourbon and Orleanist collapse. Captain Duncan had retired from the army, changing his career from one of a chartered to an unchartered uselessness, and he herded with tarnished aristocracy and half-pay failures in the smoking-rooms of Continental clubs.
Miriam returned, after a short experience of this world, to Farlingford, as to the better part. At first she accepted invitations to some of the country houses open to her by her connection with certain great families. But after a time she seemed to fall under the spell of that quiet life which is still understood and lived in a few remote places.
"What can you find to do all day and to think about all night at that bleak corner of England?" inquired her friends, themselves restless by day and sleepless by night by reason of the heat of their pursuit of that which is called pleasure.
"If he wants to marry his cook let him do it and be done with us," wrote her mother from the south of France. "Come and join us at Biarritz. The Prince President will be here this winter. We shall be very gay.... P.S. We shall not ask you to stay with us as we are hard up this quarter; but to share expenses. Mind come."
But Miriam remained at Farlingford, and there is nothing to be gained by seeking to define her motive. There are two arguments against seeking a woman's motive. Firstly, she probably has none. Secondly, should she have one she will certainly have a counterfeit, which she will dangle before your eyes, and you will seize it.
Dormer Colville might almost be considered to belong to the world of which Captain and Mrs. Duncan were such brilliant ornaments. But he did not so consider himself. For their world was essentially British, savoured here and there by a French count or so, at whose person and title the French aristocracy of undoubted genuineness looked askance. Dormer Colville counted his friends among these latter. In fact, he moved in those royalist circles who thought that there was little to choose between the Napoleonic and the Orleanist _régime_. He carefully avoided intimacy with Englishmen whose residence in foreign parts was continuous and in constant need of explanation. Indeed, if a man's life needs explanation, he must sooner or later find himself face to face with some one who will not listen to him.
Colville, however, knew all about Captain Duncan, and knew what was ignored by many, namely, that he was nothing worse than foolish. He knew all about Miriam, for he was in the confidence of Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence. He knew that that lady wondered why Miriam preferred Farlingford to the high-bred society of her own circle at Royan and in Paris.
He thought he knew why Loo Barebone showed so little enterprise. And he was, as Madame de Chantonnay had frequently told him, more than half a Frenchman in the quickness of his intuitions. He picked a flower for his buttonhole from the garden of the "Black Sailor," and set forth the morning after his interview with Captain Clubbe toward the rectory. It was a cool July morning, with the sun half obscured by a fog-bank driven in from the sea. Through the dazzling white of that which is known on these coasts as the water-smoke the sky shone a cloudless blue. The air was light and thin. It is the lightest and thinnest air in England. Dormer Colville hummed a song under his breath as he walked on the top of the dyke. He was a light-hearted man, full of hope and optimism.
"Am I disturbing your studies?" he asked, with his easy laugh, as he came rather suddenly on Miriam and little Sep in the turf-shelter at the corner of the rectory garden. "You must say so if I am."
They had, indeed, their books, and the boy's face wore that abstracted look which comes from a very earnest desire not to see the many interesting things on earth and sea, which always force themselves upon the attention of the young at the wrong time. Colville had already secured Sep's friendship by the display of a frank ignorance of natural history only equalled by his desire to be taught.
"We're doing history," replied Sep, frankly, jumping up and shaking hands.
"Ah, yes. William the Conqueror, ten hundred and sixty-six, and all the rest of it. I know. At least I knew once, but I have forgotten."
"No. We're doing French history. Miriam likes that best, but I hate it."
"French history," said Colville, thoughtfully. "Yes. That is interesting. Miss Liston likes that best, does she? Or, perhaps, she thinks that it is best for you to know it. Do you know all about Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette?"
"Pretty well," admitted Sep, doubtfully.
"When I was a little chap like you, I knew many people who had seen Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette. That was long, long ago," he added, turning to Miriam to make the admission. "But those are not the things that one forgets, are they, Miss Liston?"
"Then I wish Sep could know somebody who would make him remember," answered Miriam, half closing the book in her hand; for she was very quick and had seen Colville's affable glance take it in in passing, as it took in everything within sight.
"A King, for instance," he said, slowly. "A King of France. Others--prophets and righteous men--have desired to see that, Miss Liston."
It seemed, however, that he had seen enough to know the period which they were studying.
"I suppose," he said, after a pause, "that in this studious house you talk and think history, and more especially French history. It must be very quiet and peaceful. Much more restful than acting in it as my friend de Gemosac has done all his life, as I myself have done in a small way. For France takes her history so much more violently than you do in England. France is tossed about by it, while England stands and is hammered on the anvil of Time, as it were, and remains just the same shape as before."
He broke off and turned to Sep.
"Do you know the story of the little boy who was a King?" he asked, abruptly. "They put him in prison and he escaped. He was carried out in a clothes-basket. Funny, is it not? And he escaped from his enemies and reached another country, where he became a sailor. He grew to be a man and he married a woman of that country, and she died, leaving him with a little boy. And then he died himself and left the little boy, who was taken care of by his English relations, who never knew that he was a King. But he was; for his father was a King before him, and his grandfathers--far, far back. Back to the beginning of the book that Miss Liston holds in her hand. The little boy--he was an orphan, you see--became a sailor. He never knew that he was a King--the Hope of his country, of all the old men and the wise men in it--the holder of the fate of nations. Think of that."
The story pleased Sep, who sat with open lips and eager eyes, listening to it.
"Do you think it is an interesting story? What do you think is the end of it?"
"I don't know," answered Sep, gravely.
"Neither do I. No one knows the end of that story--yet. But if you were a King--if you were that boy--what would you do? Would you go and be a King, or would you be afraid?"
"No. I should go and be a King. And fight battles."
"But you would have to leave everybody. You would have to leave your father."
"I should not mind that," answered Sep, brutally.
"You would leave Miss Liston?"
"I should have to," was the reply, with conviction.
"Ah, yes," said Colville, with a grave nod of the head. "Yes. I suppose you would have to if you were anything of a man at all. There would be no alternative--for a real man."
"Besides," put in Sep, jumping from side to side on his seat with eagerness, "she would make me--wouldn't you, Miriam?"
Colville had turned away and was looking northward toward the creek, known as Maiden's Grave, running through the marshes to the river. A large lug-sail broke the flat line of the horizon, though the boat to which it belonged was hidden by the raised dyke.
"Would she?" inquired Colville, absent-mindedly, without taking his eyes from the sail which was creeping slowly toward them. "Well--you know Miss Liston's character better than I do, Sep. And no doubt you are right. And you are not that little boy, so it doesn't matter; does it?"
After a pause he turned and glanced sideways at Miriam, who was looking straight in front of her with steady eyes and white cheeks.
They could hear Loo Barebone singing gaily in the boat, which was hidden below the level of the dyke. And they watched, in a sudden silence, the sail pass down the river toward the quay.
| {
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9 | A MISTAKE | The tide was ebbing still when Barebone loosed his boat, one night, from the grimy steps leading from the garden of Maiden's Grave farm down to the creek. It was at the farm-house that Captain Clubbe now lived when on shore. He had lived there since the death of his brother, two years earlier--that grim Clubbe of Maiden's Grave, whose methods of life and agriculture are still quoted on market days from Colchester to Beccles.
The evenings were shorter now, for July was drawing to a close, and the summer is brief on these coasts. The moon was not up yet, but would soon rise. Barebone hoisted the great lug-sail, that smelt of seaweed and tannin. There was a sleepy breeze blowing in from the cooler sea, to take the place of that hot and shimmering air which had been rising all day from the corn-fields. He was quicker in his movements than those who usually handled these stiff ropes and held the clumsy tiller. Quick--and quiet for once. He had been three nights to the rectory, only to find the rector there, vaguely kind, looking at him with a watery eye, through the spectacles which were rarely straight upon his nose, with an unasked question on his hesitating lips.
For Septimus Marvin knew that Colville, in the name of the Marquis de Gemosac, had asked Loo Barebone to go to France and institute proceedings there to recover a great heritage, which it seemed must be his. And Barebone had laughed and put off his reply from day to day for three days.
Few knew of it in Farlingford, though many must have suspected the true explanation of the prolonged stay of the two strangers at the "Black Sailor." Captain Clubbe and Septimus Marvin, Dormer Colville and Monsieur de Gemosac shared this knowledge, and awaited, impatiently enough, an answer which could assuredly be only in the affirmative. Clubbe was busy enough throughout the day at the old slip-way, where "The Last Hope" was under repair--the last ship, it appeared likely, that the rotten timbers could support or the old, old shipwrights mend.
Loo Barebone was no less regular in his attendance at the river-side, and worked all day, on deck or in the rigging, at leisurely sail-making or neat seizing of a worn rope. He was gay, and therefore incomprehensible to a slow-thinking, grave-faced race.
"What do I want with a heritage?" he asked, carelessly. "I am mate of 'The Last Hope'--and that is all. Give me time. I have not made up my mind yet, but I think it will be No."
And oddly enough, it was Colville who preached patience to his companions in suspense.
"Give him time," he said. "There can only be one answer to such a proposal. But he is young. It is not when we are young that we see the world as it really is, but live in a land of dreams. Give him time."
The Marquis de Gemosac was impatient, however, and was for telling Barebone more than had been disclosed to him.
"There is no knowing," he cried, "what that _canaille_ is doing in France."
"There is no knowing," admitted Colville, with his air of suppressing a half-developed yawn, "but I think we know, all the same--you and I, Marquis. And there is no hurry."
After three days Loo Barebone had still given no answer. As he hoisted the sail and felt for the tiller in the dark, he was, perhaps, meditating on this momentous reply, or perhaps he had made up his mind long before, and would hold to the decision even to his own undoing, as men do who are impulsive and not strong. The water lapped and gurgled round the bows, for the wind was almost ahead, and it was only by nursing the heavy boat that he saved the necessity of making a tack across the narrow creek. In the morning he had, as usual, run down into the river and to the slip-way, little suspecting that Miriam and Sep were just above him behind the dyke, where they had sat three days before listening to Dormer Colville's story of the little boy who was a King. To-night he ran the boat into the coarse and wiry grass where Septimus Marvin's own dinghy lay, half hidden by the reeds, and he stumbled ashore clutching at the dewy grass as he climbed the side of the dyke.
He went toward the turf-shelter half despondently, and then stopped short a few yards away from it. For Miriam was there. He thought she was alone, and paused to make sure before he spoke. She was sitting at the far corner, sheltered from the north wind. For Farlingford is like a ship--always conscious of the lee- and the weather-side, and all who live there are half sailors in their habits--subservient to the wind.
"At last," said Loo, with a little vexed laugh. He could see her face turned toward him, but her eyes were only dark shadows beneath her hair. Her face looked white in the darkness. Her answering laugh had a soothing note in it.
"Why--at last?" she asked. Her voice was frank and quietly assured in its friendliness. They were old comrades, it seemed, and had never been anything else. The best friendship is that which has never known a quarrel, although poets and others may sing the tenderness of a reconciliation. The friendship that has a quarrel and a reconciliation in it is like a man with a weak place left in his constitution by a past sickness. He may die of something else in the end, but the probability is that he must reckon at last with that healed sore. The friendship may perish from some other cause--a marriage, or success in life, one of the two great severers--but that salved quarrel is more than likely to recur and kill at last.
These two had never fallen out. And it was the woman who, contrary to custom, fended the quarrel now.
"Oh! because I have been here three nights in succession, I suppose, and did not find you here. I was disappointed."
"But you found Uncle Septimus in his study. I could hear you talking there until quite late."
"Of course I was very glad to see him and talk with him. For it is to him that I owe a certain half-developed impatience with the uneducated--with whom I deal all my life, except for a few hours now and then in the study and here in the turf-shelter with you. I can see--even in the dark--that you look grave. Do not do that. It is not worth that."
He broke off with his easy laugh, as if to banish any suggestion of gravity coming from himself.
"It is not worth looking grave about. And I am sorry if I was rude a minute ago. I had no right, of course, to assume that you would be here. I suppose it was impertinent--was that it?"
"I will not quarrel," she answered, soothingly--"if that is what you want."
Her voice was oddly placid. It almost seemed to suggest that she had come to-night for a certain purpose; that one subject of conversation alone would interest her, and that to all others she must turn a deaf ear.
He came a little nearer, and, leaning against the turf wall, looked down at her. He was suddenly grave now. The _róles_ were again reversed; for it was the woman who was tenacious to one purpose and the man who seemed inconsequent, flitting from grave to gay, from one thought to another. His apology had been made graciously enough, but with a queer pride, quite devoid of the sullenness which marks the pride of the humbly situated.
"No; I do not want that," he answered. "I want a little sympathy, that is all; because I have been educated above my station. And I looked for it from those who are responsible for that which is nearly always a catastrophe. And it is your uncle who educated me. He is responsible in the first instance, and, of course, I am grateful to him."
"He could never have educated you," put in Miriam, "if you had not been ready for the education."
Barebone put aside the point. He must, at all events, have learnt humility from Septimus Marvin--a quality not natural to his temperament.
"And you are responsible, as well," he went on, "because you have taught me a use for the education."
"Indeed!" she said, gently and interrogatively, as if at last he had reached the point to which she wished to bring him.
"Yes; the best use to which I could ever put it. To talk to you on an equality."
He looked hard at her through the darkness, which was less intense now; for the moon was not far below the horizon. Her face looked white, and he thought that she was breathing quickly. But they had always been friends; he remembered that just in time.
"It is only natural that I should look forward, when we are at sea, to coming back here--" He paused and kicked the turf-wall with his heel, as if to remind her that she had sat in the same corner before and he had leant against the same wall, talking to her. "They are good fellows, of course, with a hundred fine qualities which I lack, but they do not understand half that one may say, or think--even the Captain. He is well educated, in his way, but it is only the way of a coasting-captain who has risen by his merits to the command of a foreign-going ship."
Miriam gave an impatient little sigh. He had veered again from the point.
"You think that I forget that he is my relative," said Loo, sharply, detecting in his quickness of thought a passing resentment. "I do not. I never forget that. I am the son of his cousin. I know that, and thus related to many in Farlingford. But I have never called him cousin, and he has never asked me to."
"No," said Miriam, with averted eyes, in that other voice, which made him turn and look at her, catching his breath.
"Oh!" he said, with a sudden laugh of comprehension. "You have heard what, I suppose, is common talk in Farlingford. You know what has brought these people here--this Monsieur de Gemosac, and the other--what is his name? Dormer Colville. You have heard of my magnificent possibilities. And I--I had forgotten all about them."
He threw out his arms in a gesture of gay contempt; for even in the dark he could not refrain from adding to the meaning of mere words a hundred-fold by the help of his lean hands and mobile face.
"I have heard of it, of course," she admitted, "from several people. But I have heard most from Captain Clubbe. He takes it more seriously than you do. You do not know, because he is one of those men who are most silent with those to whom they are most attached. He thinks that it is providential that my uncle should have had the desire to educate you, and that you should have displayed such capacity to learn."
"Capacity?" he protested--"say genius! Do not let us do things by halves. Genius to learn--yes; go on."
"Ah! you may laugh," Miriam said, lightly, "but it is serious enough. You will find circumstances too strong for you. You will have to go to France to claim your--heritage."
"Not I, if it means leaving Farlingford for ever and going to live among strange people, like the Marquis de Gemosac, for instance, who gives me the impression of a thousand petty ceremonies and a million futile memories."
He turned and lifted his face to the breeze which blew from the sea over flat stretches of sand and seaweed--the crispest, most invigorating air in the world except that which blows on the Baltic shores.
"I prefer Farlingford. I am half a Clubbe--and the other half! --Heaven knows what that is! The offshoot of some forgotten seedling blown away from France by a great storm. If my father knew, he never said anything. And if he knew, and said nothing, one may be sure that it was because he was ashamed of what he knew. You never saw him, or you would have known his dread of France, or anything that was French. He was a man living in a dream. His body was here in Farlingford, but his mind was elsewhere--who knows where? And at times I feel that, too--that unreality--as if I were here, and somewhere else at the same time. But all the same, I prefer Farlingford, even if it is a dream."
The moon had risen at last; a waning half-moon, lying low and yellow in the sky, just above the horizon, casting a feeble light on earth. Loo turned and looked at Miriam, who had always met his glance with her thoughtful, steady eyes. But now she turned away.
"Farlingford is best, at all events," he said, with an odd conviction. "I am only the grandson of old Seth Clubbe, of Maiden's Grave. I am a Farlingford sailor, and that is all. I am mate of 'The Last Hope'--at your service."
"You are more than that."
He made a step nearer to her, looking down at her white face, averted from him. For her voice had been uncertain--unsteady--as if she were speaking against her will.
"Even if I am only that," he said, suddenly grave, "Farlingford may still be a dream--Farlingford and--you."
"What do you mean?" she asked, in a quick, mechanical voice, as if she had reached a desired crisis at last and was prepared to act.
"Oh, I only mean what I have meant always," he answered. "But I have been afraid--afraid. One hears, sometimes, of a woman who is generous enough to love a man who is a nobody--to think only of love. Sometimes--last voyage, when you used to sit where you are sitting now--I have thought that it might have been my extraordinary good fortune to meet such a woman."
He waited for some word or sign, but she sat motionless.
"You understand," he went on, "how contemptible must seem their talk of a heritage in France, when such a thought is in one's mind, even if--" "Yes," she interrupted, hastily. "You were quite wrong. You were mistaken."
"Mistaking in thinking you--" "Yes," she interrupted again. "You are quite mistaken, and I am very sorry, of course, that it should have happened."
She was singularly collected, and spoke in a matter-of-fact voice. Barebone's eyes gleamed suddenly; for she had aroused-perhaps purposely--a pride which must have accumulated in his blood through countless generations. She struck with no uncertain hand.
"Yes," he said, slowly; "it is to be regretted. Is it because I am the son of a nameless father and only the mate of 'The Last Hope'?"
"If you were before the mast--" she answered--"if you were a King, it would make no difference. It is simply because I do not care for you in that way."
"You do not care for me--in that way," he echoed, with a laugh, which made her move as if she were shrinking. "Well, there is nothing more to be said to that."
He looked at her slowly, and then took off his cap as if to bid her good-bye. But he forgot to replace it, and he went away with the cap in his hand. She heard the clink of a chain as he loosed his boat.
| {
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10 | IN THE ITALIAN HOUSE | The Abbé Touvent was not a courageous man, and the perspiration, induced by the climb from the high-road up that which had once been the ramp to the Château of Gemosac, ran cold when he had turned the key in the rusty lock of the great gate. It was not a dark night, for the moon sailed serenely behind fleecy clouds, but the shadows cast by her silvery light might harbour any terror.
It is easy enough to be philosophic at home in a chair beside the lamp. Under those circumstances, the Abbé had reflected that no one would rob him, because he possessed nothing worth stealing. But now, out here in the dark, he recalled a hundred instances of wanton murder duly recorded in the newspaper which he shared with three parishioners in Gemosac.
He paused to wipe his brow with a blue cotton handkerchief before pushing open the gate, and, being alone, was not too proud to peep through the keyhole before laying his shoulder against the solid and weather-beaten oak. He glanced nervously at the loopholes in the flanking towers and upward at the machicolated battlement overhanging him, as if any crumbling peep-hole might harbour gleaming eyes. He hurried through the passage beneath the vaulted roof without daring to glance to either side, where doorways and steps to the towers were rendered more fearsome by heavy curtains of ivy.
The enceinte of the castle of Gemosac is three-sided, with four towers jutting out at the corners, from which to throw a flanking fire upon any who should raise a ladder against the great curtains, built of that smooth, white stone which is quarried at Brantôme and on the banks of the Dordogne. The fourth side of the enceinte stands on a solid rock, above the little river that loses itself in the flatlands bordering the Gironde, so that it can scarce be called a tributary of that wide water. A moss-grown path round the walls will give a quick walker ten minutes' exercise to make the round from one tower of the gateway to the other.
Within the enciente are the remains of the old castle, still solid and upright; erected, it is recorded, by the English during their long occupation of this country. A more modern château, built after the final expulsion of the invader, adjoins the ancient structure, and in the centre of the vast enclosure, raised above the walls, stands a square house, in the Italian style, built in the time of Marie de Medici, and never yet completed. There are, also, gardens and shaded walks and vast stables, a chapel, two crypts, and many crumbling remains inside the walls, that offered a passive resistance to the foe in olden time, and as successfully hold their own to-day against the prying eye of a democratic curiosity.
Above the stables, quite close to the gate, half a dozen rooms were in the occupation of the Marquis de Gemosac; but it was not to these that the Abbé Touvent directed his tremulous steps.
Instead, he went toward the square, isolated house, standing in the middle of that which had once been the great court, and was now half garden, half hayfield. The hay had been cut, and the scent of the new stack, standing against the walls of the oldest château and under its leaking roof, came warm and aromatic to mix with the breath of the evening primrose and rosemary clustering in disorder on the ill-defined borders. The grim walls, that had defended the Gemosacs against franker enemies in other days, served now to hide from the eyes of the villagers the fact--which must, however, have been known to them--that the Marquis de Gemosac, in gloves, kept this garden himself, and had made the hay with no other help than that of his old coachman and Marie, that capable, brown-faced _bonne-à-tout-faire_, who is assuredly the best man in France to-day.
In this clear, southern atmosphere the moon has twice the strength of that to which we are accustomed in mistier lands, and the Abbè looked about him with more confidence as he crossed the great court. There were frogs in a rainwater tank constructed many years ago, when some enterprising foe had been known to cut off the water-supply of a besieged château, and their friendly croak brought a sense of company and comfort to the Abbè's timid soul.
The door of the Italian house stood open, for the interior had never been completed, and only one apartment, a lofty banqueting-hall, had ever been furnished. Within the doorway, the Abbè fumbled in the pocket of his soutane and rattled a box of matches. He carried a parcel in his hand, which he now unfolded, and laid out on the lid of a mouldy chest half a dozen candles. When he struck a match a flight of bats whirred out of the doorway, and the Abbè's breath whistled through his teeth.
He lighted two candles, and carrying them, alight, in one hand--not without dexterity, for candles played an important part in his life--he went forward. The flickering light showed his face to be a fat one, kind enough, gleaming now with perspiration and fear, but shiny at other times with that Christian tolerance which makes men kind to their own failings. It was very dark within the house, for all the shutters were closed.
The Abbé lighted a third candle and fixed it, with a drop of its own wax, on the high mantel of the great banqueting-hall. There were four or five candlesticks on side-tables, and a candelabra stood in the centre of a long table, running the length of the room. In a few minutes the Abbé had illuminated the apartment, which smelt of dust and the days of a dead monarchy. Above his head, the bats were describing complicated figures against a ceiling which had once been painted in the Italian style, to represent a trellis roof, with roses and vines entwined. Half a dozen portraits of men, in armour and wigs, looked down from the walls. One or two of them were rotting from their frames, and dangled a despondent corner out into the room.
There were chairs round the table, set as if for a phantom banquet amid these mouldering environments, and their high carved backs threw fantastic shadows on the wall.
While the Abbé was still employed with the candles, he heard a heavy step and loud breathing in the hall without, where he had carefully left a light.
"Why did you not wait for me on the hill, _malhonnête_?" asked a thick voice, like the voice of a man, but the manner was the manner of a woman. "I am sure you must have heard me. One hears me like a locomotive, now that I have lost my slimness."
She came into the room as she spoke, unwinding a number of black, knitted shawls, in which she was enveloped. There were so many of them, and of such different shape and texture, that some confusion ensued. The Abbé ran to her assistance.
"But, Madame," he cried, "how can you suspect me of such a crime? I came early to make these preparations. And as for hearing you--would to Heaven I had! For it needs courage to be a Royalist in these days--especially in the dark, by one's self."
He seemed to know the shawls, for he disentangled them with skill and laid them aside, one by one.
The Comtesse de Chantonnay breathed a little more freely, but no friendly hand could disencumber her of the mountains of flesh, which must have weighed down any heart less buoyant and courageous.
"Ah, bah!" she cried, gaily. "Who is afraid? What could they do to an old woman? Ah! you hold up your hands. That is kind of you. But I am no longer young, and there is my Albert--with those stupid whiskers. It is unfilial to wear whiskers, and I have told him so. And you--who could harm you--a priest? Besides, no one could be a priest, and not a Royalist, Abbé!"
"I know it, Madame, and that is why I am one. Have we been seen, Madame la Comtesse? The village was quiet, as you came through?"
"Quiet as my poor husband in his grave. Tell me? Abbé, now, honestly, am I thinner? I have deprived myself of coffee these two days."
The Abbe walked gravely round her. It was quite an excursion.
"Who would have you different, Madame, to what you are?" he temporized. "To be thin is so ungenerous. And Albert--where is he? You have not surely come alone?"
"Heaven forbid! --and I a widow!" replied Madame de Chantonnay, arranging, with a stout hand, the priceless lace on her dress. "Albert is coming. We brought a lantern, although it is a moon. It is better. Besides, it is always done by those who conspire. And Albert had his great cloak, and he fell up a step in the courtyard and dropped the lantern, and lost it in the long grass. I left him looking for it, in the dark. He was not afraid, my brave Albert!"
"He has the dauntless heart of his mother," murmured the Abbé, gracefully, as he ran round the table setting the chairs in order. He had already offered the largest and strongest to the Comtesse, and it was creaking under her now, as she moved to set her dress in order.
"Assuredly," she admitted, complacently. "Has not France produced a Jeanne d'Arc and a Duchesse de Berri? It was not from his father, at all events, that he inherited his courage. For he was a poltroon, that man. Yes, my dear Abbé, let us be honest, and look at life as it is. He was a poltroon, and I thought I loved him--for two or three days only, however. And I was a child then. I was beautiful."
"Was?" echoed the Abbé, reproachfully.
"Silence, wicked one! And you a priest."
"Even an ecclesiastic, Madame, may have eyes," he said, darkly, as he snuffed a candle and, subsequently, gave himself a mechanical thump on the chest, in the region of the heart.
"Then they should wear blinkers, like a horse," said Madame, severely, as if wearied by an admiration so universal that it palled.
At this moment, Albert de Chantonnay entered the room. He was enveloped in a long black cloak, which he threw off his shoulders and cast over the back of a chair, not without an obvious appreciation of its possibilities of the picturesque. He looked round the room with a mild eye, which refused to lend itself to mystery or a martial ruthlessness.
He was a young man with a very thin neck, and the whiskers, of which his mother made complaint, were scarcely visible by the light of the Abbé's candles.
"Good!" he said, in a thin tenor voice. "We are in time."
He came forward to the table, with long, nervous strides. He was not exactly impressive, but his manner gave the assurance of a distinct earnestness of purpose. The majority of us are unfortunately situated toward the world, as regards personal appearance. Many could pass for great if their physical proportions were less mean. There are thousands of worthy and virtuous young men who never receive their due in social life because they have red hair or stand four-feet-six high, or happen to be the victim of an inefficient dentist. The world, it would seem, does not want virtue or solid worth. It prefers appearance to either. Albert de Chantonnay would, for instance, have carried twice the weight in Royalist councils if his neck had been thicker.
He nodded to the Abbé.
"I received your message," he said, in the curt manner of the man whose life is in his hand, or is understood, in French theatrical circles, to be thus uncomfortably situated. "The letter?"
"It is here, Monsieur Albert," replied the Abbé, who was commonplace, and could not see himself as he wished others to see him. There was only one Abbé Touvent, for morning or afternoon, for church or fête, for the château or the cottage. There were a dozen Albert de Chantonnays, fierce or tender, gay or sad, a poet or a soldier--a light persifleur, who had passed through the mill, and had emerged hard and shining, or a young man of soul, capable of high ideals. To-night, he was the politician--the conspirator--quick of eye, curt of speech.
He held out his hand for the letter.
"You are to read it, as Monsieur le Marquis instructs me, Monsieur Albert," hazarded the Abbé, touching the breast pocket of his soutane, where Monsieur de Gemosac's letter lay hidden, "to those assembled."
"But, surely, I am to read it to myself first," was the retort; "or else how can I give it proper value?"
| {
"id": "8942"
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11 | A BEGINNING | There may be some who refuse to take seriously a person like Albert de Chantonnay because, forsooth, he happened to possess a sense of the picturesque. There are, as a matter of fact, thousands of sensible persons in the British Isles who fail completely to understand the average Frenchman. To the English comprehension it is, for instance, surprising that in time of stress--when Paris was besieged by a German army--a hundred _franc-tireur_ corps should spring into existence, who gravely decked themselves in sombreros and red waist-cloths, and called themselves the "Companions of Death," or some claptrap title of a similar sound. Nevertheless, these "Companions of Death" fought at Orleans as few have fought since man walked this earth, and died as bravely as any in a government uniform. Even the stolid German foe forgot, at last, to laugh at the sombrero worn in midwinter.
It is useless to dub a Frenchman unreal and theatrical when he gaily carries his unreality and his perception of the dramatic to the lucarne of the guillotine and meets imperturbably the most real thing on earth, Death.
Albert de Chantonnay was a good Royalist--a better Royalist, as many were in France at this time, than the King--and, perhaps, he carried his loyalty to the point that is reached by the best form of flattery.
Let it be remembered that when, on the 3rd of May, 1814, Louis XVIII was reinstated, not by his own influence or exertions, but by the allied sovereigns who had overthrown Napoleon, he began at once to issue declarations and decrees as of the nineteenth year of his reign, ignoring the Revolution and Napoleon. Did this Bourbon really take himself seriously? Did he really expect the world to overlook Napoleon, or did he know as all the world knows to-day, that long after the Bourbons have sunk into oblivion the name of Napoleon will continue to be a household word?
If a situation is thus envisaged by a King, what may the wise expect from a Royalist?
In the absence of the Marquis de Gemosac, Albert de Chantonnay was considered to be the leader of the party in that quiet corner of south-western France which lies north of Bordeaux and south of that great dividing river, the Loire. He was, moreover, looked upon as representing that younger blood of France, to which must be confided the hopes and endeavours of the men, now passing away one by one, who had fought and suffered for their kings.
It was confidently whispered throughout this pastoral country that August Persons, living in exile in England and elsewhere, were in familiar and confidential correspondence with the Marquis de Gemosac, and, in a minor degree, with Albert de Chantonnay. For kings, and especially deposed kings, may not be choosers, but must take the instrument that comes to hand. A constitutional monarch is, by the way, better placed in this respect, for it is his people who push the instrument into his grasp, and in the long run the people nearly always read a man aright despite the efforts of a cheap press to lead them astray.
"If it were not written in the Marquis's own writing I could not have believed it," said Albert de Chantonnay, speaking aloud his own thoughts. He turned the letter this way and that, examining first the back of it and then the front.
"It has not been through the post." he said to the Abbé, who stood respectfully watching his face, which, indeed, inspired little confidence, for the chin receded in the wrong way--not like the chin of a shark, which indicates, not foolishness, but greed of gain--and the eyes were large and pale like those of a sheep.
"Oh, Heaven forbid!" cried the Abbé. "Such a letter as that! Where should we all be if it were read by the government? And all know that letters passing through the post to the address of such as Monsieur Albert are read in passing--by the Prince President himself, as likely as not."
Albert gave a short, derisive laugh, and shrugged his shoulders, which made his admiring mother throw back her head with a gesture, inviting the Abbé to contemplate, with satisfaction, the mother of so brave a man. " _Voilà_," she said, "but tell us, my son, what is in the letter?"
"Not yet," was the reply. "It is to be read to all when they are assembled. In the mean time--" He did not finish the sentence in words, but by gesture conveyed that the missive, now folded and placed in his breast-pocket, was only to be obtained bespattered with his life's blood. And the Abbé wiped his clammy brow with some satisfaction that it should be thus removed from his own timorous custody.
Albert de Chantonnay was looking expectantly at the door, for he had heard footsteps, and now he bowed gravely to a very old gentleman, a notary of the town, who entered the room with a deep obeisance to the Comtesse. Close on the notary's heels came others. Some were in riding costume, and came from a distance.
One sprightly lady wore evening dress, only partially concealed by a cloak. She hurried in with a nod for Albert de Chantonnay, and a kiss for the Comtesse. Her presence had the immediate effect of imparting an air of practical common-sense energy to the assembly, which it had hitherto lacked. There was nothing of the old _régime_ in this lady, who seemed to over-ride etiquette, and cheerfully ignore the dramatic side of the proceedings.
"Is it not wonderful?" she whispered aloud, after the manner of any modern lady at one of those public meetings in which they take so large a part with so small a result in these later days. "Is it not wonderful?" And her French, though pure enough, was full and round--the French of an English tongue. "I have had a long letter from Dormer telling me all about it. Oh--" And she broke off, silenced by the dark frown of Albert de Chantonnay, to which her attention had been forcibly directed by his mother. "I have been dining with Madame de Rathe," she went on, irrepressibly, changing the subject in obedience to Albert de Chantonnay's frown. "The Vicomtesse bids me make her excuses. She feared an indigestion, so will be absent to-night."
"Ah!" returned the Comtesse de Chantonnay. "It is not that. I happen to know that the Vicomtesse de Rathe has the digestion of a schoolboy. It is because she has no confidence in Albert. But we shall see--we shall see. It is not for the nobility of Louis Philippe to--to have a poor digestion."
And the Comtesse de Chantonnay made a gesture and a meaning grimace which would have been alarming enough had her hand and face been less dimpled with good nature.
There were now assembled about a dozen persons, and the Abbé was kept in countenance by two others of his cloth. There were several ladies; one of whom was young and plain and seemed to watch Albert de Chantonnay with a timid awe. Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence, seated next to the Comtesse de Chantonnay, was the only lady who made any attempt at gay apparel, and thus stood rather conspicuous among her companions clad in sober and somewhat rusty black. All over the west of France such meetings of the penniless Royalists were being held at this time, not, it has been averred, without the knowledge of the Prince President, who has been credited with the courage to treat the matter with contempt. About no monarch, living or dead, however, have so many lies been written, by friend or foe, with good or ill intent, as about him, who subsequently carried out the astounding feat of climbing to the throne of France as Napoleon III. And it seems certain that he has been given credit for knowing much of which he must have been ignorant to an extent hardly credible, even now, in face of subsequent events.
The Comtesse de Chantonnay was still tossing her head, at intervals, at the recollection of the Vicomtesse de Rathe's indigestion. This was only typical of the feelings that divided every camp in France at this time--at any time, indeed, since the days of Charlemagne--for the French must always quarrel among themselves until they are actually on the brink of national catastrophe. And even when they are fallen into that pit they will quarrel at the bottom, and bespatter each other with the mud that is there.
"Are we all here?" asked Albert de Chantonnay, standing in an effective attitude at the end of the table, with his hand on the back of his chair. He counted the number of his fellow-conspirators, and then sat down, drawing forward a candelabra.
"You have been summoned in haste," he said, "by the request of the Marquis de Gemosac to listen to the perusal of a letter of importance. It may be of the utmost importance--to us--to France--to all the world."
He drew the letter from his pocket and opened it amid a breathless silence. His listeners noted the care with which he attended to gesture and demeanour, and accounted it to him for righteousness; for they were French. An English audience would have thought him insincere, and they would have been wrong.
"The letter is dated from a place called Farlingford, in England. I have never heard of it. It is nowhere near to Twickenham or Clarement, nor is it in Buckinghamshire. The rest of England--no one knows." Albert paused and held up one hand for silence.
"At last," he read--"at last, my friends, after a lifetime of fruitless search, it seems that I have found--through the good offices of Dormer Colville--not the man we have sought, but his son. We have long suspected that Louis XVII must be dead. Madame herself, in her exile at Frohsdorff, has admitted to her intimates that she no longer hoped. But here in the full vigour of youth--a sailor, strong and healthy, living a simple life on shore as at sea--I have found a man whose face, whose form, and manner would clearly show to the most incredulous that he could be no other than the son of Louis XVII. A hundred tricks of manner and gesture he has inherited from the father he scarce remembers, from the grandfather who perished on the guillotine many years before he himself was born. No small proof of the man's sincerity is the fact that only now, after long persuasion, has he consented to place himself in our hands. I thought of hurrying at once to Frohsdorff to present to the aged Duchess a youth whom she cannot fail to recognize as her nephew. But better counsels have prevailed. Dormer Colville, to whom we owe so much, has placed us in his farther debt for a piece of sage advice. 'Wait,' he advises, 'until the young man has learned what is expected of him, until he has made the personal acquaintance of his supporters. Reserve until the end the presentation to the Duchesse d'Angouleme, which must only be made when all the Royalists in France are ready to act with a unanimity which will be absolute, and an energy which must prove irresistible.'
"There are more material proofs than a face so strongly resembling that of Louis XVI and Monsieur d'Artois, in their early manhood, as to take the breath away; than a vivacity inherited from his grandmother, together with an independence of spirit and impatience of restraint; than the slight graceful form, blue eyes, and fair skin of the little prisoner of the Temple. There are dates which go to prove that this boy's father was rescued from a sinking fishing-boat, near Dieppe, a few days after the little Dauphin was known to have escaped from the Temple, and to have been hurried to the north coast disguised as a girl. There is evidence, which Monsieur Colville is now patiently gathering from these slow-speaking people, that the woman who was rescued with this child was not his mother. And there are a hundred details known to the villagers here which go to prove what we have always suspected to be the case, namely, that Louis XVII was rescued from the Temple by the daring and ingenuity of a devoted few who so jealously guarded their secret that they frustrated their own object; for they one and all must have perished on the guillotine, or at the hands of some other assassin, without divulging their knowledge, and in the confusion and horror of those days the little Dauphin was lost to sight.
"There is a trinket--a locket--containing a miniature, which I am assured is a portrait of Marie Antoinette. This locket is in the possession of Dormer Colville, who suggests that we should refrain from using violence to open it until this can be done in France in the presence of suitable witnesses. A fall or some mishap has so crushed the locket that it can only be opened by a jeweller provided with suitable instruments. It has remained closed for nearly a quarter of a century, but a reliable witness in whose possession it has been since he, who was undoubtedly Louis XVII, died in his arms, remembers the portrait, and has no doubt of its authenticity. I have told you enough to make it clear to you that my search is at last ended. What we require now is money to enable us to bring this King of France to his own; to bring him, in the first place, to my humble château of Gemosac, where he can lie hidden until all arrangements are made. I leave it to you, my dear Albert, to collect this preliminary sum."
De Chantonnay folded the letter and looked at the faces surrounding the dimly lighted table.
Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence, who must have known the contents of the letter, and, therefore, came provided, leaned across the table with a discreet clink of jewellery and laid before Albert de Chantonnay a note for a thousand francs.
"I am only an Englishwoman," she said, simply, "but I can help."
| {
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12 | THE SECRET OF GEMOSAC | There is no sentiment so artificial as international hatred. In olden days it owed its existence to churchmen, and now an irresponsible press foments that dormant antagonism. Wherever French and English individuals are thrown together by a common endeavour, both are surprised at the mutual esteem which soon develops into friendship. But as nations we are no nearer than we were in the great days of Napoleon.
Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence was only one-quarter French and three-quarters English. Her grandmother had been a St. Pierre; but it was not from that lady that she inherited a certain open-handedness which took her French friends by surprise.
"It is not that she has the cause at heart," commented Madame de Chantonnay, as she walked laboriously on Albert's arm down the ramp of the Château de Gemosac at the termination of the meeting. "It is not for that that she throws her note of a thousand francs upon the table and promises more when things are in train. It is because she can refuse nothing to Dormer Colville. _Allez_, my son! I have a woman's heart! I know!"
Albert contented himself with a sardonic laugh. He was not in the humour to talk of women's hearts; for Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence's action had struck a sudden note of British realism into the harmony of his political fancies. He had talked so much, had listened to so much talk from others, that the dream of a restored monarchy had at last been raised to those far realms of the barely possible in which the Gallic fancy wanders in moments of facile digestion.
It was sufficient for the emergency that the others present at the meeting could explain that one does not carry money in one's pocket in a country lane at night, But in their hearts all were conscious of a slight feeling of resentment toward Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence; of a vague sense of disappointment, such as a dreamer may experience on being roughly awakened.
The three priests folded their hands with complacency. Poverty, their most cherished possession, spoke for itself in their case. The notary blinked and fumbled at his lips with yellow fingers in hasty thought. He was a Royalist notary because there existed in the country of the Deux Sevres a Royalist _clientèle_. In France, even a washerwoman must hold political views and stand or fall by them. It was astounding how poor every one felt at that moment, and it rested, as usual, with a woman's intuition to grasp the only rope within reach. "The vintage," this lady murmured. The vintage promised to be a bad one. Nothing, assuredly, could be undertaken, and no promise made, until the vintage was over.
So the meeting broke up without romance, and the conspirators dispersed to their homes, carrying in their minds that mutual distrust which is ever awakened in human hearts by the chink of gold, while the dormant national readiness to detect betrayal by England was suddenly wide awake.
Nevertheless, Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence had supplied the one ingredient necessary to leaven the talk of these dreamers into action. Even the notary found himself compelled to contribute when Albert de Chantonnay asked him outright for a subscription. And the priests, ably led by the Abbé Touvent, acted after the manner of the sons of Levi since olden times. They did not give themselves, but they told others to give, which is far better.
In due course the money was sent to England. It was the plain truth that the Marquis de Gemosac had not sufficient in his pocket to equip Loo Barebone with the clothes necessary to a seemly appearance in France; or, indeed, to cover the expense of the journey thither. Dormer Colville never had money to spare. "Heaven shaped me for a rich man," he would say, lightly, whenever the momentous subject was broached, "but forgot to fill my pockets."
It was almost the time of the vintage, and the country roads were dotted with the shambling figures of those knights of industry who seem to spring from the hedgerows at harvest-time in any country in the world, when the Abbé Touvent sought out Marie in her cottage at the gates of the château. " _A la cave_" answered the lady's voice. "In the cellar--do you not know that it is Monday and I wash?"
The Abbé did not repeat his summons on the kitchen table with the handle of his stick, but drew forward a chair.
"I know it is very hot, and that I am tired," he shouted toward the cellar door, which stood open, giving egress to a warm smell of soap.
"Precisely--and does Monsieur l'Abbé want me to come up as I am?"
The suggestion was darkly threatening, and the Abbé replied that Marie must take her time, since it was washing-day.
The cottage was built on sloping ground at the gate of the château, probably of the stones used for some earlier fortification. That which Marie called the cellar was but half underground, and had an exit to the garden which grew to the edge of the cliff. It was not long before she appeared at the head of the stone steps, a square-built woman with a face that had been sunburnt long ago by work in the vineyards, and eyes looking straight at the world from beneath a square and wrinkled forehead.
"Monsieur l'Abbé," she said, shortly--a salutation, and a comment in one; for it conveyed the fact that she saw it was he and perceived that he was in his usual health. "It is news from Monsieur, I suppose," she added, slowly, turning down her sleeves.
"Yes, the Marquis writes that he is on his way to Gemosac and wishes you to prepare the château for his return."
The Abbé waved his hand toward the castle gates with an air suggestive of retainers and lackeys, of busy stables and a hundred windows lighted after dark. His round eyes did not meet the direct glance fixed on his face, but wandered from one object to another in the room, finally lighting on the great key of the château gate, which hung on a nail behind the door.
"Then Monsieur le Marquis is coming into residence," said Marie, gravely.
And by way of reply the Abbé waved his hand a second time toward the castle walls.
"And the worst of it is," he added, timidly, to this silent admission, "that he brings a guest."
He moistened his fat lips and sat smiling in a foolish way at the open door; for he was afraid of all women, and most afraid of Marie.
"Ah!" she retorted, shortly. "To sleep in the oubliette, one may suppose. For there is no other bed in the château, as you quite well know, Monsieur l'Abbé. It is another of your kings no doubt. Oh! you need not hold up your hands--when Monsieur Albert reads aloud that letter from Monsieur le Marquis, in England, without so much as closing the door of the banquet hall! It is as well that it was no other than I who stood on the stairs outside and heard all."
