CHAPTER III.

QUARTE AND TIERCE.

Monsieur Bagasse, meanwhile, resuming his equanimity, stood sighting beyond the muzzle of an invisible cannon, as if the door was the mark, looking very much like some slovenly, awkward old artilleryman, of an uncouth pattern, and not at all like a fencing-master. The door flew open presently with a bang, letting in two smart young men not yet out of their teens, who swaggered forward with a very rakish, gasconading air. Milk street clerks—Fisk and Palmer by name—snobbish in dress and rude in manners.

“Bon swor, Monsoor,” said Palmer, loud and patronizing. This address, couched in a purely domestic French, was intended both as an elegant recognition of the nationality of Monsieur Bagasse, and as a way of bidding him good morning. The old man, who with ready politeness had silently saluted the new comers upon their entrance, surveyed the speaker over the rims of his round goggles, with open mouth, and an odd smile on his upturned visage.

“Ha, Miss’r Pammer,” he said with vivacity, “you zink ze day is gone, eh?”

Palmer, who was taking off his coat, stopped and stared.

“I don’t understand you, Monsoor,” he rejoined; “I’m going to take my lesson.”

“Hah! Zat is well,” said the old man. “But you say, _bon soir_, Miss’r Pammer. Zat is, good night. You intend _bon jour_; zat is, good day.”

Palmer, seeing the grotesque, good-natured face of the fencing-master smiling at him, and beginning to comprehend what his domestic French had meant, grinned rather foolishly, and turned off. His companion, who stood in his shirtsleeves with a wire-mask already on his face, burst into a rude guffaw at the blunder, and slapped him on the back with a fencing-glove. It may be mentioned here that these young cubs, in process of getting their taste for the wolf’s milk of trade, had come upon the heady wine of Dumas’ “Three Guardsmen”—which admirable romance had so intoxicated their ardent fancy with excited day-dreams of D’Artagnan and Porthos, that, filled with the spirit of the sword, they had resolved to take fencing-lessons of Monsieur Bagasse. This practical recognition of the literary genius of the great French mulatto, was one incident in their joint career. Another, not so creditable, was their participation in a mob of clerks and salesmen, who not long before had brawled down an orator of Dumas’ own color—Frederick Douglass—at the Thompson meeting in Faneuil Hall. It is to be feared that the gallant Alexandre himself would have fared no better at their hands, or their employers’ either, had he ever been fool enough to leave the democratic streets of Paris, for the color-phobic pavements of Boston.

Monsieur Bagasse put away his pipe and spectacles, shuffled across the room to shut the door which the cubs had left open, and returning took down a foil and glove to give the lesson. Fisk was buckling on Palmer’s plastron, as the leathern breastplate is called, an operation rather hindered by his sense of the supercilious smile with which Witherlee regarded his efforts from his chair against the wall, as well as by the circumstance of his having his face incased in the wire mask, and his arms hampered by the heavy leather gloves which he was holding with his elbows against his sides. While Monsieur Bagasse waited, standing in an awkward drooping posture, with the foil in his gloved hand, a firm step was heard bounding up the stairs, the door flew open, and, with a light, springing tread, a young man, flushed and smiling, and so handsome that any one would have turned to look at him, darted in, bringing with him a warm gust of fragrance into the chill musty pallor of the room. An odd, fond smile shot at once to the visage of the fencing-master.

“Ha, good monning, good monning, Missr Wentwort’,” he chirruped, returning with a military salute the quick gesture of gay cordiality the young man made on entering. “How you feel to-day?”

“Capital! most potent, grave and reverend seignior! My very noble and approved good fencing-master, how are you? Hallo, Fernando,” his eye catching sight of the equably-smoking Witherlee: “here you are again, old fellow?”

“Just so, Heliogabalus,” coolly drawled the bilious-cynical youth from his chair. “Say, Heliogabalus—do you know how to get that smell out of your clothes? Bury ’em!”

There was a decided flavor of verjuice in the manner of Witherlee, as he let fly this borrowed jest at the perfumed raiment of the other. Wentworth, though he took it as a jest, could not help wincing a little at it, and was made even more uncomfortable at the application to him of the name of one of the most bestial of the Roman Emperors.

“Well, Fernando,” he returned with a smile, “if ever there was a prickly cactus, you’re one. You’re a perfect Diogenes. Get a tub, Fernando, do.”

“Quarte and tierce, Heliogabalus,” responded the cool Fernando, with his turtle-husky chuckle.

Wentworth turned away, and met the smiling look of admiration and fondness on the upturned visage of the old man-at-arms. A handsome young fellow, in the very flower of youth and May, elegantly dressed—who could look at him without admiration and fondness? An artist—one could have told that at the first glance. Long auburn locks curled in a thick cluster under his dark Rubens hat, and around his florid cheeks. He had a gay, electric, passionate face; bright blue eyes; a fair complexion; red lips, shaded by a light brown moustache coquettishly curled up at the ends, and quick to curve into a proud, brilliant smile. His figure was compact, well-knit, shapely, of middle-height, and seeming taller than it was by force of its gallant carriage. The quality of his face was in his voice—so quick, lively, clear and ringing.

“Ah, Missr Wentwort’,” said the old man, in hoarse tones, which were yet soft and facile, “you bring me back ever so far—you look so gay! You look as I sall feel wis my young blood tirty, tirty-five years ago. We marsh zen wis ze great Nap-oleon dis mont’, all so proud, so gallant, for zat dam Waterloo. Hah! I feel zen jus’ like you. So young—so gay! Wis my littel flower like zat at my bouton—ze flower zat ze pretty girl haf give me. Jus’ so.”

He touched a nosegay of violets in the young man’s buttonhole with the hilt of the foil as he spoke. Wentworth laughed lightly, taking out the nosegay.

“Jupiter! Bagasse,” he cried, “you shall have the flowers for the sake of the memory. What are you grinning at, Fernando!” This to Witherlee, whose cynical grin changed into a cool lift of the eyebrows. “Now, Bagasse,” resumed Wentworth, “I’ll give them to you since they remind you of old times. Here, let me fix them in your jacket. There now—guard them well against every foil. Violets, you know, Monsieur Bagasse! Worn in remembrance of Corporal Violet—the great little corporal!”

