Delphi Collected Works of Ouida

by Ouida

  “You seem quite occupé this morning, Mr. Wilmot,” said Mary, in her winning tones. “I trust you have had no bad news — no order from the Horse Guards for the Lancers to leave off moustaches.”

  “No, Miss Aspeden,” said Sydney; “if such a calamity as that had occurred, you would not see Wilmot here, he would never survive the loss of his moustaches — they are his first and only love.”

  “And a first affection is never forgotten,” added that provoking Mary, in a most melancholy voice.

  “It would be a pity if it were, as it seems such a fertile source of amusement to you and Miss Aspeden,” I said, angrily, to Sydney, too much of a boy then to take a joke.

  “Captain Fane has an invitation for you and Mr. Sydney,” said Mary, I suppose by way of amende. “We are going on the river, to a picnic at the old castle; — you will come?”

  The tones were irresistible, so I smoothed down my indignation and my poor moustache, and replied that I would have that pleasure, as did Sydney.

  “Bien! good-bye, then, for we must hasten home,” said Mary, whipping her ponies. And off bowled the carriage with its fair occupants.

  “You won’t be here for this picnic, old fellow,” I remarked to Fane, as we rode off the ground.

  “Well! I don’t know. I hardly think I shall go just yet. You see I had six months’ leave when I was in Germany, before I came down here, and I hardly like to ask for another so soon, and — —”

  “It is so easy to find a reason for what one wishes,” I added, smiling.

  “Come and look at my new chestnut, will you?” said Fane, not deigning to reply to my insinuation. “I am going to run her against Stuckup of the Guards’ bay colt!”

  That beautiful morning in June! How well I remember it, as we dropped down the sunlit river, under the shade of the branching trees, the gentle plash of the oars mingling with the high tones and ringing laughter of our merry party, on our way to the castle picnic.

  “How beautiful this is,” I said to Mary Aspeden; “would that life could glide on calmly and peacefully as we do this morning!”

  “How romantic you are becoming!” laughed Mary. “What a pity that I feel much more in mood to fish than to sentimentalize!”

  “Ah!” I replied, “with the present companionship I could be content to float on forever.”

  “Hush! I beg your pardon, but do listen to that dear thrush,” interrupted Mary, not the least disturbed, or even interested, by my pretty speeches.

  I was old enough to know I was not the least in love with Mary Aspeden, but I was quite too much of a boy not to feel provoked I did not make more impression. I was a desperate puppy at that time, and she served me perfectly right. However, feeling very injured, I turned my attention to Fane, who sat talking of course to Florence, and left Mary to the attentions of her Cantab cousin.

  “Miss Aspeden does not agree with you, Fred,” said Fane. “She says life was not intended to glide on like a peaceful river; she likes the waves and storms,” he added, looking down at her with very visible admiration.

  “No, not for myself,” replied Florence, with a sweet, sad smile. “I did not mean that. One storm will wreck a woman’s happiness; but were I a man I should glory in battling with the tempest-tossed waves of life. If there be no combat there can be no fame, and the fiercer, the more terrible it is, the more renown to be the victor in the struggle!”

  “You are right,” answered Fane, with unusual earnestness. “That used to be my dream once, and I think even now I have the stuff in me for it; but then,” he continued, sinking his voice, “I must have an end, an aim, and, above all, some one who will sorrow in my sorrow, and glory in my glory; who will be — —”

  “Quite ready for luncheon, I should think; hope you’ve enjoyed your boating!” cried Mr. Aspeden’s hearty voice from the shore, where, having come by land, he now stood to welcome us, surrounded by a crowd of anxious mammas, wondering if the boating had achieved the desirable end of a proposal from Captain A —— ; hoping Mr. B —— , who had nothing but his pay, had not been paying too much attention to Adelina; and that Honoria had given sufficient encouragement to Mr. C —— , who, on the strength of 1000l. a year, and a coronet in prospect, was considered an eligible parti (his being a consummate scamp and inveterate gambler is nothing); and that D —— has too much “consideration for his family” to have any “serious intentions” to Miss E —— , whom he is assisting to land. However, whatever proposals have been accepted or rejected, here we all were ready for luncheon, which was laid out on the grass, and Fane will be obliged to finish his speech another time, for little now is heard but bons mots, laughter, and champagne corks. The captain is more brilliant than ever, and I make Mary laugh if I cannot make her sigh. Luncheon over, what was to be done? See the castle, of course, as we were in duty bound, since it was what we came to do; and the tête-à-tête of the boats are resumed, as ladies and gentlemen ascended the grassy slopes on which the fine old ruins stood. I looked for Mary Aspeden, feeling sure that I should conquer her in time (though I did not want to in the least!), but she had gone off somewhere, I dare say with Tom Cleaveland; so I offered my arm to that same sentimental Miss Chesney who had bored me into a valse à deux temps the night of the theatricals, and I have no doubt her mamma contemplated her as Mrs. Wilmot, of Wilmot Park, with very great gratification and security. Becoming rather tired of the young lady’s hackneyed style of conversation, which consisted, as usual, of large notes of exclamation about “the sweet nightingales!” “the dear ruins!” “the darling flowers!” &c. &c., I managed to exchange with another sub, and strolled off by myself.