"But it is wrong to listen behind doors," protested the Abbé.
"Ah, bah!" replied this unregenerate sheep of his flock. "But do not alarm yourself, Monsieur l'Abbé, I can keep a quiet tongue. And a political secret--what is it? It is an amusement for the rich--your politics--but a vice for the poor. Come, let us go to the château, while there is still day, and you can see for yourself whether we are ready for a guest."
While she spoke she hastily completed a toilet, which, despite the Abbé's caution, had the appearance of incompleteness, and taking the great key from behind the door, led the way out into the glare of the setting sun. She unlocked the great gate and threw her weight against it with quick, firm movements like the movements of a man. Indeed, she was a better man than her companion; of a stronger common sense; with lither limbs and a stouter heart; the best man that France has latterly produced, and, so far as the student of racial degeneration may foretell, will ever produce again--her middle-class woman.
Built close against the flanking tower on the left hand of the courtyard was a low, square house of two stories only. The whole ground floor was stabling, room and to spare for half a hundred horses, and filled frequently enough, no doubt, in the great days of the Great Henry. On the first floor, to which three or four staircases gave access, there were plenty of apartments; indeed, suites of them. But nearly all stood empty, and the row of windows looked blank and curtainless across the crumbling garden to the Italian house.
It was one of the many tragedies of that smiling, sunny land where only man, it seems, is vile; for nature has enclosed within its frontier-lines all the varied wealth and beauty of her treasures.
Marie led the way up the first staircase, which was straight and narrow. The carpet, carefully rolled and laid aside on the landing, was threadbare and colourless. The muslin curtains, folded back and pinned together, were darned and yellow with frequent washing and the rust of ancient damp. She opened the door of the first room at the head of the stairs. It had once been the apartment of some servitor; now it contained furniture of the gorgeous days of Louis XIV, with all the colour gone from its tapestry, all the woodwork grey and worm-eaten.
"Not that one," said Marie, as the Abbé struggled with the lever that fastened the window. "That one has not been opened for many years. See! the glass rattles in the frame. It is the other that opens."
Without comment the Abbé opened the other window and threw back the shutters, from which all the paint had peeled away, and let in the scented air. Mignonette close at hand--which had bloomed and died and cast its seed amid the old walls and falling stones since Marie Antoinette had taught the women of France to take an interest in their gardens; and from the great plains beyond--flat and fat--carefully laid there by the Garonne to give the world its finest wines, rose up the subtle scent of vines in bloom.
"The drawing-room," said Marie, and making a mock-curtsey toward the door, which stood open to the dim stairs, she made a grand gesture with her hand, still red and wrinkled from the wash-tub. "Will the King of France be pleased to enter and seat himself? There are three chairs, but one of them is broken, so his Majesty's suite must stand."
With a strident laugh she passed on to the next room through folding doors.
"The principal room," she announced, with that hard irony in her voice, which had, no doubt, penetrated thither from the soul of a mother who had played no small part in the Revolution. "The guest-chamber, one may say, provided that Monsieur le Marquis will sleep on the floor in the drawing-room, or in the straw down below in the stable."
The Abbé threw open the shutter of this room also and stood meekly eyeing Marie with a tolerant smile. The room was almost bare of furniture. A bed such as peasants sleep on; a few chairs; a dressing-table tottering against the window-breast, and modestly screened in one corner, the diminutive washing-stand still used in southern France. For Gemosac had been sacked and the furniture built up into a bonfire when Marie was a little child and the Abbé Touvent a fat-faced timorous boy at the Seminary of Saintes.
"Beyond is Mademoiselle's room," concluded Marie, curtly. She looked round her and shrugged her shoulders with a grim laugh which made the Abbé shrink. They looked at each other in silence, the two participants in the secret of Gemosac; for Marie's husband, the third who had access to the chateau, did not count. He was a shambling, silent man, now working in the vineyard beneath the walls. He always did what his wife told him, without comment or enthusiasm, knowing well that he would be blamed for doing it badly.
The Abbé had visited the rooms once before, during a brief passage of the Marquis, soon after his wife's death in Paris. But, as a rule, only Marie and Jean had access to the apartment. He looked round with an eye always ready with the tear of sympathy; for he was a soft-hearted man. Then he looked at Marie again, shamefacedly. But she, divining his thoughts, shrugged her shoulders.
"Ah, bah!" she said, "one must take the world as it is. And Monsieur le Marquis is only a man. One sees that, when he announces his return on washing-day, and brings a guest. You must write to him, that is all, and tell him that with time I can arrange, but not in a hurry like this. Where is the furniture to come from? A chair or two from the banquet-hall; I can lend a bed which Jean can carry in after dark so that no one knows; you have the jug and basin you bought when the Bishop came, that you must lend--" She broke off and ran to the window. "Good," she cried, in a despairing voice, "I hear a carriage coming up the hill. Run, Monsieur l'Abbé--run to the gate and bolt it. Guest or no guest, they cannot see the rooms like this. Here, let me past."
She pushed him unceremoniously aside at the head of the stairs and ran past him. Long concealment of the deadly poverty within the walls had taught her to close the gates behind her whenever she entered, but now for greater security, or to gain time, she swung the great oaken beam round on its pivot across the doors on the inside. Then turning round on her heels she watched the bell that hung above her head. The Abbé, who had followed her as quickly as he could, was naively looking for a peep-hole between the timbers of the huge doors.
A minute later the bell swung slowly, and gave a single clang which echoed beneath the vaulted roof, and in the hollow of the empty towers on either side.
"Marie, Marie!" cried a gay girlish voice from without. "Open at once. It is I." "There," said Marie, in a whisper. "It is Mademoiselle, who has returned from the good Sisters. And the story that you told of the fever at Saintes is true."
| {
"id": "8942"
} |
13 | WITHIN THE GATES | The great bell hanging inside the gates of Gemosac was silent for two days after the return of Juliette de Gemosac from her fever-stricken convent school, at Saintes.
But on the third day, soon after nightfall, it rang once more, breaking suddenly in on the silence of the shadowy courts and gardens, bidding the frogs in the tank be still with a soft, clear voice, only compassed by the artificers who worked in days when silver was little accounted of in the forging of a bell.
It was soon after eight o'clock, and darkness had not long covered the land and sent the workers home. There was no moon. Indeed, the summons to the gate, coming so soon after nightfall, seemed to suggest the arrival of a traveller, who had not deemed it expedient to pass through the winding streets of Gemosac by daylight.
The castle lies on a height, sufficiently removed from the little town to temper the stir of its streets to a pleasant and unobtrusive evidence of neighbourhood. Had the traveller come in a carriage, the sound of its wheels would certainly have been heard; and nearer at hand, the tramp of horses on the hollow of the old drawbridge, not raised these hundred years, must have heralded the summons of the bell. But none of these sounds had warned Juliette de Gemosac, who sat alone in the little white room upstairs, nor Marie and her husband, dumb and worn by the day's toil, who awaited bedtime on a stone seat by the stable door.
Juliette, standing at the open window, heard Jean stir himself, and shuffle, in his slippers, toward the gate.
"It is some one who comes on foot," she heard Marie say. "Some beggar--the roads are full of them. See that he gets no farther than the gate."
She heard Jean draw back the bolts and answer gruffly, in a few words, through the interstice of a grudging door, what seemed to be inquiries made in a voice that was not the voice of a peasant. Marie rose and went to the gate. In a few minutes they returned, and Juliette drew back from the window, for they were accompanied by the new-comer, whose boots made a sharper, clearer sound on the cobble-stones.
"Yes," Juliette heard him explain, "I am an Englishman, but I come from Monsieur de Gemosac, for all that. And since Mademoiselle is here, I must see her. It was by chance that I heard, on the road, that there is fever at Saintes, and that she had returned home. I was on my way to Saintes to see her and give her my news of her father."
"But what news?" asked Marie, and the answer was lost as the speakers passed into the doorway, the new-comer evidently leading the way, the peasant and his wife following without protest, and with that instinctive obedience to unconscious command which will survive all the iconoclasm of a hundred revolutions.
There followed a tramping on the stairs and a half-suppressed laugh as the new-comer stumbled upward. Marie opened the door slowly.
"It is a gentleman," she announced, "who does not give his name."
Juliette de Gemosac was standing at the far side of the table, with the lamp throwing its full light upon her. She was dressed in white, with a blue ribbon at her waist and wrists. Another ribbon of the same colour tied back her hair, which was of a bright brown, with curls that caught the light in a score of tendrils above her ears. No finished coquette could have planned a prettier surprise than that which awaited Loo Barebone, as he made Marie stand aside, and came, hat in hand, into the room.
He paused for an instant, breathless, before Juliette, who stood, with a little smile of composed surprise parting her lips. This child, fresh from the quiet of a convent-school, was in no wise taken aback nor at a loss how to act. She did not speak, but stood with head erect, not ungracious, looking at him with clear brown eyes, awaiting his explanation. And Loo Barebone, all untaught, who had never spoken to a French lady in his life, came forward with an assurance and a readiness which must have lain dormant in his blood, awaiting the magic of this moment.
"Since my name would convey nothing to Mademoiselle," he said, with a bow which he had assuredly not learnt in Farlingford, "it was useless to mention it. But it is at the disposal of Mademoiselle, nevertheless. It is an English name--Barebone. I am the Englishman who has been fortunate enough to engage the interest of your father, who journeyed to England to find me--and found me."
He broke off with a laugh, spreading out his arms to show himself, as it were, and ask indulgence.
"I have a heritage, it appears, in France," he went on, "but know nothing of it, yet. For the weather has been bad and our voyage a stormy one. I was to have been told during the journey, but we had no time for that. And I know no more than you, mademoiselle."
Juliette had changed colour, and her cheeks, which were usually of a most delicate pink, were suddenly quite white. She did not touch upon the knowledge to which he referred, but went past it to its object.
"You do not speak like an Englishman," she said. "For I know one or two. One came to the school at Saintes. He was a famous English prelate, and he had the manner--well, of a tree. And when he spoke, it was what one would expect of a tree, if it suddenly had speech. But you--you are not like that."
Loo Barebone laughed with an easy gaiety, which seemed infectious, though Marie did not join in it, but stood scowling in the doorway.
"Yes," he said, "you have described them exactly. I know a hundred who are like great trees. Many are so, but they are kind and still like trees--the English, when you know them, mademoiselle."
"They?" she said, with her prettily arched eyebrows raised high.
"We, I mean," he answered, quickly, taking her meaning in a flash. "I almost forgot that I was an Englishman. It is my heritage, perhaps, that makes me forget--or yourself. It is so easy and natural to consider one's self a Frenchman--and so pleasant."
Marie shuffled with her feet and made a movement of impatience, as if to remind them that they were still far from the business in hand and were merely talking of themselves, which is the beginning of all things--or may be the beginning of the inevitable end.
"But I forgot," said Barebone, at once. "And it is getting late. Your father has had a slight misfortune. He has sprained his ankle. He is on board my ship, the ship of which I am--I have been--an officer, lying at anchor in the river near here, off the village of Mortagne. I came from Mortagne at your father's request, with certain messages, for yourself, mademoiselle, and for Marie--if Madame is Marie."
"Yes," replied the grim voice in the doorway. "Madame is Marie."
Loo had turned toward her. It seemed his happy fate to be able to disarm antagonism at the first pass. He looked at Marie and smiled; and slowly, unwillingly, her grim face relaxed.
"Well," he said, "you are not to expect Monsieur le Marquis to-night, nor yet, for some time to come. For he will go on to Bordeaux, where he can obtain skilled treatment for his injured ankle, and remain there until he can put his foot to the ground. He is comfortable enough on board the ship, which will proceed up the river to-morrow morning to Bordeaux. Monsieur le Marquis also told me to set your mind at rest on another point. He was to have brought with him a guest--" Loo paused and bowed to Marie, with a gay grace.
"A humble one. But I am not to come to Gemosac just now. I am going, instead, with Monsieur Dormer Colville, to stay at Royan with Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence. It is, I hope, a pleasure deferred. I cannot, it appears, show myself in Bordeaux at present, and I quit the ship to-night. It is some question of myself and my heritage in France, which I do not understand."
"Is that so?" said Marie. "One can hardly believe it."
"What do you mean?"
"Oh, nothing," replied Marie, looking at his face with a close scrutiny, as if it were familiar to her.
"And that is all that I had to tell you, Madame Marie," concluded Barebone.
And, strangely enough, Marie smiled at him as he turned away, not unkindly.
"To you, mademoiselle," he went on, turning again to Juliette, whose hand was at her hair, for she had been taken by surprise, "my message is simpler. Monsieur, your father, will be glad to have your society at Bordeaux, while he stays there, if that is true which the Gironde pilot told him--of fever at Saintes, and the hurried dispersal of the schools."
"It is true enough, monsieur," answered Juliette, in her low-pitched voice of the south, and with a light of anticipation in her eye; for it was dull enough at Gemosac, all alone in this empty château. "But how am I to reach Bordeaux?"
"Your father did not specify the route or method. He seemed to leave that to you, mademoiselle. He seemed to have an entire faith in your judgment, and that is why I was so surprised when I saw you. I thought--well, I figured to myself that you were older, you understand."
He broke off with a laugh and a deprecatory gesture of the hand, as if he had more in his mind but did not want to put it into words. His meaning was clear enough in his eyes, but Juliette was fresh from a convent-school, where they seek earnestly to teach a woman not to be a woman.
"One may be young, and still have understanding, monsieur," she said, with the composed little smile on her demure lips, which must only have been the composure of complete innocence: almost a monopoly of children, though some women move through life without losing it.
"Yes," answered Loo, looking into her eyes. "So it appears. So, how will you go to Bordeaux? How does one go from Gemosac to Bordeaux?"
"By carriage to Mortagne, where a boat is always to be obtained. It is a short journey, if the tide is favourable," broke in Marie, who was practical before she was polite.
"Then," said Loo, as quick as thought, "drive back with me now to Mortagne. I have left my horse in the town, my boat at the pier at Mortagne. It is an hour's drive. In an hour and a half you will be on board 'The Last Hope,' at anchor in the river. There is accommodation on board for both you and Madame; for I, alas! Leave the ship to-night with Monsieur Colville, and thus vacate two cabins."
Juliette reflected for a moment, but she did not consult, even by a glance, Marie; who, in truth, appeared to expect no such confidences, but awaited the decision with a grim and grudging servitude which was as deeply pressed in upon her soul as was the habit of command in the soul of a de Gemosac.
"Yes," said Juliette, at length, "that will be best. It is, of course, important that my father should reach Bordeaux as soon as possible."
"He will be there at midday to-morrow, if you will come with me now," answered Loo, and his gay eyes said "Come!" as clearly as his lips, though Juliette could not, of course, be expected to read such signals.
The affair was soon settled, and Jean ordered to put the horse into the high, old-fashioned carriage still in use at the château. For Juliette de Gemosac seemed to be an illustration of the fact, known to many much-tried parents, that one is never too young to know one's mind.
"There is a thunder-storm coming from the sea," was Jean's only comment.
There was some delay in starting; for Marie had to change her own clothes as well as pack her young mistress's simple trunks. But the time did not hang heavily on the hands of the two waiting in the little drawing-room, and Marie turned an uneasy glance toward the open door more than once at the sound of their laughter.
Barebone was riding a horse hired in the village of Mortagne, and quitted the château first, on foot, saying that the carriage must necessarily travel quicker than he, as his horse was tired. The night was dark, and darkest to the west, where lightning danced in and out among heavy clouds over the sea.
As in all lands that have been torn hither and thither by long wars, the peasants of Guienne learnt, long ago, the wisdom of dwelling together in closely built villages, making a long journey to their fields or vineyards every day. In times past, Gemosac had been a walled town, dominated, as usual, by the almost impregnable castle.
Barebone rode on, alone, through the deserted vineyards, of which the scent, like that of a vinery in colder lands, was heavy and damp. The road runs straight, from point to point, and there was no chance of missing the way or losing his companions. He was more concerned with watching the clouds, which were rising in dark towers against the western sky. He had noted that others were watching them, also, standing at their doors in every street. It was the period of thunder and hailstorms--the deadly foe of the vine.
At length Barebone pulled up and waited; for he could hear the sound of wheels behind him, and noted that it was not increasing in loudness.
"Can you not go faster?" he shouted to Jean, when, at length, the carriage approached.
Jean made no answer, but lashed his horse and pointed upward to the sky with his whip. Barebone rode in front to encourage the slower horse. At the village of Mortagne he signed to Jean to wait before the inn until he had taken his horse to the stable and paid for its hire. Then he clambered to the box beside him and they rattled down the long street and out into the open road that led across the marshes to the port--a few wooden houses and a jetty, running out from the shallows to the channel.
When they reached the jetty, going slowly at the last through the heavy dust, the air was still and breathless. The rounded clouds still towered above them, making the river black with their deep shadows. A few lights twinkled across the waters. They were the lightships marking the middle bank of the Gironde, which is many miles wide at this spot and rendered dangerous by innumerable sand-banks.
"In five minutes it will be upon us," said Jean. "You had better turn back."
"Oh, no," was the reply, with a reassuring laugh. "In the country where I come from, they do not turn back."
| {
"id": "8942"
} |
14 | THE LIFTED VEIL | "Where is the boatman?" asked Marie, as she followed Juliette and Barebone along the deserted jetty. A light burnt dimly at the end of it and one or two boats must have been moored near at hand; for the water could be heard lapping under their bows, a secretive, whispering sound full of mystery.
"I am the boatman," replied Loo, over his shoulder. "Are you afraid?"
"What is the good of being afraid?" asked this woman of the world, stopping at the head of the steps and peering down into the darkness into which he had descended. "What is the good of being afraid when one is old and married? I was afraid enough when I was a girl, and pretty and coquette like Mademoiselle, here. I was afraid enough then, and it was worth my while--_allez_!"
Barebone made no answer to this dark suggestion of a sprightly past. The present darkness and the coming storm commanded his full attention. In the breathless silence, Juliette and Marie--and behind them, Jean, panting beneath the luggage balanced on his shoulder--could hear the wet rope slipping through his fingers and, presently, the bump of the heavy boat against the timber of the steps.
This was followed by the gurgle of a rope through a well-greased sheave and the square lug, which had been the joy of little Sep Marvin at Farlingford, crept up to the truck of the stubby mast.
"There is no wind for that," remarked Marie, pessimistically.
"There will be to spare in a few minutes," answered Barebone, and the monosyllabic Jean gave an acquiescent grunt.
"Luggage first," said Barebone, lapsing into the curtness of the sea. "Come along. Let us make haste."
They stumbled on board as best they could, and were guided to a safe place amidships by Loo, who had thrown a spare sail on the bottom of the boat.
"As low as you can," he said. "Crouch down. Cover yourselves with this. Right over your heads."
"But why?" grumbled Marie.
"Listen," was all the answer he gave her. And as he spoke, the storm rushed upon them like a train, with the roar and whirl of a locomotive.
Loo jumped aft to the tiller. In the rush of the hail, they heard him give a sharp order to Jean, who must have had some knowledge of the sea, for he obeyed at once, and the boat, set free, lurched forward with a flap of her sail, which was like the report of a cannon. For a moment, all seemed confusion and flapping chaos, then came a sense of tenseness, and the boat heeled over with a swish, which added a hundred-weight of solid water to the beating of the hail on the spare sail, beneath which the women crouched.
"What? Did you speak?" shouted Loo, putting his face close to the canvas.
"It is only Marie calling on the saints," was the answer, in Juliette's laughing voice.
In a few minutes it was over; and, even at the back of the winds, could be heard the retreat of the hail as it crashed onward toward the valleys of which every slope is a named vineyard, to beat down in a few wild moments the result of careful toil and far-sighted expenditure; to wipe out that which is unique, which no man can replace--the vintage of a year.
When the hail ceased beating on it, Juliette pushed back the soaked canvas, which had covered them like a roof, and lifted her face to the cooler air. The boat was rushing through the water, and close to Juliette's cheek, just above the gunwale, rose a curved wave, green and white, and all shimmering with phosphorescence, which seemed to hover like a hawk above its prey.
The aftermath of the storm was flying overhead in riven ribbons of cloud, through which the stars were already peeping. To the westward the sky was clear, and against the last faint glow of the departed sun the lightning ran hither and thither, skipping and leaping, without sound or cessation, like fairies dancing.
Immediately overhead, the sail creaked and tugged at its earings, while the wind sang its high clear song round mast and halliards.
Juliette turned to look at Barebone. He was standing, ankle deep, in water, leaning backward to windward, in order to give the boat every pound of weight he could. The lambent summer-lightning on the western horizon illuminated his face fitfully. In that moment Juliette saw what is given to few to see and realise--though sailors, perforce, lie down to sleep knowing it every night--that under Heaven her life was wholly and solely in the two hands of a fellow-being. She knew it, and saw that Barebone knew it, though he never glanced at her. She saw the whites of his eyes gleaming as he looked up, from moment to moment, to the head of the sail and stooped again to peer under the foot of it into the darkness ahead. He braced himself, with one foot against the thwart, to haul in a few inches of sheet, to which the clumsy boat answered immediately. Marie was praying aloud now, and when she opened her eyes the sight of the tossing figure in the stern of the boat suddenly turned her terror into anger.
"Ah!" she cried, "that Jean is a fool. And he, who pretends to have been a fisherman when he was young--to let us come to our deaths like this!"
She lifted her head, and ducked it again, as a sea jumped up under the bow and rattled into the boat.
"I see no ship," she cried. "Let us go back, if we can. Name of God! --we shall be drowned! I see no ship, I tell you!"
"But I do," answered Barebone, shaking the water from his face, for he had no hand to spare. "But I do, which is more important. And you are not even wet!"
And he laughed as he brought the boat up into the wind for a few seconds, to meet a wild gust. Juliette turned in surprise at the sound of his voice. In the safe and gentle seclusion of the convent-school no one had thought to teach her that death may be faced with equanimity by others than the ordained of the Church, and that in the storm and stress of life men laugh in strange places and at odd times.
Loo was only thinking of his boat and watching the sky for the last of the storm--that smack, as it were, in the face--with which the Atlantic ends those black squalls that she sends us, not without thunder and the curtailed lightning of northern seas. He was planning and shaping his course; for the watchers on board "The Last Hope" had already seen him, as he could ascertain by a second light, which suddenly appeared, swung low, casting a gleam across the surf-strewn water, to show him where the ladder hung overside.
"Tell Monsieur de Gemosac that I have Mademoiselle and her maid here in the boat," Barebone called out to Captain Clubbe, whose large face loomed above the lantern he was holding overside, as he made fast the rope that had been thrown across his boat and lowered the dripping sail. The water was smooth enough under the lee of "The Last Hope," which, being deeply laden, lay motionless at her anchor, with the stream rustling past her cables.
"Stand up, mademoiselle," said Barebone, himself balanced on the after-thwart. "Hold on to me, thus, and when I let you go, let yourself go."
There was no time to protest or to ask questions. And Juliette felt herself passed on from one pair of strong arms to another, until she was standing on the deck under the humming rigging, surrounded by men who seemed huge in their gleaming oil-skins.
"This way, mademoiselle," said one, who was even larger than the others, in English, of which she understood enough to catch his meaning. "I will take you to your father. Show a light this way, one of you."
His fingers closed round her arm, and he led her, unconscious of a strength that almost lifted her from her feet, toward an open door, where a lamp burnt dimly within. It smelt abominably of an untrimmed wick, Juliette thought, and the next minute she was kissing her father, who lay full length on a locker in the little cabin.
She asked him a hundred questions, and waited for few of the answers. Indeed, she supplied most of them herself; for she was very quick and gay.
"I see," she cried, "that your foot has been tied up by a sailor. He has tried to mend it as if it were a broken spar. I suppose that was the Captain who brought me to you, and then ran away again, as soon as he could. Yes; I have Marie with me. She is telling them to be careful with the luggage. I can hear her. I am so glad we had a case of fever at the school. It was a lay sister, a stupid woman. But how lucky that I should be at home just when you wanted me!"
She stood upright again, after deftly loosening the bandage round her father's ankle, and looked at him and laughed.
"Poor, dear old papa," she said. "One sees that you want some one to take care of you. And this cabin--oh! _mon Dieu_! how bare and uncomfortable! I suppose men have to go to sea alone because they can persuade no woman to go with them."
She pounced upon her father again, and arranged afresh the cushions behind his back, with a little air of patronage and protection. Her back was turned toward the door, when some one came in, but she heard the approaching steps and looked quickly round the cabin walls.
"Heavens!" she exclaimed, in a gay whisper. "No looking-glass! One sees that it is only men who live here."
And she turned, with smiling eyes and a hand upraised to her disordered hair, to note the new-comer. It was Dormer Colville, who laid aside his waterproof as he came and greeted her as an old friend. He had, indeed, known her since her early childhood, and had always succeeded in keeping pace with her, even in the rapid changes of her last year at school.
"Here is an adventure," he said, shaking hands. "But I can see that you have taken no harm, and have not even been afraid. For us, it is a pleasant surprise."
He glanced at her with a smiling approbation, not without a delicate suggestion of admiration, such as he might well permit himself, and she might now even consider her due. He was only keeping pace.
"I stayed behind to initiate your maid, who is, of course, unused to a ship, and the steward speaks but little French. But now they are arranging your cabin together."
"How delightful!" cried Juliette. "I have never been on a ship before, you know. And it is all so strange and so nice. All those big men, like wet ghosts, who said nothing! I think they are more interesting than women; perhaps it is because they talk less."
"Perhaps it is," admitted Colville, with a sudden gravity, similar to that with which she had made the suggestion.
"You should hear the Sisters talk--when they are allowed," she said, confidentially.
"And whisper when they are not. I can imagine it," laughed Colville. "But now you have left all that behind, and have come out into the world--of men, one may say. And you have begun at once with an adventure."
"Yes! And we are going to Bordeaux, papa and I, until his foot is well again. Of course, I was in despair when I was first told of it, but now that I see him I am no longer anxious. And your messenger assured me that it was not serious."
She paused to look round the cabin, to make sure that they were alone.
"How strange he is!" she said to both her hearers, in confidence, looking from one to the other with a quick, bird-like turn of the head and bright eyes. "I have never seen any one like him."
"No?" said Dormer Colville, encouragingly.
"He said he was an Englishman; but, of course, he is not. He is, French, and has not the manner of a _bourgeoie_ or a sailor. He has the manner of an aristocrat--one would say a Royalist--like Albert de Chantonnay, only a thousand times better."
"Yes," said Colville, glancing at Monsieur de Gemosac.
"More interesting, and so quick and amusing. He spoke of a heritage in France, and yet he said he was an Englishman. I hope he will secure his heritage."
"Yes," murmured Colville, still looking at Monsieur de Gemosac.
"And then, when we were in the boat," continued Juliette, still in confidence to them both, "he changed quite suddenly. He was short and sharp. He ordered us to do this and that; and one did it, somehow, without question. Even Marie obeyed him without hesitating, although she was half mad with fear. We were in danger. I knew that. Any one must have known it. And yet I was not afraid; I wonder why? And he--he laughed--that was all. _Mon Dieu! _ he was brave. I never knew that any one could be so brave!"
She broke off suddenly, with her finger to her lips; for some one had opened the cabin door. Captain Clubbe came in, filling the whole cabin with his bulk, and on his heels followed Loo Barebone, his face and hair still wet and dripping.
"Mademoiselle was wondering," said Dormer Colville, who, it seemed, was quick to step into that silence which the object of a conversation is apt to cause--"Mademoiselle was wondering how it was that you escaped shipwreck in the storm."
"Ah! because one has a star. Even a poor sailor may have a star, mademoiselle. As well as the Prince Napoleon, who boasts that he has one of the first magnitude, I understand."
"You are not a poor sailor, monsieur," said Juliette.
"Then who am I?" he asked, with a gay laugh, spreading out his hands and standing before them, beneath the swinging lamp.
The Marquis de Gemosac raised himself on one elbow.
"I will tell you who you are," he said, in a low, quick voice, pointing one hand at Loo. "I will tell you." And his voice rose.
"You are the grandson of Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette. You are the Last Hope of the French. That is your heritage. Juliette! this is the King of France!"
Juliette turned and looked at him, with all the colour gone from her face. Then, instinctively, she dropped on one knee, and before he had understood, or could stop her, had raised his hand to her lips.
| {
"id": "8942"
} |
15 | THE TURN OF THE TIDE | "Tide's a-turning, sir," said a voice at the open doorway of the cabin, and Captain Clubbe turned his impassive face toward Dormer Colville, who looked oddly white beneath the light of the lamp.
Barebone had unceremoniously dragged his hand away from the hold of Juliette's fingers. He made a step back and then turned toward the door at the sound of his shipmate's well-known voice. He stood staring out into the darkness like one who is walking in his sleep. No one spoke, and through the open doorways no sound came to them but the song of the wind through the rigging.
At last Barebone turned, and there was no sign of fear or misgiving in his face. He looked at Clubbe, and at no one else, as if the Captain and he were alone in the cabin where they had passed so many years together in fair weather, to bring out that which is evil in a man, and foul, to evolve the good.
"What do _you_ say?" he asked, in English, and he must have known that Captain Clubbe understood French better than he was ready to admit.
Clubbe passed his hand slowly across his cheek and chin, not in order to gain time, or because he had not an answer ready, but because he came of a slow-speaking race. His answer had been made ready weeks before while he sat on the weather-beaten seat set against the wall of "The Black Sailor" at Farlingford.
"Tide's turned," he answered, simply. "You'd better get your oilskins on again and go."
"Yes," said Loo, with a queer laugh. "I fancy I shall want my oilskins."
The boat which had been sent from Royan, at the order of the pilot, who went ashore there, had followed "The Last Hope" up the river, and was now lying under the English ship's stern awaiting her two passengers and the turn of the tide.
Dormer Colville glanced at the cabin clock.
"Then," he said, briskly, "let us be going. It will be late enough as it is before we reach my cousin's house."
He turned and translated his remark for the benefit of the Marquis and Juliette, remembering that they must needs fail to understand a colloquy in the muttered and clipped English of the east coast. He was nervously anxious, it would appear, to tide over a difficult moment; to give Loo Barebone breathing space, and yet to avoid unnecessary question and answer. He had not lived forty adventurous years in the world without learning that it is the word too much which wrecks the majority of human schemes.
Their preparations had been made beforehand in readiness for the return of the tide, without the help of which the voyage back to Royan against a contrary wind must necessarily be long and wearisome.
There was nothing to wait for. Captain Clubbe was not the man to prolong a farewell or waste his words in wishes for the future, knowing how vain such must always be. Loo was dazed still by the crash of the storm and the tension of the effort to bring his boat safely through it.
The rest had not fully penetrated to his inmost mind yet. There had been only time to act, and none to think, and when the necessity to act was past, when he found himself crouching down under the weather gunwale of the French fishing-boat without even the necessity of laying hand on sheet or tiller, when, at last, he had time to think, he found that the ability to do so was no longer his. For Fortune, when she lifts up or casts down, usually numbs the understanding at the first turn of her wheel, sending her victim staggering on his way a mere machine, astonishingly alive to the necessity of the immediate moment, careful of the next step, but capable of looking neither forward nor backward with an understanding eye.
The waning moon came up at last, behind a distant line of trees on the Charente side, lighting up with a silver lining the towering clouds of the storm, which was still travelling eastward, leaving in its wake battered vines and ruined crops, searing the face of the land as with a hot iron. Loo lifted his head and looked round him. The owner of the boat was at the tiller, while his assistant sat amidships, his elbows on his knees, looking ahead with dreamy eyes. Close to Barebone, crouching from the wind which blew cold from the Atlantic, was Dormer Colville, affably silent. If Loo turned to glance at him he looked away, but when his back was turned Loo was conscious of watching eyes, full of sympathy, almost uncomfortably quick to perceive the inward working of another's mind, and suit his own thereto.
Thus the boat plunged out toward the sea and the flickering lights that mark the channel, tacking right across to that spit of land lying between the Gironde and the broad Atlantic, where grows a wine without match in all the world. Thus Loo Barebone turned his back on the ship which had been his home so long and set out into a new world; a new and unknown life, with the Marquis de Gemosac's ringing words buzzing in his brain yet; with the warm touch of Juliette's lips burning still upon his hand.
"You are the grandson of Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette! You are the Last Hope of France!"
And he remembered the lights and shadows on Juliette's hair as he looked down upon her bent head.
Colville was talking to the "patron" now. He knew the coast, it seemed, and, somewhere or other, had learnt enough of such matters of local seafaring interest as to set the fisherman at his ease and make him talk.
They were arranging where to land, and Colville was describing the exact whereabouts of a little jetty used for bathing purposes, which ran out from the sandy shore, quite near to Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence's house, in the pine-trees, two miles south of Royan. It was no easy matter to find this spot by the dim light of a waning moon, and, half-mechanically, Loo joined in the search, and presently, when the jetty was reached, helped to make fast in a choppy sea.
They left the luggage on the jetty and walked across the silent sand side by side.
"There," said Colville, pointing forward. "It is through that opening in the pine-trees. A matter of five minutes and we shall be at my cousin's house."
"It is very kind of Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence," answered Barebone, "to--well, to take me up. I suppose that is the best way to look at it."
Colville laughed quietly.
"Yes--put it thus, if you like," he said. They walked on in silence for a few yards, and then Dormer Colville slipped his hand within his companion's arm, as was the fashion among men even in England in those more expansive days.
"I think I know how you feel," he said, suiting his step to Barebone's. "You must feel like a man who is set down to a table to play a game of which he knows nothing, and on taking up his cards finds that he holds a hand all courtcards and trumps--and he doesn't know how to play them."
Barebone made no answer. He had yet to unlearn Captain Clubbe's unconscious teaching that a man's feelings are his own concern and no other has any interest or right to share in them, except one woman, and even she must guess the larger half.
"But as the game progresses," went on Colville, reassuringly, "you will find out how it is played. You will even find that you are a skilled player, and then the gambler's spirit will fire your blood and arouse your energies. You will discover what a damned good game it is. The great game--Barebone--the great game! And France is the country to play it in."
He stamped his foot on the soil of France as he spoke.
"The moment I saw you I knew that you would do. No man better fitted to play the game than yourself; for you have wit and quickness," went on this friend and mentor, with a little pressure on his companion's arm. "But--you will have to put your back into it, you know."
"What do you mean?"
"Well--I noticed at Farlingford a certain reluctance to begin. It is in the blood, I suppose. There is, you know, in the Bourbon blood a certain strain of--well, let us say of reluctance to begin. Others call it by a different name. One is not a Bourbon for nothing, I suppose. And everything--even if it be a vice--that serves to emphasise identity is to be cultivated. But, as I say, you will have to put your back into it later on. At present there will be less to do. You will have to play close and hold your hand, and follow any lead that is given you by de Gemosac, or by my humble self. You will find that easy enough, I know. For you have all a Frenchman's quickness to understand. And I suppose--to put it plainly as between men of the world--now that you have had time to think it over--you are not afraid, Barebone?"
"Oh no!" laughed Barebone. "I am not afraid."
"One is not a Barebone--or a Bourbon--for nothing," observed Colville, in an aside to himself. "Gad! I wish I could say that I should not be afraid myself under similar circumstances. My heart was in my mouth, I can tell you, in that cabin when de Gemosac blurted it all out. It came suddenly at the end, and--well! --it rather hit one in the wind. And, as I say, one is not a Bourbon for nothing. You come into a heritage, eight hundred years old, of likes and dislikes, of genius and incapacity, of an astounding cleverness, and a preposterous foolishness without compare in the history of dynasties. But that doesn't matter nowadays. This is a progressive age, you know; even the Bourbons cannot hold back the advance of the times."
"I come into a heritage of friends and of enemies," said Barebone, gaily--"all ready made. That seems to me more important."
"Gad! you are right," exclaimed Colville. "I said you would do the moment I saw you step ashore at Farlingford. You have gone right to the heart of the question at the first bound. It is your friends and your enemies that will give you trouble."
"More especially my friends," suggested Loo, with a light laugh.
"Right again," answered Colville, glancing at him sideways beneath the brim of his hat. And there was a little pause before he spoke again.
"You have probably learnt how to deal with your enemies at sea," he said thoughtfully at length. "Have you ever noticed how an English ship comes into a foreign harbour and takes her berth at her moorings? There is nothing more characteristic of the nation. And one captain is like another. No doubt you have seen Clubbe do it a hundred times. He comes in, all sail set, and steers straight for the berth he has chosen. And there are always half a dozen men in half a dozen small boats who go out to meet him. They stand up and wave their arms, and point this way and that. They ask a hundred questions, and with their hands round their faces, shout their advice. And in answer to one and the other the Captain looks over the side and says, 'You be damned.' That will be the way to deal with some of your friends and all your enemies alike, Barebone, if you mean to get on in France. You will have to look over the side at the people in small boats who are shouting and say, 'You be damned.'"
They were at the gate of a house now, set down in a clearing amid the pine-trees.
"This is my cousin's house," said Dormer Colville. "It is to be your home for the present. And you need not scruple, as she will tell you, to consider it so. It is not a time to think of obligations, you understand, or to consider that you are running into any one's debt. You may remember that afterward, perhaps, but that is as may be. For the present there is no question of obligations. We are all in the same boat--all playing the same game."
And he laughed below his breath as he closed the gate with caution; for it was late and the house seemed to hold none but sleepers.
"As for my cousin herself," he continued, as they went toward the door, "you will find her easy to get on with--a clever woman, and a good-looking one. _Du reste_--it is not in that direction that your difficulties will lie. You will find it easy enough to get on with the women of the party, I fancy--from what I have observed."
And again he seemed to be amused.
| {
"id": "8942"
} |
16 | THE GAMBLERS | In a sense, politics must always represent the game that is most attractive to the careful gambler. For one may play at it without having anything to lose. It is one of the few games within the reach of the adventurous, where no stake need be cast upon the table. The gambler who takes up a political career plays to win or not to win. He may jump up from the gutter and shout that he is the man of the moment, without offering any proof of his assertion beyond the loudness of a strident voice. And if no one listens to him he loses nothing but his breath.
And in France the man who shouts loudest is almost certain to have the largest following. In England the same does not yet hold good, but the day seems to be approaching when it will.
In France, ever since the great Revolution, men have leapt up from the gutter to grasp the reins of power. Some, indeed, have sprung from the gutter of a palace, which is no more wholesome, it would appear, than the drain of any street, or a ditch that carries off the refuse of a cheap Press.
There are certain rooms in the north wing of the Louvre, in Paris, rooms having windows facing across the Rue de Rivoli toward the Palais Royal, where men must have sat in the comfortable leather-covered chair of the High Official and laughed at the astounding simplicity of the French people. But he laughs best who laughs last, and the People will assuredly be amused in a few months, or a few years, at the very sudden and very humiliating discomfiture of a gentleman falling face-foremost into the street or hanging forlornly from a lamp-post at the corner of it. For some have quitted these comfortable chairs, in these quiet double-windowed rooms overlooking the Rue de Rivoli, for no better fate.
It was in the August of 1850 that a stout gentleman, seated in one of these comfortable chairs, succumbed so far to the warmth of the palace corridors as to fall asleep. He was not in the room of a high official, but in the waiting-room attached to it.
He knew, moreover, that the High Official himself was scarcely likely to dismiss a previous visitor or a present occupation any the earlier for being importuned; for he was aware of the official's antecedents, and knew that a Jack-in-office, who has shouted himself into office, is nearly always careful to be deaf to other voices than his own.
Moreover, Mr. John Turner was never pressed for time.
"Yes," he had been known to say, "I was in Paris in '48. Never missed a meal."
Whereas others, with much less at stake than this great banker, had omitted not only meals, but their night's rest--night after night--in those stirring times.
John Turner was still asleep when the door leading to the Minister's room was cautiously opened, showing an inner darkness such as prevails in an alcove between double doors. The door opened a little wider. No doubt the peeping eye had made sure that the occupant of the waiting-room was asleep. On the threshold stood a man of middle height, who carried himself with a certain grace and quiet dignity. He was pale almost to sallowness, a broad face with a kind mouth and melancholy eyes, without any light in them. The melancholy must have been expressed rather by the lines of the brows than by the eye itself, for this was without life or expression--the eye of a man who is either very short-sighted or is engaged in looking through that which he actually sees, to something he fancies he perceives beyond it.
His lips smiled, but the smile died beneath a neatly waxed moustache and reached no higher on the mask-like face. Then he disappeared in the outer darkness between the two doors, and the handle made no noise in turning.
In a few minutes an attendant, in a gay uniform, came in by the same door, without seeking to suppress the clatter of his boots on the oak floor.
"Holà! monsieur," he said, in a loud voice. And Mr. John Turner crossed his legs and leant farther back in the chair, preparatory to opening his eyes, which he did directly on the new-comer's face, without any of that vague flitting hither and thither of glance which usually denotes the sleeper surprised.
The eyes were of a clear blue, and Mr. Turner looked five years younger with them open than with them shut. But he was immensely stout.
"Well, my friend," he said, soothingly; for the Minister's attendant had a truculent ministerial manner. "Why so much noise?"
"The Minister will see you."
John Turner yawned and reached for his hat.
"The Minister is pressed for time."
"So was I," replied the Englishman, who spoke perfect French, "when I first sat down here, half an hour ago. But even haste will pass in time."
He rose, and followed the servant into the inner room, where he returned the bow of a little white-bearded gentleman seated at a huge desk.
"Well, sir," said this gentleman, with the abrupt manner which has come to be considered Napoleonic on the stage or in the political world to-day. "Your business?"
The servant had withdrawn, closing the door behind him with an emphasis of the self-accusatory sort.
"I am a banker," replied John Turner, looking with an obese deliberation toward one of the deep windows, where, half-concealed by the heavy curtain, a third person stood gazing down into the street.
The Minister smiled involuntarily, forgetting his dignity of a two-years' growth.
"Oh, you may speak before Monsieur," he said.
"But I am behind him," was the immediate reply.
The gentleman leaning against the window-breast did not accept this somewhat obvious invitation to show his face. He must have heard it, however, despite an absorption which was probably chronic; for he made a movement to follow with his glance the passage of some object of interest in the street below. And the movement seemed to supply John Turner with the information he desired.
"Yes, I am a banker," he said, more genially.
The Minister gave a short laugh.
"Monsieur," he said, "every one in Europe knows that. Proceed."
"And I only meddle in politics when I see the possibility of making an honest penny."
"Already made--that honest penny--if one may believe the gossip--of Europe," said the Minister. "So many pence that it is whispered that you do not know what to do with them."
"It is unfortunate," admitted Turner, "that one can only dine once a day."
The little gentleman in office had more than once invited his visitor to be seated, indicating by a gesture the chair placed ready for him. After a slow inspection of its legs, Mr. John Turner now seated himself. It would seem that he, at the same time, tacitly accepted the invitation to ignore the presence of a third person.
"Since you seem to know all about me," he said, "I will not waste any more of your time, or mine, by trying to make you believe that I am eminently respectable. The business that brought me here, however, is of a political nature. A plain man, like myself, only touches politics when he sees his gain clearly. There are others who enter that field from purer motives, I am told. I have not met them."
The Minister smiled on one side of his face, and all of it went white. He glanced uncomfortably at that third person, whom he had suggested ignoring.
"And yet," went on John Turner, very dense or greatly daring, "I have lived many years in France, Monsieur le Ministre."
The Minister frowned at him, and made a quick gesture of one hand toward the window.
"So long," pursued the Englishman, placidly, "as the trains start punctually, and there is not actually grape-shot in the streets, and one may count upon one's dinner at the hour, one form of government in this country seems to me to be as good as another, Monsieur le Ministre. A Bourbon Monarchy or an Orleans Monarchy, or a Republic, or--well, an Empire, Monsieur le Ministre." " _Mon Dieu! _ have you come here to tell me this?" cried the Minister, impatiently, glancing over his shoulder toward the window, and with one hand already stretched out toward the little bell standing on his desk.
