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Keene had spent some time with the Molyneuxs during the autumn and winter, and had conducted himself so far with perfect propriety, certainly keeping Harry straighter than he would have gone alone; for he was, unluckily, of a convivial turn of mind wholly incompatible with delicate health and a frail constitution. Being a favorite with the world in general, he felt bound, I suppose, to reciprocate, so, albeit strictly enjoined to keep the earliest hours, he would sit up till dawn if any one encouraged him, and then come home, perfectly sober perhaps, but staggering from mere weakness. He did not care for deep drinking in the least, but the number of magnums he had assisted in flooring, when on a regimen of “three glasses of sherry,” would have made a double row of nails round the coffin of a larger man. Nature, however, being a Dame, won’t stand being slighted, or having her admonitions disregarded, and the way she asserted herself on the morrow was retributive in the extreme. Harry was always so very ill after one of those nights “upon the war-path.” 5 On such occasions, his feelings, without being quite remorseful, were beautifully and curiously penitent; they manifested themselves chiefly by an extraordinary ebullition of the domestic affections. “Bring me my children” (he had two tiny ones), he would cry on waking, just as another man would call for brandy and soda; and, strange to say, the presence of those innocents seemed to have a similarly invigorating and refreshing effect: during all that day he would make pilgrimages to their cribs, and gaze upon them sleeping with the reverence of an old dévote kneeling before the shrine of her most efficacious saint. Then he would go forth, and return with a present for his wife, bearing an exact proportion in value to the extent and duration of the past misdemeanor; so that her jewel-case and writing-table soon became as prettily suggestive as the votive chapel of Nôtre Dame des Dunes. Very unnecessary were these peace-offerings; for that dear little woman never dreamt of “hitting him when he was down,” or taking any other low advantage of his weakness. She would make his breakfast beamingly, at all untimely hours, and otherwise pet and caress him, so that he might have been a knight returning wounded from some Holy War, instead of a discomfited scalp-hunter, bearing still evident traces of the “war-paint.” A stern old lady told her once that such condonation of offenses was unprincipled and immoral. It may be so, but I can not think the example is likely to be dangerously contagious. Whatever happens, there will always remain a sufficiency of matronly Dicæarchs, over whose judgment-seats the legend is very plainly inscribed, Nescia flecti.

These Ember days formed the only exceptions to the remarkably easy way in which Molyneux took every thing; there seemed to be no rough places about his disposition for trouble or care to take hold of. Hunting four days a week through the winter; six weeks in town during the season, with incidentals of Epsom, Goodwood, saumon à la Trafalgar, bouquets, and opera-stalls; living all the rest of the year at a mess curious as to the quality of its dry Champagne—these simple pleasures involve a certain expenditure hardly “fairly warranted by our regimental rate of pay.” To accomplish all this on about £500 a year, and yet to steer clear of ruin, is an ingenious process doubtless, but a sum not to be wrought out (most soldiers will tell you) without some anxiety and travail of mind. Now, in the very tightest state of the money-market, Harry was never known to disquiet himself in vain. He would not borrow from any of his comrades, refusing all such proffers of assistance gratefully but consistently. No Mussulman ever equaled his contented reliance on the resources of futurity, and his implicit belief in the same. He would anchor his hopes on some such improbability as “a long shot coming off,” or “his Aunt Agnes coming down” (a proverbially awful widow, who had forgiven him seven times already; and, after each fresh offense, had sworn unrelenting enmity to him and his heirs forever). Strong in this faith, he met condoling friends with a pleasant, reassuring smile: with the same demeanor he confronted threatening creditors. He used no arts, and condescended to no subterfuge in dealing with these last; but, as one of them observed, retreating from the barracks moneyless but gratified, “Mr. Molyneux seems to feel for one, at all events.” So he did. He sympathized with his tailor, not in the least because he owed him money, but because he was a fellow-creature in difficulties, regretting heartily it was not in his own power to relieve them; just as a very charitable but improvident person might feel on reading a case of real distress in the Times. Strange to say, hitherto he had always pulled through. Either the outsider did win, or the aunt, touched in the soft place of her heart through her ruffled feathers, was brought down by a “wild shot,” when considered quite out of distance, and “parted” freely.

The last and hardest trial of all—long debility and frequent illness—had failed to shake this intense serenity. He was never cross or unreasonable, and tried to give as little trouble as possible; but was grateful to a degree for every thing that was done for him: he could even manage to thank people for their advice, whether he took it not. So far as one could make out, he was nearly as much interested in the state of his own health, as one would be about that of any pleasant casual acquaintance.

It must be confessed, that poor Harry and his like are by no means strong-minded, or large-brained, or persevering men; they seldom or never rise to eminence, and rarely have greatness thrust upon them. They do not often volunteer to lead the vanguard of any great movement, shouting out on the slightest provocation the war-cry of “life is earnest;” for they are the natural subalterns of the world’s mighty battalia, and could hardly manœuvre one of its companies, without hopelessly entangling it, and exposing themselves: indeed, if they are useful at all in their generation, it is in a singularly modest and unobtrusive way. Yet there is an attraction about them, a power of attachment, that the great and wise ones of the earth have appreciated and envied, ere now. It is curious, too, to see what an apparent contradiction to themselves the extremes of the class—those who exaggerate nonchalance into insensibility, and softness into effeminacy—have shown, when brought face to face with imminent peril or certain destruction. France held few more terrible ferrailleurs than the curled painted minions of her third Henry: the sun never looked down on a more desperate duel than that in which Quélus, Schomberg, and Maugiron did their devoir manfully to the last. Nay, though he came delicately to his doom, the King of Amalek met it, I fancy, gallantly and gracefully enough, when once he read his sentence in the eyes of the pitiless Seer, who ordained that he “should be hewn in pieces before the Lord in Gilgal.”