The old man bowed low, with the violets on his breast. With the rush of thrilling souvenirs which the pet name of the beloved Emperor revived, a dark glow came to his rugged visage, and the one bright eye grew suddenly dim, leaving the face blind. Wentworth saw that he was touched, and with a quick regret that he had brought a tear to the old heart, turned away, humming an air.

“But where’s Harrington, I wonder?” he burst out, whirling around again. “He said he’d be here before me.”

“He will come pretty soon, I zink, Missr Wentwort’,” replied Monsieur Bagasse. “You haf seen him dis morning?”

“Oh, yes. I found him, as usual, pegging away at the books, and we walked out together. Afterward we went with him, Witherlee and I, to his room, and then started out again to come here. He left us on the way, saying he’d be here before us, and I left Witherlee on the way, saying I’d be here before him. Two promises of pie-crust, those. I’ll bet a denier, Fernando, that dog has something to do with his absence,” and the young artist laughed.

“No doubt,” returned Witherlee, smoking, with a sarcastic smile. “Perhaps he’s commencing his education—developing, on Kant’s principle, all the perfection of which the doggish nature is capable.”

“Dog?” inquired Monsieur Bagasse, curiously.

“Oh, it’s a dog we passed this morning,” explained Wentworth; “a miserable old vagabond white cur, with just about life enough in him to crawl. Some Irish and negro boys were lugging the poor old devil along by the ears and tail, and whacking him with sticks, as we came along, and Harrington, of course, stopped to order them off.”

“Bright in Harrington,” put in Witherlee, with a sneer; “as if they wouldn’t be at him again before we’d gone twenty yards!”

“Yes, by Jupiter, but before we had gone twenty yards, Fernando, you and I went into the shop, you know, where you bought the cigars, and it was there that Harrington said he had to go back to the house for something, and made off with himself. It never occurred to me till now—but I’ll bet a franc he went back to those boys!”

He burst into a peal of laughter at the idea.

“I’d give something to know what Harrington did with the old cur,” he said in a moment.

“Took him off to the butcher’s perhaps, and sold him for sausages,” suggested Witherlee.

“Ah, Missr Wentwort’,” said the old man, grotesquely serious, “you friend, Missr Harrin’ton, is vair fine, vair mush humane, vair fine zhentilman. I feel vair mush warm to him.”

“Rather too much of the Don Quixote order, though,” drawled Witherlee, affectedly, giving the Spanish pronunciation to the ‘Don Quixote’ and calling it Don Kehoty.

“O you be hanged, Fernando,” burst in Wentworth. “He’s no more like Don Kehoty, as you call it, than you’re like Sancho Panza. He’s the grandest fellow that ever lived, and makes me ashamed of myself every day of my life. Hallo, I guess he’s coming.”

Witherlee, biliously pale with spite at the double injury of his pronunciation of “Don Quixote” having been mimicked, and Harrington having been so warmly praised, busied himself with adjusting the loosened skin of his cigar, while Monsieur Bagasse and Wentworth turned to the door, which voices and trampling feet were nearing. Presently the door opened and a group of seven or eight poured in with a confusion of salutations. Four or five of them were young mercantiloes, and instantly swarmed around Fisk and Palmer, who were still fussing over the plastron. One was a heavy, taciturn man—a Pennsylvania Dutchman—with blue, fishy eyes, a sodden face and a yellow beard. His name was Whilt, and he kept a wine-cellar, and boarded with Monsieur Bagasse. With him was another of the fencing-master’s boarders—a tall, slender, handsome, swaggering young man, half-soldier, half-coxcomb in his bearing, with bright dark eyes, brilliant color, long black hair, well oiled and curled, and a long, slim, black moustache, shaved into two sections, and clinging to his upper lip, and curving around his moist, scarlet mouth, like two flaccid leeches. He was fancifully clad in bright blue, tight-fitting trowsers, a short, rakish coat, gay vest and neckerchief, wore his falling collar open at the throat, and had a Kossuth hat, with a black plume, set smartly on his head. This was Captain Vukovich, a young Hungarian officer, who had come over in the train of Kossuth. Though it was only eight o’clock, he and Whilt had a strong smell of Rhine wine about them, which they diffused through the room upon entering.

“How are you, Whilt,” said Wentworth, carelessly nodding. “Captain, how are you? I thought you had gone on to New York with Kossuth.”

Wentworth had the Kossuth furor, prevalent about that time, and saluted Vukovich with a touch of enthusiasm.

“No,” responded the Hungarian, in a soft voice, conceitedly fingering his moustache, and swaying on his shapely legs as he spoke. “No, I stays. Se Gofernor go on, an’ I stays back. I sink to keep cigar shop in Bosson pretty soon. So I stays. Goot tay, Mossieu Bagasse. How you feel?”

He begun to talk in French to the fencing-master, and Wentworth, full of fiery sentiment for liberty and Hungary, moved away to the foils, humming the Marseillaise. Presently, Palmer and Fisk were ready, and Monsieur Bagasse, after much preliminary effort to get Palmer into strict position, began to give him his lesson.

Both Witherlee and Wentworth were very sensitive to all forms of artistic beauty, and they now saw, with strange pleasure, as they had often seen before, the wonderful transformation of the fencing-master’s awkward, sloven figure. Looking at him in his ordinary aspect, nobody would ever have imagined that he was cut out for a pillar of the school of arms. But now, as he threw himself into the noble attitude of the exercise, every deformity seemed suddenly to have dropped from his face and figure, and vanished. The head erect and proud—the lit face turned square in rugged, grand repose, with the visor of the old cap looking now like the raised visor of a helmet—the one eye firm and jewel-bright, fixed on his adversary’s—the left arm thrown up and out behind in easy balance—the body set in perfect poise on legs as strong as iron, as flexible as steel—and the lithe foil gently playing from the extended ease of his right arm over the stiff guard of his antagonist, like a line of living light—so, with every trait and outline of his figure blended into an indescribable ensemble, he stood, an image of martial grace, superb and invincible. For one instant, the two young men drank in with eager eyes the beauty of that military statue—the next, Palmer’s blade lunged in swift and stiff—was parried wide aside with a light, almost imperceptible, deft motion, and a flashing clash—and the figure of Bagasse had changed into another statue of martial grandeur, the left arm down aslope with the left leg, the body heaved forward on the bent right knee, the right arm up and out in strong extension, and the foil, a gleaming curve of steel, with its buttoned point on the breast of the adversary.