"Yes," answered Turner, leaning forward to draw the bell out of reach. He nodded his head with a friendly smile, and his fat cheeks shook. "Yes, and other things as well. Some of those other matters are perhaps even more worthy of your earnest attention. It is worth your while to listen. More especially, as you are paid for it--by the hour."
He laughed inside himself, with a hollow sound, and placidly crossed his legs.
"Yes; I came to tell you, firstly, that the present form of government, and, er--any other form which may evolve from it--" "Oh! --proceed, monsieur!" exclaimed the Minister, hastily, while the man in the recess of the window turned and looked over his shoulder at John Turner's profile with a smile, not unkind, on his sphinx-like face. " --has the inestimable advantage of my passive approval. That is why I am here, in fact. I should be sorry to see it upset."
He broke off, and turned laboriously in his chair to look toward the window, as if the gaze of the expressionless eyes there had tickled the back of his neck like a fly. But by the time the heavy banker had got round, the curtain had fallen again in its original folds. " --by a serious Royalist plot," concluded Turner, in his thick, deliberate way.
"So, assuredly, would any patriot or any true friend of France," said the Minister, in his best declamatory manner.
"Um--m. That is out of my depth," returned the Englishman, bluntly. "I paddle about in the shallow water at the edge and pick up what I can, you understand. I am too fat for a _voyant_ bathing-costume, and the deep waters beyond, Monsieur le Ministre."
The Minister drummed impatiently on his desk with his five fingers, and looked at Turner sideways beneath his brows.
"Royalist plots are common enough," he said, tentatively, after a pause.
"Not a Royalist plot with money in it," was the retort. "I dare say an honest politician, like yourself, is aware that in France it is always safe to ignore the conspirator who has no money, and always dangerous to treat with contempt him who jingles a purse. There is only a certain amount of money in the world, Monsieur le Ministre, and we bankers usually know where it is. I do not mean the money that the world pours into its own stomach. That is always afloat--changing hands daily. I mean the Great Reserves. We watch those, you understand. And if one of the Great Reserves, or even one of the smaller reserves, moves, we wonder why it is being moved and we nearly always find out."
"One supposes," said the Minister, hazarding an opinion for the first time, and he gave it with a sidelong glance toward the window, "that it is passing from the hands of a financier possessing money into those of one who has none."
"Precisely. And if a financier possessing money is persuaded to part with it in such a quarter as you suggest, one may conclude that he has good reason to anticipate a substantial return for the loan. You, who are a brilliant collaborateur in the present government, should know that, if any one does, Monsieur le Ministre."
The Minister glanced toward the window, and then gave a good-natured and encouraging laugh, quite unexpectedly, just as if he had been told to do so by the silent man looking down into the street, who may, indeed, have had time to make a gesture.
"And," pursued the banker, "if a financier possessing money parts with it--or, to state the case more particularly, if a financier possessing no money, to my certain knowledge, suddenly raises it from nowhere definite, for the purposes of a Royalist conspiracy, the natural conclusion is that the Royalists have got hold of something good."
John Turner leant back in his chair and suppressed a yawn.
"This room is very warm," he said, producing a pocket-handkerchief. Which was tantamount to a refusal to say more.
The Minister twisted the end of his moustache in reflection. It was at this time the fashion in France to wear the moustache waxed. Indeed, men displayed thus their political bias to all whom it might concern.
"There remains nothing," said the official at length, with a gracious smile, "but to ask your terms."
For he who was afterward Napoleon the Third had introduced into French political and social life a plain-spoken cynicism which characterises both to this day.
"Easy," replied Turner. "You will find them easy. Firstly, I would ask that your stupid secret police keeps its fingers out; secondly, that leniency be assured to one person, a client of mine--the woman who supplies the money--who is under the influence--well, that influence which makes women do nobler and more foolish things, monsieur, than men are capable of."
He rose as he spoke, collected his hat and stick, and walked slowly to the door. With his hand on the handle, he paused.
"You can think about it," he said, "and let me know at your leisure. By the way, there is one more point, Monsieur le Ministre. I would ask you to let this matter remain a secret, known only to our two selves and--the Prince President."
And John Turner went out, without so much as a glance toward the window.
| {
"id": "8942"
} |
17 | ON THE PONT ROYAL | It would appear that John Turner had business south of the Seine, though his clients were few in the Faubourg St. Germain. For this placid British banker was known to be a good hater. His father before him, it was said, had had dealings with the Bourbons, while many a great family of the Emigration would have lost more than the esteem of their fellows in their panic-stricken flight, had it not been that one cool-headed and calm man of business stayed at his post through the topsy-turvy days of the Terror, and did his duty by the clients whom he despised.
On quitting the Louvre, by the door facing the Palais Royal, Turner moved to the left. To say that he walked would be to overstate the action of his little stout legs, which took so short a stride that his progress suggested wheels and some one pushing behind. He turned to the left again, and ambled under the great arch, to take the path passing behind the Tuileries.
His stoutness was, in a sense, a safeguard in streets where the travelling Englishman, easily recognised, has not always found a welcome. His clothes and his walk were studiously French. Indeed, no one, passing by with a casual glance, would have turned to look a second time at a figure so typical of the Paris streets.
Mr. Turner quitted the enclosure of the Tuileries gardens and crossed the quay toward the Pont Royal. But he stopped short under the trees by the river wall, with a low whistle of surprise. Crossing the bridge, toward him, and carrying a carpet-bag of early Victorian design, was Mr. Septimus Marvin, rector of Farlingford, in Suffolk.
After a moment's thought, John Turner went toward the bridge, and stationed himself on the pavement at the corner. The pavement is narrow, and Turner was wide. In order to pass him, Septimus Marvin would need to step into the road. This he did, without resentment; with, indeed, a courtly and vague inclination of the head toward the human obstruction.
"Look here, Sep," said Turner, "you are not going to pass an old schoolfellow like that."
Septimus Marvin lurched onward one or two steps, with long loose strides. Then he clutched his carpet-bag with both hands and looked back at his interlocutor, with the scared eyes of a detected criminal. This gave place to the habitual gentle smile when, at last, the recognition was complete.
"What have you got there?" asked Turner, pointing with his stick at the carpet-bag. "A kitten?"
"No--no," replied Marvin, looking this way and that, to make sure that none could overhear.
"A Nanteuil--engraved from his own drawing, Jack--a real Nanteuil. I have just been to a man I know--the print-shop opposite the statue on the Quai Voltaire--to have my own opinion verified. I was sure of it. He says that I am undoubtedly right. It is a genuine Nanteuil--a proof before letters."
"Ah! And you have just picked it up cheap? Picked it up, eh?"
"No, no, quite the contrary," Marvin replied, in a confidential whisper.
"Stolen--dear, dear! I am sorry to hear that, Septimus."
And Septimus Marvin broke into the jerky, spasmodic laugh of one who has not laughed for long--perhaps for years.
"Ah, Jack," he said; "you are still up to a joke."
"Well, I should hope so. We are quite close to my club. Come, and have luncheon, and tell me all about it."
So the Social and Sporting Club, renowned at that day for its matchless cuisine and for nothing else of good repute at all, entertained an angel unawares, and was much amused at Septimus Marvin's appearance, although the amusement was not apparent. The members, it would appear, were gentlemen of that good school of old France which, like many good things both French and English, is fast disappearing. And with all those faults, which we are so ready to perceive in any Frenchman, there is none on earth who will conceal from you so effectually the fact that in his heart he is vastly amused.
It was with some difficulty that Septimus was persuaded to consign his carpet-bag to the custody of the hall-porter.
"If it wasn't a Nanteuil," he explained in a whisper to his friend, "I should have no hesitation; for I am sure the man is honest and in every way to be relied upon. But a Nanteuil--_ad vivum_--Jack. There are none like him. It is priceless."
"You used not to be a miser," said Turner, panting on the stairs, when at last the bag was concealed in a safe place. "What matter what the value may be, so long as you like it?"
"Oh! but the value is of great importance," answered Septimus, rather sheepishly.
"Then you have changed a good deal since you and I were at Ipswich school together. There, sit down at this table. I suppose you are hungry. I hope you are. Try and think--there's a good fellow--and remember that they have the best cook in Paris here. Their morals ain't of the first water, but their cook is without match. Yes, you have changed a good deal, if you think of money."
Septimus Marvin had changed colour, at all events, in the last few minutes.
"I have to, Jack, I have to. That is the truth of it. I have come to Paris to sell that Nanteuil. To realise, I suppose you would call it in the financial world. _Pro aris et focis_, old friend. I want money for the altar and the hearth. It has come to that. I cannot ask them in Farlingford for more money, for I know they have none. And the church is falling about our ears. The house wants painting. It is going the way of the church, indeed."
"Ah!" said Turner, glancing at him over the bill of fare. "So you have to sell an engraving. It goes to the heart, I suppose?"
Marvin laughed and rubbed his spare hands together, with an assumption of cheerfulness in which some one less stout and well-to-do than his companion might have perceived that dim minor note of pathos, which always rings somewhere in a forced laugh.
"One has to face it," he replied. " _Ne cedas malis_, you know. I suddenly found it was necessary. It was forced upon me, in fact. I found that my niece was secretly helping to make both ends meet. A generous action, made doubly generous by the manner in which it was performed."
"Miriam?" put in John Turner, who appeared to be absorbed in the all-important document before him.
"Yes, Miriam. Do you know her? Ah! I forgot. You are her guardian and trustee. I sometimes think my memory is failing. I found her out quite by accident. It must have been going on for quite a long time. Heaven will reward her, Turner! One cannot doubt it."
He absent-mindedly seized two pieces of bread from the basket offered to him by a waiter, and began to eat as if famished.
"Steady, man, steady," exclaimed Turner, leaning forward with a horror-stricken face to restrain him. "Don't spoil a grand appetite on bread. Gad! I wish I could fall on my food like that. You seem to be starving."
"I think I forgot to have any breakfast," said Marvin, apologetically.
"I dare say you did!" was the angry retort. "You always were a bit of an ass, you know, Sep. But I have ordered a tiptop luncheon, and I'll trouble you not to wolf like that."
"Well--well, I'm sorry," said the other, who, even in the far-off days at Ipswich school, had always been in the clouds, while John Turner moved essentially on the earth.
"And do not sell that Nanteuil to the first bidder," went on Turner, with a glance, of which the keenness was entirely disarmed by the good-natured roundness of his huge cheeks. "I know a man who will buy it--at a good price, too. Where did you get it?"
"Ah! that is a long story," replied Marvin, looking dreamily out of the window. "I bought it, years ago, at Farlingford. But it is a long story."
"Then tell it, slowly. While I eat this _sole à la Normande_. I see you've nearly finished yours, and I have scarcely begun."
It was a vague and disjointed enough story, as related by Septimus Marvin. And it was the story of Loo Barebone's father. As it progressed John Turner grew redder and redder in the face, while he drank glass after glass of Burgundy.
"A queer story," he ejaculated, breathlessly. "Go on. And you bought this engraving from the man himself, before he died? Did he tell you where he got it? It is the portrait of a woman, you say."
"Portrait of a woman--yes, yes. But he did not know who she was. And I do not know whether I gave him enough for it. Do you think I did, Jack?"
"I do not know how much you gave him, but I have no doubt that it was too much. Where did he get it?"
"He thinks it was brought from France by his mother, or the woman who was supposed in Farlingford to be his mother--together with other papers, which he burnt, I believe."
"And then he died?"
"Yes--yes. He died--but he left a son."
"The devil he did! Why did you not mention that before? Where is the son? Tell me all about him, while I see how they've served this _langue fourrée_, which should be eaten slowly; though it is too late to remind you of that now. Go on. Tell me all about the son."
And before the story of Loo Barebone was half told, John Turner laid aside his knife and fork and turned his attention to the dissection of this ill-told tale. As the story neared its end, he glanced round the room, to make sure that none was listening to their conversation.
"Dormer Colville," he repeated. "Does he come into it?"
"He came to Farlingford with the Marquis de Gemosac, out of pure good-nature--because the Marquis could speak but little English. He is a charming man. So unselfish and disinterested."
"Who? The Marquis?"
"No; Dormer Colville."
"Oh yes!" said John Turner, returning to the cold tongue. "Yes; a charming fellow."
And he glanced again at his friend, with a queer smile. When luncheon was finished, Turner led the way to a small smoking-room, where they would be alone, and sent a messenger to fetch Septimus Marvin's bag from downstairs.
"We will have a look at your precious engraving," he said, "while we smoke a cigar. It is, I suppose, a relic of the Great Monarchy, and I may tell you that there is rather a small demand just now for relics of that period. It would be wiser not to take it into the open market. I think my client would give you as good a price as any; and I suppose you want to get as much as you can for it now that you have made up your mind to the sacrifice?"
Marvin suppressed a sigh, and rubbed his hands together with that forced jocularity which had made his companion turn grave once before.
"Oh, I mean to drive a hard bargain, I can tell you!" was the reply, with an assumption of worldly wisdom on a countenance little calculated to wear that expression naturally.
"What did your friend in the print-shop on the Quai Voltaire mention as a probable price?" asked Turner, carelessly.
"Well, he said he might be able to sell it for me at four thousand francs. I would not hear of his running any risk in the matter, however. Such a good fellow, he is. So honest."
"Yes, he is likely to be that," said Turner, with his broad smile. He was a little sleepy after a heavy luncheon, and sipped his coffee with a feeling of charity toward his fellow-men. "You would find lots of honest men in the Quai Voltaire, Sep. I will tell you what I will do. Give me the print, and I will do my best for you. Would ten thousand francs help you out of your difficulties?"
"I do not remember saying that I was in difficulties," objected the Reverend Septimus, with heightened colour.
"Don't you? Memory _is_ bad, is it not? Would ten thousand francs paint the rectory, then?"
"It would ease my mind and sweeten my sleep at night to have half that sum, my friend. With two hundred pounds I could face the world _aequo animo_."
"I will see what I can do. This is the print, is it? I don't know much about such things myself, but I should put the price down at ten thousand francs."
"But the man in the Quai Voltaire?"
"Precisely. I know little about prints, but a lot about the Quai Voltaire. Who is the lady? I presume it is a portrait?"
"It is a portrait, but I cannot identify the original. To an expert of that period it should not be impossible, however." Septimus Marvin was all awake now, with flushed cheeks and eyes brightened by enthusiasm. "Do you know why? Because her hair is dressed in a peculiar way--_poufs de sentiment_, these curls are called. They were only worn for a brief period. In those days the writings of Jean Jacques Rousseau had a certain vogue among the idle classes. The women showed their sentiments in the dressing of their hair. Very curious--very curious. And here, in the hair, half-concealed, is an imitation dove's nest."
"The deuce there is!" ejaculated Turner, pulling at his cigar.
"A fashion which ruled for a still briefer period."
"I should hope so. Well, roll the thing up, and I will do my best for you. I'm less likely to be taken in than you are, perhaps. If I sell it, I will send you a cheque this evening. It is a beautiful face."
"Yes," agreed Septimus Marvin, with, a sharp sigh. "It is a beautiful face."
And he slowly rolled up his most treasured possession, which John Turner tucked under his arm. On the Pont Royal they parted company.
"By the way," said John Turner, after they had shaken hands, "You never told me what sort of a man this young fellow is--this Loo Barebone?"
"The dearest fellow in the world," answered Marvin, with eyes aglow behind his spectacles. "To me he has been as a son--an elder brother, as it were, to little Sep. I was already an elderly man, you know, when Sep was born. Too old, perhaps. Who knows? Heaven's way is not always marked very clearly."
He nodded vaguely and went away a few paces. Then he remembered something and came back.
"I don't know if I ought to speak of such a thing. But I quite hoped, at one time, that Miriam might one day recognise his goodness of heart."
"What?" interrupted Turner. "The mate of a coasting schooner!"
"He is more than that, my friend," answered Septimus Marvin, nodding his head slowly, so that the sun flashed on his spectacles in such a manner as to make Turner blink. Then he turned away again and crossed the bridge, leaving the English banker at the corner of it, still blinking.
| {
"id": "8942"
} |
18 | THE CITY THAT SOON FORGETS | There are in humble life some families which settle their domestic differences on the doorstep, while the neighbours, gathered hastily by the commotion, tiptoe behind each other to watch the fun. In the European congerie France represents this loud-voiced household, and Paris--Paris, the city that soon forgets--is the doorstep whereon they wrangle.
The bones of contention may be pitched far and wide by the chances and changes of exile, but the contending dogs bark and yap in Paris. At this time there lived, sometimes in Italy, sometimes at Frohsdorf, a jovial young gentleman, fond of sport and society, cultivating the tastes and enjoying the easy existence of a country-gentleman of princely rank--the Comte de Chambord. Son of that Duchesse de Berri who tried to play a great part and failed, he was married to an Italian princess and had no children. He was, therefore, the last of the Bourbons, and passed in Europe as such. But he did not care. Perhaps his was the philosophy of the indolent which saith that some one must be last and why not I?
Nevertheless, there ran in his veins some energetic blood. On his father's side he was descended from sixty-six kings of France. From his mother he inherited a relationship to many makers of history. For the Duchesse de Berri's grandmother was the sister of Marie Antoinette. Her mother was aunt to that Empress of the French, Marie Louise, who was a notable exception to the rule that "Bon sang ne peut mentir." Her father was a king of Sicily and Naples. She was a Bourbon married to a Bourbon. When she was nineteen she gave birth to a daughter, who died next day. In a year she had a son who died in twenty hours. Two years later her husband died in her arms, assassinated, in a back room of the Opera House in Paris.
Seven months after her husband's death she gave birth to the Comte de Chambord, the last of the old Bourbons. She was active, energetic and of boundless courage. She made a famous journey through La Vendée on horseback to rally the Royalists. She urged her father-in-law, Charles X, to resist the revolution. She was the best Royalist of them all. And her son was the Comte de Chambord, who could have been a king if he had not been a philosopher, or a coward.
He was waiting till France called him with one voice. As if France had ever called for anything with one voice!
Amid the babel there rang out not a few voices for the younger branch of the Royal line--the Orleans. Louis Philippe--king for eighteen years--was still alive, living in exile at Claremont. Two years earlier, in the rush of the revolution of 1848, he had effected his escape to Newhaven. The Orleans always seek a refuge in England, and always turn and abuse that country when they can go elsewhere in safety. And England is not one penny the worse for their abuse, and no man or country was ever yet one penny the better for their friendship.
Louis Philippe had been called to the throne by the people of France. His reign of eighteen years was marked by one great deed. He threw open the Palace of Versailles--which was not his--to the public. And then the people who called him in, hooted him out. His life had been attempted many times. All the other kings hated him and refused to let their daughters marry his sons. He and his sons were waiting at Claremont while the talkers in Paris talked their loudest.
There was a third bone of contention--the Imperial line. At this time the champions of this morsel were at the summit; for a Bonaparte was riding on the top of the revolutionary scrimmage.
By the death of the great Napoleon's only child, the second son of his third brother became the recognised claimant to the Imperial crown.
For France has long ceased to look to the eldest son as the rightful heir. There is, in fact, a curse on the first-born of France. Napoleon's son, the King of Rome, died in exile, an Austrian. The Duc de Bordeaux, born eight years after him, never wore the crown, and died in exile, childless. The Comte de Paris, born also at the Tuileries, was exiled when he was ten years old, and died in England. All these, of one generation. And of the next, the Prince Imperial, hurried out of France in 1870, perished on the Veldt. The King of Rome lies in his tomb at Vienna, the Duc de Bordeaux at Göritz, the Comte de Paris at Weybridge, the Prince Imperial at Farnborough. These are the heirs of France, born in the palace of the Tuileries. How are they cast upon the waters of the world! And where the palace of the Tuileries once stood the pigeons now call to each other beneath the trees, while, near at hand, lolls on the public seat he whom France has always with her, the _vaurien_--the worth-nothing.
So passes the glory of the world. It is not a good thing to be born in a palace, nor to live in one.
It was in the Rue Lafayette that John Turner had his office, and when he emerged from it into that long street on the evening of the 25th of August, 1850, he ran against, or he was rather run against by, the newsboy who shrieked as he pattered along in lamentable boots and waved a sheet in the face of the passer: "The King is dead! The King is dead!"
And Paris--the city that soon forgets--smiled and asked what King?
Louis Philippe was dead in England, at the age of seventy-seven, the bad son of a bad father, another of those adventurers whose happy hunting-ground always has been, always will be, France.
John Turner, like many who are slow in movement, was quick in thought. He perceived at once that the death of Louis Philippe left the field open to the next adventurer; for he left behind him no son of his own mettle.
Turner went back to his office, where the pen with which he had signed a cheque for four hundred pounds, payable to the Reverend Septimus Marvin, was still wet; where, at the bottom of the largest safe, the portrait of an unknown lady of the period of Louis XVI lay concealed. He wrote out a telegram to Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence, addressed to her at her villa near Royan, and then proceeded to his dinner with the grave face of the careful critic.
The next morning he received the answer, at his breakfast-table, in the apartment he had long occupied in the Avenue d'Antin. But he did not open the envelope. He had telegraphed to Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence, asking if it would be convenient for her to put him up for a few days. And he suspected that it would not.
"When I am gone," he said to his well-trained servant, "put that into an envelope and send it after me to the Villa Cordouan, Royan. Pack my portmanteau for a week."
Thus John Turner set out southward to join a party of those Royalists whom his father before him had learnt to despise. And in a manner he was pre-armed; for he knew that he would not be welcome. It was in those days a long journey, for the railway was laid no farther than Tours, from whence the traveller must needs post to La Rochelle, and there take a boat to Royan--that shallow harbour at the mouth of the Gironde.
"Must have a change--of cooking," he explained to Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence. "Doctor says I am getting too stout."
He shook her deliberately by the hand without appearing to notice her blank looks.
"So I came south and shall finish up at Biarritz, which they say is going to be fashionable. I hope it is not inconvenient for you to give me a bed--a solid one--for a night or two."
"Oh no!" answered Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence, who had charming manners, and was one of those fortunate persons who are never at a loss. "Did you not receive my telegram?"
"Telling me you were counting the hours till my arrival?"
"Well," admitted Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence, wisely reflecting that he would ultimately see the telegram, "hardly so fervent as that--" "Good Lord!" interrupted Turner, looking behind her toward the veranda, which was cool and shady, where two men were seated near a table bearing coffee-cups. "Who is that?"
"Which?" asked Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence, without turning to follow the direction of his glance. "Oh! one is Dormer Colville, I see that. But the other--gad!"
"Why do you say gad?" asked the lady, with surprise.
"Where did he get that face from?" was the reply.
Turner took off his hat and mopped his brow; for it was very hot and the August sun was setting over a copper sea.
"Where we all get our faces from, I suppose!" answered Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence, with her easy laugh. She was always mistress of the situation. "The heavenly warehouse, one supposes. His name is Barebone. He is a friend of Dormer's."
"Any friend of Dormer Colville's commands my interest."
Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence glanced quickly at her companion beneath the shade of her lace-trimmed parasol.
"What do you mean by that?" she asked, in a voice suddenly hard and resentful.
"That he chooses his friends well," returned the banker, with his guileless smile. His face was bovine, and in the heat of summer apt to be shiny. No one would attribute an inner meaning to a stout person thus outwardly brilliant. Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence appeared to be mollified, and turned toward the house with a gesture inviting him to walk with her.
"I will be frank with you," she said. "I telegraphed to tell you that the Villa Cordouan is for the moment unfortunately filled with guests."
"What matter? I will go to the hotel. In fact, I told the driver of my carriage to wait for further orders. I half feared that at this time of year, you know, house would be full. I'll just shake hands with Colville and then be off. You will let me come in after dinner, perhaps. You and I must have a talk about money, you will remember."
There was no time to answer; for Dormer Colville, perceiving their approach, was already hurrying down the steps of the veranda to meet them. He laughed as he came, for John Turner's bulk made him a laughing matter in the eyes of most men, and his good humour seemed to invite them to frank amusement.
The greeting was, therefore, jovial enough on both sides, and after being introduced to Loo Barebone, Mr. Turner took his leave without farther defining his intentions for the evening.
"I do not think it matters much," Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence said to her two guests, when he had left. "And he may not come, after all."
Her self-confidence sufficiently convinced Loo, who was always ready to leave something to chance. But Colville shook his head.
It thus came about that sundry persons of title and importance who had been invited to come to the Villa Cordouan after dinner for a little music found the English banker complacently installed in the largest chair, with a shirt-front evading the constraint of an abnormal waistcoat, and a sleepy chin drooping surreptitiously toward it.
"He is my banker from Paris," whispered Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence to one and another. "He knows nothing, and so far as I am aware, is no politician--merely a banker, you understand. Leave him alone and he will go to sleep."
During the three weeks which Loo Barebone had spent very pleasantly at the Villa Cordouan, Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence had provided music and light refreshment for her friends on several occasions. And each evening the drawing-room, which was not a small one, had been filled to overflowing. Friends brought their friends and introduced them to the hostess, who in turn presented them to Barebone. Some came from a distance, driving from Saintes or La Rochelle or Pons. Others had taken houses for the bathing-season at Royan itself.
"He never makes a mistake," said the hostess to Dormer Colville, behind her fan, a hundred times, following with her shrewd eyes the gay and easy movements of Loo, who seemed to be taught by some instinct to suit his manner to his interlocutor.
To-night there was more music and less conversation.
"Play him to sleep," Dormer Colville had said to his cousin. And at length Turner succumbed to the soft effect of a sonata. He even snored in the shade of a palm, and the gaiety of the proceedings in no way suffered.
It was only Colville who seemed uneasy and always urged any who were talking earnestly to keep out of earshot of the sleeping Englishman. Once or twice he took Barebone by the arm and led him to the other end of the room, for he was always the centre of the liveliest group and led the laughter there.
"Oh! but he is charming, my dear," more than one guest whispered to Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence, as they took their departure.
"He will do--he will do," the men said with a new light of hope in their grave faces.
Nearly all had gone when John Turner at length woke up. Indeed, Colville threw a book upon the floor to disturb his placid sleep.
"I will come round to-morrow," he said, bidding his hostess good night. "I have some papers for you to sign since you are determined to sell your _rentes_ and leave the money idle at your bank."
"Yes. I am quite determined," she answered, gaily, for she was before her time inasmuch as she was what is known in these days of degenerate speech as cock-sure.
And when John Turner, carrying a bundle of papers, presented himself at the Villa Cordouan next morning he found Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence sitting alone in the veranda.
"Dormer and his friend have left me to my own devices. They have gone away," she mentioned, casually, in the course of conversation.
"Suddenly?"
"Oh no," she answered, carelessly, and wrote her name in a clear firm hand on the document before her. And John Turner looked dense.
| {
"id": "8942"
} |
19 | IN THE BREACH | The Marquis de Gemosac was sitting at the open window of the little drawing-room in the only habitable part of the château. From his position he looked across the courtyard toward the garden where stiff cypress-trees stood sentry among the mignonette and the roses, now in the full glory of their autumn bloom.
Beyond the garden, the rough outline of the walls cut a straight line across the distant plains, which melted away into the haze of the marsh-lands by the banks of the Gironde far to the westward.
The Marquis had dined. They dined early in those days in France, and coffee was still served after the evening meal.
The sun was declining toward the sea in a clear copper-coloured sky, but a fresh breeze was blowing in from the estuary to temper the heat of the later rays.
The Marquis was beating time with one finger, and within the room, to an impromptu accompaniment invented by Juliette, Barebone was singing: C'est le Hasard, Qui, tôt ou tard, Ici-bas nous seconde; Car, D'un bout du monde A l'autre bout, Le Hasard seul fait tout.
He broke off with a laugh in which Juliette's low voice joined.
"That is splendid, mademoiselle," he cried, and the Marquis clapped his thin hands together.
Un tel qu'on vantait Par hasard était D'origine assez mince; Par hasard il plut, Par hasard il fut Baron, ministre et prince: C'est le Hasard, Qui, tôt ou tard, Ici bas nous seconde; Car, D'un bout du monde A l'autre bout, Le Hasard seul fait tout.
"There--that is all I know. It is the only song I sing."
"But there are other verses," said Juliette, resting her hands on the keys of the wheezy spinet which must have been a hundred years old. "What are they about?"
"I do not know, mademoiselle," he answered, looking down at her. "I think it is a love-song."
She had pinned some mignonette, strong scented as autumn mignonette is, in the front of her muslin dress, and the heavy heads had dragged the stems to one side. She put the flowers in order, slowly, and then bent her head to enjoy the scent of them.
"It scarcely sounds like one," she said, in a low and inquiring voice. The Marquis was a little deaf. "Is it all chance then?"
"Oh yes," he answered, and as he spoke without lowering his voice she played softly on the old piano the simple melody of his song. "It is all chance, mademoiselle. Did they not teach you that at the school at Saintes?"
But she was not in a humour to join in his ready laughter. The room was rosy with the glow of the setting sun, she breathed the scent of the mignonette at every breath, the air which she had picked out on the spinet in unison with his clear and sympathetic voice had those minor tones and slow slurring from note to note which are characteristic of the gay and tearful songs of southern France and all Spain. None of which things are conducive to gaiety when one is young.
She glanced at him with one quick turn of the head and made no answer. But she played the air over again--the girls sing it to this day over their household work at Farlingford to other words--with her foot on the soft pedal. The Marquis hummed it between his teeth at the other end of the room.
"This room is hot," she exclaimed, suddenly, and rose from her seat without troubling to finish the melody. "And that window will not open, mademoiselle; for I have tried it," added Barebone, watching her impatient movements.
"Then I am going into the garden," she said, with a sharp sigh and a wilful toss of the head. It was not his fault that the setting sun, against which, as many have discovered, men shut their doors, should happen to be burning hot or that the window would not open. But Juliette seemed to blame him for it or for something else, perhaps. One never knows. Barebone did not follow her at once, but stood by the window talking to the Marquis, who was in a reminiscent humour. The old man interrupted his own narrative, however.
"There," he cried, "is Juliette on that wall overhanging the river. It is where the English effected a breach long ago, my friend--you need not smile, for you are no Englishman--and the château has only been taken twice through all the centuries of fighting. There! She ventures still farther. I have told her a hundred times that the wall is unsafe."
"Shall I go and warn her the hundred-and-first time?" asked Loo, willing enough.
"Yes, my friend, do. And speak to her severely. She is only a child, remember."
"Yes--I will remember that."
Juliette did not seem to hear his approach across the turf where the goats fed now, but stood with her back toward him, a few feet below him, actually in that breach effected long ago by those pestilential English. They must have prized out the great stones with crowbars and torn them down with their bare hands.
Juliette was looking over the vineyards toward the river, which gleamed across the horizon. She was humming to herself the last lines of the song: D'un bout du monde A l'autre bout, Le Hasard seul fait tout.
She turned with a pretty swing of her skirts to gather them in her hand.
"You must go no farther, mademoiselle," said Loo.
She stopped, half bending to take her skirt, but did not look back. Then she took two steps downward from stone to stone. The blocks were half embedded in the turf and looked ready to fall under the smallest additional weight.
"It is not I who say so, but your father who sent me," explained the admonisher from above.
"Since it is all chance--" she said, looking downward.
She turned suddenly and looked up at him with that impatience which gives way in later life to a philosophy infinitely to be dreaded when it comes; for its real name is Indifference.
Her movements were spasmodic and quick as if something angered her, she knew not what; as if she wanted something, she knew not what.
"I suppose," she said, "that it was chance that saved our lives that night two months ago, out there."
And she stood with one hand stretched out behind her pointing toward the estuary, which was quiet enough now, looking up at him with that strange anger or new disquietude--it was hard to tell which--glowing in her eyes. The wind fluttered her hair, which was tied low down with a ribbon in the mode named "à la diable" by some French wit with a sore heart in an old man's breast. For none other could have so aptly described it.
"All chance, mademoiselle," he answered, looking over her head toward the river.
"And it would have been the same had it been only Marie or Marie and Jean in the boat with you?"
"The boat would have been as solid and the ropes as strong."
"And you?" asked the girl, with a glance from her persistent eyes.
"Oh no!" he answered, with a laugh. "I should not have been the same. But you must not continue to stand there, mademoiselle; the wall is unsafe."
She shrugged her shoulders and stood with half-averted face, looking down at the vineyards which stretched away to the dunes by the river. Her cheeks were oddly flushed.
"Your father sent me to say so," continued Loo, "and if he sees that you take no heed he will come himself to learn why."
Juliette gave a curt laugh and climbed the declivity toward him. The argument was, it seemed, a sound one. When she reached his level he made a step or two along the path that ran round the enceinte--not toward the house, however--but away from it. She accepted the tacit suggestion, not tacitly, however.
"Shall we not go and tell papa we have returned without mishap?" she amended, with a light laugh.
"No, mademoiselle," he answered. It was his turn to be grave now and she glanced at him with a gleam of satisfaction beneath her lids. She was not content with that, however, but wished to make him angry. So she laughed again and they would have quarrelled if he had not kept his lips firmly closed and looked straight in front of him.
They passed between the unfinished ruin known as the Italian house and the rampart. The Italian house screened them from the windows of that portion of the ancient stabling which the Marquis had made habitable when he bought back the château of Gemosac from the descendant of an adventurous republican to whom the estate had been awarded in the days of the Terror. A walk of lime-trees bordered that part of the garden which lies to the west of the Italian house, and no other part was visible from where Juliette paused to watch the sun sink below the distant horizon. Loo was walking a few paces behind her, and when she stopped he stopped also. She sat down on the low wall, but he remained standing.
Her profile, clear-cut and delicate with its short chin and beautifully curved lips, its slightly aquiline nose and crisp hair rising in a bold curve from her forehead, was outlined against the sky. He could see the gleam of the western light in her eyes, which were half averted. While she watched the sunset, he watched her with a puzzled expression about his lips.
He remembered perhaps the Marquis's last words, that Juliette was only a child. He knew that she could in all human calculation know nothing of the world; that at least she could have learned nothing of it in the convent where she had been educated. So, if she knew anything, she must have known it before she went there, which was impossible. She knew nothing, therefore, and yet she was not a child. As a matter of fact, she was the most beautiful woman Loo Barebone had ever seen. He was thinking that as she sat on the low wall, swinging one slipper half falling from her foot, watching the sunset, while he watched her and noted the anger slowly dying from her eyes as the light faded from the sky. That strange anger went down, it would appear, with the sun. After the long silence--when the low bars of red cloud lying across the western sky were fading from pink to grey--she spoke at last in a voice which he had never heard before, gentle and confidential.
"When are you going away?" she asked.
"To-night."
And he knew that the very hour of his departure was known to her already.
"And when will you come back?"
"As soon as I can," he answered, half-involuntarily. There was a turn of the head half toward him, something expectant in the tilt at the corner of her parted lips, which made it practically impossible to make any other answer.
"Why?" she asked, in little more than a whisper--then she broke into a gay laugh and leapt off the wall. She walked quickly past him.
"Why?" she repeated over her shoulder as she passed him. And he was too quick for her, for he caught her hand and touched it with his lips before she jerked it away from him.
"Because you are here," he answered, with a laugh. But she was grave again and looked at him with a queer searching glance before she turned away and left him standing in the half-light--thinking of Miriam Liston.
| {
"id": "8942"
} |
20 | "NINETEEN" | As Juliette returned to the Gate House she encountered her father, walking arm-in-arm with Dormer Colville. The presence of the Englishman within the enceinte of the chateau was probably no surprise to her, for she must have heard the clang of the bell just within the gate, which could not be opened from outside; by which alone access was gained to any part of the château.
Colville was in riding costume. It was, indeed, his habitual dress when living in France, for he made no concealment of his partnership in a well-known business house in Bordeaux.
"I am a sleeping partner," he would say, with that easy flow of egotistic confidence which is the surest way of learning somewhat of your neighbour's private affairs. "I am a sleeping partner at all times except the vintage, when I awake and ride round among the growers, to test their growth."
It was too early yet for these journeys, for the grapes were hardly ripe. But any one who wished to move from place to place must needs do so in the saddle in a country where land is so valuable that the width of a road is grudged, and bridle-ways are deemed good enough for the passage of the long and narrow carts that carry wine.
Ever since their somewhat precipitate departure from the Villa Cordouan at Royan, Dormer Colville and Barebone had been in company. They had stayed together, in one friend's house or another. Sometimes they enjoyed the hospitality of a château, and at others put up with the scanty accommodation of a priest's house or the apartment of a retired military officer, in one of those little towns of provincial France at which the cheap journalists of Paris are pleased to sneer without ceasing.
They avoided the large towns with extraordinary care.
"Why should we go to towns," asked Colville, jovially, "when we have business in the country and the sun is still high in the sky?"
"Yes," he would reply to the questions of an indiscreet fellow-traveller, at table or on the road. "Yes; I am a buyer of wine. We are buyers of wine. We are travelling from place to place to watch the growth. For the wine is hidden in the grape, and the grape is ripening."
And, as often as not, the chance acquaintance of an inn dejeuner would catch the phrase and repeat it thoughtfully.
"Ah! is that so?" he would ask, with a sudden glance at Dormer Colville's companion, who had hitherto passed unobserved as the silent subordinate of a large buyer; learning his trade, no doubt. "The grape is ripening. Good!"
And as sure as he seemed to be struck with this statement of a self-evident fact, he would, in the next few minutes, bring the numeral "nineteen"--_tant bien que mal_--into his conversation.
"With nineteen days of sun, the vintage will be upon us," he would say; or, "I have but nineteen kilometres more of road before me to-day."
Indeed, it frequently happened that the word came in very inappropriately, as if tugged heroically to the front by a clumsy conversationalist.
There is no hazard of life so certain to discover sympathy or antagonism as travel--a fact which points to the wisdom of beginning married life with a journey. The majority of people like to know the worst at once. To travel, however, with Dormer Colville was a liberal education in the virtues. No man could be less selfish or less easily fatigued; which are the two bases upon which rest all the stumbling-blocks of travel.
Up to a certain point, Barebone and Dormer Colville became fast friends during the month that elapsed between their departure from Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence's house and their arrival at the inn at Gemosac. The "White Horse," at Gemosac, was no better and no worse than any other "White Horse" in any other small town of France. It was, however, better than the principal inn of a town of the same size in any other habitable part of the globe.
There were many reasons why the Marquis de Gemosac had yielded to Colville's contention--that the time had not yet come for Loo Barebone to be his guest at the chateau.
"He is inclined to be indolent," Colville had whispered. "One recognises, in many traits of character, the source from whence his blood is drawn. He will not exert himself so long as there is some one else at hand who is prepared to take trouble. He must learn that it is necessary to act for himself. He needs rousing. Let him travel through France, and see for himself that of which he has as yet only learnt at second-hand. That will rouse him."
And the journey through the valleys of the Garonne and the Dordogne had been undertaken.
Another, greater journey, was now afoot, to end at no less a centre of political life than Paris. A start was to be made this evening, and Dormer Colville now came to report that all was ready and the horses at the gate.
"If there were scenes such as this for all of us to linger in, mademoiselle," he said, lifting his face to the western sky and inhaling the scent of the flowers growing knee-deep all around him, "men would accomplish little in their brief lifetime."
His eyes, dreamy and reflective, wandered over the scene and paused, just for a moment in passing, on Juliette's face. She continued her way, with no other answer than a smile.
"She grows, my dear Marquis--she grows every minute of the day and wakes up a new woman every morning," said Colville, in a confidential aside, and he went forward to meet Loo with his accustomed laugh of good-fellowship. He whom the world calls a good fellow is never a wise man.
Barebone walked toward the gate without joining in the talk of his companions. He was thoughtful and uneasy. He had come to say good-bye and nothing else. He was wondering if he had really meant what he had said.
"Come," interrupted Colville's smooth voice. "We must get into the saddle and begone. I was just telling Monsieur and Mademoiselle Juliette, that any man might be tempted to linger at Gemosac until the active years of a lifetime rolled by."
The Marquis made the needful reply; hoping that he might yet live to see Gemosac--and not only Gemosac, but a hundred châteaux like it--reawakened to their ancient glory, and thrown open to welcome the restorer of their fallen fortunes.
Colville looked from one to the other, and then, with his foot in the stirrup, turned to look at Juliette, who had followed them to the gate.
"And mademoiselle," he said; "will she wish us good luck, also? Alas! those times are gone when we could have asked for her ribbon to wear, and to fight for between ourselves when we are tired and cross at the end of a journey. Come, Barchone--into the saddle."
They waited, both looking at Juliette; for she had not spoken.
"I wish you good luck," she said, at length, patting the neck of Colville's horse, her face wearing a little mystic smile.
Thus they departed, at sunset, on a journey of which old men will still talk in certain parts of France. Here and there, in the Angoumois, in Guienne, in the Vendée, and in the western parts of Brittany, the student of forgotten history may find an old priest who will still persist in dividing France into the ancient provinces, and will tell how Hope rode through the Royalist country when he himself was busy at his first cure.
The journey lasted nearly two months, and before they passed north of the Loire at Nantes and quitted the wine country, the vintage was over.
"We must say that we are cider merchants, that is all," observed Dormer Colville, when they crossed the river, which has always been the great divider of France.
"He is sobering down. I believe he will become serious," wrote he to the Marquis de Gemosac. But he took care to leave Loo Barebone as free as possible.
"I am, in a way, a compulsory pilot," he explained, airily, to his companion. "The ship is yours, and you probably know more about the shoals than I do. You must have felt that a hundred times when you were at sea with that solemn old sailor, Captain Clubbe. And yet, before you could get into port, you found yourself forced to take the compulsory pilot on board and make him welcome with such grace as you could command, feeling all the while that he did not want to come and you could have done as well without him. So you must put up with my company as gracefully as you can, remembering that you can drop me as soon as you are in port."
And surely, none other could have occupied an uncomfortable position so gracefully.
Barebone found that he had not much to do. He soon accommodated himself to a position which required nothing more active than a ready ear and a gracious patience. For, day by day--almost hour by hour--it was his lot to listen to protestations of loyalty to a cause which smouldered none the less hotly because it was hidden from the sight of the Prince President's spies.
And, as Colville had predicted, Barebone sobered down. He would ride now, hour after hour, in silence, whereas at the beginning of the journey he had talked gaily enough, seeing a hundred humorous incidents in the passing events of the day; laughing at the recollection of an interview with some provincial notable who had fallen behind the times, or jesting readily enough with such as showed a turn for joking on the road.
But now the unreality of his singular change of fortune was vanishing. Every village priest who came after dark to take a glass of wine with them at their inn sent it farther into the past, every provincial noble greeting him on the step of his remote and quiet house added a note to the drumming reality which dominated his waking moments and disturbed his sleep at night.
Day by day they rode on, passing through two or three villages between such halts as were needed by the horses. At every hamlet, in the large villages, where they rested and had their food, at the remote little town where they passed a night, there was always some one expecting them, who came and talked of the weather and more or less skilfully brought in the numeral nineteen. "Nineteen! Nineteen!" It was a watchword all over France.
Long before, on the banks of the Dordogne, Loo had asked his companion why that word had been selected--what it meant.
"It means Louis XIX," replied Dormer Colville, gravely.
And now, as they rode through a country so rural, so thinly populated and remote that nothing like it may be found in these crowded islands, the number seemed to follow them; or, rather, to pass on before them and await their coming.
Often Colville would point silently with his whip to the numerals, scrawled on a gate-post or written across a wall. At this time France was mysteriously flooded with cheap portraits of the great Napoleon. It was before the days of pictorial advertisement, and young ladies who wished to make an advantageous marriage had no means of advertising the fact and themselves in supplements to illustrated papers. The walls of inns and shops and _diligence_ offices were therefore barer than they are to-day. And from these bare walls stared out at this time the well-known face of the great Napoleon. It was an innovation, and as such readily enough accepted.
