by Ouida
“I never was a dandy — you mistake. As for fastidiousness, I’ manage with a shirt a week in the Crimea, because I can’t have more; but I shall have two per diem again as soon as ever I go back. I let my beard grow here because I have no time to have it shaved; but I shall have it very gladly cut to a decent length as soon as I rejoice in a decent valet!”
“Nonsense! What are shirts or beards, compared with the verve, the excitement, the reality of active service!”
“Certainly nothing! If our days here were all twenty-fifths of October, they would be delightful,” said Sabretasche, with that sad smile which, when he exerted himself to be cheerful, showed how painful and unreal the effort was. “All I say is, that I do prefer an Auxerre carpet to this extremely perilous mud; that I do like much better to have hot water and almond soap, to being only able to wash my hands at very distant intervals; and it would be ridiculous to pretend that I don’t think a dinner in Belgrave-square more palatable than this tough turkey; nor my usual toilette more agreeable than these ragged and nondescript garments!”
“And yet one has never heard a word of complaint from that fellow from our first bivouac till now!” said De Vigne to Carlton.
“Cut bono?” smiled Sabretasche. “It all comes in the fortune of war. Besides, there is not a murmur heard out here; the Dashers will hardly set the example! Come, Carlton, you have not told us half the news.”
Carlton told us plenty of news; of marriages and deaths; intrigues of the boudoir and the cabinet; of who had won the Grand Military, and who was the favourite for the Cesarewitch;. of how Dunbar had married Ela Ashburnham, and Jack Mortimer’s wife run away with his groom; of how Fitzturf had been outlawed for seventy-thousand, and Monteith made a pot of money at the October meetings; of all the odds and ends of the chat, on dits, scandals, and gossip he had brought from the lobby, the clubs, and the drawing-rooms.
“I say, De Vigne,” said he, at the last, “do you remember that bewitching Little Tressillian, who was at a ball in Lowndes-square, and whom all the men went so mad about! You knew her very well, though, didn’t you?”
Carlton had never heard much of the intimacy between De Vigne and Alma, and never guessed on what ground he trod; by the feeble lamplight I could see De Vigne’s face grow crimson with the blood that leapt into it.
“What of her?”
Carlton never noticed the chill stern tone of those brief words, hissed rather than spoken between his set teeth.
“What of her? Only that people say she levanted with that cursed fool, Castleton. I pity her if she did! I fancy it’s true, too, because as I came through Paris — where I know he is — on my way here, I saw her in a carriage in the Champs Elysées that was waiting at a door, a very dashing carriage, too. I didn’t know her enough to speak to her, but I recognised her in a second — it’s a face you can’t forget I should have thought she’d been a cut above that, wouldn’t you? But women are all alike.”
De Vigne sat quite still without moving a muscle, bût I saw in his face the death-like pallor I had seen there on his marriage-day. Happily for him, at that moment an orderly came to the door with a despatch from head-quarters to Sabretasche, and De Vigne, rising, bade us good night, and went out into the storm of pitiless, drenching, driving rain to seek his own tent.
The next morning a mail came in: there were some letters from Violet, by the flush that rose on the Colonel’s impassive face as he received his epistles, and there were more than a dozen for De Vigne, some from men who really liked him, some from Leila Puffdoff, and women who liked to write to one of the most distinguished men of the famous Light Brigade. He read them pour s’amuser. The last he took up struck him keener than a sabre’s thrust — it was in Alma’s handwriting. Twenty-four hours before he would have seized it, hoping against hope for an explanation of that mystery which had robbed him so strangely and suddenly of her. But now, sceptical of all good, credulous of all evil, he never for a moment doubted, or dreamed of doubting, Carlton’s story. Circumstantial evidence damned her, and with that insane haste which had cost him so much all his life long, without waiting or pausing, allowing her no justice, no hearing, he tore her letter open, then flung it from him, with an oath, as he saw its heading, “Champs Elysées, Paris.” It was confirmation only too strong of Carlton’s tale for him to doubt it.
