Chapter 8

"A man had given all other bliss And all his worldly worth for this, To waste his whole heart in one kiss Upon her perfect lips."

We were asked to dine and sleep at Brainswick, where the hounds met on the following morning. Mr. Raymond could not make up his mind to the exertion, so Forrester and I accompanied Guy alone.

"By-the-by," the latter observed, as we were driving over in his mail-phaeton, "I wonder if we shall see the Bellasys to-night? I know they were to come down about this time. Steady, old wench! where are you off to?" (This was to the near wheeler, who was breaking her trot.) "I think you'll admire her, Frank; but, _gare à vous_, she's dangerous. Eh, Charley?"

"Well, you ought to know," answered Forrester; "I never tried her much myself. She's two or three stone over my weight. I wonder what she has been doing lately? They sent her down to rusticate somewhere at the end of the season. She ought to be in great condition now, with a summer's run."

Livingstone smiled, complacently I thought, as if some one had praised one of his favorite hunters, but did not pursue the subject.

When I came down before dinner he was talking to a lady in dark blue silk, with black lace over it, a wreath curiously plaited of natural ivy in her hair. I guessed her at once to be Flora Bellasys.

Let me try to paint--though abler artists have failed--the handsomest brunette I have ever seen.

She was very tall; her figure magnificently developed, though slender-waisted and lithe as a serpent. She walked as if she had been bred in a _basquiña_, and her foot and ankle were hardly to be matched on this side of the Pyrenees; the nose slightly aquiline, with thin, transparent nostrils; and the forehead rather low--it looked more so, perhaps, from the thick masses of dark hair which framed and shaded her face. Under the clear, pale olive of the cheeks the rich blood mantled now and then like wine in a Venice glass; and her lips--the outline of the upper one just defined by a penciling of down, the lower one full and pouting--glistened with the brilliant smoothness of a pomegranate flower when the dew is clinging. Her eyes--the opium-eaters of Stamboul never dreamed of their peers among the bevies of hachis-houris. They were of the very darkest hazel; one moment sleeping lazily under their long lashes, like a river under leaves of water-lilies; the next, sparkling like the same stream when the sunlight is splintered on its ripples into carcanets of diamonds. When they chose to speak, not all the orators that have rounded periods since Isocrates could match their eloquence; when it was their will to guard a secret, they met you with the cold, impenetrable gaze that we attribute to the mighty mother, Cybèle. Even a philosopher might have been interested--on purely psychological grounds, of course--in watching the thoughts as they rose one by one to the surface of those deep, clear wells (was truth at the bottom of them?--I doubt), like the strange shapes of beauty that reveal themselves to seamen, coyly and slowly, through the purple calm of the Indian Sea.

Twice I have chosen a watery simile; but I know no other element combining, as her glances did, liquid softness with lustre.

When near her, you were sensible of a strange, subtle, intoxicating perfume, very fragrant, perfectly indefinable, which clung, not only to her dress, but to every thing belonging to her. From what flowers it was distilled no artist in essences alive could have told. I incline to think that, like the "birk" in the ghost's garland,

"They were not grown on earthly bank, Nor yet on earthly sheugh."

Guy took Miss Bellasys in to dinner, and I found myself placed on her other side. I had been introduced to her ten minutes before, but had little opportunity for "improving the occasion," as the Nonconformists have it, for she never once deigned a look in my direction.

My right-hand neighbor was an elderly man of a full habit, whom it would have been cruel to disturb till the rage of hunger was appeased, so I was fain to seek amusement in the conversation going on on my left. There was no indiscretion in this, for I knew Guy would never touch secrets of state in mixed company.

For some time they talked nothing but commonplaces, evidently feeling each other's foils. The real fencing began with a question from Flora--if he was not surprised at seeing her there that evening.

"Not at all," was the reply; "I knew we must meet before long. It is only parallels that don't; and there is very little of the right line about either you or me."

"Speak for yourself," Miss Bellasys said; "I consider that a very rude observation."

