I saw there two hammocks as white as snow, a small table, and a wash-stand shining like a mirror; two portraits, coarsely but naturally painted,—the one, their mother, with a grave, sweet face (both resembled her greatly), the other, their father, whose masculine and open countenance showed good humour and loyalty. Between these two portraits, and for ornament alone, their arms were fastened to the oaken wainscoting of their little room.
Often when the schooner, well under way, ploughed its furrow of white foam across the quiet waters of the Mediterranean, Williams and Geordy would seat themselves side by side upon a gun, and there, with locked arms, serious and pensive countenances, they piously read an old Bible with brass fastenings, resting it upon their knees, and only interrupting their reading to cast an occasional melancholy glance upon the broad and solitary horizon,—a distraction which was an act of homage to the greatness of God.
At other times, when this religious reading was finished, the two brothers would fall into long talks.
One day I had the curiosity to overhear one of their conversations. I seated myself near the cannon, where they usually sat, and, after exchanging a few words with them, I pretended to be asleep.
I heard them then exchanging innocent confidences of their hopes, recalling pleasant memories of their country, encouraging each other to serve Falmouth well, this noble protector of their family, for whom they showed this respectful, almost filial, attachment that is maintained sometimes among us for several successive generations by followers of the family (in the feudal acceptation of the word)[3] for the noble houses which patronise them.
When the two brothers spoke of the lord, it was always without irreverence, without envy, and, more than all, without any bitter and jealous reflection upon their own obscure and poor condition.
Once they related some particulars in the life of Falmouth which struck me with surprise. This man, whom I had believed so blasé as to all human feelings, had a thousand times manifested the most generous kindness, the most exquisite delicacy. Williams and Geordy spoke of it with admiration.
In proportion as I lived more intimately with Henry, my surprise increased.
Each day I discovered in him the noblest qualities, so opposite to the fictitious or real character under which I had known him before. His disposition was of a serenity without its equal; his penetration, his ingenuity, prodigious; his mind of a rare dignity.
Soon, in our long conversations, I noticed that his irony became less sharp, his observation less caustic, his scepticism less implacable; it might be said that little by little he put off pieces of armour which he recognised as useless.