  As I was leaning against an old wall in no very amiable frame of mind, consigning all young ladies to no very delightful place, and returning to my old conclusion that they were all tarlatan and coquetry, soft musical voices on the other side of the wall fell almost unconsciously on my ear.

  “Oh! Florence, I am so unhappy!”

  “Are you, darling? I wish I could help you. Is it about Cyril Graham?”

  “Yes!” with a tremendous sigh. “I am afraid papa, and I am sure mamma, will never consent. I know poor dear Cyril is not rich, but then he is so clever, he will soon make himself known. But if that tiresome Fred Wilmot should propose, I know they will want me to accept him.” (There is one thing, I never, never will!) “I do snub him as much as ever I can, but he is such a puppy, I believe he thinks I am in love with him — as if Cyril, were not worth twenty such as he, for all he is the owner of Wilmot Park!”

  Very pleasant this was! What a fool I must have made of myself to Mary Aspeden, and how nice it was to hear one’s self called “a puppy!”

  “Of course, dear,” resumed Florence, “as you love Cyril, it is impossible for you to love any one ever again; but I do not think Mr. Wilmot a puppy. He is conceited, to be sure, but I do not believe he would be so much liked by — by those who are his friends, if he were not rather nice. Come, dear, cheer up. I am sure uncle Aspeden is too kind not to let you marry Cyril when he knows how much you love one another. I will talk to him, Mary dear, and bring him round, see if I do not! But — but — will you think me very selfish if I tell you” — (a long pause)— “he has asked me — I mean — he wishes — he told me — he says he does love me!”

  “Who, darling? Let me think — Lord Athum? — Mr. Grant?”

  “No, Mary — Drummond — that is, Captain Fane — he said —— Oh, Mary, I am so happy!”

  At this juncture it occurred suddenly to me that I was playing the part of a listener. (But may not much be forgiven a man who has heard himself called “a puppy”?) So I moved away, leaving the fair Florence to her blushes and her happiness, unshared by any but her friend. Between my astonishment at Fane and my indignation at Mary, I was fairly bewildered. Fane actually had proposed! He, the Honorable Drummond Fane, who had always declaimed against matrimony — who had been proof-hardened against half the best matches in the country — that desperate flirt who we thought
would never fall in love, to have tumbled in headlong like this!

  Well, there was some satisfaction, I would chaff him delightfully about it; and I was really glad, for if Florence had given her heart to Fane, she was not the sort of girl to forget, nor he the sort of man to be forgotten, in a hurry. But in what an awfully foolish light I must have appeared to Mary Aspeden! There was one thing, she would never know I had overheard her. I would get leave, and go off somewhere — I would marry the first pretty girl I met with — she should not think I cared for her. No, I would go on flirting as if nothing had happened, and then announce, in a natural manner, that I was going into the Highlands, and then she would be the one to feel small, as she had made so very sure of my proposal. And yet, if I went away, that was the thing to please her. Hang it! I did not know what to do! My vanity was most considerably touched, though my heart was not; but after cooling down a little, I saw how foolishly I should look if I behaved otherwise than quietly and naturally, and that after all that would be the best way to make Mary reverse her judgment.

  So, when I met her again, which was not until we were going to return, I offered her my arm to the boat where Fane and his belle fiancée were sitting, looking most absurdly happy; and the idea of my adamantine friend being actually caught seemed so ridiculous, that it almost restored me to my good humor, which, sooth to say, the appellation of “puppy” had somewhat disturbed.