“He has deserted her, and she turns to me to befool me a second time!” was his mad thought as he flung her letter from him; then resealed without reading it, and directed it back to her before his purpose should fail him. So, in our madness, we fling our better fate, happiness away! One letter still remained unread, indeed unnoticed, which De Vigne never saw until he took it up to light his pipe late that night; then he opened it mechanically, glanced to the last line, and found the signature was that of the valet whom he had discharged for reading Alma’s note in Wilton-crescent: “A begging-letter, of course,” he thought, too heart-sick with his own thoughts to pay more heed to it, as he struck a match, held it in the flame, and lighted his meerschaum with it So we throw aside, as valueless cards, the honours life deals us in its uncertain whist!
CHAPTER VIII.
“The Gazelle in the Tiger’s Fangs.
Now the truth did, indeed, stand thus: Vane Castleton had gone mad about Alma. I do not mean that he loved her, as poor Curly did, well enough to marry her; nor as De Vigne, who would have thrown everything away to win her; but he was wild about her, as very heartless men, chères demoiselles, can be wild about a woman who has bewitched them. He was first of all fascinated by her, then he was piqued by the wish to rival De Vigne, whom he disliked for some sharp sayings thrown carelessly at him; then, he was incensed by Alma’s contemptuous treatment of him; and at last he swore to go there no more, to be treated de haut en has by “that bewitching little syren,” but to win her by fraud or force. She might hate him, he did not care for that; he did not think, with Montaigne, that a conquest, to be of value, must be de bonne volonté on the part of the captured; and if he had been in the East he would have sent his slaves, had her blindfolded, and kept her in his seraglio, without regard as to whether tears or smiles were the consequence. Not being able to act so summarily, and the House of Tiara having been, from time immemorial, as eccentric as Wharton, and as unscrupulous as the Mohawks, he hit upon a plan seemingly more fitted for bygone days than for our practical and prosaic age, where police prevent all escapades, and telegrams anticipate all dénouements. But the more eccentric the thing the more pleasure was it to Castleton, who had something of the evil vanity of Sedley, and liked to set the town talking of his bad deeds, as other men like to make it gossip of their great ones; he liked to out-Herod Herod, and his reputation for unscrupulous vice was as dear to him as though it had been the fame of the soldier or the statesman; he loved his mere approach to damn a woman’s character, à la Caligula, and if he could win Alma by some plot which would increase his notoriety — so much the better.
On the morrow after De Vigne’s visit to her, Alma sat waiting to catch the first faint beat of his horse’s hoofs. She had done nothing that morning; her easel had lost all charm for her; Sylvo and Pauline obtained but little attention; and after she had filled the room with flowers, singing soft Italian barcarolles while she gathered them, till the goldfinches and the thrushes strained their throats to rival her, she threw herself down on the steps of the window to watch for her lover’s coming, full of that feverish and impassioned joy which can scarcely credit its own existence.
When noon had passed, her restlessness grew into anxiety — she had expected him early; with a union of child-like and lover-like impatience she had risen with her friends the birds, hoping that he might surprise her at breakfast Twenty times that morning had she run down to the gate, never heeding the soft summer rain that fell upon her hair, to look along the road. About one o’clock she stood leaning over the little wicket — a fair enough picture — a deep flush of anxiety was upon her cheeks, her eyes darkening with excitement and the thousand fl
uttering thoughts stirring in her heart; while, with that longing to look well in his eyes which had its spring in something far nobler than coquetry, her dress was as graceful as her simple but always tasteful wardrobe could afford. As she stood thus, the sound of hoofs rang upon the highway in the distance; the colour deepened in her cheeks, her whole face lighted up, her heart beat fast against the wooden bar on which she rested. She was opening the gate to meet him; but, — when the horseman came nearer to her view she saw that it was not De Vigne, but Curly; not the one for whom her heart waited, but the one whom it rejected. He threw himself off his saddle, and caught her hand:
“Alma! for Heaven’s sake do not turn away from me.” She drew it impatiently away: she held it as De Vigne’s — it was to be touched by no other. Poor Curly came at an unlucky hour to plead his cause!
“Alma, is your resolution fully taken?” he said, catching her hand once more in his too tightly for her to extricate it “Listen to me but one word; I love you so well, so dearly! Can you not give me one hope? Can you not feel some pity?”
