 | CHAPTER XXXI.
AN ADVENTURE. The minister's wooing |  |
31. CHAPTER XXXI.
AN ADVENTURE.
A day or two after, Madame de Frontignac and
Mary went out to gather shells and seaweed on
the beach. It was four o'clock; and the afternoon
sun was hanging in the sultry sky of July with
a hot and vaporous stillness. The whole air was
full of blue haze, that softened the outlines of
objects without hiding them. The sea lay like so
much glass; every ship and boat was double;
every line and rope and spar had its counterpart;
and it seemed hard to say which was the more
real, the under or the upper world.
Madame de Frontignac and Mary had brought
a little basket with them, which they were filling
with shells and sea-mosses. The former was in
high spirits. She ran, and shouted, and exclaimed,
and wondered at each new marvel thrown out
upon the shore, with the abandon of a little child.
Mary could not but wonder whether this indeed
were she whose strong words had pierced and
wrung her sympathies the other night, and whether
brilliant eyes and that infantine exuberance of
gayety; 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. Mary
wondered at her, as the Anglo-Saxon constitution,
with its strong, firm intensity, its singleness of
nature, wonders at the mobile, many-sided existence
of warmer races, whose versatility of emotion
on the surface is not incompatible with the
most intense persistency lower down.
Mary's was one of those indulgent and tolerant
natures which seem to form the most favorable
base for the play of other minds, rather than to
be itself salient, — and something about her tender
calmness always seemed to provoke the spirit of
frolic in her friend. She would laugh at her, kiss
her, gambol round her, dress her hair with fantastic
coiffures, and call her all sorts of fanciful and
poetic names in French or English, — while Mary
surveyed her with a pleased and innocent surprise,
as a revelation of character altogether new and
different from anything to which she had been
hitherto accustomed. She was to her a living
pantomime, and brought into her unembellished
life the charms of opera and theatre and romance.
After wearying themselves with their researches,
they climbed round a point of rock that stretched
some way out into the sea, and attained to a little
the rays of the sun. They sat down to rest upon
the rocks. A fresh breeze of declining day was
springing up, and bringing the rising tide landward,
— each several line of waves with its white
crests coming up and breaking gracefully on the
hard, sparkling sand-beach at their feet.
Mary's eyes fixed themselves, as they were apt
to do, in a mournful reverie, on the infinite expanse
of waters, which was now broken and
chopped into a thousand incoming waves by the
fresh afternoon breeze. Madame de Frontignac
noticed the expression, and began to play with
her as if she had been a child. She pulled the
comb from her hair, and let down 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 reads
beautifully, and explained it all to me. What a
lovely story that is! — you must be so happy, who
know how to read Shakspeare without learning!
Tenez! I will put this shell on your forehead, —
it has a hole here, and I will pass this gold chain
through, — now! What a pity this seaweed will
not be pretty out of water! it has no effect; but
there is some green that will do; — let me fasten
it so. Now, fair Miranda, look at thyself!”
Where is the girl so angelic as not to feel a
new and strange costume? Mary bent over the
rock, where a little pool of water lay in a brown
hollow above the fluctuations of the tide, dark and
still, like a mirror, — and saw a fair face, with a
white shell above the forehead and drooping wreaths
of green seaweed in the silken hair; and a faint
blush and smile rose on the cheek, giving the last
finish to the picture.
“How do you find yourself?” said Madame.
“Confess now that I have a true 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 saw
the smile fade suddenly from Madame de Frontignac's
cheek, and her lips grow deadly white, while
her heart beat so that Mary could discern its flutterings
under her black silk bodice.
“Will the sea-nymphs punish the rash presumption
of a mortal who intrudes?” said Colonel
Burr, stepping before them with a grace as invincible
and assured as if he had never had any past
history with either.
Mary started with a guilty blush, like a child
detected in an unseemly frolic, and put her hand
to her head to take off the unwonted adornments.
“Let me protest, in the name of the Graces,”
said Burr, who by that time stood with easy calmness
at her side; and as he spoke, he stayed her
it the natural impulse of most people to obey him.
“It would be treason against the picturesque,” he
added, “to spoil that toilette, so charmingly uniting
the wearer to the scene.”
Mary was taken by surprise, and discomposed
as every one is who finds himself masquerading
in attire foreign to his usual habits and character;
and therefore, when she would persist in taking it
to pieces, Burr found sufficient to alleviate the
embarrassment of Madame de Frontignac's utter
silence in a playful run of protestations and compliments.
“I think, Mary,” said Madame de Frontignac,
“that we had better be returning to the house.”
This was said in the haughtiest and coolest tone
imaginable, looking at the place where Burr stood,
as if there were nothing there but empty air.
Mary rose to go; Madame de Frontignac offered
her arm.
