If he had spoken with his ordinary accent, Fanny would scarcely have yielded so readily, but the strange sadness of his tone moved her deeply. A mist gathered in her gentle eyes as she looked at him for some moments in silence, and then held out a timid little tremulous hand.
“I should not have liked you worse for knowing that you had been unhappy once,” she whispered; “but I ought never to have been vexed at not being taken into confidence. I don’t think I am wise or steady enough to keep secrets; only I wish—I do wish—that you had told Cecil Tresilyan.”
He answered her in his old cool, provoking way, “I know what you mean to imply, but you do Miss Tresilyan less than justice, and me too much honor. What right have you to infer that I look upon her in any other light than a very charming acquaintance, or that she feels any deeper interest in to-day’s revelation than if she had heard unexpectedly that any one of her friends was married? Surprises are seldom agreeable, especially when they are so clumsily brought about. I am sure she has not told you any thing to justify your suspicions.”
Fanny was the worst casuist out. She was seldom certain about her facts, and when she happened to be so, had not sufficient pertinacity or confidence to push her advantage. Her favorite argument was ever ad misericordiam. “I wish I could quite believe you,” she said, plaintively; “but I can’t, and it makes me very unhappy. You must see that you ought to go.”
Her evident fear of him touched Royston more sharply than the most venomous reproach or the most elaborate sarcasm could have done; but he would not betray how it galled him. “Three days ago,” he replied, “I had almost decided on departure; now it does not altogether depend on me. But you need not be afraid. I shall not worry you long; and while I stay I have no wish, and, I believe, no power, to do any one any harm.” She looked at him long and earnestly, but failed to extract any farther confession from the impenetrable face. Keene would not give her the chance of pursuing the subject, but called up Harry to help him in turning the conversation into a different channel and keeping it there. Between the two they held the anxieties and curiosities of the oppressed mignonne at bay till they entered Dorade.
They were obliged to pass the Terrasse on their way home: there, alone, under the shadow of the palms, sat Armand de Châteaumesnil. The invalid’s great haggard eyes fixed themselves observantly on Cecil Tresilyan as she went by. He 51 laid his hand on the major’s sleeve when he came to his side, and said, in a hoarse whisper, “Qu’as tu fait donc, pour l’atterrer ainsi?” The other met the searching gaze without flinching, “Je n’en sais rien; seulement—on dit que je suis marié.” If the Algerian had been told on indisputable authority that Paris and its inhabitants had just been swallowed up by an earthquake, he would only have raised his shaggy brows in a faint expression of surprise, exactly as he did now. “Tu es marié?” he growled out. “A laquelle donc des deux doit on compâtir—Madame ou Mademoiselle?” Yet he did not like Keene the worse for the impatient gesture with which the latter shook himself loose, muttering, “Je vous croyais trop sage, M. le Vicomte, pour vous amuser avec ces balivernes de romancier.”
Fanny Molyneux and Cecil passed the evening together tête-à-tête. That kind little creature had a way of taking other people’s turn of duty in the line of penitence and apology. On the present occasion she was remarkably gushing in her contrition, though her own guilt was infinitesimal; but she met with scanty encouragement. She had found time to extract from Harry all the details of the matrimonial misadventure, and wished to give her friend the benefit of them. Miss Tresilyan would not listen to a word. She did not attempt to disguise the interest she felt in the subject, but said that she preferred hearing the circumstances from Royston’s own lips. With all this her manner had never been more gentle and caressing: she succeeded at last in deluding Fanny into the belief that every body was perfectly heart-whole, and that no harm had been done, so that that night la mignonne slept the sleep of the innocent, no misgivings or forebodings troubling her dreams. Those brave women!—when I think of the pangs that they suffer uncomplainingly, the agonies that they dissemble, I am inclined to esteem lightly our own claims to the Cross of Valor. How many of them there are who, covering with their white hand the dagger’s hilt, utter with a sweet, calm smile, and lips that never tremble, the falsehood holier than most outspoken truths—P[oe]tus non angit!
When Cecil returned home Mrs. Danvers was waiting for her, ready with any amount of condolence and indignation. She checked all this, as she well knew how to do; and at last was alone in her own chamber. Then the reaction came on; with natures such as hers, it is a torture not to be forgotten while life shall endure.
There were not wanting in Dorade admirers and sentimentalists, who were wont to watch the windows of The Tresilyan as long as light lingered there. How those patient, unrequited astronomers would have been startled if their eyes had been sharp enough to penetrate the dark recess where she lay writhing and prone, her stricken face veiled by the masses of her loosened hair, her slender hands clenched till the blood stood still in their veins, in an agony of stormy self-reproach, and fiery longing, and injured pride; or if their ears had caught the sound of the low, bitter wail that went up to heaven like the cry from Gehenna of some fair, lost spirit, “My shame—my shame!”
Under favor of the audience, we will drop the curtain here. One of our puppets shall appear to-night no more. When a heroine is once on the stage, the public has a right to be indulged with the spectacle of her faults and follies, as well as of her virtues and excellences; yet I love the phantasm of my queenly Cecil too well to parade her discrowned and in abasement.