Part 9 (1/2)
”It serves you right,” interposed Guy, ”for speaking to a man on his shot. Don't you remember quarreling with me the other day for doing so, Charley?”
Charley's face of perplexity and disgust was irresistible. We all laughed. ”What a _guignon_ I have,” he said. ”Mr. Raymond, I believe you were in the robbery.”
”Not I,” was the answer. ”I was as much surprised as any one. I think,”
he went on, lowering his tone, ”Guy is right; he changed his aim, as you spoke, involuntarily, or he _must_ have missed.”
Then we turned homeward through the twilight.
I do not know if the reminiscence of his lost ”pony” was rankling in Forrester's mind, or if he was only affected by the presence of Sir Henry Fallowfield--an immoral Upas, under whose shadow the most flouris.h.i.+ng of good resolutions were apt to wither and die; but certainly, after dinner, he broke through the cautious reserve which he had always in public maintained toward Miss Raymond since Bruce's arrival. He not only talked to her incessantly, but tempted her to sing with him, during which performance they seemed rapidly lapsing into the old confidential style.
Bruce sat apart, the shades on his rugged face gradually deepening from sullenness into ferocity. He looked quite wolfish at last, for it was a habit he had to show his white teeth more when he was savage than when he smiled. But the music went on its way rejoicing,
”Unconscious of their doom, The little victims played.”
Isabel was too happy, and Charley too careless to be prudent. Once I caught his glance as it crossed with Bruce's scowl. There was an expression on his pleasant face that few men had ever seen there, approaching nearly to an insolent defiance. Looking at those two, a child might have known that between them there was bitter hate.
But what of that? Are not the laws of society and the amenities of civilized life supreme over such trifles as personal animosities? How many women are there who never meet without mingling in a close embrace, when each is to the other a Brinvilliers in heart? My gentle cousin Kate, only last night I saw you greet your intimate enemy. It was the moat gus.h.i.+ng thing I ever imagined. The kisses were profuse and tantalizing in the extreme; yet I wish, if thoughts could kill, dearest Emma's neck would have been safer in the hug of a Norway bear than in the clasp of your white willowy arms.
Are there not men, sitting constantly at each other's tables, who, in the Golden Age, when people spoke and acted as they felt, would only have encountered at the sword's point?
If we hear that our mortal foe is ruined irretrievably, we betray no indecorous exultation, but smile complacently and say, ”We are not surprised;” or, if we have the chance, give him a last push to send him over the precipice on whose brink he is staggering. But as for any violent demonstration--bah! the _Vendetta_ is going out of fas.h.i.+on, even in Corsica, nowadays; only on the boards of the ”Princess's” does it have a run.
It is better so. Is it not far more creditable and less ridiculous for two of our reverend seniors, between whom there exists a deadly feud, to comport themselves with decent reserve toward each other, than to go vaporing about on crutches, stamping the foot that is not gouty, and blaspheming in a weak, cracked treble, like Capulet and Montague? Hot rooms and cold draughts are dangerous, but not so fatal as the Aqua Tofana, and other pleasant beverages more revolting and rapid in their effects. Could any thing be more harrowing to a well regulated mind than to see, in the midst of a neatly-turned compliment, one's partner literally _look black_ at one, and expire incontinently in great torments?
It is less romantic, but I prefer to be given an unmedicated rose. When I win a pair of gloves, it is a satisfaction to me to reflect that in Houbigant or Pivert there is no venom or guile.
All these consoling thoughts, and more, pa.s.sed through my mind that evening; yet I could not get rid of a strange, indistinct impression that it was only the presence of Livingstone which averted some great danger imminent over his cousin and Forrester.
CHAPTER XIII.
”This is all The gain we reap, from all the wisdom sown Through ages. Nothing doubted those first sons Of time; while we, the schooled of centuries, Nothing believe--”
We were scattered round the smoking-room, about midnight, in different att.i.tudes of repose. Bruce was of the party, decidedly out of his element. He did not like tobacco much, and only took a cigar as a sacrifice to the exigencies of the occasion, consuming the same with great toil and exertion of the lungs, and when he removed it from his lips, holding it at arm's length, like a viper or other venomous beast.
”Charley,” asked Fallowfield, at length, from the depths of his divan, ”how is the regiment going on? Insolvent as ever?”
”More so,” was the reply. ”When I came away they were thinking of framing a 5 note, and hanging it up in the ante-room, to show that we had _some_ money--just like the man who pitched loaves over the city-walls when they were dying of famine--but there was a difficulty about procuring one. However, we have been promised the son of an opulent brewer or distiller (I forget which, but I know he makes something to drink), who is to join before Easter. Perhaps he may set us afloat again.”
”Yes,” Guy remarked; ”fortunately, a martial spirit is abroad in the Third Estate. _Walbrook s'en va t'en guerre_. If there is one moneyed man in the lot, it seems sufficient to keep the others going. I often wonder how you manage; for, to do you justice, you don't plunder your Croesus. You deserve statues--as Sydney Smith would have said--_aeris alieni_.”
”I am not the rose, but I have lived with her,” responded Forrester, sententiously. ”That's the principle of the thing. When a subaltern arrives laden with gold, the barrack-yard is a perfect garden of Bendemeer to the tradesmen.”
”I believe it is precisely such regiments,” remarked Bruce, ”that the political economists have in view when they attack the army estimates.”
The observation was aggressive; but Charley's countenance was unruffled as the Dead Sea as he answered, ”Personal, but correct. You are intimate with Joseph Hume, probably? You look as if you were.” (These last words were a stage aside, not quite so inaudible as could be wished.) ”I think we should fight, if we had a chance, though.”
His lip wore a curious smile, and he raised himself on his arm to look the last speaker full in the face.
”Of course you would,” broke in Sir Henry; ”that's not a peculiarity of crack regiments or second sons. It's only in their baptism of fire that the young ones shrink and start; after that, the meekest of men develop themselves wonderfully. I heard an old Indian, the other day, speak of a case in point.