At every fair, at the great fête of St. Jean, at St. Jean d'Angély and a hundred other fêtes of purely local notoriety, at least one hawker of cheap lithographs was to be found. And if the buyer haggled, he could get the portrait of the great Emperor for almost nothing.
"One cannot print it at such a cost," the seller assured his purchasers, which was no less than the truth.
The fairs were, and are to this day, the link between the remoter villages and the world; and the peasants carried home with them a picture, for the first time, to hang on their walls. Thus the Prince President fostered the Napoleonic legend.
Dormer Colville would walk up to these pictures, and, as often as not, would turn and look over his shoulder at Barebone, with a short laugh. For as often as not, the numerals were scrawled across the face in pencil.
But Barebone had ceased to laugh at the constant repetition now. Soon Colville ceased to point out the silent witness, for he perceived that Loo was looking for it himself, detecting its absence with a gleam of determination in his eyes or noting its recurrence with a sharp sigh, as of the consciousness of a great responsibility.
Thus the reality was gradually forced upon him that that into which he had entered half in jest was no jest at all; that he was moving forward on a road which seemed easy enough, but of which the end was not perceptible; neither was there any turning to one side or the other.
All men who have made a mark--whether it be a guiding or warning sign to those that follow--must at one moment of their career have perceived their road before them, thus. Each must have realised that once set out upon that easy path there is no turning aside and no turning back. And many have chosen to turn back while there was yet time, leaving the mark unmade. For most men are cowards and shun responsibility. Most men unconsciously steer their way by proverb or catchword; and all the wise saws of all the nations preach cowardice.
Barebone saw his road now, and Dormer Colville knew that he saw it.
When they crossed the Loire they passed the crisis, and Colville breathed again like one who had held his breath for long. Those colder, sterner men of Brittany, who, in later times, compared notes with the nobles of Guienne and the Vendée, seemed to talk of a different man; for they spoke of one who rarely laughed, and never turned aside from a chosen path which was in no wise bordered by flowers.
| {
"id": "8942"
} |
21 | NO. 8 RUELLE ST. JACOB | Between the Rue de Lille and the Boulevard St. Germain, in the narrow streets which to this day have survived the sweeping influence of Baron Haussmann, once Prefect of the Seine, there are many houses which scarcely seem to have opened door or window since the great Revolution.
One of these, to be precise, is situated in the Ruelle St. Jacob, hardly wider than a lane--a short street with a blind end against high walls--into which any vehicle that enters must needs do so with the knowledge of having to back out again. For there is no room to turn. Which is an allegory. All the windows, in fact, that look forlornly at the blank walls or peep over the high gateways into the Ruelle St. Jacob are Royalist windows looking into a street which is blinded by a high wall and is too narrow to allow of turning.
Many of the windows would appear to have gathered dust since those days more than a hundred years ago when white faces peeped from them and trembling hands unbarred the sash to listen to the roar of voices in the Rue du Bac, in the open space by the church of St. Germain des Près, in the Cité, all over Paris, where the people were making history.
To this house in the Ruelle St. Jacob, Dormer Colville and Loo Barebone made their way on foot, on their arrival in Paris at the termination of their long journey.
It was nearly dark, for Colville had arranged to approach the city and leave their horses at a stable at Meudon after dusk.
"It is foolish," he said, gaily, to his companion, "to flaunt a face like yours in Paris by daylight."
They had driven from Meudon in a hired carriage to the corner of the Champ de Mars, in those days still innocent of glass houses and exhibition buildings, for Paris was not yet the toy-shop of the world; and from the Champ de Mars they came on foot through the ill-paved, feebly lighted streets. In the Ruelle St. Jacob itself there was only one lamp, burning oil, swinging at the corner. The remainder of the lane depended for its illumination on the windows of two small shops retailing firewood and pickled gherkins and balls of string grey with age, as do all the shops in the narrow streets on the wrong side of the Seine.
Dormer Colville led the way, picking his steps from side to side of the gutter which meandered odoriferously down the middle of the street toward the river. He stopped in front of the great gateway and looked up at the arch of it, where the stone carving had been carefully obliterated by some enthusiastic citizen armed with a hatchet.
"Ichabod," he said, with a short laugh; and cautiously laid bold of the dangling bell-handle which had summoned the porter to open to a Queen in those gay days when Marie Antoinette light-heartedly pushed a falling monarchy down the incline.
The great gate was not opened in response, but a small side door, deep-sunken in the thickness of the wall. On either jamb of the door was affixed in the metal letters ordained by the municipality the number eight. Number Eight Ruelle St. Jacob had once been known to kings as the Hotel Gemosac.
The man who opened earned a lantern and held the door ajar with a grudging hand while he peered out. One could almost imagine that he had survived the downfall and the Restoration, and a couple of republics, behind the high walls.
The court-yard was paved with round cobble-stones no bigger than an apple, and, even by the flickering light of the lantern, it was perceptible that no weed had been allowed to grow between the stones or in the seams of the wide, low steps that led to an open door.
The house appeared to be dark and deserted.
"Yes, Monsieur le Marquis--Monsieur le Marquis is at home," muttered the man with a bronchial chuckle, and led the way across the yard. He wore a sort of livery, which must have been put away for years. A young man had been measured for the coat which now displayed three deep creases across a bent back.
"Attention--attention!" he said, in a warning voice, while he scraped a sulphur match in the hall. "There are holes in the carpets. It is easy to trip and fall."
He lighted the candle, and after having carefully shut and bolted the door, he led the way upstairs. At their approach, easily audible in the empty house by reason of the hollow creaking of the oak floor, a door was opened at the head of the stairs and a flood of light met the new-comers.
In the doorway, which was ten feet high, the little bent form of the Marquis de Gemosac stood waiting.
"Ah! ah!" he said, with that pleasant manner of his generation, which was refined and spirituelle and sometimes dramatic, and yet ever failed to touch aught but the surface of life. "Ah! ah! Safely accomplished--the great journey. Safely accomplished. You permit--" And he embraced Barebone after the custom of his day. "From all sides," he said, when the door was closed, "I hear that you have done great things. From every quarter one hears your praise."
He held him at arm's length.
"Yes," he said. "Your face is graver and--more striking in resemblance than ever. So now you know--now you have seen."
"Yes," answered Barebone, gravely. "I have seen and I know."
The Marquis rubbed his white hands together and gave a little crackling laugh of delight as he drew forward a chair to the fire, which was of logs as long as a barrel. The room was a huge one, and it was lighted from end to end with lamps, as if for a reception or a ball. The air was damp and mouldly. There were patches of grey on the walls, which had once been painted with garlands of roses and Cupids and pastoral scenes by a noted artist of the Great Age.
The ceiling had fallen in places, and the woodwork of the carved furniture gave forth a subtle scent of dry rot.
But everything was in an exquisite taste which vulgarer generations have never yet succeeded in imitating. Nothing was concealed, but rather displayed with a half-cynical pride. All was moth-ridden, worm-eaten, fallen to decay--but it was of the Monarchy. Not half a dozen houses in Paris, where already the wealth, which has to-day culminated in a ridiculous luxury of outward show, was beginning to build new palaces, could show room after room furnished in the days of the Great Louis. The very air, faintly scented it would seem by some forgotten perfume, breathed of a bygone splendour. And the last of the de Gemosacs scorned to screen his poverty from the eyes of his equals, nor sought to hide from them a desolation which was only symbolic of that which crushed their hearts and bade them steal back from time to time like criminals to the capital.
"You see," he said to Colville and Barebone, "I have kept my promise, I have thrown open this old house once more for to-night's meeting. You will find that many friends have made the journey to Paris for the occasion--Madame de Chantonnay and Albert, Madame de Rathe and many from the Vendée and the West whom you have met on your journey. And to-night one may speak without fear, for none will be present who are not vouched for by the Almanac de Gotha. There are no Royalists _pour rire_ or _pour vivre_ to-night. You have but time to change your clothes and dine. Your luggage arrived yesterday. You will forgive the stupidity of old servants who have forgotten their business. Come, I will lead the way and show you your rooms."
He took a candle and did the honours of the deserted dust-ridden house in the manner of the high calling which had been his twenty years ago when Charles X was king. For some there lingers a certain pathos in the sight of a belated survival, while the majority of men and women are ready to smile at it instead. And yet the Monarchy lasted eight centuries and the Revolution eight years. Perhaps Fate may yet exact payment for the excesses of those eight years from a nation for which the watching world already prepares a secondary place in the councils of empire.
The larger room had been assigned to Loo. There was a subtle difference in the Marquis's manner toward him. He made an odd bow as he quitted the room.
"There," said Colville, whose room communicated with this great apartment by a dressing-room and two doors. He spoke in English, as they always did when they were alone together. "There--you are launched. You are _lancé_, my friend. I may say you are through the shoals now and out on the high seas--" He paused, candle in hand, and looked round the room with a reflective smile. It was obviously the best room in the house, with a fireplace as wide as a gate, where logs of pine burnt briskly on high iron dogs. The bed loomed mysteriously in one corner with its baldachin of Gobelin tapestry. Here, too, the dim scent of fallen monarchy lingered in the atmosphere. A portrait of Louis XVI in a faded frame hung over the mantelpiece.
"And the time will come," pursued Colville, with his melancholy, sympathetic smile, "when you will find it necessary to drop the pilot--to turn your face seaward and your back upon old recollections and old associations. You cannot make an omelette without breaking eggs, my friend."
"Oh yes," replied Barebone, with a brisk movement of the head, "I shall have to forget Farlingford."
Colville had moved toward the door that led to his own room. He paused, examining the wick of the candle he carried in his hand. Then, though glib of speech, he decided in favour of silence, and went away without making reply.
Loo sat down in a grey old arm-chair in front of the fire. The house was astoundingly noiseless, though situated in what had once been the heart of Paris. It was one of the few houses left in this quarter with a large garden. And the traffic passing in and out of the Ruelle St. Jacob went slipshod on its own feet. The busy crackle of the wood was the only sound to break a silence which seemed part of this vast palace of memories.
Loo had ridden far and was tired. He smiled grimly at the fire. It is to be supposed that he was sitting down to the task he had set himself--to forget Farlingford.
There was a great reception at the Hotel Gemosac that night, and after twenty years of brooding silence the rooms, hastily set in order, were lighted up.
There was, as the Marquis had promised, no man or woman present who was not vouched for by a noble name or by history. As the old man presented them, their names were oddly familiar to the ear, while each face looking at Loo seemed to be the face of a ghost looking out of a past which the world will never forget so long as history lives.
And here, again, was the subtle difference. They no longer talked to Loo, but stood apart and spoke among themselves in a hushed voice. Men made their bow to him and met his smile with grave and measuring eyes. Some made a little set speech, which might mean much or nothing. Others embarked on such a speech and paused--faltered, and passed on gulping something down in their throats.
Women made a deep reverence to him and glanced at him with parted lips and white faces--no coquetry in their eyes. They saw that he was young and good-looking; but they forgot that he might think the same of them. Then they passed on and grouped themselves together, as women do in moments of danger or emotion, their souls instinctively seeking the company of other souls tuned to catch a hundred passing vibrations of the heart-strings of which men remain in ignorance. They spoke together in lowered voices without daring, or desiring perhaps, to turn and look at him again.
"It only remains," some one said, "for the Duchesse d'Angouléme to recognise his claim. A messenger has departed for Frohsdorf."
And Barebone, looking at them, knew that there was a barrier between him and them which none could cast aside: a barrier erected in the past and based on the sure foundations of history.
"She is an old woman," said Monsieur do Gemosac to any who spoke to him on this subject. "She is seventy-two, and fifty-eight of those years have been marked by greater misfortunes than ever fell to the lot of a woman. When she came out of prison she had no tears left, my friends. We cannot expect her to turn back willingly to the past now. But we know that in her heart she has never been sure that her brother died in the Temple. You know how many disappointments she has had. We must not awake her sleeping sorrow until all is ready. I shall make the journey to Frohsdorf--that I promise you. But to-night we have another task before us."
"Yes--yes," answered his listeners. "You are to open the locket. Where is it? --show it to us."
And the locket which Captain Clubbe's wife had given to Dormer Colville was handed from one to another. It was not of great value, but it was of gold with stones, long since discoloured, set in silver around it. It was crushed and misshapen.
"It has never been opened for twenty years," they told each other. "It has been mislaid in an obscure village in England for nearly half a century."
"The Vicomte de Castel Aunet--who is so clever a mechanician--has promised to bring his tools," said Monsieur de Gemosac. "He will open it for us--even if he find it necessary to break the locket."
So the thing went round the room until it came to Loo Barebone.
"I have seen it before," he said. "I think I remember seeing it long ago--when I was a little child."
And he handed it to the old Vicomte de Castel Aunet, whose shaking fingers closed round it in a breathless silence. He carried it to the table, and some one brought candles. The Viconite was very old. He had learnt clock-making, they said, in prison during the Terror. " _Il n'y a moyen,_" he whispered to himself. "I must break it."
With one effort he prised up the cover, but the hinge snapped, and the lid rolled across the table into Barebone's hand.
"Ah!" he cried, in that breathless silence, "now I remember it. I remember the red silk lining of the cover, and in the other side there is the portrait of a lady with--" The Vicomte paused, with his palm covering the other half of the locket and looked across at Loo. And the eyes of all Royalist France were fixed on the same face.
"Silence!" whispered Dormer Colville in English, crushing Barebone's foot under the table.
| {
"id": "8942"
} |
22 | DROPPING THE PILOT | "The portrait of a lady," repeated Loo, slowly. "Young and beautiful. That much I remember."
The old nobleman had never removed his covering hand from the locket. He had never glanced at it himself. He looked slowly round the peering faces, two and three deep round the table. He was the oldest man present--one of the oldest in Paris--one of the few now living who had known Marie Antoinette.
Without uncovering the locket, he handed it to Barebone across the table with a bow worthy of the old régime and his own historic name.
"It is right that you should be the first to see it," he said. "Since there is no longer any doubt that the lady was your father's mother."
Loo took the locket, looked at it with strangely glittering eyes and steady lips. He gave a sort of gasp, which all in the room heard. He was handing it back to the Vicomte de Castel Aunet without a word of comment, when a crashing fall on the bare floor startled every one. A lady had fainted.
"Thank God!" muttered Dormer Colville almost in Barebone's ear and swayed against him. Barebone turned and looked into a face grey and haggard, and shining with perspiration. Instinctively he grasped him by the arm and supported him. In the confusion of the moment no one noticed Colville; for all were pressing round the prostrate lady. And in a moment Colville was himself again, though the ready smile sat oddly on such white lips.
"For God's sake be careful," he said, and turned away, handkerchief in hand.
For the moment the portrait was forgotten until the lady was on her feet again, smiling reassurances and rubbing her elbow.
"It is nothing," she said, "nothing. My heart--that is all."
And she staggered to a chair with the reassuring smile frozen on her face.
Then the portrait was passed from hand to hand in silence. It was a miniature of Marie Antoinette, painted on ivory, which had turned yellow. The colours were almost lost, but the face stood clearly enough. It was the face of a young girl, long and narrow, with the hair drawn straight up and dressed high and simply on the head without ornament.
"It is she," said one and another. " _C'est bien elle_."
"It was painted when she was newly a queen," commented the Vicomte de Castel Aunet. "I have seen others like it, but not that one before."
Barebone stood apart and no one offered to approach him. Dormer Colville had gone toward the great fireplace, and was standing by himself there with his back toward the room. He was surreptitiously wiping from his face the perspiration which had suddenly run down it, as one may see the rain running down the face of a statue.
Things had taken an unexpected turn. The Marquis de Gemosac, himself always on the surface, had stirred others more deeply than he had anticipated or could now understand. France has always been the victim of her own emotions; aroused in the first instance half in idleness, allowed to swell with a semi-restraining laugh, and then suddenly sweeping and overwhelming. History tells of a hundred such crises in the pilgrimage of the French people. A few more--and historians shall write "Ichabod" across the most favoured land in Europe.
It is customary to relate that, after a crisis, those most concerned in it know not how they faced it or what events succeeded it. "He never knew," we are informed, "how he got through the rest of the evening."
Loo Barebone knew and remembered every incident, every glance. He was in full possession of every faculty, and never had each been so keenly alive to the necessity of the moment. Never had his quick brain been so alert as it was during the rest of the evening. And those who had come to the Hotel Gemosac to confirm their adoption of a figure-head went away with the startling knowledge in their hearts that they had never in the course of an artificial life met a man less suited to play that undignified part.
And all the while, in the back of his mind, there lingered with a deadly patience the desire for the moment which must inevitably come when he should at last find himself alone, face to face, with Dormer Colville.
It was nearly midnight before this moment came. At last the latest guest had taken his leave, quitting the house by the garden door and making his way across that forlorn and weedy desert by the dim light reflected from the clouds above. At last the Marquis de Gemosac had bidden them good night, and they were left alone in the vast bedroom which a dozen candles, in candelabras of silver blackened by damp and neglect, only served to render more gloomy and mysterious.
In the confusion consequent on the departure of so many guests the locket had been lost sight of, and Monsieur de Gemosac forgot to make inquiry for it. It was in Barebone's pocket.
Colville put together with the toe of his boot the logs which were smouldering in a glow of incandescent heat. He turned and glanced over his shoulder toward his companion.
Barebone was taking the locket from his waistcoat pocket and approaching the table where the candles burnt low in their sockets.
"You never really supposed you were the man, did you?" asked Colville, with a ready smile. He was brave, at all events, for he took the only course left to him with a sublime assurance.
Barebone looked across the candles at the face which smiled, and smiled.
"That is what I thought," he answered, with a queer laugh.
"Do not jump to any hasty decisions," urged Colville instantly, as if warned by the laugh.
"No! I want to sift the matter carefully to the bottom. It will be interesting to learn who are the deceived and who the deceivers."
Barebone had had time to think out a course of action. His face seemed to puzzle Colville, who was rarely at fault in such judgments of character as came within his understanding. But he seemed for an instant to be on the threshold of something beyond his understanding; and yet he had lived, almost day and night, for some months with Barebone. Since the beginning--that far-off beginning at Farlingford--their respective positions had been quite clearly defined. Colville, the elder by nearly twenty years, had always been the guide and mentor and friend--the compulsory pilot he had gaily called himself. He had a vast experience of the world. He had always moved in the best French society. All that he knew, all the influence he could command, and the experience upon which he could draw were unreservedly at Barebone's service. The difference in years had only affected their friendship in so far as it defined their respective positions and prohibited any thought of rivalry. Colville had been the unquestioned leader, Barebone the ready disciple.
And now in the twinkling of an eye the positions were reversed. Colville stood watching Barebone's face with eyes rendered almost servile by a great suspense. He waited breathless for the next words.
"This portrait," said Barebone, "of the Queen was placed in the locket by you?"
Colville nodded with a laugh of conscious cleverness rewarded by complete success. There was nothing in his companion's voice to suggest suppressed anger. It was all right after all. "I had great difficulty in finding just what I wanted," he added, modestly.
"What I remember--though the memory is necessarily vague--was a portrait of a woman older than this. Her style of dress was more elaborate. Her hair was dressed differently, with sort of curls at the side, and on the top, half buried in the hair, was the imitation of a nest--a dove's nest. Such a thing would naturally stick in a child's memory. It stuck in mine."
"Yes--and nearly gave the game away to-night," said Colville, gulping down the memory of those tense moments.
"That portrait--the original--you have not destroyed it?"
"Oh no. It is of some value," replied Colville, almost naively. He felt in his pocket and produced a silver cigar-case. The miniature was wrapped in a piece of thin paper, which he unfolded. Barebone took the painting and examined it with a little nod of recognition. His memory had not failed after twenty years.
"Who is this lady?" he asked.
Dormer Colville hesitated.
"Do you know the history of that period?" he inquired, after a moment's reflection. For the last hour he had been trying to decide on a course of conduct. During the last few minutes he had been forced to change it half a dozen times.
"Septimus Marvin, of Farlingford, is one of the greatest living authorities on those reigns. I learnt a good deal from him," was the answer.
"That lady is, I think, the Duchesse de Guiche."
"You think--" "Even Marvin could not tell you for certain," replied Colville, mildly. He did not seem to perceive a difference in Barebone's manner toward himself. The quickest intelligence cannot follow another's mind beyond its own depth.
"Then the inference is that my father was the illegitimate son of the Comte d'Artois."
"Afterward Charles X, of France," supplemented Colville, significantly.
"Is that the inference?" persisted Barebone. "I should like to know your opinion. You must have studied the question very carefully. Your opinion should be of some interest, though--" "Though--" echoed Colville, interrogatively, and regretted it immediately.
"Though it is impossible to say when you speak the truth and when you lie."
And any who doubted that there was royal blood in Leo Barebone's veins would assuredly have been satisfied by a glance at his face at that moment; by the sound of his quiet, judicial voice; by the sudden and almost terrifying sense of power in his measuring eyes.
Colville turned away with an awkward laugh and gave his attention to the logs on the hearth. Then suddenly he regained his readiness of speech.
"Look here, Barebone," he cried. "We must not quarrel; we cannot afford to do that. And after all, what does it matter? You are only giving yourself the benefit of the doubt--that is all. For there is a doubt. You may be what you--what we say you are, after all. It is certain enough that Marie Antoinette and Fersen were in daily correspondence. They were both clever--two of the cleverest people in France--and they were both desperate. Remember that. Do you think that they would have failed in a matter of such intense interest to her, and therefore to him? All these pretenders, Naundorff and the others, have proved that quite clearly, but none has succeeded in proving that he was the man."
"And do you think that I shall be able to prove that I am the man--when I am not?"
By way of reply Dormer Colville turned again to the fireplace and took down the print of Louis XVI engraved from a portrait painted when he was still Dauphin. A mirror stood near, and Colville came to the table carrying the portrait in one hand, the looking-glass in the other.
"Here," he said, eagerly, "Look at one and then at the other. Look in the mirror and then at the portrait. Prove it! Why, God has proved it for you."
"I do not think we had better bring Him into the question," was the retort: an odd reflex of Captain Clubbe's solid East Anglian piety. "No. If we go on with the thing at all, let us be honest enough to admit to ourselves that we are dishonest. The portrait in that locket points clearly enough to the Truth."
"The portrait in that locket is of Marie Antoinette," replied Colville, half sullenly. "And no one can ever prove anything contrary to that. No one except myself knows of--of this doubt which you have stumbled upon. De Gemosac, Parson Marvin, Clubbe--all of them are convinced that your father was the Dauphin."
"And Miss Liston?"
"Miriam Liston--she also, of course. And I believe she knew it long before I told her."
Barebone turned and looked at him squarely in the eyes. Colville wondered a second time why Loo Barebone reminded him of Captain Clubbe to-night.
"What makes you believe that?" he asked.
"Oh, I don't know. But that isn't the question. The question is about the future. You see how things are in France. It is a question of Louis Napoleon or a monarchy--you see that. Unless you stop him he will be Emperor before a year is out, and he will drag France in the gutter. He is less a Bonaparte than you are a Bourbon. You remember that Louis Bonaparte himself was the first to say so. He wrote a letter to the Pope, saying so quite clearly. You will go on with it, of course, Barebone. Say you will go on with it! To turn back now would be death. We could not do it if we wanted to. _I_ have been trying to think about it, and I cannot. That is the truth. It takes one's breath away. At the mere thought of it I feel as if I were getting out of my depth."
"We have been out of our depths the last month," admitted Barebone, curtly.
And he stood reflecting, while Colville watched him.
"If I go on," he said, at length, "I go on alone."
"Better not," urged Colville, with a laugh of great relief. "For you would always have me and my knowledge hanging over you. If you succeeded, you would have me dunning you for hush-money."
Which seemed true enough. Few men knew more of one side of human nature than Dormer Colville, it would appear.
"I am not afraid of that."
"You can never tell," laughed Colville, but his laugh rather paled under Barebone's glance. "You can never tell."
"Wise men do not attempt to blackmail--kings."
And Colville caught his breath.
"Perhaps you are right," he admitted, after a pause. "You seem to be taking to the position very kindly, Barebone. But I do not mind, you know. It does not matter what we say to each other, eh? We have been good friends so long. You must do as you like. And if you succeed, I must be content to leave my share of the matter to your consideration. You certainly seem to know the business already, and some day perhaps you will remember who taught you to be a King."
"It was an old North Sea skipper who taught me that," replied Barebone. "That is one of the things I learnt at sea."
"Yes--yes," agreed Colville, almost nervously. "And you will go on with the thing, will you not? Like a good fellow, eh? Think about it till to-morrow morning. I will go now. Which is my candle? Yes. You will think about it. Do not jump to any hasty decision."
He hurried to the door as he spoke. He could not understand Barebone at all.
"If I do go on with it," was the reply, "it will not be in response to any of your arguments. It will be only and solely for the sake of France."
"Yes--of course," agreed Colville, and closed the door behind him.
In his own room he turned and looked toward the door leading through to that from which he had hurriedly escaped. He passed his hand across his face, which was white and moist.
"For the sake of France!" he echoed in bewilderment. "For the sake of France! Gad! I believe he _is_ the man after all."
| {
"id": "8942"
} |
23 | A SIMPLE BANKER | Mr. John Turner had none of the outward signs of the discreet adviser in his person or surroundings. He had, it was currently whispered, inherited from his father an enormous clientèle of noble names. And to such as have studied the history of Paris during the whole of the nineteenth century, it will appear readily comprehensible that the careful or the penniless should give preference to an English banker.
Mr. Turner's appearance suggested solidity, and the carpet of his private room was a good one. The room smelt of cigar smoke, while the office, through which the client must pass to reach it, was odoriferous of ancient ledgers.
Half a dozen clerks were seated in the office, which was simply furnished and innocent of iron safes. If a client entered, one of the six, whose business it was, looked up, while the other five continued to give their attention to the books before them.
One cold morning, toward the end of the year, Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence was admitted by the concierge. She noted that only one clerk gave heed to her entry, and, it is to be presumed, the quiet perfection of her furs.
"Of the six young men in your office," she observed, when she was seated in the bare wooden chair placed invitingly by the side of John Turner's writing-table, "only one appears to be in full possession of his senses."
Turner, sitting--if the expression be allowed--in a heap in an armchair before a table provided with pens, ink, and a blotting-pad, but otherwise bare, looked at his client with a bovine smile.
"I don't pay them to admire my clients," he replied.
"If Mademoiselle de Montijo came in, I suppose the other five would not look up."
John Turner settled himself a little lower into his chair, so that he appeared to be in some danger of slipping under the table.
"If the Archangel Gabriel came in, they would still attend to their business," he replied, in his thick, slow voice. "But he won't. He is not one of my clients. Quite the contrary."
Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence smoothed the fur that bordered her neat jacket and glanced sideways at her banker. Then she looked round the room. It was bare enough. A single picture hung on the wall--a portrait of an old lady. Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence raised her eyebrows, and continued her scrutiny. Here, again, was no iron safe. There were no ledgers, no diaries, no note-books, no paraphernalia of business. Nothing but a bare table and John Turner seated at it, in a much more comfortable chair than that provided for the client, staring apathetically at a date-case which stood on a bare mantelpiece.
The lady's eyes returned to the portrait on the wall.
"You used to have a portrait of Louis Philippe there," she said.
"When Louis Philippe was on the throne," admitted the banker.
"And now?" inquired this daughter of Eve, looking at the portrait.
"My maternal aunt," replied Turner, making a gesture with two fingers, as if introducing his client to the portrait.
"You keep her, one may suppose, as a stop-gap--between the dynasties. It is so safe--a maternal aunt!"
"One cannot hang a republic on the wall, however much one may want to."
"Then you are a Royalist?" inquired Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence.
"No; I am only a banker," replied Turner, with his chin sinking lower on his bulging waistcoat and his eyes scarcely visible beneath the heavy lids.
The remark, coupled with a thought that Turner was going to sleep, seemed to remind the client of her business.
"Will you kindly ask one of your clerks to let me know how much money I have?" she said, casting a glance not wholly innocent of scornful reproach at the table, so glaringly devoid of the bare necessities of a banking business.
"Only eleven thousand francs and fourteen sous," replied Turner, with a promptness which seemed to suggest that he kept no diary or note-book on the table before him because he had need of neither.
"I feel sure I must have more than that," said Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence, with some spirit. "I quite thought I had."
But John Turner only moistened his lips and sat patiently gazing at the date. His attitude dimly suggested--quite in a nice way--that the chair upon which Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence sat was polished bright by the garments of persons who had found themselves labouring under the same error.
"Well, I must have a hundred thousand francs to-morrow; that is all. Simply must. And in notes, too. I told you I should want it when you came to see me at Royan. You must remember. I told you at luncheon."
"When we were eating a sweetbread _aux champignons. _ I remember perfectly. We do not get sweetbreads like that in Paris."
And John Turner shook his head sadly. "Well, will you let me have the money to-morrow morning--in notes?"
"I remember I advised you not to sell just now; after we had finished the sweetbread and had gone on to a _crême renversée_--very good one, too. Yes, it is a bad time to sell. Things are uncertain in France just now. One cannot even get one's meals properly served. Cook's head is full of politics, I suppose."
"To-morrow morning--in notes," repeated Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence.
"Now, your man at Royan was excellent--kept his head all through--and a light hand, too. Got him with you in Paris?"
"No, I have not. To-morrow morning, about ten o'clock--in notes."
And Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence tapped a neat gloved finger on the corner of the table with some determination.
"I remember--at dessert--you told me you wanted to realise a considerable sum of money at the beginning of the year, to put into some business venture. Is this part of that sum?"
"Yes," returned the lady, arranging her veil.
"A venture of Dormer Colville's, I think you told me--while we were having coffee. One never gets coffee hot enough in a private house, but yours was all right."
"Yes," mumbled Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence, behind her quick finger, busy with the veil.
Beneath the sleepy lids John Turner's eyes, which were small and deep-sunken in the flesh, like the eyes of a pig, noted in passing that his client's cheeks were momentarily pink.
"I hope you don't mean to suggest that there is anything unsafe in Mr. Colville as a business man?"
"Heaven forbid!" ejaculated Turner. "On the contrary, he is most enterprising. And I know no one who smokes a better cigar than Colville--when he can get it. And the young fellow seemed nice enough."
"Which young fellow?" inquired the lady, sharply.
"His young friend--the man who was with him. I think you told me, after luncheon, that Colville required the money to start his young friend in business."
"Never!" laughed Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence, who, if she felt momentarily uneasy, was quickly reassured. For this was one of those fortunate ladies who go through life with the comforting sense of being always cleverer than their neighbour. If the neighbour happen to be a man, and a stout one, the conviction is the stronger for those facts. "Never! I never told you that. You must have dreamt it."
"Perhaps I did," admitted the banker, placidly. "I am afraid I often feel sleepy after luncheon. Perhaps I dreamt it. But I could not hand such a sum in notes to an unprotected lady, even if I can effect a sale of your securities so quickly as to have the money ready by to-morrow morning. Perhaps Colville will call for it himself."
"If he is in Paris."
"Every one is in Paris now," was Mr. Turner's opinion. "And if he likes to bring his young friend with him, all the better. In these uncertain times it is not fair on a man to hand to him a large sum of money in notes." He paused and jerked his thumb toward the window, which was a double one, looking down into the Rue Lafayette. "There are always people in the streets watching those who pass in and out of a bank. If a man comes out smiling, with his hand on his pocket, he is followed, and if an opportunity occurs, he is robbed. Better not have it in notes."
"I know," replied Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence, not troubling further to deceive one so lethargic and simple. "I know that Dormer wants it in notes."
"Then let him come and fetch it."
Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence rose from her chair and shook her dress into straighter folds, with the air of having accomplished a task which she had known to be difficult, but not impossible to one equipped with wit and self-confidence.
"You will sell the securities, and have it all ready by ten o'clock to-morrow morning," she repeated, with a feminine insistence.
"You shall have the money to-morrow morning, whether I succeed in selling for cash or not," was the reply, and John Turner concealed a yawn with imperfect success.
"A loan?"
"No banker lends--except to kings," replied Turner, stolidly. "Call it an accommodation."
Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence glanced at him sharply over the fur collar which she was clasping round her neck. Here was a banker, reputed wealthy, who sat in a bare room, without so much as a fireproof safe to suggest riches; a business man of world-wide affairs, who drummed indolent fingers on a bare table; a philosopher with a maxim ever ready to teach, as all maxims do, cowardice in the guise of prudence, selfishness masquerading as worldly wisdom, hard-heartedness passing for foresight. Here was one who seemed to see, and was yet too sleepy to perceive. Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence was not always sure of her banker, but now, as ever before, one glance at his round, heavy face reassured her. She laughed and went away, well satisfied with the knowledge, only given to women, of having once more carried out her object with the completeness which is known as twisting round the little finger.
She nodded to Turner, who had ponderously risen from the chair which was more comfortable than the client's seat, and held the door open for her to pass. He glanced at the clock as he did so. And she knew that he was thinking that it was nearly the luncheon hour, so transparent to the feminine perception are the thoughts of men.
When he had closed the door he returned to his writing-table. Like many stout people, he moved noiselessly, and quickly enough when the occasion demanded haste.
He wrote three letters in a very few minutes, and, when they were addressed, he tapped on the table with the end of his pen-holder, which brought, in the twinkling of an eye, that clerk whose business it was to abandon his books when called.
"I shall not go out to luncheon until I have the written receipt for each one of those letters," said the banker, knowing that until he went out to luncheon his six clerks must needs go hungry. "Not an answer," he explained, "but a receipt in the addressee's writing."
And while the clerk hurried from the room and down the stone stairs at a break-neck speed, Turner sank back into his chair, with lustreless eyes fixed on space.
"No one can wait," he was in the habit of saying, "better than I can."
| {
"id": "8942"
} |
24 | THE LANE OF MANY TURNINGS | If John Turner expected Colville to bring Loo Barebone with him to the Rue Lafayette he was, in part, disappointed. Colville arrived in a hired carriage, of which the blinds were partially lowered.
The driver had been instructed to drive into the roomy court-yard of the house of which Turner's office occupied the first floor. Carriages frequently waited there, by the side of a little fountain which splashed all day and all night into a circular basin.
Colville descended from the carriage and turned to speak to Loo, who was left sitting within it. Since the unfortunate night at the Hotel Gemosac, when they had been on the verge of a quarrel, a certain restraint had characterised their intercourse. Colville was shy of approaching the subject upon which they had differed. His easy laugh had not laughed away the grim fact that he had deceived Loo in such a manner that complicity was practically forced upon an innocent man.
Loo had not given his decision yet. He had waited a week, during which time Colville had not dared to ask him whether his mind was made up. There was a sort of recklessness in Loo's manner which at once puzzled and alarmed his mentor. At times he was gay, as he always had been, and in the midst of his gaiety he would turn away with a gloomy face and go to his own room.
To press the question would be to precipitate a catastrophe. Dormer Colville decided to go on as if nothing had happened. It is a compromise with the inconveniences of untruth to which we must all resort at some crisis or another in life.
"I will not be long," he assured Barebone, with a gay laugh. The prospect of handling one hundred thousand francs in notes was perhaps exhilarating; though the actual possession of great wealth would seem to be of the contrary tendency. There is a profound melancholy peculiar to the face of the millionaire. "I shall not be long; for he is a man of his word, and the money will be ready."
John Turner was awaiting his visitor, and gave a large soft hand inertly into Colville's warm grasp.
"I always wish I saw more of you," said the new-comer.
"Is there not enough of me already?" inquired the banker, pointing to the vacant chair, upon which fell the full light of the double window. A smaller window opposite to it afforded a view of the court-yard. And it was at this smaller window that Colville glanced as he sat down, with a pause indicative of reluctance.
Turner saw the glance and noted the reluctance. He concluded, perhaps, in the slow, sure mind that worked behind his little peeping eyes, that Loo Barebone was in the carriage in the court-yard, and that Colville was anxious to return to him as soon as possible.
"It is very kind of you to say that, I am sure," pursued Turner, rousing himself to be pleasant and conversational. "But, although the loss is mine, my dear Colville, the fault is mostly yours. You always know where to find me when you want my society. I am anchored in this chair, whereas one never knows where one has a butterfly like yourself."
"A butterfly that is getting a bit heavy on the wing," answered Colville, with his wan and sympathetic smile. He sat forward in the chair in an attitude antipathetic to digression from the subject in hand.
"I do not see any evidence of that. One hears of you here and there in France. I suppose, for instance, you know more than any man in Paris at the present moment of the--" he paused and suppressed a yawn, "the--er--vintage. Anything in it--eh?"
"So far as I could judge, the rains came too late; but I shall be glad to tell you all about it another time. This morning--" "Yes; I know. You want your money. I have it all ready for you. But I must make out some sort of receipt, you know."
Turner felt vaguely in his pocket, and at last found a letter, from which he tore the blank sheet, while his companion, glancing from time to time at the window, watched him impatiently.
"Seems to me," said Turner, opening his inkstand, "that the vintage of 1850 will not be drunk by a Republic."
"Ah! indeed."
"What do you think?"
"Well, to tell you the truth, my mind was more occupied in the quality of the vintage than in its ultimate fate. If you make out a receipt on behalf of Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence, I will sign it," answered Colville, fingering the blotting-paper.
"Received on behalf of, and for, Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence, the sum of one hundred thousand francs," muttered the banker, as he wrote.
"She is only a client, you understand, my dear Colville," he went on, holding out his hand for the blotting-paper, "or I would not part with the money so easily. It is against my advice that Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence realises this sum."
"If a woman sets her heart on a thing, my dear fellow--" began Colville, carelessly.
"Yes, I know--reason goes to the wall. Sign there, will you?"
Turner handed him pen and receipt, but Colville was looking toward the window sunk deep in the wall on the inner side of the room. This was not a double window, and the sound of carriage wheels rose above the gentle, continuous plash of the little fountain in the court-yard.
Colville rose from his seat, but to reach the window he had to pass behind Turner's chair. Turner rose at the same moment, and pushed his chair back against the wall in doing so. This passage toward the window being completely closed by the bulk of John Turner, Colville hurried round the writing-table. But Turner was again in front of him, and, without appearing to notice that his companion was literally at his heels, he opened a large cupboard sunk in the panelling of the wall. The door of it folded back over the little window, completely hiding it.
Turning on his heel, with an agility which was quite startling in one so stout, he found Colville's colourless face two feet from his own. In fact, Colville almost stumbled against him. For a moment they looked each other in the eyes in silence. With his right hand, John Turner held the cupboard-door over the window.
"I have the money here," he said, "in this cupboard." And as he spoke, a hollow rumble, echoing in the court-yard, marked the exit of a carriage under the archway into the Rue Lafayette. There had been only one carriage in attendance in the court-yard--that in which Colville had left Barebone.
"Here, in this cupboard," repeated Turner to unheeding ears. For Dormer Colville was already hurrying across the room toward the other window that looked out into the Rue Lafayette. The house was a lofty one, with a high entresol, and from the windows of the first floor it was not possible to see the street immediately below without opening the sashes.
Turner closed the cupboard and locked it, without ceasing to watch Colville, who was struggling with the stiff fastening of the outer sash.
"Anything the matter?" inquired the banker, placidly. "Lost a dog?"
But Colville had at length wrenched open the window and was leaning out. The roar of the traffic drowned any answer he may have made. It was manifest that the loss of three precious minutes had made him too late. After a glance down into the street, he came back into the centre of the room and snatched up his hat from Turner's bare writing-table.
He hurried to the door, but turned again, with his back against it, to face his companion, with the eyes usually so affable and sympathetic, ablaze for once with rage.
"Damn you!" he cried. "Damn you!"
And the door banged on his heels as he hurried through the outer office.
Turner was left standing, a massive incarnation of bewilderment, in the middle of the room. He heard the outer door close with considerable emphasis. Then he sat down again, his eyebrows raised high on his round forehead, and gazed sadly at the date-card.
* * * * * Colville had left Leo Barebone seated in the hired carriage in a frame of mind far from satisfactory. A seafaring life, more than any other, teaches a man quickness in action. A hundred times a day the sailor needs to execute, with a rapidity impossible to the landsman, that which knowledge tells him to be the imminent necessity of the moment. At sea, life is so far simpler than in towns that there are only two ways: the right and the wrong. In the devious paths of a pavement-ridden man there are a hundred byways: there is the long, long lane of many turnings called Compromise.
Loo Barebone had turned into this lane one night at the Hotel Gemosac, in the Ruelle St. Jacob, and had wandered there ever since. Captain Clubbe had taught him the two ways of seamanship effectively enough. But the education fell short of the necessities of this crisis. Moreover, Barebone had in his veins blood of a race which had fallen to low estate through Compromise and Delay.
Let those throw the first stone at him who have seen the right way gaping before their feet with a hundred pitfalls and barriers, apparently insurmountable, and have resolutely taken that road. For the devious path of Compromise has this merit--that the obstacles are round the corner.
Barebone, absorbed in thought, hardly noticed that the driver of his carriage descended from the box and lounged toward the archway, where the hum of traffic and the passage of many people would serve to beguile a long wait. After a minute's delay, a driver returned and climbed to the seat--but it was not the same driver. He wore the same coat and hat, but a different face looked out from the sheep-skin collar turned up to the ears. There was no one in the court-yard to notice this trifling change. Barebone was not even looking out of the window. He had never glanced at the cabman's face, whose vehicle had happened to be lingering at the corner of the Ruelle St. Jacob when Colville and his companion had emerged from the high doorway of the Hotel Gemosac.
Barebone was so far obeying instructions that he was leaning back in the carriage, his face half hidden by the collar of his coat. For it was a cold morning in mid-winter. He hardly looked up when the handle of the door was turned. Colville had shut this door five minutes earlier, promising to return immediately. It was undoubtedly his hand that opened the door. But suddenly Barebone sat up. Both doors were open.
Before he could make another movement, two men stepped quietly into the carriage, each closing the door by which he had entered quickly and noiselessly. One seated himself beside Barebone, the other opposite to him, and each drew down a blind. They seemed to have rehearsed the actions over and over again, so that there was no hitch or noise or bungling. The whole was executed as if by clock-work, and the carriage moved away the instant the doors were closed.
In the twilight, within the carriage, the two men grasped Loo Barebone, each by one arm, and held him firmly against the back of the carriage.
"Quietly, _mon bon monsieur_; quietly, and you will come to no harm."
Barebone made no resistance, and only laughed.
"You have come too soon," he said, without attempting to free his arms, which were held, as if by a vice, at the elbow and shoulder. "You have come too soon, gentlemen! There is no money in the carriage. Not so much as a sou."
"It is not for money that we have come," replied the man who had first spoken--and the absolute silence of his companion was obviously the silence of a subordinate.
"Though, for a larger sum than monsieur is likely to offer, one might make a mistake, and allow of escape--who knows?"
The remark was made with the cynical honesty of dishonesty which had so lately been introduced into France by him who was now Dictator of that facile people.
"Oh! I offer nothing," replied Barebone. "For a good reason. I have nothing to offer. If you are not thieves, what are you?"
The carriage was rattling along the Rue Lafayette, over the cobble-stones, and the inmates, though their faces were close together, had to shout in order to be heard.
"Of the police," was the reply. "Of the high police. I fancy that monsieur's affair is political?"
"Why should you fancy that?"
"Because my comrade and I are not engaged on other cases. The criminal receives very different treatment. Permit me to assure you of that. And no consideration whatever. The common police is so unmannerly. There! --one may well release the arms--since we understand each other."
"I shall not try to escape--if that is what you mean," replied Barebone, with a laugh.
"Nothing else--nothing else," his affable captor assured him.
