Story of Philip Brusque.
CHAPTER VI.
Serious Adventures.
It might seem that, under the circumstances described, Emilie would have been surprised and alarmed as the dark figure emerged from the shadow of the rock, and stood forth in the full light of the moon; but she betrayed no such emotion. On the contrary, she proceeded directly towards the person, and was soon clasped in his arms. The meeting was evidently one of affection; yet apparently there was more of grief than joy—for sobs and sighs seemed to choke the utterance of both. When at last they spoke, it was in broken sentences, yet in a low and subdued voice, as if they were apprehensive of discovery.
After remaining here for nearly half an hour, Emilie bade her companion a hasty farewell, and climbing up the rock, with a light and hurried step proceeded toward the tent which had now become her home. She was still at some distance, however, and as she was passing through a thicket of orange trees, she was abruptly accosted by a man, who placed himself in her path, and calling her by name, took hold of her arm, as if to arrest her progress. Emilie saw at a glance that it was Rogere, and her eye did not fail to remark, at a little distance, a dark group of men, whom she readily conjectured to be his companions.
Emilie felt that she was in danger, but she lost not her self-possession. Shaking off the grasp of Rogere, and standing aloof, she said—“Is it possible that this rudeness is offered by M. Rogere? It is a poor occupation for a gentleman to insult a woman, because she is alone and unprotected!”
“A gentleman!” said Rogere, sneeringly. “I am no gentleman, thanks to the gods—no, no, fair Emilie—I am something better—I am a freeman and a lover!”
“Indeed!” said Emilie. “Is he a freeman who takes advantage of the strength that nature has given him, to injure and distress one who is weaker than himself? Is he a lover, who wounds and insults the pretended object of his regard?”
“Nay, fair lady,” said Rogere; “this sounds mighty pretty, and in France would be heroic; but remember that we are not now under the tyranny of artificial laws and despotic fashion. We are now restored to the rights and privileges of nature. There is no government here, save that which is established by the God of nature.”
“I will not stay to hear you,” said the young lady, indignantly. “Every word you utter is an insult, every moment you detain me you are guilty of insolence and wrong. Shame, shame upon a Frenchman who can forget to be woman’s protector, and become woman’s tyrant!”
“Mighty fine all this, certainly; but remember that I repudiate France and the name of Frenchman: I am a man, that is enough, and I shall assert man’s privileges. You must listen; you shall hear me. Look around, and everywhere you see that in the dynasty of nature all is regulated by force. There is a power of gravitation, which controls matter, and bids the earth roll round in its orbit. Even matter, then, the very soil, the inanimate clod, the senseless stones, obey the law of force. And it is so with the animal tribes: among birds, the eagle is master of the raven; with quadrupeds, the lion is lord of the forest; with fishes, the whale is monarch of the deep.
“Then, in communities of animals, we see that everything is regulated by power; even among a band of wolves, the strongest has the first choice: privileges are exactly proportioned to power. It is so throughout nature—might is right. It is on this universal principle that I claim you as my own. I am the strongest man on the island; I have therefore a right to whatever I desire. Nay, lady, start not! you must, you shall listen! I have those near at hand who can and will aid me, if I do but utter the word. You shall listen—you shall obey! Why is woman made weaker than man, but that she is to be the servant of man?”
“M. Rogere,” said Emilie, sternly, “it is humiliation for me to be obliged to remain for one moment in your presence; it is degradation to be obliged to speak with you. For all this you will be made to answer.”
“By whom, pray? Who is there that can call me to account? There is no law here, remember, that can restrain or punish me. Nature has given me power, and I shall use it for my own pleasure.”
“I fear not that power; I fear neither you nor your menaces; and if I remain a moment here, it is not from respect to your strength. You dare not lay your hand upon me, for there is another power than that of limbs and muscles. If you are a man, you have a soul, and that soul has power over the body. Before you can, like the wolf, become a mere creature of selfishness, before you can act upon the principle that might is right, you must rid yourself of that soul, that thing within called conscience. Even now it is at work; it is this which makes you resort to false philosophy and shallow argument to justify an act that your humor dictates, but which your soul and conscience condemn. The wolf stops not to reason, but M. Rogere, who pleads the example of the wolf, cannot wholly shake off reason. He cannot imitate the brute, without offering an apology. The wolf is no coward, but M. Rogere is a coward; there is something within that tells him that he must not, shall not, dare not exert his strength against a woman!”
As Emilie uttered these words, she rose to her full height, her eye flashing with indignation. Rogere looked upon her with astonishment. As she moved to depart, his feet seemed riveted to the ground, and it was not till she had already proceeded a considerable distance towards her home, that he recovered his self-possession. He then set out in pursuit, and had no difficulty in soon overtaking the fugitive; but at the moment he was about to lay his hand upon her shoulder, his arm was arrested, and the well-known form of Brusque stood before him. “Hold!” said the latter, fiercely; “touch not that gentle being, or, by heaven, your audacity shall be punished. I have been near, watching over the safety of this lady, and I have heard your unmanly words to her. I now know your designs. Beware, or even your boasted strength shall be insufficient to protect you from the chastisement which an insolent coward deserves!”
Brusque waited not for reply. Leaving Rogere fixed to the spot and overwhelmed with confusion, he hastened forward, drew Emilie’s arm within his own, and proceeded with her to her house. The poor girl was almost fainting with agitation, and Brusque could do no less than enter the tent. After leaving her in her mother’s charge, and giving a few words of explanation, he departed. On the morrow he called to see her, but he found her feverish, and unable to leave her bed.