"Pardon me," retorted Guy; "I seldom say rude things--never intentionally. I don't know which is in worst taste, that, or paying point-blank compliments. Without being mathematical, you may have heard that the line of beauty is a curve."

Flora laughed.

"It is difficult to catch you. What have you been doing since we parted?"

"That is just the question that was on my lips, so nearly uttered that I consider I spoke first. Now, will you confess, or must I cross-question some one else? I _will_ know. It is easy to follow you, like an invading army, by the trail of devastation."

"So you do care to know?" the soft voice said, that could make the nerves of even an indifferent hearer thrill and quiver strangely.

After once listening to it, it was very easy to believe the weird stories of Norse sorceresses, and German wood-spirits and pixies, luring men to death with their fatally musical tones.

"Simple curiosity," Guy replied, coolly, "and a little compassion for your victims. They might be friends of mine, you know."

Miss Bellasys bit her lip, half provoked, half amused, apparently, as she answered, "The dead tell no tales."

"No, but the wounded do, and they cry out pretty loudly sometimes. I suppose all the cases did not terminate fatally. Will you confess?"

"I have nothing to tell you," Flora said, very demurely and meekly, only for once her eyes betrayed her. "Mamma took me down into Devonshire, where we have an aunt or two, for sea-breezes and seclusion. I rather liked at first having nothing on earth to do, and nothing--yes, I understand--really nothing to think about. I used to sleep a great deal, and then drive a little obstinate pony, to see views. But I don't care much about views--do you? Then mamma was always wanting me to help her look for shells and wild-flowers; and the rocks hurt my feet, and the bushes never would leave me alone in the woods." She shuddered slightly here.

"The Bushes! a Devonshire family of that name, I presume?" Guy interrupted, with intense gravity. "How wrong of them! They are very ill-regulated young men down in those parts, I believe."

"Don't be absurd; I never saw a creature for months between fifteen and fifty. Are not those ages safe?" (A shake of the head from Livingstone.) "I began to be very unhappy; I had no one to tease; my aunts are too good-natured, and mamma is used to it. At last I had the greatest mind to do something desperate--to write to you, for instance--merely to see the household's horror when your answer came. You would have answered, would you not? I should not have opened it, you know, but given it to mamma, like a good child."

"Of course; I know you show all your letters to your mother. But that ruralizing must have been fearful for you, _poverina_! People were talking a good deal of agricultural distress, but this is the most piteous case I've heard of. So there were really no men to govern in that wood?"

"Not even a little boy," said Flora, decisively. "There were two or three from Oxford in the neighborhood; I used to see them sitting outside their lodgings in the sun, like rabbits, but they always ran in before--"

"Before you could get a shot at them, you mean?" broke in Guy; "you ought to have crept up, and stalked them cleverly."

Flora threw hack her handsome head. "I don't war with children. It went on just as I tell you till we left for our round of winter visits, which have been very stupid and correct--till now."

I hardly caught the two last words, she spoke them so low. There was silence for several minutes, and then Guy leaned back to address me.

"Do you remember Arthur Darrell, of Christchurch, Frank, the man that used to speak at the Union, and was always raving about ebon locks and dark eyes?"

"I remember him well. I have not seen him for years; but I heard he was getting on well in the law."

"He'll have time to get tired of brunettes--if any one ever _does_ get tired of them--before he comes back," said Guy. "He's just gone out to try the Indian bar."

"What could have put such an idea into his head?" I asked, very innocently.

"I can't say," was the reply; "men do take such curious fancies. It was a sudden determination, I believe. The beauties of the Eastern hemisphere began to develop themselves to his weak mind last summer while he was down with his people in--Devonshire."

Involuntarily I looked at Miss Bellasys. She saw she was detected; but, instead of betraying any embarrassment, she turned upon Guy a queer little imploring look, not indicative in the least of shame or repentance, but such as might be put on by one of those truly excellent people who do good by stealth and blush to find it known, when some of their benevolent acts have come to light, and they wish to deprecate praise.