And for the remainder of a long drive through the noisy streets the three men sat upright in the dim and musty cab in silence.
| {
"id": "8942"
} |
25 | SANS RANCUNE | A large French fishing-lugger was drifting northward on the ebb tide with its sails flapping idly against the spars. It had been a fine morning, and the Captain, a man from Fécamp, where every boy that is born is born a sailor, had been fortunate in working his way in clear weather across the banks that lie northward of the Thames.
He had predicted all along in a voice rendered husky by much shouting in dirty weather that the fog-banks would be drifting in from the sea before nightfall. And now he had that mournful satisfaction which is the special privilege of the pessimistic. These fog-banks, the pest of the east coast, are the materials that form the light fleecy clouds which drift westward in sunny weather like a gauze veil across the face of the sky. They roll across the North Sea from their home in the marshes of Holland on the face of the waters, and the mariner, groping his way with dripping eyelashes and a rosy face through them, can look up and see the blue sky through the rifts overhead. When the fog-bank touches land it rises, slowly lifted by the warm breath of the field. On the coast-line it lies low; a mile inland it begins to break into rifts, so that any one working his way down one of the tidal rivers, sails in the counting of twenty seconds from sunshine into a pearly shadow. Five miles inland there is a transparent veil across the blue sky slowly sweeping toward the west, and rising all the while, until those who dwell on the higher lands of Essex and Suffolk perceive nothing but a few fleecy clouds high in the heavens.
The lugger was hardly moving, for the tide had only turned half an hour ago.
"Provided," the Captain had muttered within the folds of his woollen scarf rolled round and round his neck until it looked like a dusky life-belt--"provided that they are ringing their bell on the Shipwash, we shall find our way into the open. Always sea-sick, this traveller, always sea-sick!"
And he turned with a kindly laugh to Loo Barebone, who was lying on a heap of old sails by the stern rail, concealing as well as he could the pangs of a consuming hunger.
"One sees that you will never be a sailor," added the man from Fécamp, with that rough humour which sailors use.
"Perhaps I do not want to be one," replied Barebone, with a ready gaiety which had already made him several friends on this tarry vessel, although the voyage had lasted but four days.
"Listen," interrupted the Captain, holding up a mittened hand. "Listen! I hear a bell, or else it is my conscience."
Barebone had heard it for some time. It was the bell-buoy at the mouth of Harwich River. But he did not deem it necessary for one who was a prisoner on board, and no sailor, to interfere in the navigation of a vessel now making its way to the Faröe fisheries for the twentieth time.
"My conscience," he observed, "rings louder than that."
The Captain took a turn round the tiller with a rope made fast to the rail for the purpose, and went to the side of the ship, lifting his nose toward the west.
"It is the land," he said. "I can smell it. But it is only the Blessed Virgin who knows where we are."
He turned and gave a gruff order to a man half hidden in the mist in the waist of the boat to try a heave of the lead.
The sound of the bell could be heard clearly enough now--the uncertain, hesitating clang of a bell-buoy rocked in the tideway--with its melancholy note of warning. Indeed, there are few sounds on sea or land more fraught with lonesomeness and fear. Behind it and beyond it a faint "tap-tap" was now audible. Barebone knew it to be the sound of a caulker's hammer in the Government repairing yard on the south side. They were drifting past the mouth of the Harwich River.
The leadsman called out a depth which Loo could have told without the help of line or lead. For he had served a long apprenticeship on these coasts under a captain second to none in the North Sea.
He turned a little on his bed of sails under repair, at which the Captain had been plying his needle while the weather remained clear, and glanced over his shoulder toward the ship's dinghy towing astern. The rope that held it was made fast round the rail a few feet away from him. The boat itself was clumsy, shaped like a walnut, of a preposterous strength and weight. It was fitted with a short, stiff mast and a balance lug-sail. It floated more lightly on the water than the bigger vessel, which was laden with coal and provender and salt for the North Atlantic fishery, and the painter hung loose, while the dinghy, tide-borne, sidled up to stern of its big companion like a kitten following its mother with the uncertain steps of infancy.
The face of the water was glassy and of a yellow green. Although the scud swept in toward the land at a fair speed, there was not enough wind to fill the sails. Moreover, the bounty of Holland seemed inexhaustible. There was more to come. This fog-bank lay on the water halfway across the North Sea, and the brief winter sun having failed to disperse it, was now sinking to the west, cold and pale.
"The water seems shallow," said Barebone to the Captain. "What would you do if the ship went aground?"
"We should stay there, _mon bon monsieur_, until some one came to help us at the flood tide. We should shout until they heard us."
"You might fire a gun," suggested Barebone.
"We have no gun on board, mon bon monsieur," replied the Captain, who had long ago explained to his prisoner that there was no ill-feeling.
"It is the fortune of war," he had explained before the white cliffs of St. Valérie had faded from sight. "I am a poor man who cannot afford to refuse a good offer. It is a Government job, as you no doubt know without my telling you. You would seem to have incurred the displeasure or the distrust of some one high placed in the Government. 'Treat him well,' they said to me. 'Give him your best, and see that he comes to no harm unless he tries to escape. And be careful that he does not return to France before the mackerel fishing begins.' And when we do return to Fécamp, I have to lie to off Notre Dame de la Garde and signal to the Douane that I have you safe. They want you out of the way. You are a dangerous man, it seems. _Salut_!"
And the Captain raised his glass to one so distinguished by Government. He laughed as he set his glass down on the little cabin table.
"No ill-feeling on either side," he added. " _C'est entendu_."
He made a half-movement as if to shake hands across the table and thought better of it, remembering, perhaps, that his own palm was not innocent of blood-money. For the rest they had been friendly enough on the voyage. And had the "Petite Jeanne" been in danger, it is probable that Barebone would have warned his jailer, if only in obedience to a seaman's instinct against throwing away a good ship.
He had noted every detail, however, of the dinghy while he lay on the deck of the "Petite Jeanne"; how the runner fitted to the mast; whether the halliards were likely to run sweetly through the sheaves or were knotted and would jamb. He knew the weight of the gaff and the great tan-soddened sail to a nicety. Some dark night, he had thought, on the Dogger, he would slip overboard and take his chance. He had never looked for thick weather at this time of year off the Banks, so near home, within a few hours' sail of the mouth of Farlingford River.
If a breeze would only come up from the south-east, as it almost always does in these waters toward the evening of a still, fine day! Without lifting his head he scanned the weather, noting that the scud was blowing more northward now. It might only be what is known as a slant. On the other hand, it might prove to be a true breeze, coming from the usual quarter. The "tap-tap" of the caulker's hammer on the slip-way in Harwich River was silent now. There must be a breeze in-shore that carried the sound away.
The topsail of the "Petite Jeanne" filled with a jerk, and the Captain, standing at the tiller, looked up at it. The lower sails soon took their cue, and suddenly the slack sheets hummed taut in the breeze. The "Petite Jeanne" answered to it at once, and the waves gurgled and laughed beneath her counter as she moved through the water. She could sail quicker than her dinghy: Barebone knew that. But he also knew that he could handle an open boat as few even on the Côtes-du-Nord knew how.
If the breeze came strong, it would blow the fog-bank away, and Barebone had need of its covert. Though there must be many English boats within sight should the fog lift--indeed, the guardship in Harwich harbour would be almost visible across the spit of land where Landguard Fort lies hidden--Barebone had no intention of asking help so compromising. He had but a queer story to tell to any in authority, and on the face of it he must perforce appear to have run away with the dinghy of the "Petite Jeanne."
He desired to get ashore as unobtrusively as possible. For he was not going to stay in England. The die was cast now. Where Dormer Colville's persuasions had failed, where the memory of that journey through Royalist France had yet left him doubting, the incidents of the last few days had clinched the matter once for all. Barebone was going back to France.
He moved as if to stretch his limbs and lay down once more, with his shoulders against the rail and his elbow covering the stanchion round which the dinghy's painter was made fast.
The proper place for the dinghy was on deck should the breeze freshen. Barebone knew that as well as the French Captain of the "Petite Jeanne." For seamanship is like music--it is independent of language or race. There is only one right way and one wrong way at sea, all the world over. The dinghy was only towing behind while the fog continued to be impenetrable. At any moment the Captain might give the order to bring it inboard.
At any moment Barebone might have to make a dash for the boat.
He watched the Captain, who continued to steer in silence. To drift on the tide in a fog is a very different thing to sailing through it at ten miles an hour on a strong breeze, and the steersman had no thought to spare for anything but his sails. Two men were keeping the look-out in the bows. Another--the leadsman--was standing amidships peering over the side into the mist.
Still Barebone waited. Captain Clubbe had taught him that most difficult art--to select with patience and a perfect judgment the right moment. The "Petite Jeanne" was rustling through the glassy water northward toward Farlingford.
At a word from the Captain the man who had been heaving the lead came aft to the ship's bell and struck ten quick strokes. He waited and repeated the warning, but no one answered. They were alone in these shallow channels. Fortunately the man faced forward, as sailors always do by instinct, turning his back upon the Captain and Barebone.
The painter was cast off now and, under his elbow, Barebone was slowly hauling in. The dinghy was heavy and the "Petite Jeanne" was moving quickly through the water. Suddenly Barebone rose to his feet, hauled in hand over hand, and when the dinghy was near enough, leaped across two yards of water to her gunwale.
The Captain heard the thud of his feet on the thwart, and looking back over his shoulder saw and understood in a flash of thought. But even then he did not understand that Loo was aught else but a landsman half-recovered from sea-sickness. He understood it a minute later, however, when the brown sail ran up the mast and, holding the tiller between his knees, Barebone hauled in the sheet hand over hand and steered a course out to sea.
He looked back over the foot of the sail and waved his hand. " _Sans rancune! _" he shouted. " _C'est entendu! _" The Captain's own words.
The "Petite Jeanne" was already round to the wind, and the Captain was bellowing to his crew to trim the sails. It could scarcely be a chase, for the huge deep-sea fishing-boat could sail half as fast again as her own dinghy. The Captain gave his instructions with all the quickness of his race, and the men were not slow to carry them out. The safe-keeping of the prisoner had been made of personal advantage to each member of the crew.
The Captain hailed Barebone with winged words which need not be set down here, and explained to him the impossibility of escape.
"How can you--a landsman," he shouted, "hope to get away from us? Come back and it shall be as you say '_sans rancune. _' Name of God! I bear you no ill-will for making the attempt."
They were so close together that all on board the "Petite Jeanne" could see Barebone laugh and shake his head. He knew that there was no gun on board the fishing-boat. The lugger rushed on, sailing quicker, lying up closer to the wind. She was within twenty yards of the little boat now--would overhaul her in a minute.
But in an instant Barebone was round on the other tack, and the Captain swore aloud, for he knew now that he was not dealing with a landsman. The "Petite Jeanne" spun round almost as quickly, but not quite. Every time that Barebone put about, the "Petite Jeanne" must perforce do the same, and every time she lost a little in the manoeuvre. On a long tack or running before the wind the bigger boat was immeasurably superior. Barebone had but one chance--to make short tacks--and he knew it. The Captain knew it also, and no landsman would have possessed the knowledge. He was trying to run the boat down now.
Barebone might succeed in getting far enough away to be lost in the fog. But in tacking so frequently he was liable to make a mistake. The bigger boat was not so likely to miss stays. He passed so close to her that he could read the figures cut on her stern-post indicating her draught of water.
There was another chance. The "Petite Jeanne" was drawing six feet; the dinghy could sail across a shoal covered by eighteen inches of water. But such a shoal would be clearly visible on the surface of the water. Besides, there was no shallow like that nearer than the Goodwins. Barebone pressed out seaward. He knew every channel and every bank between the Thames and Thorpeness. He kept on pressing out to sea by short tacks. All the while he was peeping over the gunwale out of the corner of his eye. He was near, he must be near, a bank covered by five feet of water at low tide. A shoal of five feet is rarely visible on the surface.
Suddenly he rose from his seat on the gunwale, and stood with the tiller in one hand and the sheet in the other, half turning back to look at "Petite Jeanne" towering almost over him. And as he looked, her bluff black bows rose upward with an odd climbing movement like a horse stepping up a bank. With a rattle of ropes and blocks she stood still.
Barebone went about again and sailed past her. " _Sans rancune_!" he shouted. But no one heeded him, for they had other matters to attend to. And the dinghy sailed into the veil of the mist toward the land.
| {
"id": "8942"
} |
26 | RETURNED EMPTY | The breeze freshened, and, as was to be expected, blew the fog-bank away before sunset.
Sep Marvin had been an unwilling student all day. Like many of his cloth and generation, Parson Marvin pinned all his faith on education. "Give a boy a good education," he said, a hundred times. "Make a gentleman of him, and you have done your duty by him."
"Make a gentleman of him--and the world will be glad to feed and clothe him," was the real thought in his mind, as it was in the mind of nearly all his contemporaries. The wildest dreamer of those days never anticipated that, in the passage of one brief generation, social advancement should be for the shrewdly ignorant rather than for the scholar; that it would be better for a man that his mind be stored with knowledge of the world than the wisdom of the classics; that the successful grocer might find a kinder welcome in a palace than the scholar; that the manufacturer of kitchen utensils might feed with kings and speak to them, without aspirates, between the courses.
Parson Marvin knew none of these things, however; nor suspected that the advance of civilisation is not always progressive, but that she may take hands with vulgarity and dance down-hill, as she does to-day. His one scheme of life for Sep was that he should be sent to the ancient school where field-sports are cultivated to-day and English gentlemen turned upon the world more ignorant than any other gentlemen in the universe. Then, of course, Sep must go to that College with which his father's life had been so closely allied. And if it please God to call him to the Church, and the College should remember that it had given his father a living, and do the same by him--for that reason and no other--then, of course, Sep would be a made man.
And the making of Sep had been in progress during the winter day that a fog-bank came in from the North Sea and clung tenaciously to the low, surfless coast. In the afternoon the sun broke through at last, wintry and pale. Sep, who, by some instinct--the instinct, it is to be supposed, of young animals--knew that he was destined to be of a generation that should cultivate ignorance out of doors, rather than learning by the fireside, threw aside his books and cried out that he could no longer breathe in his father's study.
So Parson Marvin went off, alone, to visit a distant parishioner--one who was dying by himself out on the marsh, in a cottage cut off from all the world in a spring tide.
"Don't forget that it is high tide at five o'clock, and that there is no moon, and that the dykes will be full. You will never find your way across the marsh after dark," said Sep--the learned in tides and those practical affairs of nature, which were as a closed book to the scholar.
Parson Marvin vaguely acknowledged the warning and went away, leaving Sep to accompany Miriam on her daily errand to the simple shops in Farlingford, which would awake to life and business now that the sea-fog was gone. For the men of Farlingford, like nearly all seafarers, are timorous of bad weather on shore and sit indoors during its passage, while they treat storm and rain with a calm contempt at sea.
"Sail a-coming up the river, master," River Andrew said to Sep, who was awaiting Miriam in the village street, and he walked on, without further comment, spade on shoulder, toward the church-yard, where he spent a portion of his day, without apparent effect.
So, when Miriam had done her shopping, it was only natural that they should turn their footsteps toward the quay and the river-wall. Or was it fate? So often is the natural nothing but the inevitable in holiday garb.
"That is no Farlingford boat," said Sep, versed in riverside knowledge, so soon as he saw the balance-lug moving along the line of the river-wall, half a mile below the village.
They stood watching. Few coasters were at sea in these months of wild weather, and there was nothing moving on the quay. The moss-grown slip-way, where "The Last Hope" had been drawn up for repair, stood gaunt and empty, half submerged by the flowing tide. Many Farlingford men were engaged in the winter fisheries on the Dogger, and farther north, in Lowestoft boats. In winter, Farlingford--thrust out into the North Sea, surrounded by marsh--is forgotten by the world.
The solitary boat came round the corner into the wider sheet of water, locally known as Quay Reach.
"A foreigner!" cried Sep, jumping, as was his wont, from one foot to the other with excitement. "It is like the boat that was brought up by the tide, with a dead man in it, long ago. And that was a Belgian boat."
Miriam was looking at the boat with a sudden brightness in her eyes, a rush of colour to her cheeks, which were round and healthy and of that soft clear pink which marks a face swept constantly by mist and a salty air. In flat countries, where men may see each other, unimpeded by hedge or tree or hillock, across a space measured only by miles, the eye is soon trained--like the sailor's eye--to see and recognise at a great distance.
There was no mistaking the attitude of the solitary steersman of this foreign boat stealing quietly up to Farlingford on the flood tide. It was Loo Barebone sitting on the gunwale as he always sat, with one knee raised on the thwart, to support his elbow, and his chin in the palm of his hand, so that he could glance up the head of the sail or ahead, without needing to change his position.
Sep turned and looked up at her.
"I thought you said he was never coming back," he said, reproachfully.
"So I did. I thought he was never coming back."
Sep looked at her again, and then at the boat. One never knows how much children, and dogs--who live daily with human beings--understand.
"Your face is very red," he observed. "That comes from telling untruths."
"It comes from the cold wind," replied Miriam, with an odd, breathless laugh.
"If we do not go home, he will be there before us," said Sep, gravely. "He will make one tack across to the other side, and then make the mouth of the creek."
They turned and walked, side by side, on the top of the sea-wall toward the rectory. Their figures must have been outlined against the sky, for any watching from the river. The girl, tall and strong, walking with the ease that comes from health and a steadfast mind; the eager, restless boy running and jumping by her side. Barebone must have seen them as soon as they saw him. They were part of Farlingford, these two. He had a sudden feeling of having been away for years, with this difference--that he came back and found nothing changed. Whereas, in reality, he who returns after a long absence usually finds no one awaiting him.
He did as Sep had foretold--crossing to the far side of the river, and then gaining the mouth of the creek in one tack. Miriam and Sep had reached the rectory garden first, and now stood waiting for him. He came on in silence. Last time--on "The Last Hope"--he had come up the river singing.
Sep waved his hand, and, in response, Barebone nodded his head, with one eye peering ahead, for the breeze was fresh.
The old chain was still there, imperfectly fastened round a tottering post at the foot of the tide-washed steps. It clinked as he made fast the boat. Miriam had not heard the sound of it since that night, long ago, when Loo had gone down the steps in the dark and cast off.
"I was given a passage home in a French fishing-boat, and borrowed their dinghy to come ashore in," said Loo, as he came up the steps. He knew that Farlingford would want some explanation, and that Sep would be proud to give it. An explanation is never the worse for a spice of truth.
"Miriam told me you were never coming home again," answered Sep, still nourishing that grievance.
"Well, she was wrong, and here I am!" was Loo's reply, with his old, ready laugh. "And here is Farlingford--unchanged, and no harm done."
"Why should there be any harm done?" was Sep's prompt question.
Barebone was shaking hands with Miriam.
"Oh, I don't know," he answered. "Because there always is harm done, I suppose."
Miriam was thinking that he had changed; that the man who had unmoored his boat at these steps six months ago had departed for ever, and that another had come back in his place. A minute later, as he turned to close the gate that shut off the rectory garden from the river-wall, chance ruled it that their eyes should meet for an instant, and she knew that he had not changed; that he might, perhaps, never change so long as he lived. She turned abruptly and led the way to the house.
Sep had a hundred questions to ask, but only a few of them were personal. Children live in a world of their own, and are not slow to invite those whom they like to come into it, while to the others, they shut the door with a greater frankness than is permissible later in life.
"Father," he explained, "has gone to see old Doy, who is dying."
"Is he still dying? He will never die, I am sure; for he has been trying to do it ever since I remember," laughed Barebone; who was interested, it seemed, in Sep's affairs, and never noticed that Miriam was walking more quickly than they were.
"And I am rather anxious about him," continued Sep, with the gravity that comes of a realised responsibility. "He moons along, you know, with his mind far away, and he doesn't know the path across the marsh a bit. He is bound to lose his way, and it is getting dark. Suppose I shall have to go and look for him."
"With a lantern," suggested Loo, darkly, without looking toward Miriam.
"Oh, yes!" replied Sep, with delight. "With a lantern, of course. Nobody but a fool would go out on to the marshes after dark without a lantern. The weed on the water makes it the same as the grass, and that old woman who was nearly drowned last winter, you know, she walked straight in, and thought it was dry land."
And Loo heard no more, for they were at the door; and Miriam, in the lighted hall, was waiting for them, with all the colour gone from her face.
"He is sure to be in in a few minutes," she said; for she had heard the end of their talk. She could scarcely have helped hearing Loo's weighty suggestion of a lantern, which had had the effect he must have anticipated. Sep was already hurriedly searching for matches. It would be difficult to dissuade him from his purpose. What boy would willingly give up the prospect of an adventure on the marsh alone, with a bull's-eye? Miriam tried, and tried in vain. She gained time, however, and was listening for Marvin's footstep on the gravel all the while.
Sep found the matches--and it chanced that there was a sufficiency of oil in his lantern. He lighted up and went away, leaving an abominable smell of untrimmed wick behind him.
It was tea-time, and, half a century ago, that meal was a matter of greater importance than it is to-day. A fire burned in the dining-room, glowing warmly on the mellow walls and gleaming furniture; but there was no lamp, nor need of one, in a room with large windows facing the sunset sky.
Miriam led the way into this room, and lifted the shining, old-fashioned kettle to the hob. She took a chair that stood near, and sat, with her shoulder turned toward him, looking into the fire.
"We will have tea as soon as they come in," she said, in that voice of camaraderie which speaks of a life-long friendship between a man and a woman--if such a friendship be possible. Is it? --who knows? "They will not be long, I am sure. You will like tea, after having been so long abroad. It is one of the charms of coming home, or one of the alleviations. I don't know which. And now, tell me all that has happened since you went away--if you care to."
| {
"id": "8942"
} |
27 | OUT OF THE MOUTHS OF BABES | Miriam's manner toward him was the same as it had always been so long as he could remember. He had once thought--indeed, he had made to her the accusation--that she was always conscious of the social gulf existing between them; that she always remembered that she was by birth and breeding a lady, whereas he was the son of an obscure Frenchman who was nothing but a clockmaker whose name could be read (and can to this day be deciphered) on a hundred timepieces in remote East Anglian farms.
Since his change of fortune he had, as all men who rise to a great height or sink to the depths will tell, noted a corresponding change in his friends. Even Captain Clubbe had altered, and the affection which peeped out at times almost against his puritanical will seemed to have suffered a chill. The men of Farlingford, and even those who had sailed in "The Last Hope" with him, seemed to hold him at a distance. They nodded to him with a brief, friendly smile, but were shy of shaking hands. The hand which they would have held out readily enough, had he needed assistance in misfortune, slunk hastily into a pocket. For he who climbs will lose more friends than the ne'er-do-well. Some may account this to human nature for righteousness and others quite the contrary: for jealousy, like love, lies hidden in unsuspected corners.
Juliette do Gemosac had been quite different to Loo since learning his story. Miriam alone remained unchanged. He had accused her of failing to rise superior to arbitrary social distinctions, and now, standing behind her in the fire-lit dining-room of the rectory, he retracted that accusation once and for all time in his own heart, though her justification came from a contrary direction to that from which it might have been expected.
Miriam alone remained a friend--and nothing else, he added, bitterly, in his own heart. And she seemed to assume that their friendship, begun in face of social distinctions, should never have to suffer from that burthen.
"I should like to hear," she repeated, seeing that he was silent, "all that has happened since you went away; all that you may care to tell me."
"My heritage, you mean?"
She moved in her seat but did not look round. She had laid aside her hat on coming into the house, and as she sat, leaning forward with her hands clasped together in her lap, gazing thoughtfully at the fire which glowed blue and white for the salt water that was in the drift-wood, her hair, loosened by the wind, half concealed her face.
"Yes," she answered, slowly.
"Do you know what it is--my heritage?" lapsing, as he often did when hurried by some pressing thought, into a colloquialism half French.
She shook her head, but made no audible reply.
"Do you suspect what it is?" he insisted.
"I may have suspected, perhaps," she admitted, after a pause.
"When? How long?"
She paused again. Quick and clever as he was, she was no less so. She weighed the question. Perhaps she found no answer to it, for she turned toward the door that stood open and looked out into the hall. The light of the lamp there fell for a moment across her face.
"I think I hear them returning," she said.
"No," he retorted, "for I should hear them before you did. I was brought up at sea. Do not answer the question, however, if you would rather not. You ask what has happened since I went away. A great many things have happened which are of no importance. Such things always happen, do they not? But one night, when we were quarrelling, Dormer Colville mentioned your name. He was very much alarmed and very angry, so he perhaps spoke the truth--by accident. He said that you had always known that I might be the King of France. Many things happened, as I tell you, which are of no importance, and which I have already forgotten, but that I remember and always shall."
"I have always known," replied Miriam, "that Mr. Dormer Colville is a liar. It is written on his face, for those who care to read."
A woman at bay is rarely merciful.
"And I thought for an instant," pursued Loo, "that such a knowledge might have been in your mind that night, the last I was here, last summer, on the river-wall. I had a vague idea that it might have influenced in some way the reply you gave me then."
He had come a step nearer and was standing over her. She could hear his hurried breathing.
"Oh, no," she replied, in a calm voice full of friendliness. "You are quite wrong. The reason I gave you still holds good, and--and always will."
In the brief silence that followed this clear statement of affairs, they both heard the rattle of the iron gate by the seawall. Sep and his father were coming. Loo turned to look toward the hall and the front door, dimly visible in the shadow of the porch. While he did so Miriam passed her hand quickly across her face. When Loo turned again and glanced down at her, her attitude was unchanged.
"Will you look at me and say that again?" he asked, slowly.
"Certainly," she replied. And she rose from her chair. She turned and faced him with the light of the hall-lamp full upon her. She was smiling and self-confident.
"I thought," he said, looking at her closely, "as I stood behind you, that there were tears in your eyes."
She went past him into the hall to meet Sep and his father, who were already on the threshold.
"It must have been the firelight," she said to Barebone as she passed him.
A minute later Septimus Marvin was shaking him by the hand with a vague and uncertain but kindly grasp.
"Sep came running to tell me that you were home again," he said, struggling out of his overcoat. "Yes--yes. Home again to the old place. And little changed, I can see. Little changed, my boy. _Tempora mutantur_, eh? and we _mutamur in illis_. But you are the same."
"Of course. Why should I change? It is too late to change for the better now."
"Never! Never say that. But we do not want you to change. We looked for you to come in a coach-and-four--did we not, Miriam? For I suppose you have secured your heritage, since you are here again. It is a great thing to possess riches--and a great responsibility. Come, let us have tea and not think of such things. Yes--yes. Let us forget that such a thing as a heritage ever came between us--eh, Miriam?"
And with a gesture of old-world politeness he stood aside for his niece to pass first into the dining-room, whither a servant had preceded them with a lamp.
"It will not be hard to do that," replied Miriam, steadily, "because he tells me that he has not yet secured it."
"All in good time--all in good time," said Marvin, with that faith in some occult power, seemingly the Government and Providence working in conjunction, to which parsons and many women confide their worldly affairs and sit with folded hands.
He asked many questions which were easy enough to answer; for he had no worldly wisdom himself, and did not look for it in other people. And then he related his own adventure--the great incident of his life--his visit to Paris.
"A matter of business," he explained. "Some duplicates--one or two of my prints which I had decided to part with. Miriam also wished me to see into some small money matters of her own. Her guardian, John Turner, you may remember, resides in Paris. A schoolfellow of my own, by the way. But our ways diverged later in life. I found him unchanged--a kind heart--always a kind heart. He attempts to conceal it, as many do, under a flippant, almost a profane, manner of speech. _Brutum fulmen. _ But I saw through it--I saw through it."
And the rector beamed on Loo through his spectacles with an innocent delight in a Christian charity which he mistook for cunning.
"You see," he went on, "we have spent a little money on the rectory. To-morrow you will see that we have made good the roof of the church. One could not ask the villagers to contribute, knowing that the children want boots and scarcely know the taste of jam. Yes, John Turner was very kind to me. He found me a buyer for one of my prints."
The rector broke off with a sharp sigh and drank his tea.
"We shall never miss it," he added, with the hopefulness of those who can blind themselves to facts. "Come, tell me your impressions of France."
"I have been there before," replied Loo, with a curtness so unusual as to make Miriam glance at him. "I have been there before, you know. It would be more interesting to hear your own impressions, which must be fresher."
Miriam knew that he did not want to speak of France, and wondered why. But Marvin, eager to talk of his favourite study, seized the suggestion in all innocence. He had gone to Paris as he had wandered through life, with the mind of a child, eager, receptive, open to impression. Such minds pass by much that is of value, but to one or two conclusions they bring a perceptive comprehension which is photographic in its accuracy.
"I have followed her history with unflagging interest since boyhood," he said, "but never until now have I understood France. I walked through the streets of Paris and I looked into the faces of the people, and I realised that the astonishing history of France is true. One can see it in those faces. The city is brilliant, beautiful, unreal. The reality is in the faces of the people. Do you remember what Wellington said of them half a century ago? 'They are ripe,' he said, 'for another Napoleon.' But he could not see that Napoleon on the political horizon. And that is what I saw in their faces. They are ripe for something--they know not what."
"Did John Turner tell you that?" asked Loo, in an eager voice. "He who has lived in Paris all his life?"
And Miriam caught the thrill of excitement in the voice that put this question. She glanced at Loo. His eyes were bright and his cheeks colourless. She knew that she was in the presence of some feeling that she did not understand. It was odd that an old scholar, knowing nothing but history, could thus stir a listener whose touch had hitherto only skimmed the surface of life.
"No," answered Marvin, with assurance. "I saw it myself in their faces. Ah! if another such as Napoleon could only arise--such as he, but different. Not an adventurer, but a King and the descendant of Kings--not allied, as Napoleon was, with a hundred other adventurers."
"Yes," said Loo, in a muffled voice, looking away toward the fire.
"A King whose wife should be a Queen," pursued the dreamer.
"Yes," said Loo again, encouragingly.
"They could save France," concluded Marvin, taking off his spectacles and polishing them with a silk handkerchief. Loo turned and looked at him, for the action so characteristic of a mere onlooker indicated that the momentary concentration of a mind so stored with knowledge that confusion reigned there was passing away.
"From what?" asked Loo. "Save France from what?"
"From inevitable disaster, my boy," replied Marvin, gravely. "That is what I saw in those gay streets."
Loo glanced at him sharply. He had himself seen the same all through those provinces which must take their cue from Paris whether they will or no.
"What a career!" murmured Marvin. "What a mission for a man to have in life--to save France! One does not like to think of the world without a France to lead it in nearly everything, or with a France, a mere ghost of her former self, exploited, depleted by another Bonaparte. And we must look in vain for that man as did the good Duke years ago."
"I should like to have a shot at it," put in Sep, who had just despatched a large piece of cake.
"Heaven forbid!" exclaimed his father, only half in jest.
"Better sit all day under the lee of a boat and make nets, like Sea Andrew," advised Loo, with a laugh.
"Do you think so?" said Miriam, without looking up.
"All the same, I'd like to have a shot at it," persisted Sep. "Pass the cake, please."
Loo had risen and was looking at the clock. His face was drawn and tired and his eyes grave.
"You will come in and see us as often as you can while you are here?" said the kindly rector, as if vaguely conscious of a change in this visitor. "You will always find a welcome whether you come in a coach-and-four or on foot--you know that."
"Thank you--yes. I know that."
The rector peered at him through his spectacles. "I hope," he said, "that you will soon be successful in getting your own. You are worried about it, I fear. The responsibilities of wealth, perhaps. And yet many rich people are able to do good in the world, and must therefore be happy."
"I do not suppose I shall ever be rich," said Loo, with a careless laugh.
"No, perhaps not. But let us hope that all will be for the best. You must not attach too much importance to what I said about France, you know. I may be wrong. Let us hope I am. For I understand that your heritage is there."
"Yes," answered Loo, who was shaking hands with Sep and Miriam, "my heritage is there."
"And you will go back to France?" inquired Marvin, holding out his hand.
"Yes," was the reply, with a side glance in the direction of Miriam. "I shall go back to France."
| {
"id": "8942"
} |
28 | BAREBONE'S PRICE | At Farlingford, forgotten of the world, events move slowly and men's minds assimilate change without shock. Old people look for death long before it arrives, so that when at last the great change comes it is effected quite calmly. There is no indecent haste, no scrambling to put a semblance of finish to the incomplete, as there is in the hurried death of cities. Young faces grow softly mellow without those lines and anxious crow's-feet that mar the features of the middle-aged, who, to earn their daily bread or to kill the tedium of their lives, find it necessary to dwell in streets.
"Loo's home again," men told each other at "The Black Sailor"; and the women, who discussed the matter in the village street, had little to add to this bare piece of news. There was nothing unusual about it. Indeed, it was customary for Farlingford men to come home again. They always returned, at last, from wide wanderings, which a limited conversational capacity seemed to deprive of all interest. Those that stayed at home learnt a few names, and that was all.
"Where are ye now from, Willum?" the newly returned sailor would be kindly asked, with the sideward jerk of the head.
"A'm now from Va'paraiso."
And that was all that there was to be said about Valparaiso and the experiences of this circumnavigator. Perhaps it was not considered good form to inquire further into that which was, after all, his own business. If you ask an East Anglian questions he will tell you nothing; if you do not inquire he will tell you less.
No one, therefore, asked Barebone any questions. More especially is it considered, in seafaring communities, impolite to make inquiry into your neighbour's misfortune. If a man have the ill luck to lose his ship, he may well go through the rest of his life without hearing the mention of her name. It was understood in Farlingford that Loo Barebone had resigned his post on "The Last Hope" in order to claim a heritage in France. He had returned home, and was living quietly at Maidens Grave Farm with Mrs. Clubbe. It was, therefore, to be presumed that he had failed in his quest. This was hardly a matter for surprise to such as had inherited from their forefathers a profound distrust in Frenchmen.
The brief February days followed each other with that monotony, marked by small events, that quickly lays the years aside. Loo lingered on, with a vague indecision in his mind which increased as the weeks passed by and the spell of the wide marsh-lands closed round his soul. He took up again those studies which the necessity of earning a living had interrupted years before, and Septimus Marvin, who had never left off seeking, opened new historical gardens to him and bade him come in and dig.
Nearly every morning Loo went to the rectory to look up an obscure reference or elucidate an uncertain period. Nearly every evening, after the rectory dinner, he returned the books he had borrowed, and lingered until past Sep's bedtime to discuss the day's reading. Septimus Marvin, with an enthusiasm which is the reward of the simple-hearted, led the way down the paths of history while Loo and Miriam followed--the man with the quick perception of his race, the woman with that instinctive and untiring search for the human motive which can put heart into a printed page of history.
Many a whole lifetime has slipped away in such occupations; for history, already inexhaustible, grows in bulk day by day. Marvin was happier than he had ever been, for a great absorption is one of Heaven's kindest gifts.
For Barebone, France and his quest there, the Marquis de Gemosac, Dormer Colville, Juliette, lapsed into a sort of dream, while Farlingford remained a quiet reality. Loo had not written to Dormer Colville. Captain Clubbe was trading between Alexandria and Bristol. "The Last Hope" was not to be expected in England before April. To communicate with Colville would be to turn that past dream, not wholly pleasant, into a grim reality. Loo therefore put off from day to day the evil moment. By nature and by training he was a man of action. He tried to persuade himself that he was made for a scholar and would be happy to pass the rest of his days in the study of that history which had occupied Septimus Marvin's thoughts during a whole lifetime.
Perhaps he was right. He might have been happy enough to pass his days thus if life were unchanging; if Septimus Marvin should never age and never die; if Miriam should be always there, with her light touch on the deeper thoughts, her half-French way of understanding the unspoken, with her steady friendship which might change, some day, into something else. This was, of course, inconsistent. Love itself is the most inconsistent of all human dreams; for it would have some things change and others remain ever as they are. Whereas nothing stays unchanged for a single day: love, least of all. For it must go forward or back.
"See!" cried Septimus Marvin, one evening, laying his hand on the open book before him. "See how strong are racial things. Here are the Bourbons for ever shutting their eyes to the obvious, for ever putting off the evil moment, for ever temporising--from father to son, father to son; generation after generation. Finally we come to Louis XVI. Read his letters to the Comte d'Artois. They are the letters of a man who knows the truth in his own heart and will not admit it even to himself."
"Yes," admitted Loo. "Yes--you are right. It is racial, one must suppose."
And he glanced at Miriam, who did not meet his eyes but looked at the open page, with a smile on her lips half sad, wholly tolerant.
Next morning, Loo thought, he would write to Dormer Colville. But the following evening came, and he had not done so. He went, as usual, to the rectory, where the same kind welcome awaited him. Miriam knew that he had not written. Like him, she knew that an end of some sort must soon come. And the end came an hour later.
Some day, Barebone knew, Dormer Colville would arrive. Every morning he half looked for him on the sea-wall, between "The Black Sailor" and the rectory garden. Any evening, he was well aware, the smiling face might greet him in the lamp-lit drawing-room.
Sep had gone to bed earlier that night. The rector was reading aloud an endless collection of letters, from which the careful student could scarcely fail to gather side-lights on history. Both Miriam and Loo heard the clang of the iron gate on the sea-wall.
A minute or two later the old dog, who lived mysteriously in the back premises, barked, and presently the servant announced that a gentleman was desirous of speaking to the rector. There were not many gentlemen within a day's walk of the rectory. Some one must have put up at "The Black Sailor." Theoretically, the rector was at the call of any of his parishioners at all moments; but in practice the people of Farlingford never sought his help.
"A gentleman," said Marvin, vaguely; "well, let him come in, Sarah."
Miriam and Barebone sat silently looking at the door. But the man who appeared there was not Dormer Colville. It was John Turner.
He evinced no surprise on seeing Barebone, but shook hands with him with a little nod of the head, which somehow indicated that they had business together.
He accepted the chair brought forward by Marvin and warmed his hands at the fire, in no hurry, it would appear, to state the reason for this unceremonious call. After all, Marvin was his oldest friend and Miriam his ward. Between old friends, explanations are often better omitted.
"It is many years," he said, at length, "since I heard their talk. They speak with their tongues and their teeth, but not their lips."
"And their throats," put in Marvin, eagerly. "That is because they are of Teuton descent. So different from the French, eh, Turner?"
Turner nodded a placid acquiescence. Then he turned, as far, it would appear, as the thickness of his neck allowed, toward Barebone.
"Saw in a French paper," he said, "that the 'Petite Jeanne' had put in to Lowestoft, to replace a dinghy lost at sea. So I put two and two together. It is my business putting two and two together, and making five of them when I can, but they generally make four. I thought I should find you here."
Loo made no answer. He had only seen John Turner once in his life--for a short hour, in a room full of people, at Royan. The banker stared straight in front of him for a few moments. Then he raised his sleepy little eyes directly to Miriam's face. He heaved a sigh, and fell to studying the burning logs again. And the colour slowly rose to Miriam's cheeks. The banker, it seemed, was about his business again, in one of those simple addition sums, which he sometimes solved correctly.
"To you," he said, after a moment's pause, with a glance in Loo's direction, "to you, it must appear that I am interfering in what is not my own business. You are wrong there."
He had clasped his hands across his abnormal waistcoat, and he half closed his eyes as he blinked at the fire.
"I am a sort of intermediary angel," he went on, "between private persons in France and their friends in England. Nothing to do with state affairs, you understand, at least, very little. Many persons in England have relations or property in France. French persons fall in love with people on this side of the Channel, and vice versa. And, sooner or later, all these persons, who are in trouble with their property or their affections, come to me, because money is invariably at the bottom of the trouble. Money is invariably at the bottom of all trouble. And I represent money."
He pursed up his lips and gazed somnolently at the fire.
"Ask anybody," he went on, dreamily, after a pause, "if that is not the bare truth. Ask Colville, ask Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence, ask Miriam Liston, sitting here beside us, if I exaggerate the importance of--of myself."
"Every one," admitted Barebone, cheerfully, "knows that you occupy a great position in Paris."
Turner glanced at him and gave a thick chuckle in his throat.
"Thank you," he said. "Very decent of you. And that point being established, I will explain further, that I am not here of my own free will. I am only an agent. No man in his senses would come to Farlingford in mid-winter unless--" he broke off, with a sharp sigh, and glanced down at Miriam's slipper resting on the fender, "unless he was much younger than I am. I came because I was paid to do it. Came to make you a proposition."
"To make me a proposition?" inquired Loo, as the identity of Turner's hearers had become involved.
"Yes. And I should recommend you to give it your gravest consideration. It is one of the most foolish propositions, from the proposer's point of view, that I have ever had to make. I should blush to make it, if it were any use blushing, but no one sees blushes on my cheeks now. Do not decide in a hurry--sleep on it. I always sleep on a question."
He closed his eyes, and seemed about to compose himself to slumber then and there.
"I am no longer young," he admitted, after a pause, "and therefore propose to take one of the few alleviations allowed to advancing years and an increasing avoirdupois. I am going to give you some advice. There is only one thing worth having in this life, and that is happiness. Even the possibility of it is worth all other possibilities put together. If a man have a chance of grasping happiness--I mean a home and the wife he wants.... and all that--he is wise to throw all other chances to the wind. Such, for instance, as the chance of greatness, of fame or wealth, of gratified vanity or satisfied ambition."
He had spoken slowly, and at last he ceased speaking, as if overcome by a growing drowsiness. A queer silence followed this singular man's words. Barebone had not resumed his seat. He was standing by the mantelpiece, as he often did, being quick and eager when interested, and not content to sit still and express himself calmly in words, but must needs emphasise his meaning by gestures and a hundred quick movements of the head.
"Go on," he said. "Let us have the proposition."
"And no more advice?"
Loo glanced at Miriam. He could see all three faces where he stood, but only by the light of the fire. Miriam was nearest to the hearth. He could see that her eyes were aglow--possibly with anger.
Barebone shrugged his shoulders.
"You are not an agent--you are an advocate," he said.
Turner raised his eyes with the patience of a slumbering animal that has been prodded.
"Yes," he said--"your advocate. There is one more chance I should advise any man to shun--to cast to the four winds, and hold on only to that tangible possibility of happiness in the present--it is the chance of enjoying, in some dim and distant future, the satisfaction of having, in a half-forgotten past, done one's duty. One's first duty is to secure, by all legitimate means, one's own happiness."
"What is the proposition?" interrupted Barebone, quickly; and Turner, beneath his heavy lids, had caught in the passing the glance from Miriam's eyes, for which possibly both he and Loo Barebone had been waiting.
"Fifty thousand pounds," replied the banker, bluntly, "in first-class English securities, in return for a written undertaking on your part to relinquish all claim to any heritage to which you may think yourself entitled in France. You will need to give your word of honour never to set foot on French soil--and that is all."
"I never, until this moment," replied Barebone, "knew the value of my own pretensions."
"Yes," said Turner, quietly; "that is the obvious retort. And having made it, you can now give a few minutes' calm reflection to my proposition--say five minutes, until that clock strikes half-past nine--and then I am ready to answer any questions you may wish to ask."
Barebone laughed good-humouredly, and so far fell in with the suggestion that he leant his elbow on the corner of the mantelpiece, and looked at the clock.
| {
"id": "8942"
} |
29 | IN THE DARK | Had John Turner been able to see round the curve of his own vast cheeks he might have perceived the answer to his proposition lurking in a little contemptuous smile at the corner of Miriam's closed lips. Loo saw it there, and turned again to the contemplation of the clock on the mantelpiece which had already given a preliminary click.
Thus they waited until the minutes should elapse, and Turner, with a smile of simple pleasure at their ready acquiescence in his suggestion, probably reflected behind his vacuous face that silence rarely implies indecision.
When at last the clock struck, Loo turned to him with a laugh and a shake of the head as if the refusal were so self-evident that to put it into words were a work of supererogation.
"Who makes the offer?" he asked.
Turner smiled on him with visible approbation as upon a quick and worthy foe who fought a capable fight with weapons above the board.