Again she drew herself away, more gently; for her first irritation had passed, and she was too compassionate a nature not to feel regret for the sorrow of which she was the cause. A look of pain passed over her glad face as she answered him, naïvely:
“Why ask me? What I told you two days ago was the truth. I thank you very much for all your kindness, but I could never have loved you.”
“You would have done, but for De Vigne.”
A brighter flush rose over her brow; she lifted her head with a proud eager gladness upon it; she misunderstood him, and fancied De Vigne had told his friend of their mutual love.
“No, no; if I had never known him I should have loved my ideal, of which he alone could have been the realisation. You are mistaken; I could never have loved any other.”
The speech had a strange combination of girlish fondness and impassioned tenderness; it was a speech to fall chill as ice upon the heart of her listener; he who loved her so well, and, as is so often the fate of true affection, could win not one fond word in return!
Curly’s hands grasped the rail of the gate! his face looked aged ten years with the marks of pain upon it “He has told you, then?” he said, abruptly.
He meant of De Vigne’s marriage, she thought he meant of De Vigne’s love, and answered with a deep blush over her face:
“Yes!”
“My God! and you stoop to listen to him?”
“Stoop? it is he who stoops to me!”
She gloried in her love, and would no more have thought of evading acknowledgment of it than Chelonis or Eponina of evading exile or death.
“Heaven help me, then — and you!”
The two last words were too low for her to hear; but, touched by the suffering on his face, she stretched out the hand she had withdrawn.
“Indeed I am grieved myself to grieve you! Forget me, or, until you do, at least forgive me!”
“Forgive you!” repeated Curly, “what would I not! but forget you — never! Oh, my love, my darling!” he cried, clasping her hands close up to his heart, “would to God you would listen to me. I would make you so happy: you will never be so with De Vigne. He loveS you selfishly; he will sacrifice you to himself; and I, — all that life can give shall be yours, — my name, my home, my rank, — and with time I will make you love me—”
At first she had listened to him in vague stupefaction; when she did comprehend his meaning she wrenched her hands away for the last time, her eyes flashing with anger, passion of another sort crimsoning her brow.
“Do you dare to insult me with such words? Do you venture to suppose that any living man could ever make me faithless to him? You are a true friend indeed to come and slander him in his absence! He would have scorned to take such mean advantage over you!”
With those vehement words, natural in her, but how bitter to him! Alma swept from him. His hands grasped the gate-bar till the rusty nails in the wood forced themselves through his gloves into the flesh, and watched her till the last gleam of her golden hair had vanished from his sight Then he threw himself across his saddle, and galloped down the road, the ring of the hoofs growing fainter on Alma’s ear as she listened for those that should grow nearer and nearer till they should bring De Vigne to her side. She had no thought for Curly, and no pity; I think she would have had more if she had known that never again on earth would she look upon that fair, fond face, which would so soon lie turned upwards to the pitiless sky, unconscious and calm amidst the roar of musketry and the glare of a captured citadel.
She threw herself down upon a couch, excited still with the glow of indignation that Curly’s words had roused in her. Impetuous always, she was like a little lioness at any imputation on De Vigne: whether he had been right or wrong, she would have flung herself headlong into his defence; and, had she seen any faults in her idol, she would have died before she let another breathe them. Scarcely had the gallop of Curly’s horse ceased to mingle with the fall of the rain-drops and the rustle of the chesnut-leaves, when the roll of carriage wheels broke on her ear. She started up — this time she felt sure it was he — and even Pauline screamed the name she had caught from Alma, “Sir Folko! Sir Folko!”
But the girl’s joyous heart fell when she saw a hired brougham standing at her gate, for she knew that if De Vigne ever drove down, he drove in one of his mailphaetons, with his grooms. Out of the brougham came a lady, tall, stately, superbly dressed, gathering her rich skirts round with one hand as she came up the gravel path. Alma watched her with irritation and no sort of interest; she did not know her, and she supposed she was some stranger called to look at her pictures — since her Louis Dix-sept had been exhibited at the Water-Colours she had had many such visitors. The lady turned, of course, to the side of the house to approach the hall door, and Alma lay quiet on her couch stroking Pauline’s scarlet crest, while the bird reiterated its cry, “Sir Folko! Sir Folko!”
