26. XXVI.
THE DAGGER IN THE HEART.
THE occupants of the apartment were engaged as
we have described, when a step was heard upon
the staircase, and the next moment Falconbridge
entered.
Since that night on which Captain Wagner had warned
him in his gloomy and satiric tones against “panthers,” and
their wiles—since those mocking and mysterious words had
resounded in his ears, Falconbridge had lived like one in a
dream. His quick instinct told him that the soldier meant
Miss Argal. There could be no doubt upon that point.
His studied coldness toward the young lady, his grim expression
when he encountered her, the shadow on his brow
when her name even was mentioned—all this left no room
for doubt.
Falconbridge had shut himself up in his room, and the
storm began to mutter in his heart. His thoughts, like
hounds unleashed, darted forward and backward, circling
over the whole of his life, past and future. Then they returned
with furious mouths to tear their master. Could
this be anything but the merest dream, as wild and unreal
as the sickliest chimeras, haunting the fancy of the invalid
turning and tossing on the couch of fever? Suspect those
brilliant, limpid eyes of dissimulation!—suspect that open
and beautiful brow of concealment!—those tender lips of
falsehood, of treachery! Treachery? Were women treacherous?
Could eyes and lips and sighs and bashful glances
lie? It was incredible, monstrous! If this were so, then
everything was unreal—the world a mere phantasmagoria
—and life a cheat, a lie, a miserable, horrible delusion!
Such thoughts do not pass through the heart for the first
time without making it bleed. The brow which is racked
and furrowed by them, never afterwards can be smooth.
The sincere and noble honesty of this man's nature made
the blow one of inexpressible agony. Suspicion was no
customary guest with him—it pierced him mortally. Like
a rusty and jagged blade directed by an unskillful hand, and
turned from mere wanton cruelty in the wound, it stretched
him on the bed of torture.
He pondered thus throughout the long hours of the dreary
night, and for all those hours succeeding. He sent away
the food brought to his room, untasted. More than once
he mounted Sir John, and galloped toward Mr. Argal's—
but it was only to return without going thither.
“Well, well,” he said, on the morning when he re-encountered
Captain Wagner as we have seen, “all this shall end.
I will know; I will not labor under this terrible suspicion!
Suspect her? I do not. I would as soon suspect an angel.
Still that singular look of the soldier as he spoke!—those
words full of sneering coldness! Yes, this shall end—I
swear it!”
And passing his hand across his forehead, which was
clouded and pale from suffering and want of rest, he
descended.
“Give you good day, Captain,” he said in his clear, noble
voice; “I thought I heard your cheerful accents.”
“Why, welcome, welcome, comrade,” returned the soldier
warmly, and grasping the young man's hand as he spoke;
“I swear the sight of you is good for sore eyes, or I'm a
dandy!”
The Captain seemed to feel what he said. His martial
countenance always softened as he gazed at Falconbridge—
his penetrating eyes grew wistful; this man who had fought
against the hard, rough world so long, and encountered so
much selfishness, falsehood and deception, appeared to experience
a real delight in the company of his younger companion,
and to regard him with a strange affection.
“I'm dooms glad to see you after having so long a slang
whang with Fairfax,” added the soldier, “but you are looking
badly, Falconbridge; you are as white as a ghost.
What's the matter?”
“Nothing, nothing, comrade.”
“You want fresh air, or I'm mistaken.”
“I really think you are right, Captain, and I'm going to
take some. I see Sir John coming to the door.”
“Oh, you ride—you are going to see”——
“Miss Argal,” interrupted Falconbridge, with his proud,
open look, full of sincerity and truth; “it is three or four
days since I saw her.”
And going to the door, he threw a critical glance at Sir
John, who whinnied with pleasure at the sight of his master.
The young man, with his delicate hand half covered
with lace which filled his great barrel sleeves, caressed gently
the white neck of the thoronghbred: and as he gazed at
the beautiful animal, full of spirit and fire, his weary brow
cleared up slightly.
All at once a hand was laid upon his shoulder. He
turned round. Captain Wagner was beside him; and his
face wore the same cold and gloomy expression which had
characterized it on the night ride.
“Falconbridge,” he said in a low, earnest tone, “have
you any confidence in me—do you regard me as a true man
—as an honest soldier—as a friend?”
“Yes,” said Falconbridge, passing his hand slowly over
the neck of the animal, and speaking in a very low voice.
“Well, you do me no more than justice. I swear to you
that I love you as I would love a son, though you're no
chicken, but a stout-hearted and stout-armed cavalier, or
the devil take it! Well, I act as your friend when I say,
take care what you do! Beware!”
And turning away, the soldier, who had lost all his cheerfulness,
and gay spirit, slowly re-entered the house.
Falconbridge followed him with his eyes until he disappeared—turned
even paler than before—and a sort of lurid
light broke from his eyes. He evidently hesitated for a
moment whether to follow and extract from the soldier a
complete explanation of his meaning, or seek it from the
person accused. His hesitation did not last long. He set
his teeth together like a vice, leaped into the saddle, and
driving the spur into the side of his horse, set forward like
lightning on the road to Mr. Argal's.
He drew up at the door so suddenly that his horse was
thrown upon his haunches. In a moment he had entered
the house, and was in the presence of Miss Argal, who
greeted him with the warmest favor.
“You have been away so long!” she said, in her caressing
voice, and with a look from her black, lustrous eyes,
full of such electric fascination that it turned the young
man's head almost; “so very long—for nearly four days!”