"No matter--since you are disposed to refuse. The money is in my hands, as is the offer. Both are good. Both will hold good till to-morrow morning."
Septimus Marvin gave a little exclamation of approval. He had been sitting by the table looking from one to the other over his spectacles with the eager smile of the listener who understands very little, and while wishing that he understood more, is eager to put in a word of approval or disapprobation on safe and general lines. It was quite obvious to John Turner, who had entered the room in ignorance on this point, that Marvin knew nothing of Barebone's heritage in France while Miriam knew all.
"There is one point," he said, "which is perhaps scarcely worth mentioning. The man who makes the offer is not _only the most unscrupulous_, but is likely to become one of the most powerful men in Eur--men I know. There is a reverse side to the medal. There always is a reverse side to the good things of this world. Should you refuse his ridiculously generous offer you will make an enemy for life--one who is nearing that point where men stop at nothing."
Turner glanced at Miriam again. Her clean-cut features had a stony stillness and her eyes looked obstinately at the clock. The banker moved in his chair as if suddenly conscious that it was time to go.
"Do not," he said to Barebone, "be misled or mislead yourself into a false estimate of the strength of your own case. The offer I make you does not in any way indicate that you are in a strong position. It merely shows the indolence of a man naturally open-handed, who would always rather pay than fight."
"Especially if the money is not his own."
"Yes," admitted Turner, stolidly, "that is so. Especially if the money is not his own. I dare say you know the weakness of your own case: others know it too. A portrait is not much to go on. Portraits are so easily copied; so easily changed."
He rose as he spoke and shook hands with Marvin.
Then he turned to Miriam, but he did not meet her glance. Last of all he shook hands with Barebone.
"Sleep on it," he said. "Nothing like sleeping on a question. I am staying at 'The Black Sailor.' See you tomorrow."
He had come, had transacted his business and gone, all in less than an hour, with an extraordinary leisureliness almost amounting to indolence. He had lounged into the house, and now he departed without haste or explanation. Never hurry, never explain, was the text upon which John Turner seemed to base the sleepy discourse of his life. For each of us is a living sermon to his fellows, and, it is to be feared, the majority are warnings.
Turner had dragged on his thick overcoat, not without Loo's assistance, and, with the collar turned up about his ears, he went out into the night, leaving the three persons whom he had found in the drawing-room standing in the hall looking at the door which he closed decisively behind him. "Seize your happiness while you can," he had urged. "If not--" and the decisive closing of a door on his departing heel said the rest.
The clocks struck ten. It was not worth while going back to the drawing-room. All Farlingford was abed in those days by nine o'clock. Barebone took his coat and prepared to follow Turner. Miriam was already lighting her bedroom candle. She bade the two men good night and went slowly upstairs. As she reached her own room she heard the front door closed behind Loo and the rattle of the chain under the uncertain fingers of Septimus Marvin. The sound of it was like the clink of that other chain by which Barebone had made fast his boat to the tottering post on the river-wall.
Miriam's room was at the front of the house, and its square Georgian windows faced eastward across the river to the narrow spit of marsh-land and the open sea beyond it. A crescent of moon far gone on the wane, yellow and forlorn, was rising from the sea. An uncertain path of light lay across the face of the far-off tide-way--broken by a narrow strip of darkness and renewed again close at hand across the wide river almost to the sea-wall beneath the window. From this window no house could be seen by day--nothing but a vast expanse of water and land hardly less level and unbroken. No light was visible on sea or land now, nothing but the waning moon in a cold clear sky.
Miriam threw herself, all dressed, on her bed with the abandonment of one who is worn out by some great effort, and buried her face in the pillow.
Barebone's way lay to the left along the river-wall by the side of the creek. Turner had gone to the right, taking the path that led down the river to the old quay and the village. Whereas Barebone must turn his back on Farlingford to reach the farm which still crouches behind a shelter of twisted oaks and still bears the name of Maiden's Grave; though the name is now nothing but a word. For no one knows who the maiden was, or where her grave, or what brought her to it.
The crescent moon gave little light, but Loo knew his way beneath the stunted cedars and through the barricade of ilex drawn round the rectory on the northern side. His eyes, trained to darkness, saw the shadowy form of a man awaiting him beneath the cedars almost as soon as the door was closed.
He went toward him, perceiving with a sudden misgiving that it was not John Turner. A momentary silhouette against the northern sky showed that it was Colville, come at last.
"Quick--this way!" he whispered, and taking Barebone's arm he led him through the bushes. He halted in a little open space between the ilex and the river-wall, which is fifteen feet high at the meeting of the creek and the larger stream. "There are three men, who are not Farlingford men, on the outer side of the sea-wall below the rectory landing. Turner must have placed them there. I'll be even with him yet. There is a large fishing-smack lying at anchor inside the Ness--just across the marsh. It is the 'Petite Jeanne.' I found this out while you were in there. I could hear your voices."
"Could you hear what he said?"
"No," answered Colville, with a sudden return to his old manner, easy and sympathetic. "No--this is no time for joking, I can tell you that. You have had a narrow escape, I assure you, Barebone. That man, the Captain of the 'Petite Jeanne,' is well known. There are plenty of people in France who want to get quietly rid of some family encumbrance--a man in the way, you understand, a son too many, a husband too much, a stepson who will inherit--the world is full of superfluities. Well, the Captain of the 'Petite Jeanne' will take them a voyage for their health to the Iceland fisheries. They are so far and so remote--the Iceland fisheries. The climate is bad and accidents happen. And if the 'Petite Jeanne' returns short-handed, as she often does, the other boats do the same. It is only a question of a few entries in the custom-house books at Fécamp. Do you see?"
"Yes," admitted Barebone, thoughtfully. "I see."
"I suppose it suggested itself to you when you were on board, and that is why you took the first chance of escape."
"Well, hardly; but I escaped, so it does not matter."
"No." acquiesced Colville. "It doesn't matter. But how are we to get out of this? They are waiting for us under the sea-wall. Is there a way across the marsh?"
"Yes--I know a way. But where do you want to go to-night?"
"Out of this," whispered Colville, eagerly. "Out of Farlingford and Suffolk before the morning if we can. I tell you there is a French gunboat at Harwich, and another in the North Sea. It may be chance and it may not. But I suspect there is a warrant out against you. And, failing that, there is the 'Petite Jeanne' hanging about waiting to kidnap you a second time. And Turner's at the bottom of it, damn him!"
Again Dormer Colville allowed a glimpse to appear of another man quite different from the easy, indolent man-of-the-world, the well-dressed adventurer of a day when adventure was mostly sought in drawing-rooms, when scented and curled dandies were made or marred by women. For a moment Colville was roused to anger and seemed capable of manly action. But in an instant the humour passed and he shrugged his shoulders and gave a short, indifferent laugh beneath his breath.
"Come," he said, "lead the way and I will follow. I have been out here since eight o'clock and it is deucedly cold. I followed Turner from Paris, for I knew he was on your scent. Once across the marsh we can talk without fear as we go along."
Barebone obeyed mechanically, leading the way through the bushes to the kitchen-garden and over an iron fencing on to the open marsh. This stretched inland for two miles without a hedge or other fence but the sunken dykes which intersected it across and across. Any knowing his way could save two miles on the longer way by the only road connecting Farlingford with the mainland and tapping the great road that runs north and south a few miles inland.
There was no path, for few ever passed this way. By day, a solitary shepherd watched his flocks here. By night the marsh was deserted. Across some of the dykes a plank is thrown, the whereabouts of which is indicated by a post, waist-high, driven into the ground, easily enough seen by day, but hard to find after dark. Not all the dykes have a plank, and for the most part the marsh is divided into squares, each only connected at one point with its neighbour.
Barebone knew the way as well as any in Farlingford, and he struck out across the thick grass which crunched briskly under the foot, for it was coated with rime, and the icy wind blew in from the sea a freezing mist. Once or twice Barebone, having made a bee-line across from dyke to dyke, failed to strike the exact spot where the low post indicated a plank, and had to pause and stoop down so as to find its silhouette against the sky. When they reached a plank he tried its strength with one foot and then led the way across it, turning and waiting at the far end for Colville to follow. It was unnecessary to warn him against a slip, for the plank was no more than nine inches wide and shone white with rime. Each foot must be secure before its fellow was lifted.
Colville, always ready to fall in with a companion's humour, ever quick to understand the thoughts of others, respected his silence. Perhaps he was not far from guessing the cause of it.
Loo was surprised to find that Dormer Colville was less antipathetic than he had anticipated. For the last month, night and day, he had dreaded Colville's arrival, and now that he was here he was almost glad to see him; almost glad to quit Farlingford. And his heart was hot with anger against Miriam.
Turner's offer had at all events been worth considering. Had he been alone when it was made he would certainly have considered it; he would have turned it this way and that. He would have liked to play with it as a cat plays with a mouse, knowing all the while that he must refuse in the end. Perhaps Turner had made the offer in Miriam's presence, expecting to find in her a powerful ally. It was only natural for him to think this. Ever since the beginning, men have assigned to women the rôle of the dissuader, the drag, the hinderer. It is always the woman, tradition tells us, who persuades the man to be a coward, to stay at home, to shirk a difficult or a dangerous duty.
As a matter of fact, Turner had made this mistake. He had always wondered why Miriam Liston elected to live at Farlingford when with her wealth and connections, both in England and France, she might live a gayer life elsewhere. There must, he reflected, be some reason for it.
When whosoever does anything slightly unconventional or leaves undone what custom and gossip make almost obligatory, a relation or a mere interfering neighbour is always at hand to wag her head and say there must be some reason for it. Which means, of course, one specific reason. And the worst of it is that she is nearly always right.
John Turner, laboriously putting two small numerals together, after his manner, had concluded that Loo Barebone was the reason. Even banking may, it seems, be carried on without the loss of all human weakness, especially if the banker be of middle age, unmarried, and deprived by an unromantic superfluity of adipose tissue of the possibility of living through a romance of his own. Turner had consented to countenance, if not actually to take part in, a nefarious scheme, to rid France and the present government of one who might easily bring about its downfall, on certain conditions. Knowing quite well that Loo Barebone could take care of himself at sea, and was quite capable of effecting an escape if he desired it, he had put no obstacle in the way of the usual voyage to the Iceland fisheries. Since those days many governments in France have invented many new methods of disposing of a political foe. Dormer Colville was only anticipating events when he took away the character of the Captain of the "Petite Jeanne."
Turner had himself proposed this alternative method of securing Barebone's silence. He had even named the sum. He had seized the excellent opportunity of laying it before Barebone in the quiet intimacy of the rectory drawing-room with Miriam in the soft lamp-light beside him, with the scent of the violets at her breast mingling with the warm smell of the wood fire.
And Barebone had laughed at the offer.
| {
"id": "8942"
} |
30 | IN THE FURROW AGAIN | Turner, stumbling along the road to "The Black Sailor," probably wondered why he had failed. It is to be presumed that he knew that the ally he had looked to for powerful aid had played him false at the crucial moment.
His misfortune is common to all men who presume to take anything for granted from a woman.
Barebone, stumbling along in the dark in another direction, was as angry with Miriam as she in her turn was angry with Turner. She was, Barebone reflected, so uncompromising. She saw her course so clearly, so unmistakably--as birds that fly in the night--and from that course nothing, it seemed, would move her. It was a question of temperament and not of principle. For, even half a century ago, high principles were beginning to go out of fashion in the upper strata of a society which in these days tolerates anything except cheating at games.
Barebone himself was of a different temperament. He liked to blind himself to the inevitable end, to temporise with the truth, whereas Miriam, with a sort of dogged courage essentially English, perceived the hard truth at once and clung to it, though it hurt. And all the while Barebone knew at the back of his heart that his life was not his own to shape. At the end, says an Italian motto, stands Destiny. Barebone wanted to make believe; he wanted to pretend that his path lay down a flowery way, knowing all the while that he had a hill to climb and Destiny stood at the top.
Colville had come at the right time. It is the fate of some men to come at the right moment, just as it is the lot of others never to be there when they are wanted and their place is filled by a bystander and an opportunity is gone for ever. Which is always a serious matter, for God only gives one or two opportunities to each of us.
Colville had come with his ready sympathy, not expressed as the world expresses its sympathy, in words, but by a hundred little self-abnegations. He was always ready to act up to the principles of his companion for the moment or to act up to no principles at all should that companion be deficient. Moreover, he never took it upon himself to judge others, but extended to his neighbour a large tolerance, in return for which he seemed to ask nothing.
"I have a carriage," he said, when on a broader cart-track they could walk side by side, "waiting for me at the roadside inn at the junction of the two roads. The man brought me from Ipswich to the outskirts of Farlingford, and I sent him back to the high road to wait for me there, to put up and stay all night, if necessary."
Barebone was beginning to feel tired. The wind was abominably cold. He heard with satisfaction that Colville had as usual foreseen his wishes.
"I dogged Turner all the way from Paris, hardly letting him out of my sight," Colville explained, cheerily, when they at length reached the road. "It is easy enough to keep in touch with one so remarkably stout, for every one remembers him. What did he come to Farlingford for?"
"Apparently to try and buy me off."
"For Louis Bonaparte?"
"He did not say so," "No," said Colville. "He would not say so. But it is pretty generally suspected that he is in that galley, and pulls an important oar in it, too. What did he offer you?"
"Fifty thousand pounds."
"Whew!" whistled Colville. He stopped short in the middle of the road. "Whew!" he repeated, thoughtfully, "fifty thousand pounds! Gad! They must be afraid of you. They must think that we are in a strong position. And what did you say, Barebone?"
"I refused."
"Why?"
Barebone paused, and after a moment's thought made no answer at all. He could not explain to Dormer Colville his reason for refusing.
"Outright?" inquired Colville, deep in thought.
"Yes."
Colville turned and glanced at him sideways, though it was too dark to see his face.
"I should have thought," he said, tentatively, after a while, "that it would have been wise to accept. A bird in the hand, you know--a damned big bird! And then afterwards you could see what turned up."
"You mean I could break my word later on," inquired Barebone, with that odd downrightness which at times surprised Colville and made him think of Captain Clubbe.
"Well, you know," he explained, with a tolerant laugh, "in politics it often turns out that a man's duty is to break his word--duty toward his party, and his country, and that sort of thing."
Which was plausible enough, as many eminent politicians seem to have found in these later times.
"I dare say it may be so," answered Barebone, "but I refused outright, and there is an end to it."
For now that he was brought face to face with the situation, shorn of side issues and set squarely before him, he envisaged it clearly enough. He did not want fifty thousand pounds. He had only wanted the money for a moment because the thought leapt into his mind that fifty thousand pounds meant Miriam. Then he saw that little contemptuous smile tilting the corner of her lips, and he had no use for a million.
If he could not have Miriam, he would be King of France. It is thus that history is made, for those who make it are only men. And Clio, that greatest of the daughters of Zeus, about whose feet cluster all the famous names of the makers of this world's story, has, after all, only had the reversion of the earth's great men. She has taken them after some forgotten woman of their own choosing has had the first refusal.
Thus it came about that the friendship so nearly severed one evening at the Hotel Gemosac, in Paris, was renewed after a few months; and Barebone felt assured once more that no one was so well disposed toward him as Dormer Colville.
There was no formal reconciliation, and neither deemed it necessary to refer to the past. Colville, it will be remembered, was an adept at that graceful tactfulness which is somewhat clumsily described by this tolerant generation as going on as if nothing had happened.
By the time that the waning moon was high enough in the eastern sky to shed an appreciable light upon their path, they reached the junction of the two roads and set off at a brisk pace southward toward Ipswich. So far as the eye could reach, the wide heath was deserted, and they talked at their ease.
"There is nothing for it but to wake up my driver and make him take us back to Ipswich to-night. To-morrow morning we can take train to London and be there almost as soon as John Turner realises that you have given him the slip," said Colville, cheerily.
"And then?"
"And then back to France--where the sun shines, my friend, and the spring is already in the air. Think of that! It is so, at least, at Gemosac, for I heard from the Marquis before I quitted Paris. Your disappearance has nearly broken a heart or two down there, I can tell you. The old Marquis was in a great state of anxiety. I have never seen him so upset about anything, and Juliette did not seem to be able to offer him any consolation."
"Back to France?" echoed Barebone, not without a tone of relief, almost of exultation, in his voice. "Will it be possible to go back there, since we have to run away from Farlingford?"
"Safer there than here," replied Colville. "It may sound odd, but it is true. De Gemosac is one of the most powerful men in France--not intellectually, perhaps, but by reason of his great name--and they would not dare to touch a protégé or a guest of his. If you go back there now you must stay at Gemosac; they have put the château into a more habitable condition, and are ready to receive you."
He turned and glanced at Loo's face in the moonlight.
"There will be a difference, you understand. You will be a different person from what you were when last there," he went on, in a muffled voice.
"Yes, I understand," replied Barebone, gravely. Already the dream was taking shape--Colville's persuasive voice had awakened him to find that it was no dream, but a reality--and Farlingford was fading back into the land of shadows. It was only France, after all, that was real.
"That journey of ours," explained Colville, vaguely, "has made an extraordinary difference. The whole party is aroused and in deadly earnest now."
Barebone made no answer, and they walked on in meditative silence toward the roadside inn, which stood up against the southern sky a few hundred yards ahead.
"In fact," Colville added, after a silence, "the ball is at your feet, Barebone. There can be no looking back now."
And again Barebone made no answer. It was a tacit understanding, then.
For greater secrecy, Barebone walked on toward Ipswich alone, while Colville went into the inn to arouse his driver, whom he found slumbering in the wide chimney corner before a log fire. From Ipswich to London, and thus on to Newhaven, they journeyed pleasantly enough in company, for they were old companions of the road, and Colville's unruffled good humour made him an easy comrade for travel even in days when the idea of comfort reconciled with speed had not suggested itself to the mind of man.
Such, indeed, was his foresight that he had brought with him to London, and there left awaiting further need of it, that personal baggage which Loo had perforce left behind him at the Hotel Gemosac in Paris.
They made but a brief halt in London, where Colville admitted gaily that he had no desire to be seen.
"I might meet my tailor in Piccadilly," he said. "And there are others who may perhaps consider themselves aggrieved."
At Colville's club, where they dined, he met more than one friend.
"Hallo!" said one who had the ruddy countenance and bluff manners of a retired major. "Hallo! Who'd have expected to see you here? I didn't know--I--thought--eh! dammy!"
And a hundred facetious questions gleamed from the major's eye.
"All right, my boy," answered Colville, cheerfully. "I am off to France to-morrow morning."
The Major shook his head wisely as if in approval of a course of conduct savouring of that prudence which is the better part of valour, glanced at Loo Barebone, and waited in vain for an invitation to take a vacant chair near at hand.
"Still in the south of France, I suppose?"
"Still in the south of France," replied Colville, turning to Barebone in a final way, which had the effect of dismissing this inquisitive idler.
While they were at dinner another came. He was a raw-boned Scotchman, who spoke in broken English when the waiter was absent and in perfect French when that servitor hovered near.
"I wish I could show my face in Paris," he said, frankly, "but I can't. Too much mixed up with Louis Philippe to find favour in the eyes of the Prince President."
"Why?" asked Colville. "What could you gain by showing in Paris a face which I am sure has the stamp of innocence all over it?"
The Scotchman laughed curtly.
"Gain?" he answered. "Gain? I don't say I would, but I think I might be able to turn an honest penny out of the approaching events."
"What events?"
"The Lord alone knows," replied the Scotchman, who had never set foot in his country, but had acquired elsewhere the prudent habit of never answering a question. "France doesn't, I am sure of that. I am thinking there will be events, though, before long, Colville. Will there not, now?"
Colville looked at him with an open smile.
"You mean," he said, slowly, "the Prince President."
"That is what he calls himself at present. I'm wondering how long. Eh! man. He is just pouring money into the country from here, from America, from Austria--from wherever he can get it."
"Why is he doing that?"
"You must ask somebody who knows him better than I do. They say you knew him yourself once well enough, eh?"
"He is not a man I have much faith in," said Colville, vaguely. "And France has no faith in him at all."
"So I'm told. But France--well, does France know what she wants? She mostly wants something without knowing what it is. She is like a woman. It's excitement she wants, perhaps. And she will buy it at any cost, and then find afterward she has paid too dear for it. That is like a woman, too. But it isn't another Bonaparte she wants, I am sure of that."
"So am I," answered Colville, with a side glance toward Barebone, a mere flicker of the eyelids.
"Not unless it is a Napoleon of that ilk."
"And he is not," completed Colville.
"But--" the Scotchman paused, for a waiter came at this moment to tell him that his dinner was ready at a table nearer to the fire. "But," he went on, in French, for the waiter lingered, "but he might be able to persuade France that it is himself she wants--might he not, now? With money at the back of it, eh?"
"He might," admitted Colville, doubtfully. The Scotchman moved away, but came back again.
"I am thinking," he said, with a grim smile, "that like all intelligent people who know France, you are aware that it is a King she wants."
"But not an Orleans King," replied Colville, with his friendly and indifferent laugh.
The Scotchman smiled more grimly still and went away.
He was seated too near for Colville and Loo to talk of him. But Colville took an opportunity to mention his name in an undertone. It was a name known all over Europe then, and forgotten now.
| {
"id": "8942"
} |
31 | THE THURSDAY OF MADAME DE CHANTONNAY | "It is," Madame de Chantonnay had maintained throughout the months of January and February--"it is an affair of the heart."
She continued to hold this opinion with, however, a shade less conviction, well into a cold March.
"It is an affair of the heart, Abbé," she said. " _Allez_! I know what I talk of. It is an affair of the heart and nothing more. There is some one in England: some blonde English girl. They are always washing, I am told. And certainly they have that air--like a garment that has been too often to the _blanchisseuse_ and has lost its substance. A beautiful skin, I allow you. But so thin--so thin."
"The skin, madame?" inquired the Abbé Touvent, with that gentle and cackling humour in which the ordained of any Church may indulge after a good dinner.
The Abbé Touvent had, as a matter of fact, been Madame de Chantonnay's most patient listener through the months of suspense that followed Loo Barebone's sudden disappearance. Needless to say he agreed ardently with whatever explanation she put forward. Old ladies who give good dinners to a Low Church British curate, or an abbé of the Roman confession, or, indeed, to the needy celibate exponents of any creed whatsoever, may always count upon the active conversational support of their spiritual adviser. And it is not only within the fold of Papacy that careful Christians find the road to heaven made smooth by the arts of an efficient cook.
"You know well enough what I mean, malicious one," retorted the lady, arranging her shawl upon her fat shoulders.
"I always think," murmured the Abbé, sipping his digestive glass of eau-de-vie d'Armagnac, which is better than any cognac of Charente--"I always think that to be thin shows a mean mind, lacking generosity."
"Take my word for it," pursued Madame de Chantonnay, warming to her subject, "that is the explanation of the young man's disappearance. They say the government has taken some underhand way of putting him aside. One does not give credence to such rumours in these orderly times. No: it is simply that he prefers the pale eyes of some Mees to glory and France. Has it not happened before, Abbé?"
"Ah! Madame--" another sip of Armagnac.
"And will it not happen again? It is the heart that has the first word and the last. I know--I who address you, I know!"
And she touched her breast where, very deeply seated it is to be presumed, she kept her own heart.
"Ah! Madame. Who better?" murmured the Abbé.
"Na, na!" exclaimed Madame de Chantonnay, holding up one hand, heavy with rings, while with the other she gathered her shawl closer about her as if for protection.
"Now you tread on dangerous ground, wicked one--_wicked_! And you so demure in your soutane!"
But the Abbé only laughed and held up his small glass after the manner of any abandoned layman drinking a toast.
"Madame," he said, "I drink to the hearts you have broken. And now I go to arrange the card tables, for your guests will soon be coming."
It was, in fact, Madame de Chantonnay's Thursday evening to which were bidden such friends as enjoyed for the moment her fickle good graces. The Abbé Touvent was, so to speak, a permanent subscriber to these favours. The task was easy enough, and any endowed with a patience to listen, a readiness to admire that excellent young nobleman, Albert de Chantonnay, and the credulity necessary to listen to the record (more hinted at than clearly spoken) of Madame's own charms in her youth, could make sure of a game of dominoes on the evening of the third Thursday in the month.
The Abbé bustled about, drawing cards and tables nearer to the lamps, away from the draught of the door, not too near the open wood fire. His movements were dainty, like those of an old maid of the last generation. He hissed through his teeth as if he were working very hard. It served to stimulate a healthy excitement in the Thursday evening of Madame de Chantonnay.
"Oh, I am not uneasy," said that lady, as she watched him. She had dined well and her digestion had outlived those charms to which she made such frequent reference. "I am not uneasy. He will return, more or less sheepish. He will make some excuse more or less inadequate. He will tell us a story more or less creditable. _Allez_! Oh, you men. If you intend that chair for Monsieur de Gemosac, it is the wrong one. Monsieur de Gemosac sits high, but his legs are short; give him the little chair that creaks. If he sits too high he is apt to see over the top of one's cards. And he is so eager to win--the good Marquis."
"Then he will come to-night despite the cold? You think he will come, Madame?"
"I am sure of it. He has come more frequently since Juliette came to live at the château. It is Juliette who makes him come, perhaps. Who knows?"
The Abbé stopped midway across the floor and set down the chair he carried with great caution.
"Madame is incorrigible," he said, spreading out his hands. "Madame would perceive a romance in a cradle."
"Well, one must begin somewhere, Materialist. Once it was for me that the guests crowded to my poor Thursdays. But now it is because Albert is near. Ah! I know it. I say it without jealousy. Have you noticed, my dear Abbé, that he has cut his whiskers a little shorter--a shade nearer to the ear? It is effective, eh?"
"It gives an air of hardihood," assented the Abbé. "It lends to that intellectual face something martial. I would almost say that to the timorous it might appear terrible and overbearing."
Thus they talked until the guests began to arrive, and for Madame de Chantonnay the time no doubt seemed short enough. For no one appreciated Albert with such a delicacy of touch as the Abbé Touvent.
The Marquis de Gemosac and Juliette were the last to arrive. The Marquis looked worn and considerably aged. He excused himself with a hundred gestures of despair for being late.
"I have so much to do," he whispered. "So much to think of. We are leaving no stone unturned, and at last we have a clue."
The other guests gathered round.
"But speak, my dear friend, speak," cried Madame de Chantonnay. "You keep us in suspense. Look around you. We are among friends, as you see. It is only ourselves."
"Well," replied the Marquis, standing upright and fingering the snuff-box which had been given to his grandfather by the Great Louis. "Well, my friends, our invaluable ally, Dormer Colville, has gone to England. There is a ray of hope. That is all I can tell you."
He looked round, smiled on his audience, and then proceeded to tell them more, after the manner of any Frenchman.
"What," he whispered, "if an unscrupulous republican government had got scent of our glorious discovery! What if, panic-stricken, they threw all vestige of honour to the wind and decided to kidnap an innocent man and send him to the Iceland fisheries, where so many lives are lost every winter; with what hopes in their republican hearts, I leave to your imagination. What if--let us say it for once--Monsieur de Bourbon should prove a match for them? Alert, hardy, full of resource, a skilled sailor, he takes his life in his hand with the daring audacity of royal blood and effects his escape to England. I tell you nothing--" He held up his hands as if to stay their clamouring voices, and nodded his head triumphantly toward Albert de Chantonnay, who stood near a lamp fingering his martial whisker of the left side with the air of one who would pause at naught.
"I tell you nothing. But such a theory has been pieced together upon excellent material. It may be true. It may be a dream. And, as I tell you, our dear friend Dormer Colville, who has nothing at stake, who loses or gains little by the restoration of France, has journeyed to England for us. None could execute the commission so capably, or without danger of arousing suspicion. There! I have told you all I know. We must wait, my compatriots. We must wait."
"And in the mean time," purred the voice of the Abbé Touvent, "for the digestion, Monsieur le Marquis--for the digestion."
For it was one of the features of Madame de Chantonnay's Thursdays that no servants were allowed in the room; but the guests waited on each other. If the servants, as is to be presumed, listened outside the door, they were particular not to introduce each succeeding guest without first knocking, which caused a momentary silence and added considerably to the sense of political importance of those assembled. The Abbé Touvent made it his special care to preside over the table where small glasses of eau-de-vie d'Armagnac and other aids to digestion were set out in a careful profusion.
"It is a theory, my dear Marquis," admitted Madame de Chantonnay. "But it is nothing more. It has no heart in it, your theory. Now I have a theory of my own."
"Full of heart, one may assure oneself, Madame; full of heart," murmured the Marquis. "For you yourself are full of heart--is it not so?"
"I hope not," Juliette whispered to her fan, with a little smile of malicious amusement. For she had a youthful contempt for persons old and stout, who talk ignorantly of matters only understood by such as are young and slim and pretty. She looked at her fan with a gleam of ill-concealed irony and glanced over it toward Albert de Chantonnay, who, with a consideration which must have been hereditary, was uneasy about the alteration he had made in his whiskers. It was perhaps unfair, he felt, to harrow young and tender hearts.
It was at this moment that a loud knock commanded a breathless silence, for no more guests were expected. Indeed the whole neighbourhood was present.
The servant, in his faded gold lace, came in and announced with a dramatic assurance: "Monsieur de Barebone--Monsieur Colville."
And that difference which Dormer Colville had predicted was manifested with an astounding promptness; for all who were seated rose to their feet. It was Colville who had given the names to the servant in the order in which they had been announced, and at the last minute, on the threshold, he had stepped on one side and with his hand on Barebone's shoulder had forced him to take precedence.
The first person Barebone saw on entering the room was Juliette, standing under the spreading arms of a chandelier, half turned to look at him--Juliette, in all the freshness of her girlhood and her first evening dress, flushing pink and white like a wild rose, her eyes, bright with a sudden excitement, seeking his.
Behind her, the Marquis de Gemosac, Albert de Chantonnay, his mother, and all the Royalists of the province, gathered in a semicircle, by accident or some tacit instinct, leaving only the girl standing out in front, beneath the chandelier. They bowed with that grave self-possession which falls like a cloak over the shoulders of such as are of ancient and historic lineage.
"We reached the château of Gemosac only a few minutes after Monsieur le Marquis and Mademoiselle had quitted it to come here," Barebone explained to Madame de Chantonnay; "and trusting to the good-nature--so widely famed--of Madame la Comtesse, we hurriedly removed the dust of travel, and took the liberty of following them hither."
"You have not taken me by surprise," replied Madame de Chantonnay. "I expected you. Ask the Abbé Touvent. He will tell you, gentlemen, that I expected you."
As Barebone turned away to speak to the Marquis and others, who were pressing forward to greet him, it became apparent that that mantle of imperturbability, which millions made in trade can never buy, had fallen upon his shoulders, too. For most men are, in the end, forced to play the part the world assigns to them. We are not allowed to remain what we know ourselves to be, but must, at last, be that which the world thinks us.
Madame de Chantonnay, murmuring to a neighbour a mystic reference to her heart and its voluminous premonitions, watched him depart with a vague surprise. " _Mon Dieu! mon Dieu_!" she whispered, breathlessly. "It is not a resemblance. It is the dead come to life again."
| {
"id": "8942"
} |
32 | PRIMROSES | "If I go on, I go alone," Barebone had once said to Dormer Colville. The words, spoken in the heat of a quarrel, stuck in the memory of both, as such are wont to do. Perhaps, in moments of anger or disillusionment--when we find that neither self nor friend is what we thought--the heart tears itself away from the grip of the cooler, calmer brain and speaks untrammelled. And such speeches are apt to linger in the mind long after the most brilliant jeu d'esprit has been forgotten.
What occupies the thoughts of the old man, sitting out the grey remainder of the day, over the embers of a hearth which he will only quit when he quits the world? Does he remember the brilliant sallies of wit, the greatest triumphs of the noblest minds with which he has consorted; or does his memory cling to some scene--simple, pastoral, without incident--which passed before his eyes at a moment when his heart was sore or glad? When his mind is resting from its labours and the sound of the grinding is low, he will scarce remember the neat saying or the lofty thought clothed in perfect language; but he will never forget a hasty word spoken in an unguarded moment by one who was not clever at all, nor even possessed the worldly wisdom to shield the heart behind the buckler of the brain.
"You will find things changed," Colville had said, as they walked across the marsh from Farlingford, toward the Ipswich road. And the words came back to the minds of both, on that Thursday of Madame de Chantonnay, which many remember to this day. Not only did they find things changed, but themselves they found no longer the same. Both remembered the quarrel, and the outcome of it.
Colville, ever tolerant, always leaning toward the compromise that eases a doubting conscience, had, it would almost seem unconsciously, prepared the way for a reconciliation before there was any question of a difference. On their way back to France, without directly referring to that fatal portrait and the revelation caused by Barebone's unaccountable feat of memory, he had smoothed away any possible scruple.
"France must always be deceived," he had said, a hundred times. "Better that she should be deceived for an honest than a dishonest purpose--if it is deception, after all, which is very doubtful. The best patriot is he who is ready to save his country at the cost of his own ease, whether of body or of mind. It does not matter who or what you are; it is what or who the world thinks you to be, that is of importance."
Which of us has not listened to a score of such arguments, not always from the lips of a friend, but most often in that still, small voice which rarely has the courage to stand out against the tendency of the age? There is nothing so contagious as laxity of conscience.
Barebone listened to the good-natured, sympathetic voice with a make-believe conviction which was part of his readiness to put off an evil moment. Colville was a difficult man to quarrel with. It seemed bearish and ill-natured to take amiss any word or action which could only be the outcome of a singularly tender consideration for the feelings of others.
But when they entered Madame de Chantonnay's drawing-room--when Dormer, impelled by some instinct of the fitness of things, stepped aside and motioned to his companion to pass in first--the secret they had in common yawned suddenly like a gulf between them. For the possession of a secret either estranges or draws together. More commonly, it estranges. For which of us is careful of a secret that redounds to our credit? Nearly every secret is a hidden disgrace; and such a possession, held in common with another, is not likely to insure affection.
Colville lingered on the threshold, watching Loo make the first steps of that progress which must henceforth be pursued alone. He looked round for a friendly face, but no one had eyes for him. They were all looking at Loo Barebone. Colville sought Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence, usually in full evidence, even in a room full of beautiful women and distinguished men. But she was not there. For a minute or two no one noticed him; and then Albert de Chantonnay, remembering his rôle, came forward to greet the Englishman.
"It was," explained Colville, in a lowered voice, "as we thought. An attempt was made to get him out of the way, but he effected his escape. He knew, however, the danger of attempting to communicate with any of us by post, and was awaiting some opportunity of transmitting a letter by a safe hand, when I discovered his hiding-place."
And this was the story that went half round France, from lip to lip, among those who were faithful to the traditions of a glorious past.
"Madame St. Pierre Lawrence," Albert de Chantonnay told Colville, in reply, "is not here to-night. She is, however, at her villa, at Royan. She has not, perhaps, displayed such interest in our meetings as she did before you departed on your long journey through France. But her generosity is unchanged. The money, which, in the hurry of the moment, you did not withdraw from her bank--" "I doubt whether it was ever there," interrupted Colville.
"She informs me," concluded Albert, "is still at our service. We have many other promises, which must now be recalled to the minds of those who made them. But from no one have we received such generous support as from your kinswoman."
They were standing apart, and in a few minutes the Marquis de Gemosac joined them.
"How daring! how audacious!" he whispered, "and yet how opportune--this return. It is all to be recommenced, my friends, with a firmer grasp, a new courage."
"But my task is accomplished," returned Colville. "You have no further use for a mere Englishman, like myself. I was fortunate in being able to lend some slight assistance in the original discovery of our friend; I have again been lucky enough to restore him to you. And now, with your permission, I will return to Royan, where I have my little apartment, as you know."
He looked from one to the other, with his melancholy and self-deprecating smile. " _Voila_" he added; "it remains for me to pay my respects to Madame de Chantonnay. We have travelled far, and I am tired. I shall ask her to excuse me."
"And Monsieur de Bourbon comes to Gemosac. That is understood. He will be safe there. His apartments have been in readiness for him these last two months. Hidden there, or in other dwellings--grander and better served, perhaps, than my poor ruin, but no safer--he can continue the great work he began so well last winter. As for you, my dear Colville," continued the Marquis, taking the Englishman's two hands in his, "I envy you from the bottom of my heart. It is not given to many to serve France as you have served her--to serve a King as you have served one. It will be my business to see that both remember you. For France, I allow, sometimes forgets. Go to Royan, since you wish--but it is only for a time. You will be called to Paris some day, that I promise you."
The Marquis would have embraced him then and there, had the cool-blooded Englishman shown the smallest desire for that honour. But Dormer Colville's sad and doubting smile held at arms' length one who was always at the mercy of his own eloquence.
The card tables had lost their attraction; and, although many parties were formed, and the cards were dealt, the players fell to talking across the ungathered tricks, and even the Abbé Touvent was caught tripping in the matter of a point.
"Never," exclaimed Madame de Chantonnay, as her guests took leave at their wonted hour, and some of them even later--"never have I had a Thursday so dull and yet so full of incident."
"And never, madame," replied the Marquis, still on tiptoe, as it were, with delight and excitement, "shall we see another like it."
Loo went back to Gemosac with the fluttering old man and Juliette. Juliette, indeed, was in no flutter, but had carried herself through the excitement of her first evening party with a demure little air of self-possession.
She had scarce spoken to Loo during the evening. Indeed, it had been his duty to attend on Madame de Chantonnay and on the older members of these quiet Royalist families biding their time in the remote country villages of Guienne and the Vendée.
On the journey home, the Marquis had so much to tell his companion, and told it so hurriedly, that his was the only voice heard above the rattle of the heavy, old-fashioned carriage. But Barebone was aware of Juliette's presence in a dark corner of the roomy vehicle, and his eyes, seeking to penetrate the gloom, could just distinguish hers, which seemed to be turned in his direction.
Many changes had been effected at the chateâu, and a suite of rooms had been prepared for Barebone in the detached building known as the Italian house, which stands in the midst of the garden within the enceinte of the château walls.
"I have been able," explained the Marquis, frankly, "to obtain a small advance on the results of last autumn's vintage. My notary in the village found, indeed, that facilities were greater than he had anticipated. With this sum, I have been enabled to effect some necessary repairs to the buildings and the internal decorations. I had fallen behind the times, perhaps. But now that Juliette is installed as châtelaine, many changes have been effected. You will see, my dear friend; you will see for yourself. Yes, for the moment, I am no longer a pauper. As you yourself will have noticed, in your journey through the west, rural France is enjoying a sudden return of prosperity. It is unaccountable. No one can make me believe that it is to be ascribed to this scandalous Government, under which we agonise. But there it is--and we must thank Heaven for it."
Which was only the truth. For France was at this time entering upon a period of plenty. The air was full of rumours of new railways, new roads, and new commercial enterprise. Banks were being opened in the provincial towns, and loans made on easy terms to agriculturists for the improvement of their land.
Barebone found that there were indeed changes in the old château. The apartments above that which had once been the stabling, hitherto occupied by the Marquis, had been added to and a slight attempt at redecoration had been made. There was no lack of rooms, and Juliette now had her own suite, while the Marquis lived, as hitherto, in three small apartments over the rooms occupied by Marie and her husband.
An elderly relation--one of those old ladies habited in black, who are ready to efface themselves all day and occupy a garret all night in return for bed and board, had been added to the family. She contributed a silent and mysterious presence, some worldly wisdom, and a profound respect for her noble kinsman.
"She is quite harmless," Juliette explained, gaily, to Barebone, on the first occasion when they were alone together. This did not present itself until Loo had been quartered in the Italian house for some days, with his own servant. Although he took luncheon and dinner with the family in the old building near to the gate-house, and spent his evenings in Juliette's drawing-room, the Marquis or Madame Maugiron was always present, and as often as not, they played a game of chess together.
"She is quite harmless," said Juliette, tying, with a thread, the primroses she had been picking in that shady corner of the garden which lay at the other side of the Italian house. The windows of Barebone's apartment, by the way, looked down upon this garden, and he, having perceived her, had not wasted time in joining her in the morning sunshine.
"I wonder if I shall be as harmless when I am her age."
And, indeed, danger lurked beneath her lashes as she glanced at him, asking this question with her lips and a hundred others with her eyes, with her gay air of youth and happiness--with her very attitude of coquetry, as she stood in the spring sunshine, with the scent of the primroses about her.
"I think that any one who approaches you will always do so at his peril, Mademoiselle."
"Then why do it?" she asked, drawing back and busying herself with the flowers, which she laid against her breast, as if to judge the effect of their colour against the delicate white of her dress. "Why run into danger? Why come downstairs at all?"
"Why breathe?" he retorted, with a laugh. "Why eat, or drink, or sleep? Why live? _Mon Dieu! _ because there is no choice. And when I see you in the garden, there is no choice for me, Mademoiselle. I must come down and run into danger, because I cannot help it any more than I can help--" "But you need not stay," she interrupted, cleverly. "A brave man may always retire from danger into safety."
"But he may not always want to, Mademoiselle."
"Ah!"
And, with a shrug of the shoulders, she inserted the primroses within a very small waistband and turned away.
"Will you give me those primroses, Mademoiselle?" asked Loo, without moving; for, although she had turned to go, she had not gone.
She turned on her heel and looked at him, with demure surprise, and then bent her head to look at the flowers at her own waist.
"They are mine," she answered, standing in that pretty attitude, her hair half concealing her face. "I picked them myself."
"Two reasons why I want them."
"Ah! but," she said, with a suggestion of thoughtfulness, "one does not always get what one wants. You ask a great deal, Monsieur."
"There is no limit to what I would ask, Mademoiselle."
She laughed gaily.
"If--" she inquired, with raised eyebrows.
"If I dared."
Again she looked at him with that little air of surprise.
"But I thought you were so brave?" she said. "So reckless of danger? A brave man assuredly does not ask. He takes that which he would have."
It happened that she had clasped her hands behind her back, leaving the primroses at her waist uncovered and half falling from the ribbon.
In a moment he had reached out his hand and taken them. She leapt back, as if she feared that he might take more, and ran back toward the house, placing a rough, tangle of brier between herself and this robber. Her laughing face looked at him through the brier.
"You have your primroses," she said, "but I did not give them to you. You want too much, I think."
"I want what that ribbon binds," he answered. But she turned away and ran toward the house, without waiting to hear.
| {
"id": "8942"
} |
33 | DORMER COLVILLE IS BLIND | It was late when Dormer Colville reached the quiet sea-coast village of Royan on the evening of his return to the west. He did not seek Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence until the luncheon hour next morning, when he was informed that she was away from home.
"Madame has gone to Paris," the man said, who, with his wife, was left in charge of the empty house. "It was a sudden resolution, one must conclude," he added, darkly, "but Madame took no one into her confidence. She received news by post, which must have brought about this sudden decision."
Colville was intimately acquainted with his cousin's affairs; many hazarded an opinion that, without the help of Madame St. Pierre Lawrence, this rolling stone would have been bare enough. She had gone to Paris for one of two reasons, he concluded. Either she had expected him to return thither from London, and had gone to meet him with the intention of coming to some arrangement as to the disposal of the vast sum of money now in Turner's hands awaiting further developments, or some hitch had occurred with respect to John Turner himself.
Dormer Colville returned, thoughtfully, to his lodging, and in the evening set out for Paris.
He himself had not seen Turner since that morning in the banker's office in the Rue Lafayette, when they had parted so unceremoniously, in a somewhat heated spirit. But, on reflection, Colville, who had sought to reassure himself with regard to one whose name stood for the incarnation of gastronomy and mental density in the Anglo-French clubs of Paris, had come to the conclusion that nothing was to be gained by forcing a quarrel upon Turner. It was impossible to bring home to him an accusation of complicity in an outrage which had been carried through with remarkable skill. And when it is impossible to force home an accusation, a wise man will hold his tongue.