She rose and bowed as her visitor entered, and looked at her steadily, with a trick Alma had of studying every new physiognomy that came before her, forming her likes and dislikes thereon; rapidly, indeed, but often unerringly. The present survey displeased her, as her guest slightly bent her stately head. They were a strange contrast! The woman tall, her figure very full, too full for beauty; artistic rouge upon her cheeks, and tinting round her superb black eyes; her attire splendid, her jewels glittering, yet with some indefinable want of the lady upon her: the girl small, slight, and simply dressed, with native grace and aristocracy in all her movements, and her air of mingled child-likeness, intelligence, and brilliance.
Alma rolled a chair towards her, and looked a mute inquiry as to her visitor’s errand. Her guest’s eyes were fixed upon her in curious scrutiny; she seemed a woman of the world, yet appeared at a loss how to explain her call, and played with the fringe of her parasol, as she said, “Have I the pleasure of seeing Miss Tressillian?”
Alma bent her head.
She toyed uneasily with the long fringe as she went on, never relaxing her gaze at Alma:
“May I inquire, too, whether you are acquainted with Major De Vigne!”
At the abrupt mention of his name, a hot blush came in Alma’s face; again she bowed in silence.
“You are very intimate with him — much interested in him, are you not?”
Alma rose, her slight figure haughtily erect, her eyes sufficiently indicative of resentment at her visitor’s unceremonious intrusion:
“Pardon me, madam, if I inquire by what title you venture to intrude such questions upon me?”
“My title is clear enough,” answered her guest, with a certain sardonic smile, which did not escape Alma’s quick perception, and increased her distrust of her interrogator. “Perhaps you may guess it when I ask you but one more question: Are you aware that Major de Vigne is married?”
For a moment the cruel abruptness of the question sent back the blood to the girl’s heart, and her companion’s bold, harsh eye
s watched with infinite amusement the quiver that passed over her bright young face. But it was only for a moment; the next, Alma smiled at the idea, as if Sir Folko would conceal anything from her — above all, conceal that! Her rapid instincts made her mistrust and dislike this woman; she imagined it was some one who, having a grudge against De Vigne, tried this method to injure him, and her clear, fearless eyes flashed contemptuous anger on her questioner; she deigned no answer to the inquiry.
“Major De Vigne is my friend. I allow no stranger to mention his name to me except with the respect it deserves. I am quite at a loss to conceive why you should trouble yourself to insult me with these unwarranted interrogations. You will excuse me if I say that I am much engaged just now, and should be glad to be left alone.”
She bowed as she spoke, and moved across the room to the bell, but her visitor would not take the hint, however unmistakable; she sat still, leaning back in her chair playing with her parasol, probably puzzled whether or no the Little Tressillian was aware of her lover’s marriage. High-couraged and thoroughly “game” as Alma was, she felt repugnance to this woman — a certain vague fear of, and dislike to being alone with, her.
Her visitor rose too, and took a different tone, fixing her black eyes, in whose bold stare spoke a dark past, and an unscrupulous character, on those which were clear with innocence and youth.
“You take too high a tone, young girl; if you do not know of his marriage, you are to be pitied; if you do, you are to be blamed indeed; and if you have any shame in you, you will never, out of regard for yourself and justice to me, see Granville de Vigne again, when I tell you that — I am his wife!”
“His wife!” With ashy lips Alma re-echoed the words, “his wife!” that coarse, cruel-eyed woman, with her bold stare, and her gorgeous dress, which yet could not give her the stamp of Birth; for Time had not passed wholly lightly on the Trefusis, and now there was more trace of the Frestonhills milliner in her than of the varnish she had adopted from the Parisiennes, for at thirty-seven the Trefusis had grown — vulgar! That woman his wife! Alma, true to her faith in, and reverence of, De Vigne, could have laughed at the mere thought! That woman his wife! — his! when but a few hours before he had called her his own, and kissed her, when she spoke to him of their sweet future together! She knew it was a plot against him; she would not join in it by lending ear to it. He could never have loved that woman — with her rouged cheeks, her tinted eyelids, her cruel eyes, her cold, harsh voice. Alma did not remember that a man’s first love is invariably the reverse of his last!