R. I. P.

There was silence for some minutes after the few words that opened this story; and then Royston Keene spoke again.

“Hal, do you remember that miserable impostor in Paris being enthusiastic about Dorade and its advantages, describing it as a sort of happy hunting-ground, and so deciding us on choosing it in preference to Nice?”

“Ah! he did drivel a good deal. I think he had been drinking,” the other answered.

“No; I understand him now. He had been 6 bored here into a sullen, vicious misanthropy; and he wanted to take it out on the human race by getting others in the same mess. It’s just like that jealous old Heathfield, who, when he is up to his girths in a squire-trap, never halloos ‘’ware bog,’ till five or six more are in it. I can fancy the hoary-headed villain gloating hideously over us now. I wish I had him here. I could be so unkind to him! He talked about the shooting and the society. Bah! there’s about one cock to every thousand acres of forest; and as for women fair to look upon, I’ve not flushed one since we came. I don’t think I can stand it much longer.”

“I am very sorry,” Harry said; “I knew you were being bored to death, and it’s all on my account; but I didn’t like to ask you about it. I’m so horribly selfish!” The shadow of an imminent penitence began to steal over him, when Royston broke in—

“Don’t be childish. I liked to stay—never mind why—or I should not have done so. Only now—you are getting better, and I realize the situation more. I hardly know where to go. Not back to England, certainly, yet. Besides the nuisance and chance work of picking up a stud in the middle of the season, it isn’t pleasant to be consoled for a blank day by, ‘you should have been here last month. Never was such scent; and heaps of straight-running foxes!’ And then they indulge themselves in an imaginative ‘cracker,’ knowing you can’t contradict them. Shall I go to Albania? I should like to kill something before I turn homeward.”

Harry seemed musing. Suddenly he half started up, clapping his hands. “I knew I had forgotten!”

“Not such a singular circumstance as to warrant all that indecent exultation,” was the reply. “Well, out with it.”

“I never told you that Fan had a letter this morning from Cecil Tresilyan (they’re immense friends, you know) to ask her to engage rooms for them. They are in Paris now, and will be here in three days.”

Keene raised himself on his arm, regarding his comrade with a sort of admiration. “You’re a natural curiosity, mon cher. None of us ever quite appreciated you. I don’t believe there’s another man in existence, situated as we are, who would have kept that intelligence at the back of his head so long. The Tresilyan, of course? I remember hearing about her in India. Annesley came back from sick leave perfectly insane on the subject. She must be something extraordinary, for the recollection of her made even him poetical—when he was sober. I asked about her when I got to England, but her mother was taken very ill, or did something equally unjustifiable, so she left town before I saw her.”

“The mother really was ill,” Molyneux said, apologetically; “at least she died soon after that. Miss Tresilyan has never shown much since. But you’ve no idea of the sensation she made during her season and a half. They called her The Refuser, she had such a fabulous number of offers, and wouldn’t look at any of them. By-the-by, there’s rather a good story about that. You know Margate? He’s going to the bad very fast now, but he was the crack puppy of that year’s entry; good-looking, long minority, careful guardians, leases falling in, mother one of the best Christians in England, and all that sort of thing. Well, Tom Cary took him in hand, and brought him out in great form before long. They were talking over their preparations for the moors, for they were going to start the next day. ‘I believe that’s all,’ Margate asked, ‘or have we forgotten any thing?’ ‘Wait a minute,’ said Tom, and reflected (provident man, Tom; fond of his comforts, and proud of it)—‘Ah! I thought there was something. You haven’t proposed to The Tresilyan.’ They say Margate’s face was a study. He never disputed the orders of his private trainer, so he only said, piteously, ‘But I don’t want to marry any one,’ and looked as if he was going to cry. ‘You are “ower young,” ’ Cary said, encouragingly, ‘and it’s about the last thing I should press upon you. It wouldn’t suit my book at all. But I don’t see how that affects the question. I can lay ten ponies to one she won’t have you. It’s the thing to do, depend upon it. All the other good men have had a turn, and you have no right to be singular; it’s bad taste. Rank has its duties, my lord. Noblesse oblige, and so forth. You understand?’ Margate didn’t in the least, but he went and proposed quite properly, and was rejected rather more decidedly than his fellows. Then he went down into Perthshire, and missed his grouse, and lost his salmon, with a comfortable consciousness of having discharged his obligations to society.”

Royston Keene actually groaned, “Why didn’t she come sooner?” he said. “What a luxury, in this God-forgotten place, to talk to a clever handsome woman, who tramples on strawberry-leaves!”

“Perhaps she would have come if she had known how much we wanted her,” replied Harry. “They say she is a model of charity, and several other virtues too. She is coming here for the health of some companion, or governess, who lives with her. Yet she flirts outrageously at times, in her own imperial way. Better late than never. I’m certain you’ll like her, and perhaps she’ll like you.”

“Qui vivra verra,” Keene said, rising slowly. “Let us go home now. Draw your plaid closer round you, it’s getting chilly.”