A Day's Ride: A Life's Romance. Lever Charles James

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СКАЧАТЬ a governess; and yet, somehow, she was n’t, so to say – you know what I mean – she was n’t altogether that; looked frightened, and people of real class never look frightened.”

      “The daughter of a clergyman, probably,” said I, with a tone of such reproof as I hoped must check all levity.

      “Or a flash maid! some of them, nowadays, are wonderful swells; they ‘ve got an art of dressing and making-up that is really surprising.”

      “I have no experience of the order, sir,” said I, gravely.

      “Well, so I should say. Your beat is in the haberdashery or hosiery line, eh?”

      “Has it not yet occurred to you, sir,” asked I, sternly, “that an acquaintanceship brief as ours should exclude personalities, not to say – ” I wanted to add “impertinences;” but his gray eyes were turned full on me, with an expression so peculiar that I faltered, and could not get the word out.

      “Well, go on, – out with it: not to say what?” said he, calmly.

      I turned my shoulder towards him, and nestled down into my place.

      “There’s a thing, now,” said he, in a tone of the coolest reflection, – “there’s a thing, now, that I never could understand, and I have never met the man to explain it. Our nation, as a nation, is just as plucky as the French, – no one disputes it; and yet take a Frenchman of your class, – the commis-voyageur, or anything that way, – and you ‘ll just find him as prompt on the point of honor as the best noble in the land. He never utters an insolent speech without being ready to back it.”

      I felt as if I were choking, but I never uttered a word.

      “I remember meeting one of those fellows – traveller for some house in the wine trade – at Avignon. It was at table d’hote, and I said something slighting about Communism, and he replied, ‘Monsieur, je suis Fouriériste, and you insult me.’ Thereupon he sent me his card by the waiter, – ‘Paul Déloge, for the house of Gougon, père et fils.’ I tore it, and threw it away, saying, ‘I never drink Bordeaux wines.’ 'What do you say to a glass of Hermitage, then?’ said he, and flung the contents of his own in my face. Wasn’t that very ready? I call it as neat a thing as could be.”

      “And you bore that outrage,” said I, in triumphant delight; “you submitted to a flagrant insult like that at a public table?”

      “I don’t know what you call ‘bearing it,’” said he; “the thing was done, and I had only to wipe my face with my napkin.”

      “Nothing more?” said I, sneeringly.

      “We went out, afterwards, if you mean that,” said he, quietly, “and he ran me through here.” As he spoke, he proceeded, in leisurely fashion, to unbutton the wrist of his shirt, and, baring his arm midway, showed me a pinkish cicatrice of considerable extent. “It went, the doctor said, within a hair’s-breadth of the artery.”

      I made no comment upon this story. From the moment I heard it, I felt as though I was travelling with the late Mr. Palmer, of Rugeley. I was as it were in the company of one who never would have scrupled to dispose of me, at any moment and in any way that his fancy suggested. My code respecting the duel was to regard it as the last, the very last, appeal in the direst emergency of dishonor. The men who regarded it as the settlement of slight differences, I deemed assassins. They were no more safe associates for peaceful citizens than a wolf was a meet companion for a flock of South Downs. The more I ruminated on this theme, the more indignant grew my resentment, and the question assumed the shape of asking, “Is the great mass of mankind to be hectored and bullied by some half-dozen scoundrels with skill at the small sword?” Little knew I that in the ardor of my indignation I had uttered these words aloud, – spoken them with an earnest vehemence, looking my fellow-traveller full in the face, and frowning.

      “Scoundrel is strong, eh?” said he, slowly; “very strong!”

      “Who spoke of a scoundrel?” asked I, in terror, for his confounded calm, cold manner made my very blood run chilled.

      “Scoundrel is exactly the sort of word,” added he, deliberately, “that once uttered can only be expiated in one way. You do not give me the impression of a very bright individual, but certainly you can understand so much.”

      I bowed a dignified assent; my heart was in my mouth as I did it, and I could not, to save my life, have uttered a word. My predicament was highly perilous; and all incurred by what? – that passion for adventure that had led me forth out of a position of easy obscurity into a world of strife, conflict, and difficulty. Why had I not stayed at home? What foolish infatuation had ever suggested to me the Quixotism of these wanderings? Blondel had done it all. Were it not for Blondel, I had never met Father Dyke, talked myself into a stupid wager, lost what was not my own; in fact, every disaster sprang out of the one before it, just as twig adheres to branch and branch to trunk. Shall I make a clean breast of it, and tell my companion my whole story? Shall I explain to him that at heart I am a creature of the kindliest impulses and most generous sympathies, that I overflow with good intentions towards my fellows, and that the problem I am engaged to solve is how shall I dispense most happiness? Will he comprehend me? Has he a nature to appreciate an organization so fine and subtle as mine? Will he understand that the fairy who endows us with our gifts at birth is reckoned to be munificent when she withholds only one high quality, and with me that one was courage? I mean the coarse, vulgar, combative sort of courage that makes men prizefighters and bargees; for as to the grander species of courage, I imagine it to be my distinguishing feature.

      The question is, will he give me a patient hearing, for my theory requires nice handling, and some delicacy in the developing? He may cut me short in his bluff, abrupt way, and say, “Out with it, old fellow, you want to sneak out of this quarrel.” What am I to reply? I shall rejoin: “Sir, let us first inquire if it be a quarrel. From the time of Atrides down to the Crimean war, there has not been one instance of a conflict that did not originate in misconceptions, and has not been prolonged by delusions! Let us take the Peloponnesian war.” A short grunt beside me here cut short my argumentation. He was fast, sound asleep, and snoring loudly. My thoughts at once suggested escape. Could I but get away, I fancied I could find space in the world, never again to see myself his neighbor.

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