  And so the moon rose and shed her silver light over the young lady who had sentimentalized upon her, and a romantic cornet produced a concertina, and sent forth dulcet strains into the evening air, and Florence and her captain talked away in whispers, and Mary Aspeden sat with tears in her eyes, thinking, I suppose, of “Cyril” and I mused on my “puppyism;” and thus, wrapped each in our own little sphere, we floated down the river to Woodlands, and, it being late, with many a soft good night, and many a gentle “Au revoir,” we parted, and Mr. Aspeden’s castle picnic was over!

  I did not see Fane the next day, except at parade, until I was dressing for mess, when he stalked into my room, and stretching himself on a sofa, said, after a pause,

  “Well, old boy, I’ve been and gone and done it.”

  “Been and gone and done what?” I asked, for, by the laws of retaliation, I was bound to tease him a little.

  “Confound you, what an idiot you are!” was the complimentary rejoinder. “Why, my dear fellow, the truth is, that, like most of my unfortunate sex, I have at last turned into that most tortuous path called love, and surrendered myself to the machinations of beautiful woman. The long and the short of it is — I am engaged to be married!”

  “Good Heavens! Fane!” I exclaimed, “what next? You married! Who on earth is she? I know of no heiress down here!”

  “She is no heiress,” said the captain; “but she is what is much better — the sweetest, dearest, most lovable — —”

  “Of course!” I said, “but no heiress! My dear Fane, you cannot mean what you say?”

  “I should be sorry if I did not,” was the cool reply; “and you must be more of a fool, Fred, than I took you for, if you cannot see that Florence Aspeden is worth all the heiresses upon earth, and is the embodiment of all that is lovely and winning in woman — —”

  “No doubt of it, tout cela saute aux yeux,” I answered. “But reflect, Fane; it would be utter madness in you to marry anything but an heiress. Love in a cottage is not your style. You were not made for a small house, one maid-servant, and dinner — —”

  “Ah!” laughed Fane, “you are bringing my former nonsense against me. Some would say I was committing worse folly now, but believe me, Fred, the folly even of the heart is better than the calculating wisdom of the world. I do not hesitate to say that if Florence had fortune I should prefer it, for such a vaurien as I was made to spend money; but as she has not, I love her too dearly to think about it, and my father, I have no doubt, will soon get me my majority, and we shall get on stunningly. So marry for love, Fred, if you take my advice.”

  “A rather different opinion to that which you inculcated so strenuously a month ago,” I observed, smiling; “but let me congratulate you, old fellow, with all my heart. ‘Pon my word, I am very glad, for I always felt afraid you would, like Morvillier’s garçon, resist all the attractions of a woman until the ‘cent mille écus,’ and then, without hesitation, declare, ‘J’épouse.’ But you were too good to be spoiled.”

  “As for my goodness, there’s not much of that,” replied Fane; “I am afraid I am much better off than I deserve. I wrote to the governor last night: dear old boy! he will do anything I ask him. By the by, Mary will be married soon too. I hope you are not épris in that quarter, Fred? — pray do not faint if you are. My Florence, who can do anything she likes with anybody (do you think any one could be angry with her?) coaxed old Aspeden into consenting to Mary’s marriage with a fellow she really is in love with — Graham, a barrister. I think she would have had more difficulty with the lady-mother, if a letter had not most opportunely come from Graham this morning, announcing the agreeable fact that he had lots of tin left him unexpectedly. I wish somebody would do the same by me. And so this Graham will fly down on the wings of love — represented in these days by the express train — to-morrow evening.”

  “And how about the foreign service, Fane?” I could not help asking. “And do you intend going to London to-morrow?”

  “I made those two resolutions under very different circumstances to the present, my dear fellow,” laughed Fane: “the first, when I determined to cut away from Florence altogether, as the only chance of forgetting her; sad the second, when I thought poor Mount was an accepted lover, and I confess that I did not feel to have stoicism enough to witness his happiness. But how absurd it seems that I should have fallen in love,” continued he; “I, that defied the charms of all the Venuses upon earth — the last person any one would have taken for a marrying man. I am considerably astonished myself! But I suppose love is like the whooping-cough, one must have it some time or other.” And with these words the gallant captain raised himself from the sofa, lighted a cigar, and, strolling out of the room, mounted his horse for Woodlands, where he was engaged of course to dinner that evening.

