Clide began to fear he was making himself disagreeable; that she was taking a dislike to him. Happily, before he committed himself further, M. de la Bourbonais came out and joined them. He was soon followed by Sir Simon and the admiral, and the little party sat down to Angélique’s chefs-d’œuvre under the shade of the medlar-tree, with the doves sounding their bugle in the adjoining copse. The sun was setting, and sent a stream of orange and rose colored light into the garden and over the group at the table; a breeze came up from the river, fluttering the strawberry leaves and Franceline’s hair, and blowing the heavy scent of new-mown hay into her face. It happened—of course by chance, unless that far-sighted old Angélique had a hand in it—that Clide was seated next to her; and as the leg of the long table made a space between her and Sir Simon, it was natural that the two young people should be thrown on their own resources for conversation, while their elders at the other end talked incessantly of old times and people that neither Clide nor Franceline cared about. It was the first time in her life that she found herself the object of direct homage and attention from a young yet mature man, and the experience was decidedly pleasant. Clide was determined to efface the bad impression that he imagined he had made, and to win Franceline’s good graces or die in the effort. It was not a very difficult task, and the zest with which he set about it proved that it was not a disagreeable one. He bent all the energies of his mind to the sole end of interesting and entertaining her, and soon the undisguised pleasure that shone in the listener’s face showed that he was succeeding. With that instinct which quickens the perception of young gentlemen in Clide de Winton’s present state of mind, he was not long in hitting upon the subjects that most excited her curiosity. She had never been beyond the woods of Dullerton since she was of an age to observe things, and it was like a flight in a balloon over all these far-off countries to be carried there in imagination by the vivid descriptions of one who had seen them all. Clide began to wonder at himself as he went on; he had never suspected himself of such brilliant conversational powers as he was now displaying. He was surprised to see how much the dreamy, dark eyes had read about the various countries he spoke of, and what an enlightened interest she took in the natural history of each. She wanted to know a great deal about the splendid tropical birds that have no voices, and about the albatross and other marvellous inhabitants of the skies in far-away lands; and Clide lent himself with the utmost condescension to her catechising. But when he came to talking of Rome and the Catacombs, the eyes kindled with a different sort of interest.
“And you saw the very spot where S. Cecilia was buried, and S. Agatha, and S. Agnes, who was only thirteen when she was martyred? Oh! how I envy you. I would walk all the way barefooted from this to see those sacred places. And the Colosseum, where the wild beasts tore the martyrs to pieces!” She clasped her hands and looked at him with the look of awe and wonder that we might bestow on some one who had seen a vision. “And the tombs of the apostles, and the prison where S. Peter was when the angel came and set him free?”
“Yes, I saw them all; it was a great privilege,” said Clide, conscious of realizing for the first time how great.
“Indeed it was!” murmured Franceline, as if speaking to herself; then suddenly looking up at him, “Did it not make you long to be a martyr?”
Clide hesitated. The temptation to answer “yes” was very strong. The dark, appealing eyes were fixed on him with an expression that it was dreadful to disappoint; but he was too honest and too proud to steal her approval under false colors.
“No, I am afraid I did not. I saw it all too much from the historical point of view. The triumphs of the Christian heroes were mixed up in my memory with too many classical associations; and even if it had not been so, I confess that the phase of martyrdom recalled by the Colosseum and the Catacombs is not the one to stir my slow heroic pulses. There is too much of the ghastly physical strife on the one hand, and of wanton cruelty on the other; the contemplation rather shocks and harrows than stimulates me. I did once feel something like what you describe, but it was not in Rome.”
“Where was it?” inquired Franceline eagerly.
“It was in Africa, amongst a tribe of savages. I remember feeling it would be a grand use of a man’s life to devote it to rescuing them from their deplorable state of mental darkness and physical degradation; and that if one died in the struggle, like Francis Xavier, an outcast on the sea-shore, forsaken by every visible helpmate, it would be as noble a death as a man could wish to die.”
“I wonder you did not follow the impulse,” said Franceline. “You might have converted thousands of those poor savages, and been a second S. Francis Xavier. It must have been a great struggle not to try it.”
Clide did not laugh, but went on gravely dipping his strawberries into sugar for a moment, and then said: