CHAPTER XXI.
MAUD'S SECRET.
----In the glance, A moment's glance, of meeting eyes, His heart stood still in sudden trance-- He trembled with a sweet surprise; All in the waning light she stood, The star of perfect womanhood.
That summer eve his heart was light, With lighter step he trod the ground, And life was fairer in his sight, And music was in every sound: He bless'd the world where there could be So beautiful a thing as she.
The western horizon was all ablaze, and the sun's rays came slantingthrough the gloom of the Rhododendron Forest, as Sutton and hiscompanion rode down the mountain-side towards the plains.
Did Felicia's wishes and hopes breathe a subtle influence around them,which drew their hearts together and opened to each the destiny whichawaited it? Did the sweet, serious look with which she bade Suttonfarewell speak to his eye, for years accustomed to watch for herunspoken commands, of something in which he had failed to please her,to understand her desire, to do or to be exactly what she wanted? Wasthere some shade of reserve, constraint, dissatisfaction in Felicia'smanner that aroused his attention and led him to explore his companionwith an anxious curiosity which usually he was far from feeling? Or wasit something in Maud, a causeless embarrassment, a scarcely concealedtrepidation, a manner at once sad and excited, the flush that, asDesvoeux had told her in the morning, gave her cheek more than itsaccustomed beauty, which, before they had been ten minutes on the road,had sent such a flash of intelligence through Sutton's being,--whichcame upon him like an inspiration, clear, cogent, indisputable, and onlycurious in not having been understood before?
Be that as it may, Sutton suddenly found himself in an altogetherdifferent mood and in altogether different company to that which he hadfigured to himself for the first stage of his journey. Maud had all atonce become supremely interesting and infinitely more beautiful than hehad ever yet conceived her. She was no longer the mere excitable,romantic child, whose nascent feelings and ideas might be watched withhalf-amused curiosity, but a being whose brightness and innocence wereallied with the most exquisite pathos, and who was ready to cast at thefirst worthy shrine all the wealth of an impulsive, ardent, tendernature. As for Maud, she was too excited, too profoundly moved, toomuch the prey of feelings of which she knew neither the true measure northe full force, to be able to analyse her thoughts or to be completelymistress of herself.
Dissimulation was an art of which life had not as yet taught her thenecessity, or experience familiarised the use. The unconscious hypocrisywith which some natures from the very outset, perhaps all natures lateron in life, veil so much of themselves from the outer world, had neveroccurred to her as a possible or necessary means of self-protection inan existence which till now had been too simple, childish and innocentto call for concealment. She fixed her clear, honest eyes on herinterrogator, whoever he was, be the question what it might, and he knewthat it was the truth, pure, simple and complete, that she was telling.Each phase of feeling wrote itself on her expression almost before Maudherself had realised it, certainly long before she knew enough about itto attempt to conceal it from the world. The feeble attempts atdeception, which the accidents of life had from time to time forced uponher, had proved such absolute failures as merely to warn her of theuselessness of everything of the kind, even if it had occurred to her towish to deceive. Her courtesy was the courtesy of sincerity, and she hadnone other to offer. Those whom she disliked, accordingly, pronouncedher rude, and it was fortunate that they were very few in number. Herfriends, on the contrary, and their name was legion, read, and knew thatthey read, to the very bottom of her heart. Now, for the first time inher life, she was distinctly conscious of a secret which it would bemisery and humiliation to divulge, but for the custody of which neithernature nor art had supplied her with any effectual means. Silence wasthe natural resource, but silence is sometimes more eloquent thanspeech. Whether she spoke or whether she held her peace, Maud felt aterrified conviction that she would betray herself, should it occur toSutton to pay the least attention to her state of mind.
'There,' Sutton said, pointing to a range of hills just visible in thefaint horizon, 'there is the Black Mountain, and there lies the passwhere we shall be marching in a day or two. It is such a grand, wildplace! I have been along it so often, but have never had leisure topaint it. This time, however, I hope to get a sketch.'
'Tell me,' Maud said, 'the sort of expeditions these are, and whathappens, and what kind of danger you are all in.'
'I will tell you,' said her companion. 'They are hot, troublesome,inglorious promenades, over country which lames a great many of ourhorses and harasses our men. We burn some miserable huts, destroy a fewacres of mountain crops and drive off such cattle as the people have nothad time to drive away themselves, and, in fact, do all that soldieringadmits of in the absence of that most important ingredient of abrilliant campaign, an enemy: _he_, unluckily, is invariably over thehills and far away some hours previous to our arrival.'