Livingstone gazed piercingly at her for several instants without moving a muscle of his face; suddenly its fixed and stern expression--you could not say softened, but--broke up all at once like a sheet of ice shivering.

"Let there be peace," he said, sententiously. "We forgive all the errors of your long vacation in consideration of the good it has evidently done you. You are looking brilliantly!"

There was an unusual softness, almost a tremor, in his deep voice as he spoke the last words, and a look in his bold eyes that many trained coquettes would have shrunk from--a look that I should be sorry and angry to see turned on any woman in whom I felt an interest--a look such as Selim Pasha might wear as the Arnauts defile into his harem-court, bringing the fair Georgians home.

Flora Bellasys only smiled in saucy triumph.

"You say you never pay compliments," she answered, "and I always _try_ to believe you. We will suppose this one is only the truth extorted. My glove--thank you." The same smile was on her lip as she turned her head once in her haughty progress to the door.

As Guy sat down again, and filled a huge glass with claret, I heard him mutter between his teeth, "_Royale, quand même_!"

"Close up, gentlemen, close up!" broke in the cheery voice of our rare old host. "Livingstone, if you begin back-handing already, you'll never be able to hold that great raking chestnut I saw your groom leading this evening. The man looked as if he thought he would be eaten before he got in."

"Whatever you do, drink fair," Guy answered, laughing; "so saith the immortal Gamp. The squire's beginning to tremble for his '22 wine."

"I don't wonder," said Godfrey Parndon, the M.F.H. "I've always observed that, after flirting disgracefully at dinner, you drink harder afterward. It's to drown remorse, I suppose. So you ride that new horse of yours to-morrow? My poor hounds!"

"Don't be alarmed," cried Guy; "he never kicks hounds, and I won't let him go over them; it's only human strangers the amiable animal can't endure: that's why I call him the Axeine. He is worth more than the £300 I gave for him."

"Well, he nearly spoiled two grooms for Hounscott," Parndon said. "The stablemen at Revesby had a great beer the day they got rid of him."

"He wouldn't suit every one," remarked Livingstone--"not you, for instance, Godfrey, who always ride with a loose rein. I was obliged to give him his gallops myself at first; he's a devil to pull, and if he once gets away with you, you may 'write to your friends.' But I've nothing like him in my stable."

Then the conversation became general, revolving in a circle of hound-and-horse talk, as it will do now and then in the shires.

"Guy," whispered Forrester, as we went up stairs, "there's a little woman here who says she used to know you very well: won't you go and talk to her?"

"Many little women say that," answered Guy; "it's a way they have. Which is it, now?"

Charley pointed out a small, plump, rather pretty blonde, with long ringlets, and light, laughing blue eyes. It seemed the lady's reminiscences were well founded, for in five minutes Livingstone and she were talking like old friends.

In the course of the evening I found myself near Miss Bellasys. This time she did me the honor to address me, and soon began asking me more questions than I could answer, even had she waited a reply. Did I like Kerton Manor? Had there been many agreeable people there yet? Not any remarkably so! She was surprised at that. Miss Raymond was there _en permanence_, of course? She was such a favorite with her (Flora), and with her cousin too, she thought. Was Mr. Livingstone always playing with his uncle, and always losing? She supposed he liked losing--at play. Did I know the lady in pink, with twenty-five flowers in her hair? She had counted them. Yes, that was her husband, the stout man looking uncomfortable, in the corner--an old friend of Mr. Livingstone's? He had so many old friends; but he did not always talk to them for a whole evening without intermission. Ah! she was going to sing; that is, if Mr. Livingstone had quite finished with her, and would let her go. Little women with pink cheeks and dresses always _did_ sing, and never had any voice.

I don't know how many more questions she put to me in the same quiet, clear tones; but just then I happened to look down on the handkerchief she held in her hand, and I saw a long rent in its broad Valenciennes border that I am very sure was not there an hour ago; for Flora's toilette, morning and evening, was faultless to a degree.

I had hardly time to remark this when Guy lounged up to us. My companion's dark eyes were more eloquent than her lips, which quivered slightly as she said,

"I wonder you have not more consideration. A new arrival in the county, and compromised irretrievably! Look at Mr. Stafford now."

"The husband?" Guy said, with intense disdain; "the husband's helpless. He may sharpen his--tusks, but he'll never come to battle. How good and great you are! It is quite refreshing to hear your strictures on innocent amusements. But I beg you will speak of that lady with due respect; she is the first--yes, positively the first--woman I ever loved."

"_Monseigneur, que d'honneur!_" Flora said, curling her haughty lip.

"It is true," Guy went on. "At a children's ball, about fifteen years ago, I met my fate. She was in white muslin, with a velvet bodice (Flora shuddered visibly); for a year after I pictured to myself the angels in no other attire, and now--years vitiate one's tastes so--I can fancy nothing but a jockey in 'black body and white sleeves.' I suppose she was very pretty; let us hope so; it is my only excuse for being enchanted in ten minutes, and stupidly enslaved in half an hour. The thing would not have been complete without a rival; he came--a plump, circular-faced boy, with severely flaxen hair. No, you need not look across the room--not the least like what she is now! Great jealousy may make me unjust, but I don't think he had any advantage over me save one, and he used that mercilessly. He wore collars boldly erect under his fat checks, while those of the rest of us lay prostrate, after the simple fashion of my childhood. The _prestige_ was too much for Ellen's weak mind. (Did I tell you her name was Ellen?) Bottom monopolized Titania for the rest of the evening. I could have beaten him with ease and satisfaction to myself, but I refrained; and, rushing into the supper-room, drained three glasses of weak negus with the energy of despair.

"I have never suffered any thing since like the torment of the next two hours. I saw her several times afterward, and might have made play, perhaps, but the phantom of a round red face, with collars starched _à l'outrance_, always came between us. It is only a slight satisfaction to hear that she has utterly lost sight of my rival, and promises to cut him dead the first time they meet. There's the history of a young heart blighted--of a crushed affection! I am not aware if there is any moral in it; if there is, you are very welcome to it, I am sure. You might look a little more sympathizing, though, even if I _have_ bored you."

Flora tried to look grave, but the dancing light in her rebellious eyes betrayed her, even before her merry musical laugh broke in.

"It is far the most touching thing I ever heard. Poor child, how you must have suffered! I wonder you ever smiled again. How well she sings, does she not? when she does not try to go too high."

"Don't be severe," Guy retorted; "you may have to sing yourself some day. You prefer talking, though? Well, with a well-managed _contralto_, it comes nearly to the same thing, and I suppose you consider the world in general is not worthy of it?"

Almost imperceptibly, but very meaningly, her glance turned to where I sat close beside her.

"How absurd! you know why I don't sing often. To-night it would be--too cruel. (Flora's idea of modest merit was peculiar.) Now tell me, what are you going to ride to-morrow? We shall all go and see them throw off."

Without answering her question, he leaned over her, and said something too low for me to hear, which made her color brighten.

From a distant corner two ancient virgins, long past "mark of mouth," surveyed the proceedings with faces like moulds of lemon-ice. Flora glanced toward them this time, and said demurely, making a gesture of crossing her arms a _à la Napoléon I._, "Take care; from the summit of yonder sofa forty ages behold you."

The caution was a challenge; and so her hearer interpreted it as he sank down beside her.

I seemed to be lapsing rapidly into the terrible _third_ that spoils sport, so I left them; but not all the adjurations of Godfrey Parndon invoking his favorite antagonist to the whist-table could draw Guy from his post again that evening.

I know men who would have given five years of life for the whisper that glided into his ear as he gave Miss Bellasys her candle on retiring, ten for the Parthian glance that shot its arrow home.