The Minister's Wooing
CHAPTER XXXI.
A DAY or two after, Madame de Frontignac and Mary went out to gathershells and seaweed on the beach. It was four o’clock; and the afternoonsun was hanging in the sultry sky of July with a hot and vaporousstillness. The whole air was full of blue haze, that softened theoutlines of objects without hiding them. The sea lay like so muchglass; every ship and boat was double; every line, and rope, and sparhad its counterpart; and it seemed hard to say which was the mostreal, the under or the upper world. Madame de Frontignac and Mary hadbrought along a little basket, which they were filling with shellsand sea-mosses. The former was in high spirits. She ran, and shouted,and exclaimed, and wondered at each new marvel thrown out upon theshore, with the _abandon_ of a little child. Mary could not but wonderwhether this indeed were she whose strong words had pierced and wrungher sympathies the other night, and whether a deep life-wound could liebleeding under those brilliant eyes and that infantine exuberance ofgaiety; yet surely all that which seemed so strong, so true, so real,could not be gone so soon,—and it could not be so soon consoled. Marywondered at her, as the Anglo-Saxon constitution, with its strong, firmintensity, its singleness of nature, wonders at the mobile, many-sidedexistence of warmer races, whose versatility of emotion on the surfaceis not incompatible with the most intense sameness lower down.
Mary’s was one of those indulgent and tolerant natures which seem toform the most favourable base for the play of other minds, rather thanto be itself salient,—and something about her tender calmness alwaysseemed to provoke the spirit of frolic in her friend. She would laughat her, kiss her, gambol round her, dress her hair with fantastic_coiffures_, and call her all sorts of fanciful and poetic names inFrench or English, while Mary surveyed her with a pleased and innocentsurprise, as a revelation of character altogether new and differentfrom anything to which she had been hitherto accustomed. She was to hera living pantomime, and brought into her unembellished life the charmsof opera, and theatre, and romance.
After wearying themselves with their researches, they climbed round apoint of rock that stretched some way out into the sea, and attained toa little kind of grotto, where the high cliffs shut out the rays of thesun. They sat down to rest upon the rocks. A fresh breeze of decliningday was springing up, and bringing the rising tide landward,—eachseveral line of waves with their white crest coming up and breakinggracefully on the hard, sparkling sand-beach at their feet.
Mary’s eyes fixed themselves, as they were apt to do, in a mournfulreverie, on the infinite expanse of waters, which was now broken andchopped into thousand incoming waves by the fresh afternoon breeze.Madame de Frontignac noticed the expression, and began to play with heras if she had been a child. She pulled the comb from her hair, and letdown its long silky waves upon her shoulders.
‘Now,’ said she, ‘let us make a Miranda of thee. This is our cave.I will be Prince Ferdinand. Burr told me all about that,—he readsbeautifully, and explained it all to me. What a lovely story thatis;—you must be so happy who know how to read Shakspeare withoutlearning. _Tenez!_ I will put this shell on your forehead,—it has ahole here, and I will pass this gold chain through—now! What a pitythis seaweed will not be pretty out of water; it has no effect; butthere is some green that will do,—let me fasten it so. Now, fairMiranda, look at thyself.’
Where is the girl so angelic as not to feel a slight curiosity to knowhow she shall look in a new and strange costume? Mary bent over therock where a little pool of water lay in a brown hollow above thefluctuations of the tide, dark and still, like a mirror,—and saw a fairface, with a white shell above the forehead, and drooping wreaths ofgreen seaweed in the silken hair; and a faint blush and smile rose onthe cheek, giving the last finish to the picture.
‘How do you find yourself?’ said Madame; ‘confess now that I have atrue talent in coiffure. Now I will be Ferdinand.’ She turned quickly,and her eye was caught by something that Mary did not see; she only sawthe smile fade suddenly from Madame de Frontignac’s cheek, and her lipsgrow deadly white, while her heart beat so that Mary could notice itsflutterings under her black silk bodice.
‘Will the sea-nymphs punish the rash presumption of a mortal whointrudes?’ said Colonel Burr, stepping before them with a grace asinvincible and assured as if he had never had any past history witheither.
Mary started with a guilty blush, like a child detected in an unseemlyfrolic, and put her hand to her head to take off the unwontedadornments.
‘Let me protest, in the name of the graces,’ said Burr, who by thattime stood with easy calmness at her side; and as he spoke he stayedher hand with that gentle air of authority which made it the naturalimpulse of most people to obey him. ‘It would be treason against thepicturesque,’ he added, ‘to spoil that toilet so charmingly uniting thewearer to the scene.’
Mary was taken by surprise, and discomposed, as every one is whofinds one’s self masquerading in attire foreign to their usual habitsand character; and therefore, when she would persist in taking it topieces, Burr found sufficient to alleviate the embarrassment of Madamede Frontignac’s utter silence in a playful run of protestations andcompliments.
‘I think, Mary,’ said Madame de Frontignac, ‘that we had better bereturning to the house.’
This was said in the haughtiest and coolest tone imaginable, looking atthe place where Burr stood, as if there were nothing there but emptyair. Mary rose to go; Madame de Frontignac offered her arm.
‘Permit me to remark, ladies,’ said Burr, with the quiet suavity whichnever forsook him, ‘that your very agreeable occupations have causedtime to pass more rapidly than you are aware. I think you will findthat the tide has risen so as to intercept the path by which you camehere. You will hardly be able to get around the point of rocks withoutsome assistance.’
Mary looked a few paces ahead, and saw, a little before them, a freshafternoon breeze driving the rising tide high on to the side of therocks, at whose foot their course had lain. The nook in which they hadbeen sporting formed a part of a shelving ledge which inclined overtheir heads, and which it was just barely possible could be climbed bya strong and agile person, but which would be wholly inaccessible to afrail, unaided woman.
‘There is no time to be lost,’ said Burr, coolly, measuring thepossibilities with that keen eye that was never discomposed by anyexigency. ‘I am at your service, ladies; I can either carry you in myarms around this point, or assist you up these rocks.’ He paused andwaited for their answer.
Madame de Frontignac stood pale, cold, and silent, hearing only thewild beating of her heart.
‘I think,’ said Mary, ‘that we should try the rocks.’
‘Very well,’ said Burr; and placing his gloved hand on a fragment ofrock, somewhat above their heads, he swung himself on to it with aneasy agility; from this he stretched himself down as far as possibletowards them, and extending his hand, directed Mary, who stoodforemost, to set her foot on a slight projection, and give him bothher hands; she did so, and he seemed to draw her up as easily as ifshe had been a feather. He placed her by him on a shelf of rock, andturned again to Madame de Frontignac: she folded her arms and turnedresolutely away towards the sea.
Just at that moment a coming wave broke at her feet.
‘There is no time to be lost,’ said Burr; ‘there’s a tremendous wavecoming in, and the next wave may carry you out.’
‘_Tant mieux_,’ she responded, without turning her head.
‘Oh, Verginie! Verginie!’ exclaimed Mary,—kneeling and stretching herarms over the rock; but another voice called Verginie, in a tone whichwent to her heart. She turned and saw those dark eyes full of tears.
‘Oh, come,’ he said, with that voice which she could never resist.
She put her cold, trembling hands into his, and he drew her up andplaced her safely beside Mary. A few moments of difficult climbingfollowed, in which his arm was thrown now around one and then aroundthe other, and they felt themselves carried with a force, as if theslight and graceful form were s
trung with steel.
Placed in safety on the top of the bank, there was a natural gush ofgrateful feeling towards their deliverer. The severest resentment, thecoolest moral disapprobation, are necessarily somewhat softened whenthe object of them has just laid one under a personal obligation.