Only a second, and while murmurs of applause ran round, the first position was resumed.

“You see now, Miss’r Pammer,” politely said the fencing-master, breaking the spell, “I hit you zen, be-cause you longe off you guard. Now see—I show you how.”

He dropped his point, and explained to Palmer where he had done wrong, showing him with his own foil the way the pass should have been made. Palmer promised to remember, and the lesson went on.

Presently, while they were on guard, Palmer was wrong again—this time in his position. Bagasse, smiling politely, lowered his point; whereat, Palmer, with immense haste, lunged in, and triumphantly bent his foil on the breast of the fencing-master, who, of course, made no effort to ward. The young mercantiloes, delighted with this evidence of their friend’s proficiency, set up a cry of bravo. Witherlee sneered to himself, and Wentworth laughed and exchanged glances with the surprised Hungarian, and the imperturbable Whilt. As for Monsieur Bagasse, he stood, with upturned visage, smiling with grotesque placidity, then made a grimace, and limping off to the claret-can, gulped a mouthful, and came hurrying back. Palmer instantly threw himself on guard, thrilling with vanity, and confident that he was getting ahead of his fencing-master.

“See, now, Missr Pammer,” said the old man, with great vivacity, smiling good-naturedly as he spoke; “you parry, now—it is simple quarte and tierce—vair, vair easy. Hey, now! Hey, now! Hey, now! Hey, now! Four.”

Quietly, at every exclamation, Monsieur Bagasse, without effort, bent his foil almost double on the breast of his antagonist. Palmer could no more parry the deft lunges than he could fly. Bagasse stood grinning good-naturedly at him, and lowered his point. Palmer instantly made a desperate lunge at the unguarded breast, and the same instant found that his foil had flown out of his hand, and that the blade of Bagasse was resting in a firm curve on his bosom.

All present, Palmer included, burst into a roar of laughter. All but the master, who stood silent, with his curious, good-natured smile on his upturned visage. It was quite plain to the pupil now, that he could not touch Monsieur Bagasse on or off guard, unless the latter chose to let him.

Suddenly, like a light magnetic shock, a silence fell upon the uproarious mirth, as with a surprised and startled feeling, all present recognized a new figure, serene in youthful majesty, standing quietly at a little distance near them, in the full light of the windows. It was Harrington. They all knew him, but somehow the unexpectedness of his appearance gave him the momentary effect of a stranger. He was a young man of about twenty-five, tall and stalwart, and of regnant and martial bearing. His face, looking out from under a black slouched felt hat, was long and bearded, singularly open and noble in its character, firm, calm-eyed, straight-featured, broad-nostrilled, and masculine, but very pale. The beard was light-brown, and the hair, chestnut in color, and darker than the beard, curled closely, and was worn somewhat long. A loose, dark sack, with large sleeves, buttoned with a single button at the throat, showed the spread of his chest, and added to the commanding grace of his figure. This was the coat which had been so opprobriously celebrated by the esthetic Witherlee. It was an old coat certainly, but it was not the less a well-chosen and graceful garment, and it is questionable whether if it had hung in tatters, it would have diminished the effect of a presence in contrast with which the others seemed common-place and inferior. Witherlee himself, set in comparison with Harrington, looked unmanly and contemptibly genteel. Whilt was nobody, Vukovich a simpering fop, the mercantiloes simple snobs. Even the handsome and gallant Wentworth seemed of a lower order beside him, and Bagasse, in his uncouth and shabby grotesqueness, though not degraded by the contrast, was so removed by his essential unlikeness, as to be out of comparison altogether.

Wentworth was the first to recover from the momentary ghostly trance into which they had all dropped on discovering Harrington in the room.

“Jupiter Tonans!” he exclaimed: “How—when—where—in what manner did you arrive, Harrington!”

“Well,” returned Harrington in a sweet and cordial baritone voice, affably saluting the company, “I didn’t exactly step out from behind the air, though you all look as if you thought so. I came in just now prosaically at the door—not stealthily either, for John Todd, there, both heard and saw me. But you were all in such a tempest of merriment that no one but Johnny noticed me. Come—go on with the fun. Tell me what it’s all about, that I may laugh too.”

“O, I just disarmed Monsoor—that’s all,” said Palmer.

This quip, though slight, was sufficient to set the group off again in a confusion of jests and laughter, in the midst of which Harrington wandered over to the pistol bench, and began to chat with the young fellow while the bout between Monsieur Bagasse and his pupil went on. In a few minutes Monsieur Bagasse came over to the claret-can in that region, drank, and took the opportunity to shake hands with Harrington, and ask for his health.

“O by the way, Mr. Bagasse,” said Harrington, after due replication to the old Frenchman’s polite inquiries, taking from his breast pocket as he spoke, a bunch of violets inclosed in a funnel of stiff white paper, “here’s a May gift for you. I thought of you and your Corporal Violet so instantly when I got this bouquet, that I resolved to present it to you. Hallo, though! you’ve got one already.”

He had just caught sight of the nosegay in the old slate-colored jacket. Like his own, it was tied with a pink string. A comical look of surprise came with a slight flush to his frank, pale face, and his eye glanced quickly at the young artist who, he saw, was eagerly watching him from the other side of the room. At the same instant he saw Witherlee looking with opaque eyes over in his direction, very intent upon the iron vice on the bench near by, and with a face entirely discharged of expression. Harrington’s intelligence was almost clairvoyant, and he felt that Witherlee was watching him and not the vice—felt also that Wentworth’s gaze meant something connected with his present action. With the feeling, which was as instantaneous as his glance had been, he caught sight of the eye of the old Frenchman, roguishly twinkling at him. Harrington was puzzled.

