Читать книгу The Vision Splendid (D. K. Broster) (Literary Thoughts Edition) - D. K. Broster - Страница 17

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In the course of a week it had become abundantly clear to Tristram Hungerford that the Comte de la Roche-Guyon, young as he was, had made a close study of the fair sex, if, indeed, he did not consider himself an authority upon it. It was therefore without surprise, if without appreciation, that Tristram listened perforce, this Wednesday morning, to a dissertation on the subject. The two were on their way to Compton Rectory; their horses had dropped to a walk, and under the bright, windy September sky the young Frenchman imparted to his host the fruit of ripe reflection on the dames of Britain.

"Every time that I am in England," he said, gesticulating with his riding-whip, "I am struck afresh with the curious – how do you call it – limitations of the English ladies. They have so much in their favour, and yet – pardon me that I say it – if you desire the fresh toilette, the graceful walk and gesture, ease in conversation, knowledge of coquetry, you must seek for them in France, for a real Englishwoman knows nothing of them."

"But I thought that our English ladies were supposed to model themselves nowadays on those of the Continent," objected Tristram, keeping the ball rolling out of politeness.

Armand de la Roche-Guyon nearly dropped his reins. "Mais, mon Dieu, that makes it worse!" he exclaimed. "In a party of English ladies you can indeed observe that each has taken a hint from the Continent for her dress or her manner, and the result, ma foi, is often to make die of laughter. I have seen ... but that would not interest you ... Tenez, the way an Englishwoman sits down upon a chair, have you ever thought to remark that? It is as if chance alone had caused her to fall there! She sits down without paying the least attention to her dress. But the care with which a Frenchwoman places herself in an armchair, taking hold of her robe on either side, raising her arms gently as a bird spreads its wings! Even if she should be exhausted by laughing or half-fainting from emotion, still her dress will remain untumbled. It is worth remarking, I assure you!"

Certainly these observations would never have occurred to Mr. Hungerford, and to judge by his expression, he had small wish even to make them vicariously. His companion was instantly aware of this.

"Forgive me, mon ami! I see that you think it is not convenable that I should thus criticise your fair compatriots, whom, du reste, I admire from the bottom of my heart. And let me assure you that I have no criticisms for Miss Grenville; she is perfection itself."

"You are very good," replied Tristram, without trying to suppress the irony of his tone.

The corners of the Comte's mouth twitched, and to Tristram's relief he touched up his horse for a sign that the subject was done with. As their hoofs rang sharply on the road the Englishman glanced once or twice at the clear profile beside him, stamped so visibly with the mark of race – and with what else? That was the question. Armand seemed to him such a boy – but not an English boy. Well, he was very attractive, but – –

As they were fastening up their horses outside the Rectory, the subject of these speculations suddenly said, with an air of great earnestness, "Mon ami, I wish you would explain to me one trait in the English character which I have never been able to understand. An Englishman is so haughty, he has such high notions of what befits a gentleman, and yet he will receive money from the man who has seduced his wife. If I had run away with the wife of an Englishman, I should expect to give him the chance of putting a bullet into me, but he would expect me to pay him in bank notes the value of the lady – how one estimates that I know not. Can you solve me this problem of the English character?"

Though the Rectory drawing-room was empty, Tristram did not attempt to elucidate this point, and his questioner, whose query was probably only rhetorical, sat and gazed with deep and silent attention at a picture of Daniel in the lions' den, worked in silks, which hung over the sofa. Then the door opened, and admitted the Rector, looking rather worried.

"Ah, M. de la Roche-Guyon, I am very glad to see you! Tristram, this Otmoor business is disgraceful! I hear there was a riot in Oxford on Monday night, and that the mob succeeded in releasing the prisoners."

"It is true," returned Tristram. "We were in Oxford on Monday evening, La Roche-Guyon and I, and saw it – – "

"Saw it! Well, was it as bad as I have heard?"

"There was rather a scrimmage," admitted the young man. "The soldiers had no chance against the mob. St. Giles's Fair was on, of course, and it was in St. Giles that they rescued the Otmoor prisoners – about sixty of them – from the waggons."

"And what were the escort about, pray?" demanded Mr. Grenville indignantly. "What were they, by the way?"

"Oxfordshire Yeomanry. They held their own as well as they could, and had rather the advantage, as far as we could see, till they turned down Beaumont Street. Then the crowd got the better of them."

The Rector shrugged his shoulders. "I cannot conceive what you must think of us, M. le Comte," he said, turning to the Frenchman. "You will imagine that the reign of law and order is coming to an end in England."

"As in France," finished Armand good-humouredly. "Ma foi, M. le Recteur, it has reminded me a little of the Days of July; I own that I have not expected to see street fighting in England, and in a city so calm, so academic as Oxford! But one never knows. There was one soldier – a sergeant I think – who ceased not to fight till he was disabled. The populace were fierce against him ... It is strange, how John Bull loves not the military. I have remarked it before. (These observations are harmless, mon ami, is it not?) John Bull thinks much more of the taxes which he pays to keep up the army than he does of military glory. That he calls stuff. Is not that so?"

"What you say is profoundly true," answered Mr. Grenville, impressed; but at that moment the door opened and Horatia came in.

An "Oh!" of surprise escaped her, for she imagined the young Frenchman to have gone, and without taking leave.

"You are a ghost!" she said to him, recovering herself. "I thought you were leaving us to-day."