The next day, Emilie sent for Brusque, and the two friends had a long interview. She thanked him tenderly for his protection from the rudeness of Rogere; and although something seemed to weigh heavily upon his mind, he still seemed cheered and softened by her tenderness. “It is indeed most welcome to me, Emilie,” said he, “to hear you say these things—would that I were more worthy of your esteem.”
“Nay, dear Philip,” said Emilie, “do not be forever indulging such a feeling of humility—I might almost say of self-abasement. What is it that oppresses you? Why are you always speaking in such terms? It was not so once, my dear friend.”
“It was not indeed,” said Brusque. “Let me speak out, Emilie, and unburthen my bosom. I was at St. Adresse your happy lover. I then dared not only to love you, but to speak of my affection, and seek its return and reward. But I am changed.”
“Changed! how? when? what is it? changed? Yes, you are changed; for you are distant and reserved, and once you were all confidence and truth.”
“Listen, Emilie, for I will make you my confessor. I left our village home and went to Paris, and engaged with the ardor of youth in the Revolution; so much you know. But you do not know that I shared in the blood and violence of that fearful frenzy, and which I now look back upon as a horrid dream. You do not know that I was familiar with the deeds of Robespierre, and Danton, and Marat. Yet so I was. These hands have not indeed been dyed in the blood of my fellow-men, but yet I assisted in many of those executions, which now seem to me little better than murders. It is in your presence, Emilie, that I most deeply realize my delusion. There is something in your innocence and purity, which rebukes and reproaches my folly, and makes it appear as unpardonable wickedness. I once loved—nay, I love you still, Heaven only knows how truly; but I should ill act the part of a friend by allying your innocence to my degradation.”
Emilie was now in tears, and Brusque became much agitated. “Speak to me, my friend,” said he; “dry up those tears, and let your sense and reason come to our aid. I will be guided in all things by you; if you banish me, I will depart forever.”
“No, no indeed,” said the weeping girl. “You must stay—you must stay and protect my poor parents; you must stay and be my protector also, for Heaven only can tell how soon I shall stand in need of protection from violence and wrong.”
Brusque was evidently touched by this appeal, but the gleam that seemed to light up his face for a moment was instantly followed by a cloud upon his brow. Emilie saw it, and said, “Why this doubt? Why this concealment? What is it, Philip, that disturbs you?”
“I will be frank,” said he. “Since we have been upon this island, I may have seemed distant and indifferent towards you; but my heart has ever been with you, and indeed often, when you knew it not, I have been near you;—this night, I was on the rocks by the sea-shore, and witnessed your meeting with some one there. Tell me, Emilie, who was that person?”
Emilie was evidently disconcerted, but still she replied, firmly, “That is a secret, and must remain so for the present. It shall be explained in due time; but I pray you, do not seek to penetrate the mystery now.”
“Well, Emilie, it is not for one like me to dictate terms. My confidence in you is so complete, that I believe you are right, however strange it may seem, that, on this lone island, you are in the habit of meeting a man, and a stranger, upon the solitary sea-shore, and with marks of affection that seem only due to a brother!” Emilie started at these words, but she made no reply. Brusque went on. “I submit to your law of silence; but, my dear Emilie, as you have appointed me your protector, and given me a right to consider myself as such, let me tell you that events are approaching which will demand all our courage, as well as our wisdom; and I cannot but feel the most anxious fears as to the result.”
“You allude to the state of the island.”
“I do. The anarchy is now at its height. Rogere has rallied round him the rough and the ignorant, and taught them that license is liberty. While he cajoles them with dreams of freedom, he is seeking his own object, which is to become sole master and despot of this island; and I fear these deluded men will be his dupes and instruments. It is always the case that the ignorant and degraded portion of the community are disposed to run after those who flatter, only to cheat them.
“The condition of the island is in every respect becoming alarming. The fruits, that were lately so abundant, are fast diminishing, because they belong to no one in particular; and no one has any power or interest to preserve them. We have no fields tilled, for the lands are common to all. If a man were to cultivate a field, he has no right to it, and if he had, there is no government which can secure to him the product of his toil. Everything is therefore going to waste and ruin. We shall soon be in danger of starving if this state of things continues. Nor is this the worst. Rogere will soon bring matters to a crisis, and try the law of force.”
“And what is your plan?”
“I intend to procure, if possible, a meeting of all the men of the island to-morrow, and after showing them the actual state of things, and the absolute necessity of established laws to save us from famine and from cutting each other’s throats, I shall appeal to them once more in behalf of settled government. I have hopes as to the result—but still, my fears outweigh them. It is impossible to yield to the demands of Rogere. Nothing but giving up all to him and his brutal followers, will satisfy him. If we cannot obtain the consent of a majority to the formation of some settled laws, we must come to the question of necessity and determine it by blows. If it comes, it will be a struggle of life and death.”
“I know it, dear Philip; I have long foreseen it.”
“I am glad that you take it so calmly. I should be flattered if your quiet were the result of confidence in me.”
“Well, well, but you are fishing for a compliment, and I will not tell you that I depend on you alone! I may have hopes from another source.”
“Will you tell me from whom?”
“Nay—I shall keep my secret; but be assured that in the hour of danger, should it come, Heaven will send us succor. Good night.”
“Good night, dear Emilie—good night.” And so the lovers parted.
Brusque sought his home, but with mingled feelings of pleasure and pain. The restoration of former relations between him and Emilie, was a source of the deepest satisfaction; but many circumstances combined to cloud his brow, and agitate his heart with anxiety.