“Ah, ha, Missr Harrin’ton,” said Monsieur Bagasse in a bantering whisper, “zere are two ladee zat gif ze vilet, an’ two zhentilmen zat gif ze vilet too! Eh, now, zem zhentilmen sall not be so vair mush fond of zem ladee zat zey gif away zere littel bouquet! Ha?”

“Two ladies!” exclaimed Harrington. “How do you know there are two? I didn’t say so.”

Monsieur Bagasse was caught, and shrugged his humpy shoulders with an odd grimace. A feeling of honor withheld him from saying how he came by his information, since that would involve the exposure of the blabbing Witherlee. Witherlee, meanwhile, fully conscious of the ridiculous impropriety he had been guilty of, in tattling about his friends’ affairs to any person, much less the old fencing-master, and momently expecting to be subjected to the rage of Wentworth, and the rebuke of Harrington, stood nervously dreading the reply of Bagasse, and looking pale in spite of himself. Wentworth, for his part, taking a true-lover’s stand-point, was considerably amazed to see Harrington, whom he thought the secret lover of Miss Ames, so coolly bestowing her nosegay on the old Frenchman. As for Harrington, he was divided between wonder at Wentworth, for having not only given to the old Frenchman the flowers he had received from Miss Eastman—whom he in turn thought Wentworth secretly loved—but having also, as he naturally supposed, made the old Frenchman his confidant, at least to the extent of telling him of the two ladies and of their gifts. Fisk and Palmer were at it, quarte and tierce, with the foils. Meanwhile, there was a game of quarte and tierce of another sort begun between four, all against each other, and Monsieur Bagasse had just been buttoned.

Harrington smiled good-naturedly, and silently gave the violets to the fencing-master, who took them and bowed without a word. Just then Wentworth approached with a composed air, which was so evidently assumed that Harrington began to laugh. Wentworth’s florid color had paled a little, but he answered Harrington’s laugh with a constrained smile, looking meanwhile in his face.

“Well, Harrington,” he said, with an unsuccessful attempt at carelessness, “what the deuce is there in my giving Bagasse the violets, to make you show your maxillary muscles and the teeth under, your beard so delightedly? Hanged if I see anything to laugh at.”

The maxillary muscles, which were unusually developed in Harrington’s cheeks, and always wrinkled them when he laughed, relaxed at this, but his white, regular teeth still showed in a curious, half-sad, half-absent smile, as he fixed his clear, broad gaze wistfully on the face of his friend. Wentworth, nettled at the mystery of a look he could not fathom, became peevish, and began to twirl his moustache, half smiling, half irritated.

“Don’t be vexed, Wentworth,” said Harrington, throwing his long arm affectionately around the latter’s shoulder, and moving away up the room with him, while Bagasse shuffled off to his pupils. “I laughed thoughtlessly—but, frankly, I was somewhat surprised to see that you had given away the violets. That was all.”

“All!” exclaimed Wentworth. “And why shouldn’t I give them away? They were mine, weren’t they? Why, you gave yours away too, didn’t you?”

“To be sure,” replied Harrington, with a bothered air, adding tranquilly, “Emily gave them to me, and I gave them to Bagasse.”

“Well,” retorted Wentworth, “Muriel gave them to me and I gave them to Bagasse also. What of it?”

Harrington, who could not see into this matter at all, was silent, and stroked his beard with his hand, a habit of his when he was very much puzzled.

“No matter—it’s a trifle,” he said lightly, after a pause. “Only, Richard, to be very plain with you—I hope you’ll not think me intrusive—well, I thought it was—odd—that you should have given away the flowers Muriel gave you.”

He spoke these words with marked, but delicate significance—stammering and hesitating a little in his speech, which was unusual with him. It was the first allusion he had ever made to Wentworth’s supposed love for Miss Eastman. Loving her himself, it was not made without a pang. If Wentworth had been cool, he could not but have understood it. As it was, it only put him in a rage.

“Well, if I ever heard the like of this!” he sputtered. “To be very plain with me—what in thunder—blast it all, Harrington, what are you driving at? Why, I was struck all of a heap at the oddity of your giving away Emily’s nosegay, and here you turn upon me and tell me it’s odd—yes, odd, that I should give away Muriel’s! What’s the difference, I’d like to know? Now, just tell me!”

Harrington was silent, and again stroked his beard, wondering what sort of cross-purposes they were playing at. Wentworth stood for a moment with flushed face and passionate eyes, angry with Harrington for the first time in his life, and then walked away in great exasperation.

Perplexed and amazed at this state of affairs, and grieved to think he had, however unwittingly, angered his friend, Harrington stood looking after him, irresolute whether to follow and attempt an explanation now, or wait till his fume was over. Presently, he resolved to wait, and sadly musing, began to pace to and fro at the upper end of the long room.

On his way down to the fencing-ground, Wentworth was met by Witherlee, who had been watching the conference, and though he could not catch a word, knew well enough by Wentworth’s excited tones then, and by his flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes now, that there had been some difference between the two.

“What’s the matter, Richard?” he asked, kindly.

“O nothing, nothing!” fretfully replied the vexed Wentworth, taking off his Rubens hat, dashing back the thick curls from his handsome, sloping forehead with a hasty hand, and passionately slapping on the hat again.

“I am very sorry, very. Harrington is really very aggravating sometimes,” ventured the kind Fernando.

At any other time Wentworth would have resented this insidious speech, as a slander upon the gentle Harrington. But now—

“He’s the most aggravating fellow I ever knew in my life,” was his hot answer.

“Well, I wouldn’t go so far as that,” returned Fernando, with mild moderation. “By no means. Harrington has fine qualities, you know. You should remember that the best of us are apt to be a little forgetful when our own personal interests, or wishes, or affections are involved.”

Blandly and kindly said, with just a shade of hesitating emphasis on “personal” and “affections”—just a shade.

“What do you mean by that, Fernando?” asked Wentworth, almost choking, and catching at the insidious hint, which the good Fernando had made almost impalpable by throwing it out with the easy manner of one uttering a mere generality.

“Mean?” he asked, with a delicate shade of bewilderment, “why nothing particular, that I know of.”