“Permit me to remark, ladies,” said Burr, with
the quiet suavity which never forsook him, “that
your very agreeable occupations have caused time
to pass more rapidly than you are aware. I think
you will find that the tide has risen so as to intercept
the path by which you came here. You
will hardly be able to get around the point of
rocks without some assistance.”
Mary looked a few paces ahead, and saw, a
the rising tide high on to the side of the rocks, at
whose foot their course had lain. The nook in
which they had been sporting formed part of a
shelving ledge which inclined over their heads, and
which it was just barely possible could be climbed
by a strong and agile person, but which would be
wholly impracticable to a frail, unaided woman.
“There is no time to be lost,” said Burr, coolly,
measuring the possibilities with that keen eye that
was never discomposed by any exigency. “I am
at your service, ladies; I can either carry you in
my arms around this point, or assist you up these
rocks.”
He paused and waited for their answer.
Madame de Frontignac stood pale, cold, and
silent, hearing only the wild 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 of rock somewhat above their
heads, he swung himself up to it with an easy
agility; from this he stretched himself down as
far as possible towards them, and, extending his
hand, directed Mary, who stood foremost, to set
her foot on a slight projection, and give him both
her hands; she did so, and he seemed to draw her
up as easily as if she had been a feather. He
placed her by him on a shelf of rock, and turned
arms and turned resolutely 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 surf coming in, and the
next wave may carry you out.”
“Tant mieux!” she responded, without turning
her head.
“Oh, Virginie! Virginie!” exclaimed Mary, kneeling
and stretching her arms over the rock; but
another voice called Virginie, in a tone which
went to her heart. She turned and saw those
dark eyes full of tears.
“Oh, come!” he said, with that voice which she
never could resist.
She put her cold, trembling hands into his, and
he drew her up and placed her safely beside Mary.
A few moments of difficult climbing followed, in
which his arm was thrown now around one and
then around the other, and they felt themselves
carried with a force as if the slight and graceful
form were strung with steel.
Placed in safety on the top of the bank, there
was a natural gush of grateful feeling towards
their deliverer. The severest resentment, the coolest
moral disapprobation, are necessarily somewhat softened,
when the object of them has just laid one
under a personal obligation.
Burr did not seem disposed to press his advantage,
and treated the incident as the most matter-of-course
affair in the world. He offered an arm
to each lady, with the air of a well-bred gentleman
who offers a necessary support; and each
took it, because neither wished, under the circumstances,
to refuse.
He walked along leisurely homeward, talking in
that easy, quiet, natural way in which he excelled,
addressing no very particular remark to 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 inconvenience from their exertions,
and that he should do himself the pleasure to call
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 few minutes,
followed her.
She found her thrown upon the bed, her face
buried in the pillow, her breast heaving as if she
were sobbing; but when, at Mary's entrance, she
raised her head, her eyes were bright and dry.
“It is just as I told you, Mary, — that man
holds me. I love him yet, in spite of myself. It
is in vain to be angry. What is the use of striking
your 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 that is gone” —
“Why, then,” said Madame, “we are very sorry,
— but we love yet. Do we stop loving ourselves
when we have lost our own self-respect? No! it
is so disagreeable to see, we shut our eyes and
ask to have the bandage put on, — you know that,
poor little heart! You can think how it would
have 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 took her friend in her
arms with an air self-controlled, serious, rational.
“I see and feel it all, dear Virginie, 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 to him, that, while Madame
de Frontignac is at the cottage, it will not be
agreeable 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 this
way. I will protect you.”
And she rose up with flashing eye and glowing
cheek, looking as her father looked when he protested
against the slave-trade.
“Thou art my Saint Catharine,” said Virginie,
rising up, excited by Mary's enthusiam, “and hast
the sword as well as the palm; but, dear saint,
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, if you had only seen how he
looked at me when he put out his hands on the
rocks! — 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 Virginie, and not feel sad, that
saw you a few months ago.”
“Am I so changed?” she said, rising and looking
at herself in the mirror. “Sure enough, — my
neck used to be quite round; — now you can see
those two little bones, like rocks at low tide. Poor
Virginie! her summer is gone, and the leaves are
falling; poor little cat!” — and Virginie stroked
her own chestnut head, as if she had been pitying
with a refrain that sounded like the murmur of a
brook over the stones.
The more Mary was touched by these little
poetic ways, which ran just on an even line between
the gay and the pathetic, the more indignant
she grew with the man that had brought all
this sorrow. She felt a saintly vindictiveness, and
a determination to place herself as an adamantine
shield between him and her friend. There is no
courage and no anger like that of a gentle woman,
when once fully roused; if ever you have occasion
to meet it, you will certainly remember the hour.
| CHAPTER XXXI.
AN ADVENTURE. The minister's wooing | |