  And now, gentle reader, what more is there to tell? I fear as it is I have written too “much about nothing,” and as thou hast, I doubt not, a fine imagination, what need to tell how Lord Avanley and Mr. Aspeden arranged matters, not like the cross papas in books and dramas, but amicably, as gentlemen should; how merrily the bells pealed for the double wedding; how I, as garçon d’honneur, flirted with the bridesmaids to my heart’s content; how Fane is my friend, par excellence, still, and how his love is all the stronger for having “come late,” he says. How all the young ladies hated Florence, and all the mammas and chaperones blessed her for having carried off the “fascinating younger son,” until his brother Lord Castleton dying at the baths, Fane succeeded of course to the title; how she is, if possible, even more charming as Lady Castleton than as Florence Aspeden, and how they were really heart-happy until the Crimean campaign separated them; and how she turns her beautiful eyes ever to the East and heeds not, save to repulse, the crowd of admirers who seek to render her forgetful of her soldier-husband.

  True wife as she is, may he live to come back with laurels hardly won, still to hold her his dearest treasure.

  May 1, 1856. — Fane has come back all safe. I hope, dear reader, you are as glad as I am. He has distinguished himself stunningly, and is now lieutenant-colonel of the dear old 110th. You have gloried in the charge of ours at Balaklava, but as I have not whispered to you my name, you cannot possibly divine that a rascally Russian gave me a cut on the sword-arm that very day in question, which laid me hors de combat, but got me my majority.

  Well may I, as well as Fane, bless the remembrance of Layton Rise, for if I had never made the acquaintance of Mary Aspeden — I mean Graham — I might never have known her belle-sœur (who is now shaking her head at me for writing about her), and wh
om, either through my interesting appearance when I returned home on the sick-list, and my manifold Crimean adventures, or through the usual perversity of women, who will fall always in love with scamps who do not deserve half their goodness — (Edith, you shall not look over my shoulder) — I prevailed on to accept my noble self and Lancer uniform, with the “puppyism” shaken pretty well out of it! And so here we are very happy of course.— “As yet,” suggests Edith.

  Ah! Fane and I little knew — poor unhappy wretches that we were — what our fate was preparing for us when it led us discontented blasés and ennuyés down to our Country Quarters!

  A LEAF IN THE STORM

  The Berceau de Dieu was a little village in the valley of the Seine. As a lark drops its nest among the grasses, so a few peasant people had dropped their little farms and cottages amid the great green woods on the winding river. It was a pretty place, with one steep, stony street, shady with poplars and with elms; quaint houses, about whose thatch a cloud of white and gray pigeons fluttered all day long; a little aged chapel with a conical red roof; and great barns covered with ivy and thick creepers, red and purple, and lichens that were yellow in the sun. All around it were the broad, flowering meadows, with the sleek cattle of Normandy fattening in them, and the sweet dim forests where the young men and maidens went on every holy day and feast-day in the summer-time to seek for wood-anemones, and lilies of the pools, and the wild campanula, and the fresh dog-rose, and all the boughs and grasses that made their house-doors like garden bowers, and seemed to take the cushat’s note and the linnet’s song into their little temple of God.

  The Berceau de Dieu was very old indeed. Men said that the hamlet had been there in the day of the Virgin of Orleans; and a stone cross of the twelfth century still stood by the great pond of water at the bottom of the street under the chestnut-tree, where the villagers gathered to gossip at sunset when their work was done. It had no city near it, and no town nearer than four leagues. It was in the green care of a pastoral district, thickly wooded and intersected with orchards. Its produce of wheat and oats and cheese and fruit and eggs was more than sufficient for its simple prosperity. Its people were hardy, kindly, laborious, happy; living round the little gray chapel in amity and good-fellowship. Nothing troubled it. War and rumours of war, revolutions and counter-revolutions, empires and insurrections, military and political questions — these all were for it things unknown and unheard of, mighty winds that arose and blew and swept the lands around it, but never came near enough to harm it, lying there, as it did in its loneliness like any lark’s nest. Even in the great days of the Revolution it had been quiet. It had had a lord whom it loved in the old castle on the hill at whose feet it nestled; it had never tried to harm him, and it had wept bitterly when he had fallen at Jemmapes, and left no heir, and the chateau had crumbled into ivy-hung ruins. The thunder-heats of that dread time had scarcely scorched it. It had seen a few of its best youth march away to the chant of the Marseillaise to fight on the plains of Champagne; and it had been visited by some patriots in bonnets rouges and soldiers in blue uniforms, who had given it tricoloured cockades and bade it wear them in the holy name of the Republic one and indivisible. But it had not known what these meant, and its harvests had been reaped without the sound of a shot in its fields or any gleam of steel by its innocent hearths; so that the terrors and the tidings of those noble and ghastly years had left no impress on its generations.