But he smiled slightly and lifted his handsome eyebrows very slightly, and then lapsed into an expression of soft compassion.

“Yes, I understand,” said Wentworth, walking away in passionate misery.

What particular meaning the good Fernando’s vague words and mysterious looks expressed, nobody could have told. It was their especial beauty, perhaps, that they really expressed nothing definite at all, and were merely random spurs to the imagination of the listener, goading him on the path he happened to be pursuing. Wentworth’s path at that moment was the vague suspicion that Harrington was selfishly supplanting him in his relation to Emily. It was a path out of which he had turned several times, urged by his strong sense of Harrington’s perfect nobility, but he was now in it again, and with the talented Fernando’s last bunch of thorns insidiously tied to his galloping fancy, and stinging it on, he was going at a headlong pace for mad jealousy and outright hostility, and would soon be there.

Witherlee, meanwhile, highly gratified at the success of his insinuations with Wentworth, was enjoying the young artist’s distress when he caught sight of Harrington standing at the upper end of the room, and looking at him. It was embarrassing, and he was about to avert his eyes, but at that instant Harrington beckoned to him. He hesitated, and then with considerable trepidation, for he did not know what was coming, he walked up the room.

Harrington’s face was introverted and sad, and his eyes were fixed on vacancy. Witherlee felt glad that the broad gaze did not rest on his face, for he feared its inquest.

“Fernando,” said Harrington, calmly and kindly, though with evident embarrassment, “I want to speak with you on a very delicate subject. You have known Miss Eastman and Miss Ames a long time—much longer than I have. You”—

Harrington paused for a moment. Witherlee’s heart beat an alarmed tattoo, though his colorless face was perfectly impassible.

“Richard is in a strange state lately,” resumed Harrington, smiling vaguely. “You must have noticed it, Fernando. Just now, he spoke to me in a manner which I do not understand. Something frets him. Have you any idea what it is?”

“Not the least, though I’ve noticed it,” returned the imperturbable Fernando.

“Well, I haven’t either,” said Harrington. “But see here. You remember what you said to me at my room about a week ago. Previous to that conversation, it was my own fancy that Richard was very much attached to Miss Ames. You surprised me very much when you told me you thought his feeling was for—for Muriel. I never should have guessed it. You astonished me still more by what you told me after that. But something Richard said just now made me fancy that you may have been mistaken, and I want to ask you if you are perfectly sure of what you saw.”

Harrington paused again, nervously twitching his beard with his large shapely hand. Before Witherlee could reply, he went on again.

“Let me recall that conversation,” he said. “You sat in my arm-chair smoking, and you were praising Muriel, which was pleasant for me to hear. Presently, you remarked, ‘she’ll make Wentworth a superb wife,’ and then you quoted from Tennyson’s ‘Isabel’—‘the queen of marriage, a most perfect wife.’ I was, I own, amazed. ‘Why, Wentworth?’ I asked. You looked surprised, and said, ‘Why not Wentworth?’ Then you added—‘When people love, don’t they marry?’ ‘Certainly,’ I returned, ‘but you are mistaken, I think.’ ‘I think not,’ you replied, with a manner so cool and positive, that I was, to be frank with you, a little annoyed. I was about to drop the subject there, for it seemed to me hardly fair to canvass such a matter, when you remarked, ‘In fact, I _know_ I’m not.’ I replied, ‘It is quite impossible that you should _know_ it, Fernando, though you may have what seem to you strong reasons for believing it.’ You answered, rather unkindly it appeared to me—‘Do you doubt my word?’ ‘Not at all,’ I said. ‘How can you think so—it’s not a question of veracity at all, but of judgment?’ ‘Well,’ said you, ‘I have proof—ocular proof—I wouldn’t say it if you didn’t put me to it.’ And then you told me that you visited the house the previous afternoon, and as you were entering the parlor, you saw Richard and Muriel standing together at the other end of the room, with their arms around each other, and saw them kiss each other. You drew back instantly, you said, without having been perceived by them, and made a clatter in the hall before you entered again. I could hardly forgive you at the time for having told me what you saw, or myself for having listened to you, for it was not a thing to be either told of or listened to. But I grant it happened naturally enough in the heat of the moment, and after all, I am glad to have known of an occurrence, the knowledge of which may prevent misunderstanding and trouble.”

Harrington paused once more, with vague emotion struggling in his features and his eyes fixed sadly on vacancy. The truth of the matter was this: Witherlee had seen on the occasion referred to, two persons in the attitude described, one of whom was Wentworth, and the other a young lady who, at the first glance, he thought was Muriel, inasmuch as she wore a lilac dress such as Muriel wore at times. He had, as he had said, retreated instantly—quite astounded too, for he had made up his mind that Emily was Wentworth’s sweetheart. But on entering again, he saw that he had been mistaken, and that the lady with Wentworth was not Muriel, but Emily. The illusion, however, made a strong impression on his fancy, and his mind teemed with tempting imaginings of Wentworth and Muriel in the Romeo and Juliet tableau. It was an easy step in his controversy with Harrington, begun simply for aggravation and continued with an obstinate desire to establish what he had so impudently assumed, to present his fancy as a fact, and insist upon it. This was a fair specimen of one of the good Fernando’s lies, which were rarely sheer inventions, but generally had a basis of truth in them.

“Now, Fernando,” resumed Harrington, “I want to ask you whether it is possible that you could have been mistaken? Are you absolutely sure that it was Muriel you saw with Wentworth, and not Miss Ames?”

Fernando’s drowsy conscience awoke just enough to give him a lethargic pinch, and dozed off again.

“I do not see, Harrington,” he replied with an injured air, “how I could be mistaken. There was nobody else in the room but Wentworth and Muriel when I first looked in. Emily was coming in through the conservatory door at the end of the parlor as I entered, but she was not there before.”

This was an ingenious transposition of the fact. It was Muriel who came in at the conservatory door, and not Emily. But Fernando had covered his position famously. In the event of the truth coming out, he could swear that in the confusion of the moment he had mistaken one lady for the other, apologize profusely, and make the explanation seem plausible.

