“I choose to know nothing about it, except that it carries more probability than most stories one hears. The world in general is, fortunately, not incredulous, and I have seen a man ‘broke’ on lighter evidence. Well, you will take your own course, and I shall take mine. I fancy we understand each other—at last.”
By a superhuman effort the unlucky ecclesiastic did contrive to mutter something about his “determination to do his duty.” Royston listened to him with his worst smile.
“I’ll take my chance about that,” he said. “I feel tolerably safe. Now I’ll leave you to settle the affair between your interest and your conscience.”
He turned on his heel, and strode away without another word. Long after he was out of sight the chaplain stood fixed in the same attitude of panic-stricken, helpless despondency. By my faith! even in these degenerate days, we have petrifying influences left that may match the head of the Gorgon.
Meanwhile, the others were wending slowly homeward, truly in a very different mood from that in which they had gone forth that morning. Even as no man can be pronounced happy till the hour of his death, so can no excursion or entertainment be called successful till night has fairly closed in. Caprice of climate is only one of the many sources of disappointment, and the event justifies so seldom our sanguine predictions that we have little right to complain of false and fallible barometers. It is worthy of remark how often these trifles illustrate that trite and time-honored simile of Life. The vessel starts gayly enough, heeling over gracefully to the land-wind in the old, approved fashion—“Youth at the prow, and pleasure at the helm”—there is not a misgiving in the heart of any of the passengers; they can not help pitying those left behind on the shore. What a cheery adieu they wave to the friends who come down to wish them “good-speed!” After a voyage more or less prolonged the same ship drifts in slowly shoreward, over the harbor-bar, under the calm of the solemn sunset. Even the deepening twilight can not disguise the evidences of a terrible “sea-change.” Not a trace of paint or gilding remains on the wave-worn, shattered timbers. Sails rent and cordage strained tell tales of many storm-gusts, or, perchance, of one tornado; and see! her flag is flying half-mast high: the corpse of the Pilot is on board. Let us stand aside, lest we meet the passengers as they land. It were worse than mockery to ask how the yachting trip has sped.
Miss Tresilyan rode somewhat in advance of the rest, under her brother’s escort. Dick was a model in his own line, and other brothers-of-beauties might well imitate his moderation and discretion. He never thrust himself into the conversation, or into her presence, when there was a chance of his intrusion being ill-timed, but was always at hand when he was wanted: the slightest sign, or even a glance, from Cecil, brought him to her side, and there he would march for hours in silent but perfect satisfaction. On the present occasion he seemed disposed to be unwontedly talkative, and to indulge in certain speculations relative to the intelligence they 50 had just heard. It was true, he knew it before, but nothing had been disclosed to him beyond the simple fact that Royston was married, and married unhappily. Cecil checked him gently, but very decidedly.
“I had rather not hear or say one word on the subject. It ought not to interest either of us. In good time, I suppose, we shall be told all that it is fitting we should know. Meanwhile, it would be very wrong to make conjectures. No one has any right to pry into Major Keene’s affairs if he chooses to keep them secret. I do not believe any one ever did so, even in thought, without repenting it. I dare say Mr. Fullarton will find this out soon, and I shall not pity him in the least. A person ought to be punished who tries to startle people in that disagreeable way. Did you hear Fanny’s little shriek? I have not had time to laugh at her about it yet. The path is too narrow for two to ride abreast.”
The light tone and manner of her last words might have deceived a closer observer than honest Dick Tresilyan. He lapsed into silence; but, after some time, his meditations assumed a cheerfully-roseate hue, as they resolved themselves into the fixed idea that Royston was lingering behind “to have it out with the parson.”
Some distance in the rear walked Harry Molyneux, holding dutifully his wife’s bridle-rein. It was very touching to see the diffidence and humility with which he proffered his little attentions, which were accepted, as it were, under protest. The truth was that la mignonne had forgiven him already, and it was with great difficulty she refrained from telling him so, by word or smile. Her soft heart melted within her at the sight of the criminal’s contrition, and decided that he had done penance enough during the last half hour to atone for a graver misdemeanor; but she deferred asking for explanations till a more convenient season, when there should be no chance of interruption; and meanwhile, on grounds of stern political necessity, elle le boudait. (If any elegant scholar will translate that Gallicism for me literally, I shall feel obliged to him.)
Fancy the sensations of a man fighting his frigate desperately against overwhelming odds, when he sees the outline of a huge “liner,” with English colors at the main, looming dimly through the smoke, close on the enemy’s quarter; or those of the commander of an untenable post when the first bayonets of the relieving force glitter over the crest of the hill, and you will have a fair idea of Harry’s relief as he looked back and saw Keene rapidly gaining on them with his swift, slashing stride. As he fell back and yielded his post to Royston, this was written so plainly on his face that the latter could not repress a smile; but there was little mirth in his voice when he addressed Fanny—she had never heard him speak so gently and gravely: “I know that you are angry with your husband, as well as with me, for keeping you in the dark so long. I must make his peace with you, even if I fail in making my own. He could not tell you one word without breaking a promise given years ago. If he had done so, in spite of the excuse of the strong temptation, I would never have trusted him again. Ah! I see you have done him justice already: that is good of you. Now for my own part. Why I did not choose to let you into the secret as soon as I began to know you well I can hardly say. Hal will tell you all about it, and you will see that, for once, I was more sinned against than sinning; so I was not afraid of your thinking worse of me for it. Perhaps the last thing that a man likes to confess is his one arch piece of folly, especially if he has paid for it as heavy a price as attaches to most crimes. I think I am not sorry that you were kept in the dark till now. The past has given me some pleasant hours with you that might have been darkened if you had known all. I wish you would forgive me. We have always been such good friends, and, in your sex at least, I can reckon so few.”