Colville could not prove that Turner had known Barebone to be in the carriage waiting in the courtyard, and his own action in the matter had been limited to the interposition of his own clumsy person between Colville and the window; which might, after all, have been due to stupidity. This, as a matter of fact, was Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence's theory on the subject. For that lady, resting cheerfully on the firm basis of a self-confidence which the possession of money nearly always confers on women, had laughed at Turner all her life, and now proposed to continue that course of treatment.
"Take my word," she had assured Colville, "he was only acting in his usual dense way, and probably thinks now that you are subject to brief fits of mental aberration. I am not afraid of him or anything that he can do. Leave him to me, and devote all your attention to finding Loo Barebone again."
Upon which advice Colville had been content to act. He had a faith in Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence's wit which was almost as great as her own; and thought, perhaps rightly enough, that if any one were a match for John Turner it was his sprightly and capable client. For there are two ways of getting on in this world: one is to get credit for being cleverer than you are, and the other to be cleverer than your neighbour suspects. But the latter plan is seldom followed, for the satisfaction it provides must necessarily be shared with no confidant.
Colville knew where to look for Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence in Paris, where she always took an apartment in a quiet and old-fashioned hotel rejoicing in a select Royalist clientèle on the Place Vendôme. On arriving at the capital, he hurried thither, and was told that the lady he sought had gone out a few minutes earlier. "But Madame's maid," the porter added, "is no doubt within."
Colville was conducted to Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence's room, and was hardly there before the lady's French maid came hurrying in with upraised hands.
"A just Heaven has assuredly sent Monsieur at this moment!" she exclaimed. "Madame only quitted this room ten minutes ago, and she was agitated--she, who is usually so calm. She would tell me nothing; but I know--I, who have done Madame's hair these ten years! And there is only one thing that could cause her anxiety--except, of course, any mishap to Monsieur; that would touch the heart--yes!"
"You are very kind, Catherine," said Colville, with a laugh, "to think me so important. Is that letter for me?" And he pointed to a note in the woman's hand.
"But--yes!" was the reply, and she gave up the letter, somewhat reluctantly. "There is only one thing, and that is money," she concluded, watching him tear open the envelope.
"I am going to John Turner's office," Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence wrote. "If, by some lucky chance, you should pass through Paris, and happen to call this morning, follow me to the Rue Lafayette. M. St. P. L." It was plain enough. Colville reflected that Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence had heard of the success of his mission to England and the safe return to Gemosac of Loo Barebone. For the moment, he could not think how the news could have reached her. She might have heard it from Miriam Liston; for their journey hack to Gemosac had occupied nearly a week. On learning the good news, Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence had promptly grasped the situation; for she was very quick in thought and deed. The money would be wanted at once. She had gone to Turner's office to withdraw it in person.
Dormer Colville bought a flower in a shop in the Rue de la Paix, and had it affixed to his buttonhole by the handmaid of Flora, who made it her business to linger over the office with a gentle familiarity no doubt pleasing enough to the majority of her clients.
Colville was absent-minded as he drove, in a hired carriage, to the Rue Lafayette. He was wondering whether Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence's maid had any grounds for stating that a mishap to him would touch her mistress's heart. He was a man of unbounded enterprise; but, like many who are gamblers at heart, he was superstitious. He had never dared to try his luck with Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence. She was so hard, so worldly, so infinitely capable of managing her own affairs and regulating her own life, that to offer her his hand and heart in exchange for her fortune had hitherto been dismissed from his mind as a last expedient, only to be faced when ruin awaited him.
She had only been a widow three years. She had never been a sentimental woman, and now her liberty and her wealth were obviously so dear to her that, in common sense, he could scarcely, with any prospect of success, ask her outright to part with them. Moreover, Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence knew all about Dormer Colville, as men say. Which is only a saying; for no human being knows all about another human being, nor one-half, nor one-tenth of what there is to know. Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence knew enough, at all events, Colville reflected, rather ruefully, to disillusionise a schoolgirl, much more a woman of the world, knowing good and evil.
He had not lived forty years in the world, and twenty years in that world of French culture which digs and digs into human nature, without having heard philosophers opine that, in matters of the heart, women have no illusions at all, and that it is only men who go blindfold into the tortuous ways of love. But he was too practical a man to build up a false hope on so frail a basis as a theory applied to a woman's heart.
He bought a flower for his buttonhole then, and squared his shoulders, without any definite design. It was a mere habit--the habit acquired by twenty years of unsuccessful enterprise, and renewed effort and deferred hope--of leaving no stone unturned.
His cab wheeled into the Rue Lafayette, and the man drove more slowly, reading the numbers on the houses. Then he stopped altogether, and turned round in his seat.
"Citizen," he said, "there is a great crowd at the house you named. It extends half across the street. I will go no further. It is not I who care about publicity."
Colville stood up and looked in the direction indicated by his driver's whip. The man had scarcely exaggerated. A number of people were waiting their turn on the pavement and out into the roadway, while two gendarmes held the door. Dormer Colville paid his cabman and walked into that crowd, with a sinking heart.
"It is the great English banker," explained an on-looker, even before he was asked, "who has failed."
Colville had never found any difficulty in making his way through a crowd--a useful accomplishment in Paris at all times, where government is conducted, thrones are raised and toppled over, provinces are won and lost again, by the mob. He had that air of distinction which, if wielded good-naturedly, is the surest passport in any concourse. Some, no doubt, recognised him as an Englishman. One after another made way for him. Persons unknown to him commanded others to step aside and let him pass; for the busybody we have always with us.
In a few minutes he was at the top of the stairs, and there elbowed his way into the office, where the five clerks sat bent up over their ledgers. The space on the hither side of the counter was crammed with men, who whispered impatiently together. If any one raised his voice, the clerk whose business it was lifted his head and looked at the speaker with a mute surprise.
One after another these white-faced applicants leant over the counter. " _Voyons_, Monsieur!" they urged; "tell me this or inform me of that."
But the clerk only smiled and shook his head.
"Patience, Monsieur," he answered. "I cannot tell you yet. We are awaiting advices from London."
"But when will you receive them?" inquired several, at once.
"It may be to-morrow. It may not be for several days."
"But can one see Mr. Turner?" inquired one, more daring than the rest.
"He is engaged."
Colville caught the eye of the clerk, and by a gesture made it known that he must be allowed to pass on into the inner room. Once more his air of the great world, his good clothes, his flower in the buttonhole, gave him the advantage over others; and the clerk got down from his stool.
"Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence is with him, I know," whispered Colville. "I come by appointment to meet her here."
He was shown in without further trouble, and found Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence sitting, white-faced and voluble, in the visitors' chair.
John Turner had his usual air of dense placidity, but the narrow black tie he always tied in a bow was inclined slightly to one side; his hair was ruffled, and, although the weather was not warm, his face wore a shiny look. Any banker, with his clients clamouring on the stairs and out into the street, might look as John Turner looked.
"You have heard the news?" asked Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence, turning sharply in her chair and looking at Colville with an expression of sudden relief. She carried a handkerchief in her hand, but her eyes were dry. She was, after all, only a forerunner of those who now propose to manage human affairs. And even in these later days of their great advance, they have not left their pocket-handkerchiefs behind them.
"I was told by one of the crowd," replied Colville, with a side smile full of sympathy for Turner, "that the--er--bank had come to grief."
"Was just telling Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence," said Turner, imperturbably, "that it is too early in the day to throw up the sponge and cry out that all is lost."
"All!" echoed Colville, angrily. "But do you mean to say--Why, surely, there is generally something left."
Turner shrugged his shoulders and sat in silence, gnawing the middle joint of his thumb.
"But I must have the money!" cried Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence. "It is most important, and I must have it at once. I withdraw it all. See, I brought my cheque-book with me. And I know that there are over a hundred thousand pounds in my account. As well as that, you hold securities for two hundred and fifty thousand more--my whole fortune. The money is not yours: it is mine. I draw it all out, and I insist on having it."
Turner continued to bite his thumb, and glanced at her without speaking.
"Now, damn it all, Turner!" said Colville, in a voice suddenly hoarse; "hand it over, man."
"I tell you it is gone," was the answer.
"What? Three hundred and fifty thousand pounds? Then you are a rogue! You are a fraudulent trustee! I always thought you were a damned scoundrel, Turner, and now I know it. I'll get you to the galleys for the rest of your life, I promise you that."
"You will gain nothing by that," returned the banker, staring at the date-card in front of him. "And you will lose any chance there is of recovering something from the wreck. Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence had better take the advice of her lawyer--in preference to yours."
"Then I am ruined!" said that lady, rising, with an air of resolution. She was brave, at all events.
"At the present moment, it looks like it," admitted Turner, without meeting her eye.
"What am I to do?" murmured Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence, looking helplessly round the room and finally at the banker's stolid face.
"Like the rest of us, I suppose," he admitted. "Begin the world afresh. Perhaps your friends will come forward."
And he looked calmly toward Colville. Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence's face suddenly flushed, and she turned away toward the door. Turner rose, laboriously, and opened it.
"There is another staircase through this side door," he said, opening a second door, which had the appearance of a cupboard. "You can avoid the crowd."
They passed out together, and Turner, having closed the door behind them, crossed the room to where a small mirror was suspended. He set his tie straight and smoothed his hair, and then returned to his chair, with a vague smile on his face.
Colville took the vacant seat in Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence's brougham. She still held a handkerchief in her hand.
"I do not mind for myself," she exclaimed, suddenly, when the carriage moved out of the court-yard. "It is only for your sake, Dormer."
She turned and glanced at him with eyes that shone, but not with tears.
"Oh! Don't you understand?" she asked, in a whisper. "Don't you see, Dormer?"
"A way out of it?" he answered, hurriedly, almost interrupting her. He withdrew his hand, upon which she had laid her own; withdrew it sympathetically, almost tenderly. "See a way out of it?" he repeated, in a reflective and business-like voice. "No, I am afraid, for the moment, I don't."
He sat stroking his moustache, looking out of the window, while she looked out of the other, resolutely blinking back her tears. They drove back to her hotel without speaking.
| {
"id": "8942"
} |
34 | A SORDID MATTER | "_Bon Dieu! _ my old friend, what do you expect?" replied Madame de Chantonnay to a rather incoherent statement made to her one May afternoon by the Marquis de Gemosac. "It is the month of May," she further explained, indicating with a gesture of her dimpled hand the roses abloom all around them. For the Marquis had found her in a chair beneath the mulberry-tree in the old garden of that house near Gemosac which looks across the river toward the sea. "It is the month of May. One is young. Such things have happened since the world began. They will happen until it ends, Marquis. It happened in our own time, if I remember correctly."
And Madame de Chantonnay heaved a prodigious sigh, in memory of the days that were no more.
"Given a young man of enterprise and not bad looking, I allow. He has the grand air and his face is not without distinction. Given a young girl, fresh as a flower, young, innocent, not without feeling. Ah! I know, for I was like that myself. Place them in a garden, in the springtime. What will they talk of--politics? Ah--bah! Let them have long evenings together while their elders play chess or a hand at bézique. What game will they play? A much older game than chess or bézique, I fancy."
"But the circumstances were so exceptional," protested the Marquis, who had a pleased air, as if his anger were not without an antidote.
"Circumstances may be exceptional, my friend, but Love is a Rule. You allow him to stay six weeks in the château, seeing Juliette daily, and then you are surprised that one fine morning Monsieur de Bourbon comes to you and tells you brusquely, as you report it, that he wants to marry your daughter."
"Yes," admitted the Marquis. "He was what you may describe as brusque. It is the English way, perhaps, of treating such matters. Now, for myself I should have been warmer, I think. I should have allowed myself a little play, as it were. One says a few pretty things--is it not so? One suggests that the lady is an angel and oneself entirely unworthy of a happiness which is only to be compared with the happiness that is promised to us in the hereafter. It is an occasion upon which to be eloquent."
"Not for the English," corrected Madame de Chantonnay, holding up a hand to emphasise her opinion. "And you must remember, that although our friend is French, he has been brought up in that cold country--by a minister of their frozen religion, I understand. I, who speak to you, know what they are, for once I had an Englishman in love with me. It was in Paris, when Louis XVIII was King. And did this Englishman tell me that he was heart-broken, I ask you? Never! On the contrary, he appeared to be of an indifference only to be compared with the indifference of a tree. He seemed to avoid me rather than seek my society. Once, he made believe to forget that he had been presented to me. A ruse--a mere ruse to conceal his passion. But I knew, I knew always."
"And what was the poor man's fate? What was his name, Comtesse?"
"I forget, my friend. For the moment I have forgotten it. But tell me more about Monsieur de Bourbon and Juliette. He is passionately in love with her, of course; he is so miserable."
The Marquis reflected for a few moments.
"Well," he said, at last, "he may be so; he may be so, Comtesse."
"And you--what did you say?"
The Marquis looked carefully round before replying. Then he leant forward with his forefinger raised delicately to the tip of his nose.
"I temporised, Comtesse," he said, in a low voice. "I explained as gracefully as one could that it was too early to think of such a development--that I was taken by surprise."
"Which could hardly have been true," put in Madame de Chantonnay in an audible aside to the mulberry-tree, "for neither Guienne nor la Vendée will be taken by surprise."
"I said, in other words--a good many words, the more the better, for one must be polite--'Secure your throne, Monsieur, and you shall marry Juliette.' But it is not a position into which one hurries the last of the house of Gemosac--to be the wife of an unsuccessful claimant, eh?"
Madame de Chantonnay approved in one gesture of her stout hand of these principles and of the Marquis de Gemosac's masterly demonstration of them.
"And Monsieur de Bourbon--did he accept these conditions?"
"He seemed to, Madame. He seemed content to do so," replied the Marquis, tapping his snuff-box and avoiding the lady's eye.
"And Juliette?" inquired Madame, with a sidelong glance.
"Oh, Juliette is sensible," replied the fond father. "My daughter is, I hope, sensible, Comtesse."
"Give yourself no uneasiness, my old friend," said Madame de Chantonnay, heartily. "She is charming."
Madame sat back in her chair and fanned herself thoughtfully. It was the fashion of that day to carry a fan and wield it with grace and effect. To fan oneself did not mean that the heat was oppressive, any more than the use of incorrect English signifies to-day ill-breeding or a lack of education. Both are an indication of a laudable desire to be unmistakably in the movement of one's day.
Over her fan Madame cast a sidelong glance at the Marquis, whom she, like many of his friends, suspected of being much less simple and spontaneous than he appeared.
"Then they are not formally affianced?" she suggested. " _Mon Dieu! _ no. I clearly indicated that there were other things to be thought of at the present time. A very arduous task lies before him, but he is equal to it, I am certain. My conviction as to that grows as one knows him better."
"But you are not prepared to allow the young people to force you to take a leap in the dark," suggested Madame de Chantonnay. "And that poor Juliette must consume her soul in patience; but she is sensible, as you justly say. Yes, my dear Marquis, she is charming."
They were thus engaged in facile talk when Albert de Chantonnay emerged from the long window of his study, a room opening on to a moss-grown terrace, where this plotter walked to and fro like another Richelieu and brooded over nation-shaking schemes.
He carried a letter in his hand and wore an air of genuine perturbment. But even in his agitation he looked carefully round before he spoke.
"Here," he said to the Marquis and his fond mother, who watched him with complacency--"here I have a letter from Dormer Colville. It is necessarily couched in very cautious language. He probably knows, as I know, that any letter addressed to me is liable to be opened. I have reason to believe that some of my letters have not only been opened, but that copies of them are actually in the possession of that man--the head of that which is called the Government."
He turned and looked darkly into a neighbouring clump of rhododendrons, as if Louis Napoleon were perhaps lurking there. But he was nevertheless quite right in his suspicions, which were verified twenty years later, along with much duplicity which none had suspected.
"Nevertheless," he went on, "I know what Colville seeks to convey to us, and is now hurrying away from Paris to confirm to us by word of mouth. The bank of John Turner in the Rue Lafayette has failed, and with it goes all the fortune of Madame St. Pierre Lawrence."
Both his hearers exclaimed aloud, and Madame de Chantonnay showed signs of a desire to swoon; but as no one took any notice, she changed her mind.
"It is a ruse to gain time," explained Albert, brushing the thin end of his moustache upward with a gesture of resolution. "Just as the other was a ruse to gain time. It is at present a race between two resolute parties. The party which is ready first and declares itself will be the victor. For to-day our poor France is in the gutter: she is in the hands of the canaille, and the canaille will accept the first who places himself upon an elevation and scatters gold. What care they--King or Emperor, Emperor or King! It is the same to them so long as they have a change of some sort and see, or think they see, gain to themselves to be snatched from it."
From which it will be seen that Albert de Chantonnay knew his countrymen.
"But," protested Madame de Chantonnay, who had a Frenchwoman's inimitable quickness to grasp a situation--"the Government could scarcely cause a bank to fail--such an old-established bank as Turner's, which has existed since the day of Louis XIV--in order to gain time."
"An unscrupulous Government can do anything in France," replied the lady's son. "Their existence depends upon delay, and they are aware of it. They would ruin France rather than forego their own aggrandisement. And this is part of their scheme. They seek to delay us at all costs. To kidnap de Bourbon was the first move. It failed. This is their second move. What must be our counter-move?"
He clasped his hands behind his willowy back and paced slowly backward and forward. By a gesture, Madame de Chantonnay bade the Marquis keep silence while she drew his attention to the attitude of her son. When he paused and fingered his whisker she gasped excitedly.
"I have it," said Albert, with an upward glance of inspiration.
"Yes, my son?"
"The Beauvoir estate," replied Albert, "left to me by my uncle. It is worth three hundred thousand francs. That is enough for the moment. That must be our counter-move."
Madame de Chantonnay protested volubly. For if Frenchmen are ready to sacrifice, or, at all events, to risk all for a sentiment--and history says nothing to the contrary--Frenchwomen are eminently practical and far-sighted.
Madame had a hundred reasons why the Beauvoir estate should not be sold. Many of them contradicted each other. She was not what may be called a close reasoner, but she was roughly effective. Many a general has won a victory not by the accuracy, but by the volume of his fire.
"What will become of France," she cried to Albert's retreating back as he walked to and fro, "if none of the old families has a son to bless itself with? And Heaven knows that there are few enough remaining now. Besides, you will want to marry some day, and what will your bride say when you have no money? There are no _dots_ growing in the hedgerows now. Not that I am a stickler for a _dot_. Give me heart, I always say, and keep the money yourself. And some day you will find a loving heart, but no _dot_. And there is a tragedy at once--ready made. Is it not so, my old friend?"
She turned to the Marquis de Gemosac for confirmation of this forecast.
"It is a danger, Madame," was the reply. "It is a danger which it would be well to foresee."
They had discussed a hundred times the possibility of a romantic marriage between their two houses. Juliette and Albert--the two last representatives of an old nobility long-famed in the annals of the west--might well fall in love with each other. It would be charming, Madame thought; but, alas! Albert would be wise to look for a _dot_.
The Marquis paused. Again he temporised. For he could not all in an instant decide which side of this question to take. He looked at Albert, frail, romantic; an ideal representative of that old nobility of France which was never practical, and elected to go to the guillotine rather than seek to cultivate that modern virtue.
"At the same time, Madame, it is well to remember that a loan offered now may reasonably be expected to bring such a return in the future as will provide _dots_ for the de Chantonnays to the end of time."
Madame was about to make a spirited reply; she might even have suggested that the Beauvoir estate would be better apportioned to Albert's wife than to Juliette as the wife of another, but Albert himself stopped in front of them and swept away all argument by a passionate gesture of his small, white hand.
"It is concluded," he said. "I sell the Beauvoir estate! Have not the Chantonnays proved a hundred times that they are equal to any sacrifice for the sake of France?"
| {
"id": "8942"
} |
35 | A SQUARE MAN | All through the summer of 1851--a year to be marked for all time in the minds of historians, not in red, but in black letters--the war of politics tossed France hither and thither.
There were, at this time, five parties contending for mastery. Should one of these appear for the moment to be about to make itself secure in power, the other four would at once unite to tear the common adversary from his unstable position. Of these parties, only two were of real cohesion: the Legitimists and the Bonapartists. The Socialists, the Moderate Republicans, and the Orleanists were too closely allied in the past to be friendly in the present. Socialists are noisy, but rarely clever. A man who in France describes himself as Moderate must not expect to be popular for any length of time. The Orleanists were only just out of office. It was scarcely a year since Louis Philippe had died in exile at Claremont--only three years since he signed his abdication and hurried across to Newhaven. It was not the turn of the Orleanists.
There is no quarrel so deadly as a family quarrel; no fall so sudden as that of a house divided against itself. All through the spring and summer of 1851 France exhibited herself in the eyes of the world a laughing-stock to her enemies, a thing of pity to those who loved that great country.
The Republic of 1848 was already a house divided against itself.
Its President, Louis Bonaparte, had been elected for four years. He was, as the law then stood, not eligible again until after the lapse of another four years. His party tried to abrogate this law, and failed. "No matter," they said, "we shall elect him again, and President he shall be, despite the law."
This was only one of a hundred such clouds, no bigger than a man's hand, arising at this time on the political horizon. For France was beginning to wander down that primrose path where a law is only a law so long as it is convenient.
There was one man, Louis Bonaparte, who kept his head when others lost that invaluable adjunct; who pushed on doggedly to a set purpose; whose task was hard even in France, and would have been impossible in any other country. For it is only in France that ridicule does not kill. And twice within the last fifteen years--once at Strasbourg, once at Boulogne--he had made the world hold its sides at the mention of his name, greeting with the laughter which is imbittered by scorn, a failure damned by ridicule.
It has been said that Louis Bonaparte never gave serious thought to the Legitimist party. He had inherited, it would seem, that invaluable knowledge of men by which his uncle had risen to the greatest throne of modern times. He knew that a party is never for a moment equal to a Man. And the Legitimists had no man. They had only the Comte de Chambord.
At Frohsdorff they still clung to their hopes, with that old-world belief in the ultimate revival of a dead régime which was eminently characteristic. And at Frohsdorff there died, in the October of this year, the Duchess of Angoulême, Marie Therese Charlotte, daughter of Marie Antoinette, who had despised her two uncles, Louis XVIII and Charles X, for the concessions they had made--who was more Royalist than the King. She was the last of her generation, the last of her family, and with her died a part of the greatness of France, almost all the dignity of royalty, and the last master-mind of the Bourbon race.
If, as Albert de Chantonny stated, the failure of Turner's bank was nothing but a ruse to gain time, it had the desired effect. For a space, nothing could be undertaken, and the Marquis de Gemosac and his friends were hindered from continuing the work they had so successfully begun.
All through the summer Loo Barebone remained in France, at Gemosac as much as anywhere. The Marquis de Gemosac himself went to Frohsdorff.
"If she had been ten years younger," he said, on his return, "I could have persuaded her to receive you. She has money. All the influence is hers. It is she who has had the last word in all our affairs since the death of the Due de Berri. But she is old--she is broken. I think she is dying, my friend."
It was the time of the vintage again. Barebone remembered the last vintage, and his journey through those provinces that supply all the world with wine, with Dormer Colville for a companion. Since then he had journeyed alone. He had made a hundred new friends, had been welcomed in a hundred historic houses. Wherever he had passed, he had left enthusiasm behind him--and he knew it.
He had grown accustomed to his own power, and yet its renewed evidence was a surprise to him every day. There was something unreal in it. There is always something unreal in fame, and great men know in their own hearts that they are not great. It is only the world that thinks them so. When they are alone--in a room by themselves--they feel for a moment their own smallness. But the door opens, and in an instant they arise and play their part mechanically.
This had come to be Barebone's daily task. It was so easy to make his way in this world, which threw its doors open to him, greeted him with outstretched hands, and only asked him to charm them by being himself. He had not even to make an effort to appear to be that which he was not. He had only to be himself, and they were satisfied.
Part of his rôle was Juliette de Gemosac. He found it quite easy to make love to her; and she, it seemed, desired nothing better. Nothing definite had been said by the Marquis de Gemosac. They were not formally affianced. They were not forbidden to see each other. But the irregularity of these proceedings lent a certain spice of surreptitiousness to their intercourse which was not without its charm. They did not see so much of each other after Loo had spoken to the Marquis de Gemosac on this subject; for Barebone had to make visits to other parts of France. Once or twice Juliette herself went to stay with relatives. During these absences they did not write to each other.
It was, in fact, impossible for Barebone to keep up any correspondence whatever. He heard that Dormer Colville was still in Paris, seeking to snatch something from the wreck of Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence's fortune. The Marquis de Gemosac had been told that affairs might yet be arranged. He was no financier, however, he admitted; he did not understand such matters, and all that he knew was that the promised help from the Englishwoman was not forthcoming.
"It is," he concluded, "a question of looking elsewhere. It is not only that we want money. It is that we must have it at once."
It was not, strictly speaking, Loo's part to think of or to administer the money. His was the part to be played by Kings--so easy, if the gift is there, so impossible to acquire if it be lacking--to know many people and to charm them all.
Thus the summer ripened into autumn. It had been another great vintage in the south, and Bordeaux was more than usually busy when Barebone arrived there, at daybreak, one morning in November, having posted from Toulouse. He was more daring in winter, and went fearlessly through the streets. In cold weather it is so much easier for a man to conceal his identity; for a woman to hide her beauty, if she wish to--which is a large If. Barebone could wear a fur collar and turn it up round that tell-tale chin, which made the passer-by pause and turn to look at him again if it was visible.
He breakfasted at the old-fashioned inn in the heart of the town, where to this day the diligences deposit their passengers, and then he made his way to the quay, from whence he would take passage down the river. It was a cold morning, and there are few colder cities, south of Paris, than Bordeaux. Barebone hurried, his breath frozen on the fur of his collar. Suddenly he stopped. His new self--that phantom second-nature bred of custom--vanished in the twinkling of an eye, and left him plain Loo Barebone, of Farlingford, staring across the green water toward "The Last Hope," deep-laden, anchored in mid-stream.
Seeing him stop, a boatman ran toward him from a neighbouring flight of steps.
"An English ship, monsieur," he said; "just come in. Her anchors are hardly home. Does monsieur wish to go on board?"
"Of course I do, comrade--as quick as you like," he answered, with a gay laugh. It was odd that the sight of this structure, made of human hands, should change him in a flash of thought, should make his heart leap in his breast.
In a few minutes he was seated in the wherry, half way out across the stream. Already a face was looking over the bulwarks. The hands were on the forecastle, still busy clearing decks after the confusion of letting go anchor and hauling in the jib-boom.
Barebone could see them leave off work and turn to look at him. One or two raised a hand in salutation and then turned again to their task. Already the mate--a Farlingford man, who had succeeded Loo--was standing on the rail fingering a coil of rope.
"Old man is down below," he said, giving Barebone a hand. From the forecastle came sundry grunts, and half a dozen heads were jerked sideways at him.
Captain Clubbe was in the cabin, where the remains of breakfast had been pushed to one end of the table to make room for pens and ink. The Captain was laboriously filling in the countless documents required by the French custom-house. He looked up, pen in hand, and all the wrinkles, graven by years of hardship and trouble, were swept away like writing from a slate.
He laid aside his pen and held his hand out across the table.
"Had your breakfast?" he asked, curtly, with a glance at the empty coffee-pot.
Loo laughed as he sat down. It was all so familiar--the disorder of the cabin; the smell of lamp-oil; the low song of the wind through the rigging, that came humming in at the doorway, which was never closed, night or day, unless the seas were washing to and fro on the main deck. He knew everything so well; the very pen and the rarely used ink-pot; the Captain's attitude, and the British care that he took not to speak with his lips that which was in his heart.
"Well," said Captain Clubbe, taking up his pen again, "how are you getting on?"
"With what?"
"With the business that brought you to this country," answered Clubbe, with a sudden gruffness; for he was, like the majority of big men, shy.
Barebone looked at him across the table.
"Do you know what the business is that brought me to this country?" he asked. And Captain Clubbe looked thoughtfully at the point of his pen.
"Did the Marquis de Gemosac and Dormer Colville tell you everything, or only a little?"
"I don't suppose they told me everything," was the reply. "Why should they? I am only a seafaring man."
"But they told you enough," persisted Barebone, "for you to draw your own conclusions as to my business over here."
"Yes," answered Clubbe, with a glance across the table. "Is it going badly?"
"No. On the contrary, it is going splendidly," answered Barebone, gaily; and Captain Clubbe ducked his head down again over the papers of the French custom-house. "It is going splendidly, but--" He paused. Half an hour ago he had no thought in his mind of Captain Clubbe or of Farlingford. He had come on board merely to greet his old friends, to hear some news of home, to take up for a moment that old self of bygone days and drop it again. And now, in half a dozen questions and answers, whither was he drifting? Captain Clubbe filled in a word, slowly and very legibly.
"But I am not the man, you know," said Barebone, slowly. It was as if the sight of that just man had bidden him cry out the truth. "I am not the man they think me. My father was not the son of Louis XVI, I know that now. I did not know it at first, but I know it now. And I have been going on with the thing, all the same."
Clubbe sat back in his chair. He was large and ponderous in body. And the habit of the body at length becomes the nature of the mind.
"Who has been telling you that?" he asked.
"Dormer Colville. He told me one thing first and then the other. Only he and you and I know of it."
"Then he must have told one lie," said Clubbe, reflectively. "One that we know of. And what he says is of no value either way; for he doesn't know. No one knows. Your father was a friend of mine, man and boy, and he didn't know. He was not the same as other men; I know that--but nothing more."
"Then, if you were me, you would give yourself the benefit of the doubt?" asked Barebone, with a rather reckless laugh. "For the sake of others--for the sake of France?"
"Not I," replied Clubbe, bluntly.
"But it is practically impossible to go back now," explained Loo. "It would be the ruin of all my friends, the downfall of France. In my position, what would you do?"
"I don't understand your position," replied Clubbe. "I don't understand politics; I am only a seafaring man. But there is only one thing to do--the square thing."
"But," protested Dormer Colville's pupil, "I cannot throw over my friends. I cannot abandon France now."
"The square thing," repeated the sailor, stubbornly. "The square thing; and damn your friends--damn France!"
He rose as he spoke, for they had both heard the customs officers come on board; and these functionaries were now bowing at the cabin-door.
| {
"id": "8942"
} |
36 | MRS. ST. PIERRE LAWRENCE DOES NOT UNDERSTAND | It was early in November that the report took wing in Paris that John Turner's bank was, after all, going to weather the storm. Dormer Colville was among the first to hear this news, and strangely enough he did not at once impart it to Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence.
All through the year, John Turner had kept his client supplied with ready money. He had, moreover, made no change in his own mode of living. Which things are a mystery to all who have no money of their own nor the good fortune to handle other people's. There is no doubt some explanation of the fact that bankers and other financiers seem to fail, and even become bankrupt, without tangible effect upon their daily comfort, but the unfinancial cannot expect to understand it.
There had, as a matter of fact, been no question of discomfort for Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence either.
"Can I spend as much as I like?" she had asked Turner, and his reply had been in the affirmative.
"No use in saving?"
"None whatever," he replied. To which Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence made answer that she did not understand things at all.
"It is no use collecting straws against a flood," the banker answered, sleepily.
There was, of course, no question now of supplying the necessary funds to the Marquis de Gemosac and Albert de Chantonnay, who, it was understood, were raising the money, not without difficulty, elsewhere. Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence had indeed heard little or nothing of her Royalist friends in the west. Human nature is the same, it would appear, all the world over, but the upper crust is always the hardest.
When Colville was informed of the rumour, he remembered that he had never quarrelled with John Turner. He had, of course, said some hard things in the heat of the moment, but Turner had not retorted. There was no quarrel. Colville, therefore, took an early opportunity of lunching at the club then reputed to have the best chef in Paris. He went late and found that the majority of members had finished déjeuner and were taking coffee in one or other of the smoking-rooms.
After a quick and simple meal, Colville lighted a cigarette and went upstairs. There were two or three small rooms where members smoked or played cards or read the newspapers, and in the quietest of these John Turner was alone, asleep. Colville walked backward into the room, talking loudly as he did so with a friend in the passage. When well over the threshold he turned. John Turner, whose slumbers had been rudely disturbed, was sitting up rubbing his eyes. The surprise was of course mutual, and for a moment there was an awkward pause; then, with a smile of frank good-fellowship, Colville advanced, holding out his hand.
"I hope we have known each other too many years, old fellow," he said, "to bear any lasting ill-will for words spoken in the heat of anger or disappointment, eh?"
He stood in front of the banker frankly holding out the hand of forgiveness, his head a little on one side, that melancholy smile of toleration for poor human weakness in his eyes.
"Well," admitted Turner, "we've certainly known each other a good many years."
He somewhat laboriously hoisted himself up, his head emerging from his tumbled collar like the head of a tortoise aroused from sleep, and gave into Colville's affectionate grasp a limp and nerveless hand.
"No one could feel for you more sincerely than I do," Colville assured him, drawing forward a chair,--"more than I have done all through these trying months."
"Very kind, I'm sure," murmured Turner, looking drowsily at his friend's necktie. One must look somewhere, and Turner always gazed at the necktie of any one who sat straight in front of him, which usually induced an uneasy fingering of that ornament and an early consultation of the nearest mirror. "Have a cigar."
There was the faint suggestion of a twinkle beneath the banker's heavy lids as Colville accepted this peace-offering. It was barely twenty-four hours since he had himself launched in Colville's direction the rumour which had brought about this reconciliation.
"And I'm sure," continued the other, turning to cut the end of the cigar, "that no one would be better pleased to hear that better times are coming--eh? What did you say?"
"Nothing. Didn't speak," was the reply to this vague interrogation. Then they talked of other things. There was no lack of topics for conversation at this time in France; indeed, the whole country was in a buzz of talk. But Turner was not, it seemed, in a talkative mood. Only once did he rouse himself to take more than a passing interest in the subject touched upon by his easy-going companion.
"Yes," he admitted, "he may be the best cook in Paris, but he is not what he was. It is this Revision of the Constitution which is upsetting the whole country, especially the lower classes. The man's hand is shaky. I can see it from his way of pouring the mayonnaise over a salad."
After touching upon each fresh topic, Colville seemed to return unconsciously to that which must of necessity be foremost in his companion's thoughts--the possibility of saving Turner's bank from failure. And each time he learnt a little more. At last, with that sympathetic spontaneity which was his chief charm, Dormer Colville laid his hand confidentially on Turner's sleeve.
"Frankly, old fellow," he said, "are you going to pull it through?"
"Frankly, old fellow, I am," was the reply, which made Colville glance hastily at the clock.
"Gad!" he exclaimed, "look at the time. You have kept me gossiping the whole afternoon. Must be off. Nobody will be better pleased than I am to hear the good news. But of course I am mum. Not a word will they hear from me. I _am_ glad. Good-bye."
"I dare say you are," murmured Turner to the closed door.
Dormer Colville was that which is known as an opportunist. It was a dull grey afternoon. He would be sure to find Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence at home. She had taken an apartment in the Rue de Lille in the St. Germain quarter. His way was past the flower-shop, where he sometimes bestowed a fickle custom. He went in and bought a carnation for his buttonhole.
It is to be presumed that John Turner devoted the afternoon to his affairs. It was at all events evening before he also bent his steps toward the Rue de Lille.
Yes, the servant told him, Madame was at home and would assuredly see him. Madame was not alone. No. It was, however, only Monsieur Colville, who was so frequent a visitor.
Turner followed the servant along the corridor. The stairs had rather tried one who had to elevate such a weight at each step; he breathed hard, but placidly.
Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence received him with an unusual _empressement_. Dormer Colville, who was discovered sitting as far from her as the size of the room allowed, was less eager, but he brought forward a chair for the banker and glanced sharply at his face as he sat down.
"So glad to see you," the hostess explained. "It is really kind of you to come and cheer one up on such a dull afternoon. Dormer and I--won't you take off your coat? No, let _me_ put it aside for you. Dormer and I were just--just saying how dull it was. Weren't we?"
She looked from one to the other with a rather unnatural laugh. One would have thought that she was engaged in carrying off a difficult situation and, for so practised a woman of the world, not doing it very well. Her cheeks were flushed, which made her look younger, and a subtle uncertainty in her voice and manner added to this illusion charmingly. For a young girl's most precious possession is her inexperience. Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence, for the first time in her life, was not sure of herself.
"Now I hope you have not come on business," she added, drawing forward her own chair and passing a quick hand over her hair. "Bother business! Do not let us think about it."
"Not exactly," replied Turner, recovering his breath. "Quite agree with you. Let us say, 'Bother business,' and not think of it. Though, for an old man who is getting stout, there is nothing much left but business and his dinner, eh?"
"No. Do not say that," cried the lady. "Never say that. It is time enough to think that years hence when we are all white-haired. But I used to think that myself once, you know. When I first had my money. Do you remember? I was so pleased to have all that wealth that I determined to learn all about cheque-books and things and manage it myself. So you taught me, and at last you admitted that I was an excellent man of business. I know I thought I was myself. And I suppose I lapsed into a regular business woman and only thought of money and how to increase it. How horrid you must have thought me!"
"Never did that," protested Turner, stoutly.
"But I know I learnt to think much too much about it," Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence went on eagerly. "And now that it is all gone, I do not care _that_ for it."
She snapped her finger and thumb and laughed gaily.
"Not that," she repeated. She turned and glanced at Dormer Colville, raising her eyebrows in some mute interrogation only comprehensible to him. "Shall I tell him?" she asked, with a laugh of happiness not very far removed from tears. Then she turned to the banker again.
"Listen," she said. "I am going to tell you something which no one else in the world can tell you. Dormer and I are going to be married. I dare say lots of people will say that they have expected it for a long time. They can say what they like. We don't care. And I am glad that you are the first person to hear it. We have only just settled it, so you are the very first to be told. And I am glad to tell you before anybody else because you have been so kind to me always. You have been my best friend, I think. And the kindest thing you ever did for me was to lose my money, for if you had not lost it, Dormer never would have asked me to marry him. He has just said so himself. And I suppose all men feel that. All the nice ones, I mean. It is one of the drawbacks of being rich, is it not?"
"I suppose it is," answered Turner, stolidly, without turning an eyelash in the direction of Colville. "Perhaps that is why no one has ever asked me to marry them."
Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence laughed jerkily at this witticism. She laughed again when John Turner rose from his chair to congratulate her, but the laugh suddenly ceased when he raised her hand to his lips with a courtesy which was even in those days dying out of the world, and turned away from him hastily. She stood with her back toward them for a minute or two looking at some flowers on a side table. Then she came back into the middle of the room, all smiles, replacing her handkerchief in her pocket.
"So that is the news I have to tell you," she said.
John Turner had placidly resumed his chair after shaking hands with Dormer Colville for the second time since luncheon.
"Yes," he answered, "it is news indeed. And I have a little news to give you. I do not say that it is quite free from the taint of business, but at all events it is news. Like yours, it has the merit of being at first hand, and you are the first to hear it. No one else could tell it to you."
He broke off and rubbed his chin while he looked apathetically at Colville's necktie.
"It has another merit, rare enough," he went on. "It is good news. I think, in fact I may say I am sure, that we shall pull through now and your money will be safely returned to you."
"I am so glad," said Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence, with a glance at Dormer Colville. "I cannot tell you how glad I am."
She looked at the banker with bright eyes and the flush still in her cheeks that made her look younger and less sure of herself.
"Not only for my own sake, you know. For yours, because I am sure you must be relieved, and for--well, for everybody's sake. Tell me all about it, please." And she pushed her chair sideways nearer to Colville's.
John Turner bit the first joint of his thumb reflectively. It is so rare that one can tell any one all about anything.
"Tell me first," Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence suggested, "whether Miriam Liston's money is all safe as well."
"Miriam's money never was in danger," he replied. "Miriam is my ward; you are only my client. There is no chance of Miriam being able to make ducks and drakes of her money."
"That sounds as if I had been trying to do that with mine.
"Well," admitted the banker, with a placid laugh, "if it had not been for my failure--" "Don't call it hard names," put in Dormer Colville, generously. "It was not a failure."
"Call it a temporary suspension of payment, then," agreed the banker, imperturbably. "If it had not been for that, half your fortune would have been goodness knows where by now. You wanted to put it into some big speculation in this country, if I remember aright. And big speculations in France are the very devil just now. Whereas, now, you see, it is all safe and you can invest it in the beginning of next year in some good English securities. It seems providential, does it not?"
He rose as he spoke and held out his hand to say good-bye. He asked the question of Colville's necktie, apparently, for he smiled stupidly at it.
"Well, I do not understand business after all, I admit that," Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence called out gaily to him as he went toward the door. "I do not understand things at all."
"No, and I don't suppose you ever will," Turner replied as he followed the servant into the corridor.
| {
"id": "8942"
} |
37 | AN UNDERSTANDING | Loo Barebone went back to the Château de Gemosac after those travels in Provence which terminated so oddly on board "The Last Hope," at anchor in the Garonne River.
The Marquis received him with enthusiasm and a spirit of optimism which age could not dim.
"Everything is going _à merveille! _" he cried. "In three months we shall be ready to strike our blow--to make our great _coup_ for France. The failure of Turner's bank was a severe check, I admit, and for a moment I was in despair. But now we are sure that we shall have the money for Albert de Chantonnay's Beauvoir estate by the middle of January. The death of Madame la Duchesse was a misfortune. If we could have persuaded her to receive you--your face would have done the rest, mon ami--we should have been invincible. But she was broken, that poor lady. Think of her life! Few women would have survived half of the troubles that she carried on those proud shoulders from childhood."
They were sitting in the little salon in the building that adjoined the gate-house of Gemosac, of which the stone stairs must have rung beneath the red spurs of fighting men; of which the walls were dented still with the mark of arms.
Barebone had given an account of his journey, which had been carried through without difficulty. Everywhere success had waited upon him--enthusiasm had marked his passage. In returning to France, he had stolen a march on his enemies, for nothing seemed to indicate that his presence in the country was known to them.
"I tell you," the Marquis explained, "that he has his hands full--that man in Paris. It is only a month since he changed his ministry. Who is this St. Arnaud, his Minister of War? Who is Maupas, his Prefect of Police? Does Monsieur Manpas know that we are nearly ready for our _coup? _ Bah! Tell me nothing of that sort, gentlemen."
And this was the universally accepted opinion at this time, of Louis Bonaparte the President of a tottering Republic, divided against itself; a dull man, at his wits' end. For months, all Europe had been turning an inquiring and watchful eye on France. Socialism was rampant. Secret societies honeycombed the community. There was some danger in the air--men knew not what. Catastrophe was imminent, and none knew where to look for its approach. But all thought that it must come at the end of the year. A sort of panic took hold of all classes. They dreaded the end of 1851.
The Marquis de Gemosac spoke openly of these things before Juliette. She had been present when Loo and he talked together of this last journey, so happily accomplished, so fruitful of result. And Loo did not tell the Marquis that he had seen his old ship, "The Last Hope," in the river at Bordeaux, and had gone on board of her.
Juliette listened, as she worked, beneath the lamp at the table in the middle of the room. The lace-work she had brought from the convent-school was not finished yet. It was exquisitely fine and delicate, and Juliette executed the most difficult patterns with a sort of careless ease. Sometimes, when the Marquis was more than usually extravagant in his anticipations of success, or showed a superlative contempt for his foes, Juliette glanced at Barebone over her lace-work, but she rarely took part in the talk when politics were under discussion.
In domestic matters, however, this new châtelaine showed considerable shrewdness. She was not ignorant of the price of hay, and knew to a cask how much wine was stored in the vault beneath the old chapel. On these subjects the Marquis good-humouredly followed her advice sometimes. His word had always been law in the whole neighbourhood. Was he not the head of one of the oldest families in France?