“It was certainly Muriel,” he resumed. “Still the affair may be susceptible of a different interpretation. You must concede at least that Muriel and Wentworth like each other very much, and they might kiss each other and still be only friends.”

“No,” said Harrington, firmly—“that is not possible. That is not like Muriel. I know her too well to suppose that for a moment. If she kissed Wentworth, she loves him. I do not doubt you, Fernando. Their present close intimacy with each other confirms your story, I own. But something Richard said just now shook my belief—made me think, in fact, that you were in error, and I wanted to be doubly sure that you were not. Let me only say that I have a better motive for this inquiry than curiosity—and now let all this be forgotten. Never mention it again, I beg of you, to any person. Let it all pass forever.”

Witherlee’s conscience smote him terribly, and he felt maddened at his meanness, as Harrington strode away. But he was fully committed to his course, and to own his fault was impossible with him.

Wentworth, meanwhile, was standing apart with a gloomy face, listlessly watching the fencing. His fancy was still galloping furiously with him to the goal of the jealous lover, but it began to swerve from the track in spite of him, as he saw Harrington coming down the room. Harrington’s mere presence was a constant demand on every person for the best that was in them; and before the conquering sweetness of his smile, Wentworth’s jealous doubts and suspicions at once scattered and fled, and his nobler feelings rushed forward. The tears filled his bright eyes as Harrington came straight up to him and caught his hand. He tried to speak, but his lips faltered.

“Richard, I ask your pardon,” said Harrington. “I am sorry to have annoyed you; but it was entirely unintentional. I want to have a talk with you, that we may understand each other better. Not now—another time. In the meantime, let us be friends.”

Wentworth wrung his hand, wholly vanquished, and unable to say a word.

“Come,” said Harrington, gaily, with the muscles in his cheeks wrinkling again, and his teeth gleaming in his beard, with a rich smile—“come, that was only a zephyr. Let’s go fence.”

No more was said, and they went over to the fencing-ground, where Fisk was being punched and poked and interjected at and admonished by Monsieur Bagasse, to his utter bewilderment. In a few minutes, the master got through with him, and set him and Palmer to practise against each other. He then turned to Wentworth, who had taken off hat and coat, and was chattering like a mercurial magpie, with his handsome face enveloped in a mask.

“Come, now, Missr Wentwort’,” said Bagasse. “You pink zat ozzer vilet if you can. _En garde._”

Wentworth laughed, and, crossing blades, they fell to. The young artist fenced briskly and well, though somewhat rashly. Once he contrived to touch the fencing-master on the arm, for which lucky stroke he got paid with half a dozen in succession on his breast.

“Thunder!” he exclaimed as he got the last, “what’s the use of fencing with you, Bagasse? Nobody can touch you, and you’re as light on your pins as though you were twenty.”

The old man chuckled grimly, relapsing into his clumsiest and most ungainly attitude.

“Light!” put in Witherlee. “I guess he is. His legs are made of caout-chouc, I should think, judging by the way he can kick.”

“Oh, yes, I can keek,” returned Bagasse. “I haf my leg pretty su-ple.”

He turned toward the post against which Witherlee was leaning, and laid his grimy finger on a notch a little above his own head. Witherlee stood aside, and every eye followed the fencing-master. Suddenly, rising on one foot, he dealt the notch a furious kick, amidst cries of “good” and “bravo.” Sure enough, the leg had flown up to the mark, like a leg of india-rubber.

“Ha!” he exclaimed, complacently, “you do zat, you young men. Try now—evairy one.”

Wentworth tried first, kicked high, but did not come within a foot of the mark. Whilt came next, stolid and taciturn, kicked, and tumbled over, amidst general laughter. Vukovich lifted his shapely leg, kicked within half a foot, and split his blue trowsers, at which he looked grieved, and swore softly in Hungarian, while the rest laughed at him. Then came Fisk and Palmer and the others, with poor success, and amidst much merriment.

In the quiet that followed, Whilt, who had been as dumb as a skull, suddenly began to shake and whinny so with guttural mirth, that everybody looked at him with surprise. It came out, after some inquiry, that he was laughing at Vukovich for having torn his trowsers, an incident which had just touched his sense of the ludicrous when everybody else had almost forgotten it. Of course there was another obstreperous roar of merriment, and Witherlee told Whilt he laughed too soon—he ought to have waited till next week—with other sarcasms of the same nature, which the slow Dutchman took into sober consideration.

“Come, Harrington,” said Wentworth, “you try.”

Harrington had stood apart, smiling amusedly, through all this clatter.

“Ah, Missr Harrin’ton, he can keek wis me,” exclaimed Bagasse. “He keek sublime.”

Harrington laughed, and advancing, took up a bit of chalk from the floor, and marked a line on the post, as much above his own head as the notch had been above the fencing-master’s. Then poising a second, he threw up his leg, and brought away chalk on his boot. There was a general burst of acclamation.

“Ah, ha! it is grand—it is superb!” cried Monsieur Bagasse. “Missr Harrin’ton, he can keek wis me, he can fence wis me, he can shoot wis me, he can engage wis me in ze broadsword—ze single-steek, he can do everysing so I can. It is his talent. _Sacrebleu!_ He is for-r-mi-dabble.”

Harrington laughed, with an expression and gesture of deprecation.

“How many men could you fight together, Monsoor?” asked Palmer.

“Me? I fight you all. Evairy one. Togezzer,” replied the Frenchman.

“Mawdoo!” ejaculated Palmer. “Isn’t he a trump!”

“Come, Bagasse, that will do for the marines,” said Wentworth. “You can’t do it.”

“Ah,” replied the fencing-master, “you zink not? Bah! Come, I show you.”

In a minute he had seven or eight of them, Wentworth, Vukovich, Palmer and Fisk included, masked and foiled. Then putting his back to the wall, he directed them to set upon him. It was agreed that if he was touched the contest was to end there. On the other hand, every combatant touched was to withdraw.

“Pardoo! It is splendid!” exclaimed Palmer.

“Mawdoo! It is fine!” returned Fisk.