Maud felt this account to be on the whole reassuring: 'How soon,' sheasked, 'will you come back again?'
'Before you have time to miss me,' said her companion; 'it is an affairliterally of days. Besides, Elysium, you will find, is all thepleasanter for having its crowd of soldiers somewhat thinned.'
'It will not be the pleasanter to us,' said Maud, 'for your being gone.'
Her tone took Sutton greatly by surprise.
'You are having a happy time here, are you not?' he asked. 'It seems tome a pleasant sort of life.'
'Yes,' said Maud, emphatically, 'the pleasantest, happiest I have everknown. All life has been bright to me; but there are things in it thathurt one, for all that.'
'Yes?' said Sutton, with a kind inquiry in his tones, for he had neverthought of Maud but as the pretty incarnation of enjoyment; 'well, tellme the things which hurt you.'
'The things that have hurt me the most,' said Maud with a sudden impulseof outspokenness, 'are partings. They grieve me, even though I know thatthey are no real cause for grief. I minded leaving school and my dearmistress more than I can tell, and yet I longed to go. I minded leavingmy friends on board ship, and yet I had only known them a month. Iminded leaving you at Dustypore when we came away, and now to-day I amsad because you are leaving us.'
'That makes me sad too,' said Sutton, grieved, and yet not whollygrieved, at each new phase of sentiment which the childish frankness ofhis companion revealed to him; 'but, you know, we soldiers are for everon the move, and nobody is surprised or sad when we are ordered off. Youlove Felicia, do you not?'
'Yes,' said Maud, seriously; 'I feel a sort of worship for her. Whocould be so sweet, noble and pure without being adored? But then shemakes me melancholy too sometimes, because she is so melancholy herself;and, oh, how far above one! Could one ever hope to be half as good? Shefills me with love, but love with a sort of despair about it.'
Maud was highly wrought up and feeling strongly and painfully abouteverything that formed her life. She was full of thoughts thatclamoured for expression; and Sutton, she knew not why, seemed thenatural and proper recipient; it was so easy almost to confess to him,to trust him with thoughts, hopes, pangs, which instinct said the commoneye must never see; to claim from him a sort of gentle, chivalrousprotection which no one but he knew how to give.
'Felicia,' Sutton said, 'need fill no one with despair, rather withhopefulness and courage about life. I have known her since she was achild; we two, in fact--children of two sisters, whose marriages hadbound them closer in affection to each other--lived for years more asbrother and sister than anything else. I have watched her for yearsgathering strength, calmness, and nobility from going nobly and calmlythrough the troubles of the world. She seems to me, in the midst of allthat is vulgar and base in the world around her, like the Lady in Comus,impervious to everything that could sully or degrade.'
'Ah!' said Maud, 'if one could only go through life in that way--but itis so horribly
unattainable. Everything is too difficult, and one is soshamefully weak. I could never be calm or noble in a trouble, likeFelicia.'
'Wait till the troubles come,' said her companion kindly; 'you will findhow one rises to an emergency. Felicia would not be what she is but forthe trials she has borne. But see there is the guard, and here, alas!our pleasant journey together ends. I must travel on alone.'
A few hundred yards below stood Sutton's first relay of horses, and herethey were to part. A trooper was waiting to escort Maud on her homewardjourney till she rejoined Felicia and the children.
'This,' Sutton said, 'has been a charming ride, though something of asad one. I shall like to remember it. See, you shall give me that sweetrose you wear, and that shall be my badge in all tournaments to come. Inreturn I will give you something to keep for me. This locket, you know,holds my mother's hair. I never part with it; but I have often thoughtit a foolish risk to take it on such wild expeditions as this. This timeyou shall take care of it for me, if you will.
Sutton gave her the locket with the grave, pathetic air which, to Maud'seye, threw a sort of romance over his least important actions. He tookher hand and held it in his own, and it seemed as though some sacredpledge were at the moment, with no spoken words, given and received.
Maud never afterwards forgot that little scene--the kind, gentle eyes,the sorrowful furrowed brow, the tender solemn voice; in front the widemysterious plains, stretching far below, all the horizon still aglowwith the expiring glory of the sunset; behind her a cold blue darkeningworld--the gathering vapours, no longer irradiated, settling in solidmasses on the solemn mountain-tops. As she came to a bend in the pathshe turned to wish her companion a last farewell, for she knew that hewas watching her departure. Then she rode homewards through the gloom,moved, agitated, frightened, yet on the whole happier--with a deeperkind of happiness than she had ever known before.