"But, _pardieu_, she shows a wisdom quite phenomenal, that little one," the Marquis would tell his friends, with a hearty laugh. It was only natural that he should consider amusing the idea of uniting wisdom and youth and beauty in one person. It is still a universally accepted law that old people must be wise and young persons only charming. Some may think that they could point to a wise child born of foolish parents; to a daughter who is well-educated and shrewd, possessing a sense of logic, and a mother who is ignorant and foolish; to a son who has more sense than his father: but of course such observers must be mistaken. Old theories must be the right ones. The Marquis had no doubt of this, at all events, and thought it most amusing that Juliette should establish order in the chaos of domestic affairs at Gemosac.
"You are grave," said Juliette to Barebone, one evening soon after his return, when they happened to be alone in the little drawing-room. Barebone was, in fact, not a lively companion; for he had sat staring at the log-fire for quite three minutes when his eyes might assuredly have been better employed. "You are grave. Are you thinking of your sins?"
"When I think of those, Mademoiselle, I laugh. It is when I think of you that I am grave."
"Thank you."
"So I am always grave, you understand."
She glanced quickly, not at him but toward him, and then continued her lace-making, with the ghost of a smile tilting the corners of her lips.
"It is because I have something to tell you."
"A secret?" she inquired, and she continued to smile, but differently, and her eyes hardened almost to resentment.
"Yes; a secret. It is a secret only known to two other people in the world besides myself. And they will never let you know even that they share it with you, Mademoiselle."
"Then they are not women," she said, with a sudden laugh. "Tell it to me, then--your secret."
There had been an odd suggestion of foreknowledge in her manner, as if she were humouring him by pretending to accept as a secret of vast importance some news which she had long known--that little air of patronage which even schoolgirls bestow, at times, upon white-haired men. It is part of the maternal instinct. But this vanished when she heard that she was to share the secret with two men, and she repeated, impatiently, "Tell me, please."
"It is a secret which will make a difference to us all our lives, Mademoiselle," he said, warningly. "It will not leave us the same as it found us. It has made a difference to all who know it. Therefore, I have only decided to tell you after long consideration. It is, in fact, a point of honour. It is necessary for you to know, whatever the result may be. Of that I have no doubt whatever."
He laughed reassuringly, which made her glance at him gravely, almost anxiously.
"And are you going on telling it to other people, afterward," she inquired; "to my father, for instance?"
"No, Mademoiselle. It comes to you, and it stops at you. I do not mind withholding it from your father, and from all the friends who have been so kind to me in France. I do not mind deceiving kings and emperors, Mademoiselle, and even the People, which is now always spelt in capital letters, and must be spoken of with bated breath."
She gave a scornful little laugh, as at the sound of an old jest--the note of a deathless disdain which was in the air she breathed.
"Not even the newspapers, which are trying to govern France. All that is a question of politics. But when it comes to you, Mademoiselle, that is a different matter."
"Ah!"
"Yes. It is then a question of love."
Juliette slowly changed colour, but she gave a little gay laugh of incredulity and bent her head away from the light of the lamp.
"That is a different code of honour altogether," he said, gravely. "A code one does not wish to tamper with."
"No?" she inquired, with the odd little smile of foreknowledge again.
"No. And, therefore, before I go any farther, I think it best to tell you that I am not what I am pretending to be. I am pretending to be the son of the little Dauphin, who escaped from the Temple. He may have escaped from the Temple; that I don't know. But I know, or at least I think I know, that he is not buried in Farlingford churchyard and he was not my father. I can pass as the grandson of Louis XVI; I know that. I can deceive all the world. I can even climb to the throne of France, perhaps. There are many, as you know, who think I shall do it without difficulty. But I do not propose to deceive _you_, Mademoiselle."
There was a short silence, while Loo watched her face. Juliette had not even changed colour. When she was satisfied that he had nothing more to add, she looked at him, her needle poised in the air.
"Do you think it matters?" she asked, in a little cool, even voice.
It was so different from what he had expected that, for a moment, he was taken aback. Captain Clubbe's bluff, uncompromising reception of the same news had haunted his thoughts. "The square thing," that sailor had said, "and damn your friends; damn France." Loo looked at Juliette in doubt; then, suddenly, he understood her point of view; he understood her. He had learnt to understand a number of people and a number of points of view during the last twelve months.
"So long as I succeed?" he suggested.
"Yes," she answered, simply. "So long as you succeed, I do not see that it can matter who you are."
"And if I succeed," pursued Loo, gravely, "will you marry me, Mademoiselle?"
"Oh! I never said that," in a voice that was ready to yield to a really good argument.
"And if I fail--" Barebone paused for an instant. He still doubted his own perception. "And if I fail, you would not marry me under any circumstances?"
"I do not think my father would let me," she answered, with her eyes cast down upon her lace-frame.
Barebone leant forward to put together the logs, which burnt with a white incandescence that told of a frosty night. The Marquis had business in the town, and would soon return from the notary's, in time to dress for dinner.
"Well," said Loo, over his shoulder, "it is as well to understand each other, is it not?"
"Yes," she answered, significantly. She ignored the implied sarcasm altogether. There was so much meaning in her reply that Loo turned to look at her. She was smiling as she worked.
"Yes," she went on; "you have told me your secret--a secret. But I have the other, too; the secret you have not told me, _mon ami_. I have had it always."
"Ah?"
"The secret that you do not love me," said Juliette, in her little wise, even voice; "that you have never loved me. Ah! You think we do not know. You think that I am too young. But we are never too young to know that, to know all about it. I think we know it in our cradles."
She spoke with a strange philosophy, far beyond her years. It might have been Madame de Chantonnay who spoke, with all that lady's vast experience of life and without any of her folly.
"You think I am pretty. Perhaps I am. Just pretty enough to enable you to pretend, and you have pretended very well at times. You are good at pretending, one must conclude. Oh! I bear no ill-will ..." She broke off and looked at him, with a gay laugh, in which there was certainly no note of ill-will to be detected.
"But it is as well," she went on, "as you say, that we should understand each other. Thank you for telling me your secret--the one you have told me. I am flattered at that mark of your confidence. A woman is always glad to be told a secret, and immediately begins to anticipate the pleasure she will take in telling it to others, in confidence."
She looked up for a moment from her work; for Loo had given a short laugh. She looked, to satisfy herself that it was not the ungenerous laugh that nine men out of ten would have cast at her; and it was not. For Loo was looking at her with frank amusement.
"Oh, yes," she said; "I know that, too. It is one of the items not included in a convent education. It is unnecessary to teach us such things as that. We know them before we go in. Your secret is safe enough with me, however--the one you have told me. That is the least I can promise in return for your confidence. As to the other secret, _bon Dieu_! we will pretend I do not know it, if you like. At all events, you can vow that you never told me, if--if ever you are called upon to do so."
She paused for a moment to finish off a thread. Then, when she reached out her hand for the reel, she glanced at him with a smile, not unkind.
"So you need not pretend any more, monsieur," she said, seeing that Barebone was wise enough to keep silence. "I do not know who you are, _mon ami,_" she went on, in a little burst of confidence; "and, as I told you just now, I do not care. And, as to that other matter, there is no ill-will. I only permit myself to wonder, sometimes, if she is pretty. That is feminine, I suppose. One can be feminine quite young, you understand."
She looked at him with unfathomable eyes and a little smile, such as men never forget once they have seen it.
"But you were inclined to be ironical just now, when I said I would marry you if you were successful. So I mention that other secret just to show that the understanding you wish to arrive at may be mutual--there may be two sides to it. I hear my father coming. That is his voice at the gate. We will leave things as they stand: _n'est ce pas? _" She rose as she spoke and went toward the door. The Marquis's voice was raised, and there seemed to be some unusual clamour at the gate.
| {
"id": "8942"
} |
38 | A COUP-D'ÉTAT | As the Marquis de Gemosac's step was already on the stairs, Barebone was spared the necessity of agreeing in words to the inevitable.
A moment later the old man hurried into the room. He had not even waited to remove his coat and gloves. A few snow-flakes powdered his shoulders.
"Ah!" he cried, on perceiving Barebone. "Good--you are safe!" He turned to speak to some one who was following him up the stairs with the slower steps of one who knew not his way.
"All is well!" he cried. "He is here. Give yourself no anxiety."
And the second comer crossed the threshold, coming suddenly out of the shadow of the staircase. It was Dormer Colville, white with snow, his face grey and worn. He shook hands with Barebone and bowed to Juliette, but the Marquis gave him no time to speak.
"I go down into the town," he explained, breathlessly. "The streets are full. There is a crowd on the marketplace, more especially round the tobacconist's, where the newspapers are to be bought. No newspapers, if you please. The Paris journals of last Sunday, and this is Friday evening. Nothing since that. No Bordeaux journal. No news at all from Paris: absolute silence from Toulouse and Limoges. 'It is another revolution,' they tell each other. Something has happened and no one knows what. A man comes up to me and tugs at my sleeve. 'Inside your walls, Monsieur le Marquis, waste no time,' he whispers, and is gone. He is some stable-boy. I have seen him somewhere. I! inside my walls! Here in Gemosac, where I see nothing but bare heads as I walk through the streets. Name of God! I should laugh at such a precaution. And while I am still trying to gather information the man comes back to me. 'It is not the people you have to fear,' he whispers in my ear, 'it is the Government. The order for your arrest is at the Gendarmerie, for it was I who took it there. Monsieur Albert was arrested yesterday, and is now in La Rochelle. Madame de Chantonnay's house is guarded. It is from Madame I come.' And again he goes. While I am hesitating, I hear the step of a horse, tired and yet urged to its utmost. It is Dormer Colville, this faithful friend, who is from Paris in thirty-six hours to warn us. He shall tell his story himself."
"There is not much to tell," said Colville, in a hollow voice. He looked round for a chair and sat down rather abruptly. "Louis Bonaparte is absolute master of France; that is all. He must be so by this time. When I escaped from Paris yesterday morning nearly all the streets were barricaded. But the troops were pouring into the city as I rode out--and artillery. I saw one barricade carried by artillery. Thousands must have been killed in the streets of Paris yesterday--" "--And, _bon Dieu! _ it is called a _coup-d'état_," interrupted the Marquis.
"That was on Tuesday," explained Colville, in his tired voice--"at six o'clock on Tuesday morning. Yesterday and Wednesday were days of massacre."
"But, my friend," exclaimed the Marquis, impatiently, "tell us how it happened. You laugh! It is no time to laugh."
"I do not know," replied Colville, with an odd smile. "I think there is nothing else to be done--it is all so complete. We are all so utterly fooled by this man whom all the world took to be a dolt. On Tuesday morning he arrested seventy-eight of the Representatives. When Paris awoke, the streets had been placarded in the night with the decree of the President of the Republic. The National Assembly was dissolved. The Council of State was dissolved. Martial law was declared. And why? He does not even trouble to give a reason. He has the army at his back. The soldiers cried '_Vive l'Empereur_' as they charged the crowd on Wednesday. He has got rid of his opponents by putting them in prison. Many, it is said, are already on their way to exile in Cayenne; the prisons are full. There is a warrant out against myself; against you, Barebone; against you, of course, Monsieur le Marquis. Albert de Chantonnay was arrested at Tours, and is now in La Rochelle. We may escape--we may get away to-night--" He paused and looked hurriedly toward the door, for some one was coming up the stairs--some one who wore sabots. It was the servant, Marie, who came unceremoniously into the room with the exaggerated calm of one who realises the gravity of the situation and means to master it.
"The town is on fire," she explained, curtly; "they have begun on the Gendarmerie. Doubtless they have heard that these gentlemen are to be arrested, and it is to give other employment to the gendarmes. But the cavalry has arrived from Saintes, and I come upstairs to ask Monsieur to come down and help. It is my husband who is a fool. Holy Virgin! how many times have I regretted having married such a blockhead as that. He says he cannot raise the drawbridge. To raise it three feet would be to gain three hours. So I came to get Monsieur," she pointed at Barebone with a steady finger, "who has his wits on the top always and two hands at the end of his arms."
"But it is little use to raise the drawbridge," objected the Marquis. "They will soon get a ladder and place it against the breach in the wall and climb in."
"Not if I am on the wall who amuse myself with a hayfork, Monsieur le Marquis," replied Marie, with that exaggerated respect which implies a knowledge of mental superiority. She beckoned curtly to Loo and clattered down the stairs, followed by Barebone. The others did not attempt to go to their assistance, and the Marquis de Gemosac had a hundred questions to ask Colville.
The Englishman had little to tell of his own escape. There were so many more important arrests to be made that the overworked police of Monsieur de Maupas had only been able to apportion to him a bungler whom Colville had easily outwitted.
"And Madame St. Pierre Lawrence?" inquired the Marquis.
"Madame quitted Paris on Tuesday for England under the care of John Turner, who had business in London. He kindly offered to escort her across the Channel."
"Then she, at all events, is safe," said the Marquis, with a little wave of the hand indicating his satisfaction. "He is not brilliant, Monsieur Turner--so few English are--but he is solid, I think."
"I think he is the cleverest man I know," said Dormer Colville, thoughtfully. And before they had spoken again Loo Barebone returned.
He, like Marie, had grasped at once the serious aspect of the situation, whereas the Marquis succeeded only in reaching it with a superficial touch. He prattled of the political crisis in Paris and bade his friends rest assured that law and order must ultimately prevail. He even seemed to cherish the comforting assurance that Providence must in the end interfere on behalf of a Legitimate Succession. For this old noble was the true son of a father who had believed to the end in that King who talked grandiloquently of the works of Seneca and Tacitus while driving from the Temple to his trial, with the mob hooting and yelling imprecations into the carriage windows.
The Marquis de Gemosac found time to give a polite opinion on John Turner while the streets of Gemosac were being cleared by the cavalry from Saintes, and the Gendarmerie, burning briskly, lighted up a scene of bloodshed.
"We have raised the drawbridge a few feet," said Barebone; "but the chains are rusted and may easily be broken by a blacksmith. It will serve to delay them a few minutes; but it is not the mob we seek to keep out, and any organised attempt to break in would succeed in half an hour. We must go, of course."
He turned to Colville, with whom he had met and faced difficulties in the past. Colville might easily have escaped to England with Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence, but he had chosen the better part. He had undertaken a long journey through disturbed France only to throw in his lot at the end of it with two pre-condemned men. Loo turned to him as to one who had proved himself capable enough in an emergency, brave in face of danger.
"We cannot stay here," he said; "the gates will serve to give us an hour's start, but no more. I suppose there is another way out of the château."
"There are two ways," answered the Marquis. "One leads to a house in the town and the other emerges at the mill down below the walls. But, alas! both are lost sight of. My ancestors--" "I know the shorter one," put in Juliette, "the passage that leads to the mill. I can show you the entrance to that, which is in the crypt of the chapel, hidden behind the casks of wine."
She spoke to Barebone, only half-concealing, as Marie had done, the fact that the great respect with which the Marquis de Gemosac was treated was artificial, and would fall to pieces under the strain of an emergency--a faint echo of the old regime.
"When you are gone," the girl continued, still addressing Barebone, "Marie and I can keep them out at least an hour--probably more. We may be able to keep them outside the walls all night, and when at last they come in it will take them hours to satisfy themselves that you are not concealed within the enceinte."
She was quite cool, and even smiled at him with a white face.
"You are always right, Mademoiselle, and have a clear head," said Barebone.
"But no heart?" she answered in an undertone, under cover of her father's endless talk to Colville and with a glance which Barebone could not understand.
In a few minutes Dormer Colville pronounced himself ready to go, and refused to waste further precious minutes in response to Monsieur de Gemosac's offers of hospitality. No dinner had been prepared, for Marie had sterner business in hand and could be heard beneath the windows urging her husband to display a courage superior to that of a rabbit. Juliette hurried to the kitchen and there prepared a parcel of cold meat and bread for the fugitives to eat as they fled.
"We might remain hidden in a remote cottage," Barebone had suggested to Colville, "awaiting the development of events, but our best chance is 'The Last Hope.' She is at Bordeaux, and must be nearly ready for sea."
So it was hurriedly arranged that they should make their way on foot to a cottage on the marsh while Jean was despatched to Bordeaux with a letter for Captain Clubbe.
"It is a pity," said Marie, when informed of this plan, "that it is not I who wear the breeches. But I will make it clear to Jean that if he fails to carry out his task he need not show his face at the gate again."
The Marquis ran hither and thither, making a hundred suggestions, which were accepted in the soothing manner adopted toward children. He assured Juliette that their absence would be of short duration; that there was indeed no danger, but that he was acceding to the urgent persuasions of Barebone and Colville, who were perhaps unnecessarily alarmed--who did not understand how affairs were conducted in France. He felt assured that law and order must prevail.
"But if they have put Albert de Chantonnay in prison, why should you be safe?" asked Juliette. To which the Marquis replied with a meaning cackle that she had a kind heart, and that it was only natural that it should be occupied at that moment with thoughts of that excellent young man who, in his turn, was doubtless thinking of her in his cell at La Rochelle.
Which playful allusion to Albert de Chantonnay's pretensions was received by their object with a calm indifference.
"When Jean returns," she said, practically, "I will send him to you at the Brémonts' cottage with food and clothing. But you must not attempt to communicate with us. You would only betray your whereabouts and do no good to us. We shall be quite safe in the château. Marie and I and Madame Maugiron are not afraid."
At which the Marquis laughed heartily. It was so amusing to think that one should be young and pretty--and not afraid. In the mean time Barebone was sealing his letter to Captain Clubbe. He had written it in the Suffolk dialect, spelling all the words as they are pronounced on that coast and employing when he could the Danish and Dutch expressions in daily use on the foreshore, which no French official seeking to translate could find in any dictionary.
Loo gave his instructions to Jean himself, who received them in a silence not devoid of intelligence. The man had been round the walls and reported that nothing stirred beneath them; that there was more than one fire in the town, and that the streets appeared to be given over to disorder and riot.
"It is assuredly a change in the Government," he explained, simply. "And there will be many for Monsieur l'Abbé to bury on Sunday."
Jean was to accompany them to the cottage of an old man who had once lived by ferrying the rare passenger across the Gironde. Having left them here, he could reach Blaye before daylight, from whence a passage up the river to Bordeaux would be easily procurable.
The boatman's cottage stood on the bank of a creek running into the Gironde. It was a lone building hidden among the low dunes that lie between the river and the marsh. Any one approaching it by daylight would be discernible half an hour in advance, and the man's boat, though old, was seaworthy. None would care to cross the lowlands at night except under the guidance of one or two, who, like Jean, knew their way even in the dark.
Colville and Barebone had to help Jean to move the great casks stored in the crypt of the old chapel by which the entrance to the passage was masked.
"It is, I recollect having been told, more than a passage--it is a ramp," explained the Marquis, who stood by. "It was intended for the passage of horses, so that a man might mount here and ride out into the mill-stream, actually beneath the mill-wheel which conceals the exit."
Juliette, a cloak thrown over her evening dress, had accompanied them and stood near, holding a lantern above her head to give them light. It was an odd scene--a strange occupation for the last of the de Gemosacs. Through the gaps in the toppling walls they could hear the roar of voices and the occasional report of a firearm in the streets of the town below. The door opened easily enough, and Jean, lighting a candle, led the way. Barebone was the last to follow. Within the doorway he turned to say good-bye. The light of the lantern flickered uncertainly on Juliette's fair hair.
"We may be back sooner than you expect, mademoiselle," said Barebone.
"Or you may go--to England," she answered.
| {
"id": "8942"
} |
39 | "JOHN DARBY" | Although it was snowing hard, it was not a dark night. There was a half moon hidden behind those thin, fleecy clouds, which carry the snow across the North Sea and cast it noiselessly upon the low-lying coast, from Thanet to the Wash, which knows less rain and more snow than any in England.
A gale of wind was blowing from the north-east; not in itself a wild gale, but at short intervals a fresh burst of wind brought with it a thicker fall of snow, and during these squalls the force of the storm was terrific. A man, who had waited on the far shore of the river for a quiet interval, had at last made his way to the Farlingford side. He moored his boat and stumbled heavily up the steps.
There was no one on the quay. The street was deserted, but the lights within the cottages glowed warmly through red blinds here and there. The majority of windows were, however, secured with a shutter, screwed tight from within. The man trotted steadily up the street. He had an unmistakable air of discipline. It was only six o'clock, but night had closed in three hours ago. The coast-guard looked neither to one side nor the other, but ran on at the pace of one who had run far and knows that he cannot afford to lose his breath; for his night's work was only begun.
The coast-guard station stands on the left-hand side of the street, a long, low house in a bare garden. In answer to the loud summons, a red-faced little man opened the door and let out into the night a smell of bloaters and tea--the smell that pervades all Farlingford at six o'clock in the evening.
"Something on the Inner Curlo Bank," shouted the coast-guard in his face, and turning on his heel, he ran with the same slow, organised haste, leaving the red-faced man finishing a mouthful on the mat.
The next place of call was at River Andrew's, the little low cottage with rounded corners, below the church.
"Come out o' that," said the coast-guard, with a contemptuous glance of snow-rimmed eyes at River Andrew's comfortable tea-table. "Ring yer bell. Something on the Inner Curlo Bank."
River Andrew had never hurried in his life, and like all his fellows, he looked upon coast-guards as amateurs mindful, as all amateurs are, of their clothes.
"A'm now going," he answered, rising laboriously from his chair. The coast-guard glanced at his feet clad in the bright green carpet-slippers, dear to seafaring men. Then he turned to the side of the mantelpiece and took the church keys from the nail. For everybody knows where everybody else keeps his keys in Farlingford. He forgot to shut the door behind him, and River Andrew, pessimistically getting into his sea-boots, swore at his retreating back.
"Likely as not, he'll getten howld o' the wrong roup," he muttered; though he knew that every boy in the village could point out the rope of "John Darby," as that which had a piece of faded scarlet flannel twisted through the strands.
In a few minutes the man, who hastened slowly, gave the call, which every man in Farlingford answered with an emotionless, mechanical promptitude. From each fireside some tired worker reached out his hand toward his most precious possession, his sea-boots, as his forefathers had done before him for two hundred years at the sound of "John Darby." The women crammed into the pockets of the men's stiff oilskins a piece of bread, a half-filled bottle--knowing that, as often as not, their husbands must pass the night and half the next day on the beach, or out at sea, should the weather permit a launch through the surf.
There was no need of excitement, or even of comment. Did not "John Darby" call them from their firesides or their beds a dozen times every winter, to scramble out across the shingle? As often as not, there was nothing to be done but drag the dead bodies from the surf; but sometimes the dead revived--some fair-haired, mystic foreigner from the northern seas, who came to and said, "T'ank you," and nothing else. And next day, rigged out in dry clothes and despatched toward Ipswich on the carrier's cart, he would shake hands awkwardly with any standing near and bob his head and say "T'ank you" again, and go away, monosyllabic, mystic, never to be heard of more. But the ocean, as it is called at Farlingford, seemed to have an inexhaustible supply of such Titans to throw up on the rattling shingle winter after winter. And, after all, they were seafaring men, and therefore brothers. Farlingford turned out to a man, each seeking to be first across the river every time "John Darby" called them, as if he had never called them before.
To-night none paused to finish the meal, and many a cup raised half-way was set down again untasted. It is so easy to be too late.
Already the flicker of lanterns on the sea-wall showed that the rectory was astir. For Septimus Marvin, vaguely recalling some schoolboy instinct of fair-play, knew the place of the gentleman and the man of education among humbler men in moments of danger and hardship, which should, assuredly, never be at the back.
"Yonder's parson," some one muttered. "His head is clear now, I'll warrant, when he hears 'John Darby.'" " 'Tis only on Sundays, when 'John' rings slow, 'tis misty," answered a sharp-voiced woman, with a laugh. For half of Farlingford was already at the quay, and three or four boats were bumping and splashing against the steps. The tide was racing out, and the wind, whizzing slantwise across it, pushed it against the wooden piles of the quay, making them throb and tremble.
"Not less'n four to the oars!" shouted a gruff voice, at the foot of the steps, where the salt water, splashing on the snow, had laid bare the green and slimy moss. Two or three volunteers stumbled down the steps, and the first boat got away, swinging down-stream at once, only to be brought slowly back, head to wind. She hung motionless a few yards from the quay, each dip of the oars stirring the water into a whirl of phosphorescence, and then forged slowly ahead.
Septimus Marvin was not alone, but was accompanied by a bulky man, not unknown in Farlingford--John Turner, of Ipswich, understood to live "foreign," but to return, after the manner of East Anglians, when occasion offered. The rector was in oilskins and sou'wester, like any one else, and the gleam of his spectacles under the snowy brim of his headgear seemed to strike no one as incongruous. His pockets bulged with bottles and bandages. Under his arm he carried a couple of blanket horse-cloths, useful for carrying the injured or the dead.
"The Curlo--the Inner Curlo--yes, yes!" he shouted in response to information volunteered on all sides. "Poor fellows! The Inner Curlo, dear, dear!"
And he groped his way down the steps, into the first boat he saw, with a simple haste. John Turner followed him. He had tied a silk handkerchief over his soft felt hat and under his chin.
"No, no!" he said, as Septimus Marvin made room for him on the after-thwart. "I'm too heavy for a passenger. Put my weight on an oar," and he clambered forward to a vacant thwart.
"Mind you come back for us, River Andrew!" cried little Sep's thin voice, as the boat swirled down stream. His wavering bull's-eye lantern followed it, and showed River Andrew and another pulling stroke to John Turner's bow, for the banker had been a famous oar on the Orwell in his boyhood. Then, with a smack like a box on the ear, another snow-squall swept in from the sea, and forced all on the quay to turn their backs and crouch. Many went back to their homes, knowing that nothing could be known for some hours. Others crouched on the landward side of an old coal-shed, peeping round the corner.
Miriam and Sep, and a few others, waited on the quay until River Andrew or another should return. It was an understood thing that the helpers, such as could man a boat or carry a drowned man, should go first. In a few minutes the squall was past, and by the light of the moon, now thinly covered by clouds, the black forms of the first to reach the other shore could be seen straggling across the marsh toward the great shingle-bank that lies between the river and the sea. Two boats were moored at the far side, another was just making the jetty, while a fourth was returning toward the quay. It was River Andrew, faithful to his own element, who preferred to be first here, rather than obey orders on the open beach.
There were several ready to lend a helping hand against tide and wind, and Miriam and Sep were soon struggling across the shingle, in the footsteps of those who had gone before. The north-east wind seared their faces like a hot iron, but the snow had ceased falling. As they reached the summit of the shingle-bank, they could see in front of them the black line of the sea, and on the beach, where the white of the snow and the white of the roaring surf merged together, a group of men.
One or two stragglers had left this group to search the beach, north or south; but it was known, from a long and grim experience, that anything floating in from the tail of the Inner Curlo Bank must reach the shore at one particular point. A few lanterns twinkled here and there, but near the group of watchers a bonfire of wreckage and tarry fragments and old rope, brought hither for the purpose, had been kindled.
Two boats, hauled out of reach of a spring tide, were being leisurely prepared for launching. There was no hurry; for it had been decided by the older men that no boat could be put to sea through the surf then rolling in. At the turn of the tide, in two hours' time, something might be done.
"Us cannot see anything," a bystander said to Miriam. "It is just there, where I am pointing. Sea Andrew saw something a while back--says it looked like a schooner."
The man stood pointing out to sea to the southward. He carried an unlighted torch--a flare, roughly made, of tarred rope, bound round a stick. At times, one or another would ignite his flare, and go down the beach holding it above his head, while he stood knee deep in the churning foam to peer out to sea. He would presently return, without comment, to beat out his flare against his foot and take his place among the silent watchers. No one spoke; but if any turned his head sharply to one side or other, all the rest wheeled, like one man, in the same direction and after staring at the tumbled sea would turn reproachful glances on the false alarmist.
Suddenly, after a long wait, four men rushed without a word into the surf; their silent fury suggesting oddly the rush of hounds upon a fox. They had simultaneously caught sight of something dark, half sunk in the shallow water. In a moment they were struggling up the shingle slope toward the fire, carrying a heavy weight. They laid their burden by the fire, where the snow had melted away, and it was a man. He was in oilskins, and some one cut the tape that tied his sou'wester. His face was covered with blood. " 'Tis warm," said the man who had cut away the oilskin cap, and with his hand he wiped the blood away from the eyes and mouth. Some one in the background drew a cork, with his teeth, and a bottle was handed down to those kneeling on the ground.
Suddenly the man sat up--and coughed.
"Shipmets," he said, with a splutter, and lay down again.
Some one held the bottle to his lips and wiped the blood away from his face again.
"My God!" shouted a bystander, gruffly. " 'Tis William Brooke, of the Cottages."
"Yes. 'Tis me," said the man, sitting up again. "Not that arm, mate; don't ye touch it. 'Tis bruk. Yes; 'tis me. And 'The Last Hope' is on the tail of the Inner Curlo--and the spar that knocked me overboard fell on the old man, and must have half killed him. But Loo Barebone's aboard."
He rose to his knees, with one arm hanging straight and piteous from his shoulder, then slowly to his feet. He stood wavering for a moment, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and spluttered. Then, looking straight in front of him, with that strange air of a whipped dog which humble men wear when the hand of Heaven is upon them, he staggered up the beach toward the river and Farlingford.
"Where are ye goin'?" some one asked.
"Over to mine," was the reply. "A'm going to my old woman, shipmets."
And he staggered away in the darkness.
| {
"id": "8942"
} |
40 | FARLINGFORD ONCE MORE | After a hurried consultation, Septimus Marvin was deputed to follow the injured man and take him home, seeing that he had as yet but half recovered his senses. This good Samaritan had scarcely disappeared when a shout from the beach drew the attention of all in another direction.
One of the outposts was running toward the fire, waving his lantern and shouting incoherently. It was a coast-guard.
"Comin' ashore in their own boat," he cried. "They're coming in in their own boat!"
"There she rides--there she rides!" added Sea Andrew, almost immediately, and he pointed to the south.
Quite close in, just outside the line of breakers, a black shadow was rising and falling on the water. It seemed to make scarcely any way at all, and each sea that curled underneath the boat and roared toward the beach was a new danger.
"They're going to run her in here," said Sea Andrew. "There's more left on board; that's what that means, and they're goin' back for 'em. If 'twasn't so they'd run in anywheres and let her break."
For one sailor will always tell what another is about, however great the distance intervening.
Slowly the boat came on, rolling tremendously on the curve of the breakers, between the broken water of the tideway and the spume of the surf.
"That's Loo at the hellum," said Sea Andrew--the keenest eyes in Farlingford.
And suddenly Miriam swayed sideways against John Turner, who was perhaps watching her, for he gripped her arm and stood firm. No one spoke. The watchers on the beach stared open-mouthed, making unconscious grimaces as the boat rose and fell. All had been ready for some minutes; every preparation made according to the time-honoured use of these coasts: four men with life-lines round them standing knee-deep waiting to dash in deeper, others behind them grouped in two files, some holding the slack of the life-lines, forming a double rank from the shore to the fire, giving the steersman his course. There was no need to wave a torch or shout an order. They were Farlingford men on the shore and Farlingford men in the boat.
At last, after breathless moments of suspense, the boat turned, and came spinning in on the top of a breaker, with the useless oars sticking out like the legs of some huge insect. For a few seconds it was impossible to distinguish anything. The moment the boat touched ground, the waves beating on it enveloped all near it in a whirl of spray, and the black forms seemed to be tumbling over each other in confusion.
"You see," said Turner to Miriam, "he has come back to you after all."
She did not answer but stood, her two hands clasped together on her breast, seeking to disentangle the confused group, half in half out of the water.
Then they heard Loo Barebone's voice, cheerful and energetic, almost laughing. Before they could understand what was taking place his voice was audible again, giving a sharp, clear order, and all the black forms rushed together down into the surf. A moment later the boat danced out over the crest of a breaker, splashing into the next and throwing up a fan of spray.
"She's through, she's through!" cried some one. And the boat rode for a brief minute head to wind before she turned southward. There were only three on the thwarts--Loo Barebone and two others.
The group now broke up and straggled up toward the fire. One man was being supported, and could scarcely walk. It was Captain Clubbe, hatless, his grey hair plastered across his head by salt water.
He did not heed any one, but sat down heavily on the shingle and felt his leg with one hand, the other arm hung limply.
"Leave me here," he said, gruffly, to two or three who were spreading out a horse-cloth and preparing to carry him. "Here I stay till all are ashore."
Behind him were several new-comers, one of them a little man talking excitedly to his companion.
"But it is a folly," he was saying in French, "to go back in such a sea as that."
It was the Marquis de Gemosac, and no one was taking any notice of him. Dormer Colville, stumbling over the shingle beside him, recognised Miriam in the firelight and turned again to look at her companion as if scarcely believing the evidence of his own eyes.
"Is that you, Turner?" he said. "We are all here,--the Marquis, Barebone, and I. Clubbe took us on board one dark night in the Gironde and brought us home."
"Are you hurt?" asked Turner, curtly.
"Oh, no. But Clubbe's collar-bone is broken and his leg is crushed. We had to leave four on board; not room for them in the boat. That fool Barebone has gone back for them. He promised them he would. The sea out there is awful!"
He knelt down and held his shaking hands to the flames. Some one handed him a bottle, but he turned first and gave it the Marquis de Gemosac, who was shaking all over like one far gone in a palsy.
Sea Andrew and the coast-guard captain were persuading Captain Clubbe to quit the beach, but he only answered them roughly in monosyllables.
"My place is here till all are safe," he said. "Let me lie."
And with a groan of pain he lay back on the beach. Miriam folded a blanket and placed it under his head. He looked round, recognised her and nodded.
"No place for you, miss," he said, and closed his eyes. After a moment he raised himself on his elbow and looked into the faces peering down at him.
"Loo will beach her anywhere he can. Keep a bright lookout for him," he said. Then he was silent, and all turned their faces toward the sea.
Another snow-squall swept in with a rush from the eastward, and half of the fire was blown away--a trail of sparks hissing on the snow. They built up the fire again and waited, crouching low over the embers. They could see nothing out to sea. There was nothing to be done but to wait. Some had gone along the shore to the south, keeping pace with the supposed progress of the boat, ready to help should she be thrown ashore.
Suddenly the Marquis de Gemosac, shivering over the fire, raised his voice querulously. His emotions always found vent in speech.
"It is a folly," he repeated, "that he has committed. I do not understand, gentlemen, how he was permitted to do such a thing--he whose life is of value to millions."
He turned his head to glance sharply at Captain Clubbe, at Colville, at Turner, who listened with that half-contemptuous silence which Englishmen oppose to unnecessary or inopportune speech.
"Ah!" he said, "you do not understand--you Englishmen--or you do not believe, perhaps, that he is the King. You would demand proofs which you know cannot be produced. I demand no proofs, for I know. I know without any proof at all but his face, his manner, his whole being. I knew at once when I saw him step out of his boat here in this sad village, and I have lived with him almost daily ever since--only to be more sure than at first."
His hearers made no answer. They listened tolerantly enough, as one listens to a child or to any other incapable of keeping to the business in hand.
"Oh. I know more than you suspect," said the Marquis, suddenly. "There are some even in our own party who have doubts, who are not quite sure. I know that there was a doubt as to that portrait of the Queen," he half glanced toward Dormer Colville. "Some say one thing, some another. I have been told that, when the child--Monsieur de Bourbon's father--landed here, there were two portraits among his few possessions--the miniature and a larger print, an engraving. Where is that engraving, one would ask?"
"I have it in my safe in Paris," said a thick voice in the darkness. "Thought it was better in my possession than anywhere else."
"Indeed! And now, Monsieur Turner--" the Marquis raised himself on his knees and pointed in his eager way a thin finger in the direction of the banker--"tell me this. Those portraits to which some would attach importance--they are of the Duchess de Guiche. Admitted? Good! If you yourself--who have the reputation of being a man of wit--desired to secure the escape of a child and his nurse, would you content yourself with the mere precaution of concealing the child's identity? Would you not go farther and provide the nurse with a subterfuge, a blind, something for the woman to produce and say, 'This is not the little Dauphin. This is so-and-so. See, here is the portrait of his mother?' What so effective, I ask you? What so likely to be believed as a scandal directed against the hated aristocrats? Can you advance anything against that theory?"
"No, Monsieur," replied Turner.
"But Monsieur de Bourbon knows of these doubts," went on the Marquis. "They have even touched his own mind, I know that. But he has continued to fight undaunted. He has made sacrifices--any looking at his face can see that. It was not in France that he looked for happiness, but elsewhere. He was not heart-whole--I who have seen him with the most beautiful women in France paying court to him know that. But this sacrifice, also, he made for the sake of France. Or perhaps some woman of whom we know nothing stepped back and bade him go forward alone, for the sake of his own greatness--who can tell?"
Again no one answered him. He had not perceived Miriam, and John Turner, with that light step which sometimes goes with a vast bulk, had placed himself between her and the firelight. Monsieur de Gemosac rose to his feet and stood looking seaward. The snow-clouds were rolling away to the west, and the moon, breaking through, was beginning to illumine the wild sky.
"Gentlemen," said the Marquis, "they have been gone a long time?"
Captain Clubbe moved restlessly, but he made no answer. The Marquis had, of course, spoken in French, and the Captain had no use for that language.
The group round the fire had dwindled until only half a dozen remained. One after another the watchers had moved away uneasily toward the beach. The Marquis was right--the boat had been gone too long.
At last the moon broke through, and the snowy scene was almost as light as day.
John Turner was looking along the beach to the south, and one after another the watchers by the fire turned their anxious eyes in the same direction. The sea, whipped white, was bare of any wreck. "The Last Hope" of Farlingford was gone. She had broken up or rolled into deep water.
A number of men were coming up the shingle in silence. Sea Andrew, dragging his feet wearily, approached in advance of them.
"Boat's thrown up on the beach," he said to Captain Clubbe. "Stove in by a sea. We've found them."
He stood back and the others, coming slowly into the light, deposited their burdens side by side near the fire. The Marquis, who had understood nothing, took a torch from the hand of a bystander and held it down toward the face of the man they had brought last.
It was Loo Barebone, and the clean-cut, royal features seemed to wear a reflective smile.
Miriam had come forward toward the fire, and by chance or by some vague instinct the bearers had laid their burden at her feet. After all, as John Turner had said, Loo Barebone had come back to her. She had denied him twice, and the third time he would take no denial. The taciturn sailors laid him there and stepped back--as if he was hers and this was the inevitable end of his short and stormy voyage.
She looked down at him with tired eyes. She had done the right, and this was the end. There are some who may say that she had done what she thought was right, and this only seemed to be the end. It may be so.
The Marquis de Gemosac was dumb for once. He looked round him with a half-defiant question in his eyes. Then he pointed a lean finger down toward the dead man's face.
"Others may question," he said, "but I know--I _know_."
THE END
| {
"id": "8942"
} |
1 | LANDLORD'S DAUGHTER AND TENANT'S SON. | In a kitchen of moderate size, flagged with slate, humble in its appointments, yet looking scarcely that of a farmhouse--for there were utensils about it indicating necessities more artificial than usually grow upon a farm--with the corner of a white deal table between them, sat two young people evidently different in rank, and meeting upon no level of friendship. The young woman held in her hand a paper, which seemed the subject of their conversation. She was about four- or five-and-twenty, well grown and not ungraceful, with dark hair, dark hazel eyes, and rather large, handsome features, full of intelligence, but a little hard, and not a little regnant--as such features must be, except after prolonged influence of a heart potent in self-subjugation. As to her social expression, it was a mingling of the gentlewoman of education, and the farmer's daughter supreme over the household and its share in the labor of production.
As to the young man, it would have required a deeper-seeing eye than falls to the lot of most observers, not to take him for a weaker nature than the young woman; and the deference he showed her as the superior, would have enhanced the difficulty of a true judgment. He was tall and thin, but plainly in fine health; had a good forehead, and a clear hazel eye, not overlarge or prominent, but full of light; a firm mouth, with a curious smile; a sun-burned complexion; and a habit when perplexed of pinching his upper lip between his finger and thumb, which at the present moment he was unconsciously indulging. He was the son of a small farmer--in what part of Scotland is of little consequence--and his companion for the moment was the daughter of the laird.
“I have glanced over the poem,” said the lady, “and it seems to me quite up to the average of what you see in print.”
“Would that be reason for printing it, ma'am?” asked the man, with amused smile.
“It would be for the editor to determine,” she answered, not perceiving the hinted objection.
“You will remember, ma'am, that I never suggested--indeed I never thought of such a thing!”
“I do not forget. It was your mother who drew my attention to the verses.”
“I must speak to my mother!” he said, in a meditative way.
“You can not object to _my_ seeing your work! She does not show it to everybody. It is most creditable to you, such an employment of your leisure.”
“The poem was never meant for any eyes but my own--except my brother's.”
“What was the good of writing it, if no one was to see it?”
“The writing of it, ma'am.”
“For the exercise, you mean?”
“No; I hardly mean that.”
“I am afraid then I do not understand you.”
“Do _you_ never write anything but what you publish?”
“Publish! _I_ never publish! What made you think of such a thing?”
“That you know so much about it, ma'am.”
“I know people connected with the papers, and thought it might encourage you to see something in print. The newspapers publish so many poems now!”
“I wish it hadn't been just that one my mother gave you!”
“Why?”
“For one thing, it is not finished--as you will see when you read it more carefully.”
“I did see a line I thought hardly rhythmical, but--” “Excuse me, ma'am; the want of rhythm there was intentional.”
“I am sorry for that. Intention is the worst possible excuse for wrong! The accent should always be made to fall in the right place.”
“Beyond a doubt--but might not the right place alter with the sense?”
“Never. The rule is strict” “Is there no danger of making the verse monotonous?”
“Not that I know.”
“I have an idea, ma'am, that our great poets owe much of their music to the liberties they take with the rhythm. They treat the rule as its masters, and break it when they see fit.”
“You must be wrong there! But in any case you must not presume to take the liberties of a great poet.”
“It is a poor reward for being a great poet to be allowed to take liberties. I should say that, doing their work to the best of their power, they were rewarded with the discovery of higher laws of verse. Every one must walk by the light given him. By the rules which others have laid down he may learn to walk; but once his heart is awake to truth, and his ear to measure, melody and harmony, he must walk by the light, and the music God gives him.”
“That is dangerous doctrine, Andrew!” said the lady, with a superior smile. “But,” she continued, “I will mark what faults I see, and point them out to you.”
“Thank you, ma'am, but please do not send the verses anywhere.”
“I will not, except I find them worthy. You need not be afraid. For my father's sake I will have an eye to your reputation.”
“I am obliged to you, ma'am,” returned Andrew, but with his curious smile, hard to describe. It had in it a wonderful mixing of sweetness and humor, and a something that seemed to sit miles above his amusement. A heavenly smile it was, knowing too much to be angry. It had in it neither offense nor scorn. In respect of his poetry he was shy like a girl, but he showed no rejection of the patronage forced upon him by the lady.
He rose and stood a moment.
“Well, Andrew, what is it?”
“When will you allow me to call for the verses?”
“In the course of a week or so. By that time I shall have made up my mind. If in doubt, I shall ask my father.”
“I wouldn't like the laird to think I spend my time on poetry.”
“You write poetry, Andrew! A man should not do what he would not have known.”
“That is true, ma'am; I only feared an erroneous conclusion.”
“I will take care of that. My father knows that you are a hard-working young man. There is not one of his farms in better order than yours. Were it otherwise, I should not be so interested in your poetry.”
Andrew wished her less interested in it. To have his verses read was like having a finger poked in his eye. He had not known that his mother looked at his papers. But he showed little sign of his annoyance, bade the lady good-morning, and left the kitchen.
Miss Fordyce followed him to the door, and stood for a moment looking out. In front of her was a paved court, surrounded with low buildings, between two of which was visible, at the distance of a mile or so, a railway line where it approached a viaduct. She heard the sound of a coming train, and who in a country place will not stand to see one pass!
| {
"id": "8944"
} |