Tristram broke in. "I have persuaded M. de la Roche-Guyon to stay till the beginning of next week, because I had the idea that he might care to go to the Charity Ball which Lady Carte is getting up on Monday, and also I thought of arranging my little dinner-party for this Saturday, if the date suits you and the Rector? I know that it is all right for Dormer."

Miss Grenville looked at her father. "That will be charming. It will do excellently for us. May we ask if there is to be anyone else besides Mr. Dormer?"

"Yes, I am going on now to ask the Edward Puseys; they are still at Pusey with Lady Lucy, I believe."

"I think they must be," corroborated Horatia, "for I met him driving his wife over to call on the Mainwarings two or three days ago. He did not look much as if he were thinking of what he was doing."

"I am glad that you are going to ask them, Tristram," commented the Rector, who had known the Pusey brothers since they were boys. "That young man's learning is stupendous. Too much was made, in my opinion, of his supposed sympathy with the new German theology, and I am glad that he did get the Chair of Hebrew."

"And I am glad too," added his daughter, "because they have such comfortable lodgings at Christ Church. I hope I shall stay there again some day. I like Mrs. Pusey, and it is so romantic to think that they waited ten years for each other, but I am rather frightened of him."

"Permit me to say that I don't believe you are really frightened of anybody in the world," observed Tristram smiling.

"Tristram, how can you say so! I am dust and ashes before Papa when he is really cross – and terrified of you, when you are in your conscience mood. – Is there anyone else?"

"We are short of ladies, and I thought it would interest M. de la Roche-Guyon to meet the Trenchards, who are staying just now with their aunt, so I shall ask her to come and bring them."

"Very nice," murmured the Rector. "Beautiful girls, if they are like their elder sisters – though, of course, none of them could ever compare with their step-sister, the French one."

Horatia turned to Armand, who had been sitting unusually silent. "Doesn't it flatter you, Monsieur, that Papa's ideal woman should be French?"

"Mademoiselle," returned the Comte instantly, with an inclination, "our ideal women are always of another nationality than our own!"

Tristram got up. "Well, we must be getting on, if that is settled, and you can both come on Saturday." M. de la Roche-Guyon also rose, very slowly.

"No, Tristram," interjected the Rector, laying hold of his arm, "you positively must stay ten minutes, because I've had this letter from Liverpool about James Stack and his wife emigrating to Canada. I had thought I should be able to get them off almost at once, but the shipping company say – there, you'd better see it." He fumbled in his pockets. "Horatia, suppose you take M. de la Roche-Guyon into the garden for five minutes."

Horatia was preceding the guest down the path when he said softly behind her: "There are advantages, after all, in Canada's having passed into English hands. As a Frenchman, I never expected to admit them."

"Why, what" – began Miss Grenville, stopping, and then suddenly finding his meaning quite clear. She coloured, was angry with herself, and tried to retrieve her slip by saying, "Papa has helped two or three of the parish to emigrate out there."

Armand was now walking beside her, along the line of flowers where autumn had begun to lay a hand in the week that had passed since he had sat there. But he showed no disposition to follow up his sally. On the contrary he looked rather moody, almost cross. It was a new phase. And after a moment or two he said, kicking a stone along the path:

"I am not looking forward to this dinner-party, Mademoiselle. Mr. Hungerford is too kind. What have you and I to do with these grave persons? I don't know Hebrew!"

It was new to Horatia to be classed among the more frivolous portion of an assembly, and classed there by, and in conjunction with, a young man. "Ah, but you forget the Trenchard girls," she said lightly. "They do not know Hebrew either, and they are very pretty. Their mother is French; have you not heard about them?"

"Mr. Hungerford told me something, but I am afraid I did not listen; I was not interested."

"But you ought to be interested. It is rather romantic. Their mother, when she was quite young, was a lady-in-waiting to Madame Elisabeth. She fled to England, and her lover – who was a Frenchman, of course – fought through the Vendean war and came to England and married her. But next year he went back with the expedition to Quiberon, and was killed there. I can't remember his name. Then she married Mr. Trenchard, a Suffolk squire, and had several children, I think about eight – anyhow Trenchards have been staying here with Mrs. Willoughby, who is Mr. Trenchard's sister, ever since I can remember. And once I saw Mrs. Trenchard herself; somehow she did not look as if she had been through all those things as a girl."

Her hearer lent her sufficient interest, at any rate he was looking at her, a tiny frown between his dark eyebrows. "But you spoke of another daughter?"

"The child of the Vendean – born after his death, I believe. I never saw her. But Papa remembers her; more beautiful and gracious than one can possibly imagine, he says. She went into a convent in Rome."

M. de la Roche-Guyon said nothing, and having come to the end of the path Horatia stooped to a late rose in the border. She was finding his evident ill-humour oddly disturbing.

"Let us speak of the ball on Monday – my last day," he said watching her. "How many dances will you vouchsafe me – in the cause of charity?"

And Miss Grenville, plucking the wet rose, found herself replying, to her no small amazement:

"That depends on Mr. Hungerford."

"Comment!" exclaimed the young Frenchman, stepping backwards. "Mais, juste ciel, il n'est pas votre fiancé!" His eyes blazed at her, and he had quite perceptibly paled; it was obvious that he was unaware of his lapse into his own tongue.

"Certainly not," replied Horatia with dignity. (She had been right about his eyes; they could look fury.) "But he is a very old friend and kinsman, and we always arrange to dance so many together."

Armand de la Roche-Guyon made a gesture, and smiled, quite sweetly. "I understand – mais parfaitement! Comme vous êtes femme ... adorablement femme!" He touched her hand a second, and Tristram and the Rector came down the path.