The domestically-pronounced French oaths which prefixed these asseverations, were, of course, borrowed by Messrs. Fisk and Palmer from the “Three Guardsmen,” and figured extensively on all possible occasions in their general conversation.

“Come, Harrington, you too,” cried Wentworth.

“No, no—ex-cuse me—pardon,” interrupted Monsieur Bagasse, smiling, grimacing and bowing all at once; “not Missr Harrin’ton. Zat will be too mush—vair many too mush.”

Harrington colored slightly, and laughed. Monsieur Bagasse put on a mask, threw himself on guard, and stood girt with antagonists, with his foil playing like a pale gleam, menacing them all. Suddenly it darted—there was a brisk clatter of parries—and Vukovich was touched. It was a compliment to the skill of the gallant captain that Bagasse had got rid of him thus early in the game, and he came off simpering, and stroking his moustache complacently.

“He keel me fery queek, Meeser Haynton,” he observed to the young man, who stood attentively watching the contest.

“Ah, Captain,” returned Harrington gaily, addressing him in French, “but your ghost can fence better than most of us still.”

The captain’s vanity was evidently flattered by the compliment, for he swelled a little with an air of increased complacency, though he made no reply. Witherlee, who was standing behind him, a silent observer of the sport, glanced at him with a bilious sneer. Meanwhile, amidst shouts and laughter, and noisy appels and glizades, the young men were assailing Bagasse, trying all sorts of feints and tricks to penetrate his guard. Harrington watched him admiringly—so statue-still in the tumultuous press, his awkwardness and shabbiness gone, the wire globe of the mask giving a weird look to his head, his bent arm holding his assailants at bay, and the pale gleam of the foil glancing nimbly all about the arc of the ring. Presently the guarding foil whisked and rattled with a confusion of brilliant coruscations, playing like elfin lightning all around the semi-circle—the bent arm of the invincible figure at which all were lunging, straightened and darted thrice, rapid as a flash—and amidst mock groans and cries and laughter, Wentworth, Fisk, and Palmer withdrew. They came away vociferously mirthful, and before they had well got the masks off their flushed faces, the others were all touched and followed them, leaving Monsieur Bagasse standing alone, erect and martial, his one eye glowing like a coal in the proud grotesque smile of his swarthy visage, his left arm akimbo, holding the mask on his hip, and the victorious foil held aloft in his right hand, and quivering above his head like a rod of wizard lustre.

There were loud bravos and clapping of hands. The next instant the statue of military triumph dropped into the clumsy, sloven figure of Bagasse, and hobbled off to the claret-can. He came hurrying back presently with the foil and mask in one hand, and stood, the centre of a great smell of garlic, grinning curiously at Fisk and Palmer, who, in an ecstasy of excitement from their recent engagement, were playing they were D’Artagnan and Porthos, and poking furiously at each other with all the “Guardsmen” oaths and epigrams in full ventilation.

“Well, Missr Wentwort’, what you zink now?” he asked, triumphantly.

“What do I think? I think you could have let Harrington come on too, and then have beaten us all,” was the gay reply.

“Ah, no,” returned Monsieur Bagasse, “not wis Missr Harrin’ton.”

“Come, Meeser Haynton,” said Vukovich; “you an’ Mossieu Bagasse. Oblise me and dese sentilmen.”

At once there was a clamor of beseechings, to which the parties addressed presently yielded. Witherlee, who hated to see Harrington fence, because he fenced so well, quietly slipped away from the room. Fisk and Palmer stopped, and gathered with the others around the fencing-place. Meanwhile, Monsieur Bagasse took the violets from his jacket and laid them away; then put on a plastron—an honor he had not paid to any other of his pupils that day, and resumed his mask. Harrington took off his coat and vest, and arrayed himself also in mask and plastron.

They took their places, and after performing the beautiful elaborate salute of the exercise, fell upon guard. Every eye was riveted on the stalwart grace of Harrington as he crossed blades with his antagonist. As for the French gladiator, excited by the coming contest with one who could call into play all his powers, his attitude was superb, and his transformation more complete than before.

The contest was begun by a feint, quick and light, on the part of the fencing-master, and in a second it was pass and parry with a rapturous flash and clash of steel. Presently the right foot of Bagasse beat the floor with the loud rat-tat of the appel, and foot and arm and body sprang forward with a terrific lunge. Harrington, immovable as a pillar, met it with a swift twirl of the wrist, and the next second both combatants were still, with their foils locked in a complete spiral from hilt to point.

Disengaging presently, the combatants saluted amidst suppressed murmurs of applause, crossed blades once more, and stood with each point seeking an opening. In a moment or two, Bagasse feinted again, and lunged in tierce. Harrington parried in seconde, letting his point fly up and his arm extend in the parry, and pushing home, his foil became a curve with the button resting on the bosom of the fencing-master.

It was the first hit, and everybody hurrahed. Presently the hurrah burst forth again for Bagasse, who had hit Harrington. In less than five minutes the combat grew almost as exciting as a duel with swords. To follow the dazzling rapidity of the lunges and parries became impossible. The gazers could only see a nimble play of rattling light between the two—the lines of the foils lost in curves and gleams of brilliance—and the gloved sword-arms of the antagonists flying like twirling and darting shuttles above the clashing coruscations. The interest now centred in the aspect and expression of the combatants. Bagasse, throwing his whole fiery nature into the soul-entrancing action of the duel, was in an ecstasy of martial joy, and lunged and parried with exulting shouts and cries—a darting, swaying figure, terribly alert and alive, with the spring and strength of a fury. Harrington, on the contrary, was silent as death, impassible, elastic, swift—a regnant form of muscular grace poised in superb aplomb, that fell to half its height in the long lunges, and rose magnificent in the quick recoils. An atmosphere of fiery ether seemed to envelop the combatants, spreading its glorious delirium through the veins of the gazers, and kindling the delight of battle in their eyes. But as the combat continued, the wild passion of the action became so intense and real that the heroic glow began to pale and mingle with a cold affright, and Wentworth, beginning to feel his agitation master him, was on the point of shouting to Harrington to stop, when there was a sharp snap, followed by sudden silence, and the combat was over. Bagasse stood panting through his mask with a broken foil in his hand. Harrington breathing audibly in long, regular breaths through his, remained in attitude with his point lowered, like one awakened from a dream. The next instant, Bagasse broke the silence with a wild shout, and throwing away mask and foil, flung his arms around Harrington in a joyful embrace, and bursting away, vented the remnant of his joy by dealing the high notch on the post a kick that might have brought the roof down.