Burr did not seem disposed to press his advantage, and treated theincident as the most matter-of-course affair in the world. He offeredan arm to each lady, with the air of a well-bred gentleman, who offersa necessary support; and each took it, because neither wished, underthe circumstances, to refuse.
He walked along leisurely homeward, talking in that easy, quiet,natural way in which he excelled, addressing no very particular remarkto either one, and at the door of the cottage took his leave, saying,as he bowed, that he hoped neither of them would feel any inconveniencefrom their exertions, and that he should do himself the pleasure tocall soon, and inquire after their health.
Madame de Frontignac made no reply; but curtsied with a stately grace,turned and went into her little room, whither Mary, after a fewminutes, followed her.
She found her thrown upon the bed, her face buried in the pillow, herbreast heaving as if she were sobbing; but when at Mary’s entrance sheraised her head, her eyes were bright and dry.
‘It is just as I told you, Mary,—that man holds me. I love him yet, inspite of myself. It is in vain to be angry. What is the use of strikingyour right hand with your left? When we _love_ one more than ourselves,we only hurt ourselves with our anger.’
‘But,’ said Mary, ‘love is founded on respect and esteem; and when thatis gone——’
‘Why, then,’ said Madame, ‘we are very sorry; but we love yet; do westop loving ourselves when we have lost our own self-respect? No! it isso disagreeable to see, we shut our eyes and ask to have the bandageput on,—you know _that_, poor little heart; you can think how it wouldhave been with you, if you had found that he was not what you thought.’
The word struck home to Mary’s consciousness, but she sat down and tookher friend in her arms with an air, self-controlled, serious, rational.
‘I see and feel it all, dear Verginie, but I must stand firm for you.You are in the waves, and I on the shore. If you are so weak at heart,you must not see this man any more.’
‘But he will call.’
‘I will see him for you.’
‘What will you tell him, my heart,—tell him that I am ill, perhaps?’
‘No; I will tell him the truth,—that you do not wish to see him.’
‘That is hard,—he will wonder.’
‘I think not,’ said Mary, resolutely; ‘and furthermore I shall say tohim that, while Madame de Frontignac is at the cottage, it will not beagreeable for us to receive calls from him.’
‘Mary, _ma chère_, you astonish me!’
‘My dear friend,’ said Mary, ‘it is the only way. This man,—this cruel,wicked, deceitful man,—must not be allowed to trifle with you in thisway. I will protect you.’ And she rose up with flashing eye and glowingcheek, looking as her father looked when he protested against theslave-trade.
‘Thou art my Saint Catherine,’ said Verginie, rising up, excited byMary’s enthusiasm, ‘and hast the sword as well as the palm; but, dearsaint, don’t think so very, very badly of him,—he has a noble nature;he has the angel in him.’
‘The greater his sin,’ said Mary; ‘he sins against light and love.’
‘But I think his heart is touched,—I think he is sorry. Oh, Mary, ifyou had only seen how he looked at me, when he put out his hands on therocks,—there were tears in his eyes.’
‘Well there might be,’ said Mary; ‘I do not think he is quite a fiend;no one could look at those cheeks, dear Verginie, and not feel sad,that saw you a few months ago.’
‘Am I so changed?’ she said, rising and looking at herself in themirror. ‘Sure enough, my neck used to be quite round,—now you can seethose two little bones, like rocks at low tide. Poor Verginie! hersummer is gone, and the leaves are falling; poor little cat;’—andVerginie stroked her own chestnut head, as if she had been pityinganother, and began humming a little Norman air, with a refrain thatsounded like the murmur of a brook over the stones.
The more Mary was touched by these little poetic ways, which ran juston an even line between the gay and the pathetic, the more indignantshe grew with the man that had brought all this sorrow. She felt asaintly vindictiveness, and a determination to place herself as anadamantine shield between him and her friend. There is no courage andno anger like that of a gentle woman when once fully roused; if everyou have occasion to meet it, you will certainly remember the hour.