Part 40 (1/2)

The Tressillian laughed--a mischievous, _provoquant_ laugh. ”No, I believe neither in sudden conversions nor sudden friends.h.i.+ps. Pray do not trouble yourself to be 'just' to me; you see I did not droop and die under the shadow of your wrath.”

”Oh no,” said Telfer, with a sardonic twist of his moustaches, ”one would not accuse you of too much softness, Miss Tressillian.”

She colored, and the pride of her family flashed out of her eyes. The Tressillians are all deucedly proud, and would die sooner than yield an inch. ”If by softness you mean weakness, you are right,” she said, haughtily. ”As I have told you, we never forgive injustice.”

Telfer frowned. If there was one thing he hated more than another, it was a woman who had anything hard about her. He smiled his chilliest smile. ”Those are harsh words from a lady's lips--not so becoming to them as something gentler. You remind me, Miss Tressillian, of a young panther I once had, beautiful to look at, but eminently dangerous to approach, much less to caress. Everybody admired my panther, but no one dared to choose it for a pet.”

With this uncourteous allegory the Major turned away, leaving Violet to make it out as best she might. It was good fun to watch the Tressillian's face: I only, standing near, had caught what he said, for he had spoken very low. First she looked haughty and annoyed, then a little troubled and perplexed: she sat quiet a minute, playing thoughtfully with her bracelets; then shook her head with a movement of defiance, and began to sing a Venetian barcarole with more _elan_ and spirit than ever.

”By Jove! Telfer,” said I, as we sat in the smoking-room that night, ”your would-have-been mother-in-law has plenty of pluck. She'd have kept you in good training, and made a better boy of you; it's quite a loss to your morals that your father didn't marry her.”

Telfer didn't look best pleased. He stretched himself full length on one of the divans, and answered not.

”I shouldn't be surprised if, with all her beauty, she hangs on hand,”

said Walsham, ”for she hasn't a rap, you know; her governor gamed it all away, and she's certainly a bit of a flirt.”

”I don't think so,” said Telfer, shortly.

”Oh, by George! don't you? but I do,” cried Fred. ”Why, she takes a turn at us all, from old De Tintiniac, with his padded figure and coulisses compliments, to Marc, young and beautiful, as the novels say,--but we'll spare his blushes--from Vane, there, with his long rent-roll, to poor me, who she knows goes on tick for my weeds and gloves. She flirts with us all, one after the other, except you, whom she don't dare to touch.

Tell me where you get your _noli me tangere_ armor, Telfer, and I'll adopt it to-morrow, for the girls make such desperate love to me I know some of them will propose before long.”

Telfer smoked vigorously during Fred's peroration, and his brow darkened. ”I do not consider Miss Tressillian a flirt,” he said, slowly.

”She's too careless in showing you her weak points to be trying to trap you. What _I_ call a coquette is a woman who is all things to all men, whose every languis.h.i.+ng glance is a bait, and whose every thought is a conquest.”

”And pray how can you tell but what the Tressillian's naturalness and carelessness may be only a superior bit of acting? The highest art, you know, is to imitate nature so close that you can't tell which is which,”

laughed Walsham.

Telfer didn't seem to relish the suggestion, but went on smoking fiercely.

”Not that I want to speak against the girl,” Fred went on; ”she's very amusing, and well enough, I dare say, if she weren't so devilish proud.”

”You seem rather inconsistent,” said Telfer, impatiently. ”First, you accuse her of being too free, and then blame her for being too reserved.”

Walsham laughed.

”If I'm inconsistent, you're a perfect weatherc.o.c.k. A month ago you were calling Violet every name you could think of, and now you snap us all off short if we say a word against her.”

Telfer looked haughty enough to extinguish Fred upon the spot; Fred being a small, lively little chap, with not the slightest dignity about him.

”I know little or nothing of Miss Tressillian, but as I was the first to prejudice you all against her, it is only common honor to take her part when I think her unjustly attacked.”

Fred gave me a wink of intense significance, but remonstrated no further, for Telfer had something of the dark look upon him that our men knew so well when he led them down to the slaughter at Alma and Balaklava.

”I tell you,” continued the Major, after a little silence, ”that I am disgusted with myself for having listened to whispers and reports, and believed in them just because they suited the bias of my prejudice. It didn't matter to me whom my father married, as far as money went, for beyond 10,000_l._ or so, it must all come in the entail; but I couldn't endure the idea of his being chiselled by some Becky Sharp or Blanche Armory, and I made up my mind that the Tressillian was of that genre.

I've changed my opinion now. I don't think she either is an actress or an intrigante; and I should be a coward indeed if I hesitated to say so, out of common justice to a young girl who has no one to defend her.”

”Bravo, my boy!” said Walsham; ”I thought the Tressillian's bright eyes wouldn't let you hate her long. You're quite right, though 'pon my life it is really horrid how women contrive to damage each other. If there's an unlucky girl who has made the best match of the season--she might be an angel from heaven--her bosom-friends would manage gently to spread abroad the interesting facts that she's a 'dreadful flirt,' 'has a snub nose,' is an awful temper, had a ballet-girl for her mamma, or something detrimental. An attractive woman is the target for all her s.e.x to shoot their sneers at, and if the poor thing isn't so riddled with arrows that she's no beauty left, it isn't her sisters' fault.”

”I believe you,” said Telfer. ”My gauge of a woman's fascinations is the amount of hatred all the others bear her. It often amuses me to hear the tone that ladies take in talking of some girl whom we admire. She's a charming creature--a darling--their particular friend but ... there's always a 'but' to neutralize the praise, and with their honeyed hatred they contrive to d.a.m.n the luckless object irretrievably. If another man's a good shot, or whip, or billiard-player, we're not spiteful to him for it. We think him a good fellow, and like him the better; but the dear _beau s.e.xe_ cannot bear a rival, and never rest while one of their acquaintance has diamonds a carat larger, dresses a trifle more costly, has finer horses, or more conquests. The only style of friend I ever heard women speak well of is some plain and timorous individual, good-natured to foolery, and weak as water, who never comes in their orbit, and whom we never look at; and then what a darling she is, and how eloquently they will laud her to the skies, despising her miserably all the while for not having been born pretty!”