There was a ringing hurrah, followed by a burst of hearty laughter, congratulations, and shaking of hands all round.

“But, by Jupiter,” cried Wentworth, “I’m glad its over, for, upon my word, I began to get frightened. Blessed if I ever saw you two have such a bout before! Bagasse, you old reprobate, I believe you were in earnest.”

He turned with a peal of laughter upon the old man, who stood exhaling garlic, and wiping his hot face with a snuffy old red pocket handkerchief. Bagasse grinned good-naturedly, gave his old moustache a dab with the handkerchief, and thrusting out the latter with a joyful gesture, replied:

“I was teepsy, Missr Wentwort’—daid-drunk wis ze joay of ze beautifool en-countair. Hah! by dam! zat make me feel young.”

“I should think so, you blood-thirsty old rapier!” bawled Wentworth. “And you,” he continued, turning upon Harrington, “you were in earnest, too, I verily believe, and bent upon taking your fencing-master’s life. A nice pair, both of you, for a peaceable young man like me to meet in a dark alley going home late.”

Harrington, who was leaning against the wall, getting his wind, as the saying goes, laughed without replying. His usual pallor had given place to a faint pink, and his broad winged nostrils were lifting with his deep breaths under his lighted eyes and white forehead, on which the brown locks lay damp. Wentworth thought he had never seen him look more princely.

“But no,” Wentworth rattled on, “I don’t believe it of you, Harrington. For you’re what Kingsley calls a muscular Christian. As for Bagasse, he’s a muscular pagan, who lives on raw meat, gunpowder and brandy, and there’s nothing too bad for me to believe of him. Is there, Bagasse?”

He patted the old man on the shoulder as he said it, looking smilingly in his face. Bagasse gazed with grotesque fondness at the handsome and gallant countenance, as on that of a privileged pet, and continued to mop his glowing visage.

“What’s the time, Richard?” asked Harrington, beginning to dress himself.

“Quarter of ten by all that’s good!” exclaimed the other, looking at his watch. “Time for me to be at the studio, and you at the books. But I won’t say that, for upon my word, Harrington, you study too hard. The Pierian spring will be the death of you, young man.”

“O, no,” replied Harrington, laughing gaily. “I’m in good health. The daily bout with the foils or broadswords balances the hours at the books.”

“Nevertheless you look rather Hamletish in your pallor,” returned Wentworth. “Though to be sure the pale prince was a special good hand at the rapier, in which, as in other respects, you resemble him. ‘The scholar, soldier, courtier’s eye, tongue, sword—the expectancy and rose of the fair State’ of Massachusetts—that’s you, Harrington.”

“Seems to me, Richard, the quotation bung and the head of the soft-soap barrel are both out together this morning,” bantered Harrington.

“‘I paint you in character,’” returned the mercurial Wentworth, with another Shaksperean reminiscence. “Being a member of the Boston Mutual Admiration Society, and this being Anniversary week, soft-soap is perfectly in order. Therefore, I affirm that you are of the Hamlet order plus Crichton, plus Raleigh, Sidney, Hatton, Blount, Southampton”—

“Shakspeare and Verulam,” jeered Harrington.

“Together with Shakspeare and Verulam. And now that I have made a clean breast of it, and as you are dressed, suppose we depart. Young Mephistopheles, _alias_ Witherlee, has gone already, I notice. Our mercantile friends are off, too, and a proper rowing they’ll get for being late at the store this morning. Oh, Bagasse, Bagasse! you’ve much to answer for—corrupting the mercantile youth of this realm by traitorously erecting a fencing-school! Apropos of fencing, it’s more than a week since we’ve had a bout with our dear fairy prince. By Jupiter! what a pleasure it is to see Muriel at the foils! I’m so glad you persuaded her to learn”—

“Oh, you’re wrong there,” interrupted Harrington. “It was she persuaded me to teach her. Muriel has a passion for liberal culture, and fencing is part of her programme.”

“Isn’t she glorious!” cried Wentworth with enthusiasm. “A woman?—a young goddess rather! By Jove! the best swimmer of all the girls last summer at Gloucester. The best skater last winter on Jamaica pond. Climbed the mountains in October with the best of us. Runs like Atalanta. Dances like Terpsichore. Sings like a seraph. Talks in a voice like Israfel’s. Studies almost as hard as you do, Harrington. And now she fences like an angel. I declare she’s a perfect young Crichtona. And yet how womanly withal! Not a touch of the masculine about her. Gay, free, strong, sweet—oh, fairy prince, there’s none like you, none.”

Harrington listened to this ardent celebration of the charms of her Wentworth called the fairy prince, in perfect silence and with a secret astonishment in his pale, controlled countenance. He believed Wentworth loved Muriel, but for the life of him he could not reconcile this lavish panegyric with that belief. For love is reticent, and we let expressive silence muse the sweetheart’s praise. How then could Wentworth thus blazon his beloved? Harrington was puzzled.

“There’s a curious element of surprise in Muriel, too,” resumed Wentworth, with a musing air. “She is so gentle, so reposeful and graceful, that when she flashes out in these courageous physical accomplishments I always feel a little astonished. Don’t you, Harrington?”

“Oh, no,” returned Harrington. “She has a rich, versatile, inclusive nature. You know that this union of feminine gentleness and manly spirit is not so uncommon. There was the Countess Emily Plater, for example, the heroine of the Polish Revolution; yet with all her bravery, she was peculiarly tender and gentle. There, again, was the Maid of Saragossa, who fought for her country over the body of her lover; but Byron, who saw her often at Madrid, says she was remarkable for her soft, feminine beauty. Muriel is a woman of the same style, I suppose. Come, Richard, let’s go.”

They saluted the old Frenchman, who stood with the Hungarian at the pistol bench, and left the room.