menu_book Chapter 25

CHAPTER I. SEVERAL DISCOVERIES I perceived that I had every day more of his confidence. The revelation that people are other than you had fancied them is always interesting, and only the practicing cynic will demur to the opinion that they are very often found to be not worse, but better. On these lines, in the course of a couple of days, did Captain Harvey Barrington, R.N., and Capitaine Raoul de Sablière, III. Hussard, make surprising discoveries about each other. Harvey's previous conviction about his captive was not so much that he was a wildcat of a pretty well unbreakable spirit, for he had enough acumen to allow for the part which circumstances had played in bringing out this quality, as that he was too histrionically gifted ever to be sincere.

Raoul's main idea of Captain Barrington was not that of brutality incarnate, for he, on his side, was far too acute not to know how bitterly he had angered him, and to allow for wrath so intense, blazing suddenly out into savagery, but of someone hard and implacable as granite. Now Harvey, to his surprise, found himself in the company of a young man of a particularly sweet and gay temper, and of an engaging simplicity of demeanor. And somehow he knew that this was the fundamental, not the superficial, de Sablière. And Raoul, the discovery was rather slower, found in his ex-captor a remarkably feeling heart, which, for all his efforts, he could not disguise. It showed as he listened to the tale of Raoul's luckless adventures after he had scaled the roof, the recital of which was early drawn from the adventurer. It showed still more clearly a little later when, on being questioned, Raoul revealed something of what he had been through in the Hawks, and spoke of the scanty and often uneatable food, and the consequent perpetual hunger, of the swarming vermin, of which, since there was no soap and bathing was never allowed, the cleanest prisoner could not rid himself.

Of the poisonous atmosphere in which the captives slept, so foul that the guards who opened the portholes in the early morning always jumped hastily back to avoid the stench thus liberated. Of the six-foot square black hole at the bottom of the hold, ventilated merely by a few tiny apertures about the size of a sixpence, and visited by a sentry only once in twenty-four hours, and where men sometimes went mad or died, and of the callousness of certain of the officers. Her worst of all was the terrible degradation of character which took place with so many of the inmates, forced association with whom was the chief misery of the place for any decent man. And Captain Barrington, walking in agitation about the room in which he had once taunted the speaker with the fate which awaited him on his return to the Ganges, could only say indignantly that he was sure the British public was unaware of these scandals, and that if they only knew, his countrymen would insist on better conditions. With this belief, Cole's experience of the English character led him to agree. Indeed, he gave it as his opinion that a great deal of the suffering in the Hawks was quite contrary to the government's intentions, and due to the rascally contractors who not only cheated the unfortunate prisoners of food and clothing, but swindled the Admiralty as well.

The unpalatable truth about the Hawks, however, was not the only shock to his racial self-esteem which Captain Barrington was destined to receive. Rather stiffly, being far from oblivious of the fact that he had once refused point-blank to listen to it, he next asked for the story of Cole's initial misfortunes, and was given it, Miss Forrest's name alone being omitted, and she simply referred to as Mademoiselle. By the end of the tale of Sir Francis Mulholland's ingenuity, Captain Barrington was staring at the narrator horror-struck. I could not have believed an English gentleman capable of such a dastardly action, he exclaimed. Not that I disbelieve you, Dessabliac, he added hastily. Cole, rather tired, lay and looked at him reflectively, wondering why he should now be as implicitly believed as formerly he had been doubted.

But to ask the Englishman why would only be to disconcert him still more. So he shut his eyes instead, and without meaning to, fell asleep in that sudden uncontrollable fashion in which oblivion descended upon him nowadays. Since the interment of the Signora Thomas, however, he had been progressing steadily towards recovery. That too ingenious lady's very tomb seemed forgotten now. But as for Mademoiselle Adrien, it was not long before her impersonator was telling Hervey about the original. And there came a day when, to the surprise of both of them, even the ghost of the Signora stood between them and was proved harmless.

It was Hervey who evoked her, and perhaps unintentionally. Surveying the convalescent critically one morning, here he dropped into a chair by the bed, he observed. I really think you're beginning to get a little flesh on your bones at last. Flesh, exclaimed Cole. Mrs. Jeremy makes a prize cattle of me. Oh, cattle is a plural noun, Dessabliac observed his host smiling.

That's the first time I've ever heard you make a real slip in your English. Except, of course, when you were… For one second he paused and then went on without a stagger. When you were uttering the sentiments of the lady from Badajoz. Yes, said Cole, rather indistinctly, lowering his eyes.

Why did you make the Signora talk so? pursued Hervey. Cole shot a quick glance at him. I… Ma foi, je n'en sais pas trop. I think I could not help it. When I thought I was… Celles que vous savez. I found I could not speak English so well. That is all. Hervey's mouth twitched.

Well, before you impersonate her again, I advise you to take lessons. Not indeed in English, but in Spanish. And perhaps suggested Cole with a penitent expression, in truthfulness as well. I'm afraid, returned Captain Barrington, that the Signora would never be closely acquainted with that virtue. And yet, said her originator apologetically, she was not so… so untrue as you may think, sir.

At least I have heard her say so. So untrue as you may think, sir. At least I have heard that some English ensign of the Light Brigade did marry a Spanish lady after you stormed Badajoz. Oh, that tale was not pure romance then. What regiment was he in? I do not know, sir. Not having met it in the field, I am ignorant of the composition of the Light Brigade.

Then you made a deuce good shot when you gazetted your hero into the 95th. Under his dark lashes, Cole looked at the speaker with an indescribable mix of compunction and devilry. Oh, pardon, Captain Barrington, but it was you who did that. I was very grateful, I assure you, for your suggestion. Harvey stared and then broke into a laugh. Yes, on my soul, you're right. It was my own suggestion to the damsel who seemed unaware of the difference between a regiment and a brigade.

How she had parts, that lady. A corner of his sister's mantle fell upon him as he added, Oh, it is to be hoped that the real ensign has not behaved as badly to his wife as your scoundrelly Tomas, of whom it seems I have the doubtful honor to remind you. Cole grew red. No, no, he said, uncomfortably. I'm sure he was not like you. But I was enraged, you see, when I said that.

Not without cause, interrupted Harvey, dropping his bantering tone. Had I don't mind admitting in Dissabliac that, afterwards, I admired your pluck for snatching the last word in the way you did that night. We had not left you any other weapon, I'm afraid. Cole shook his head, deprecatingly. But of that, Tomas, I am ashamed.

I had to tell you some story. It is true. Though you never asked for one. But I've wanted an excuse for sitting on the wall, a little longer, out of those abominable shoes. And, you forgive me, I could not help enjoying the tale. Only when you said that I was really married did I not enjoy it quite so much. And now you have avenged yourself a hundred times by all this. He waved his available hand round the room. I think of it every day as I lie here, and I'm smitten to the heart.

I wish you wouldn't think of it then, said Harvey. Read a book or go to sleep when you feel like that. Nobody wants you to. To behave like a girl, finished Cole. He clapped his hand over his mouth. Oh la la, que je suis mal à toi. And his face was so comical that Harvey laughed, too.

With Mrs. Jeremy, of course, there had never been any need for reconciliation or apportionment. Had he not been her lamb and her property from the beginning. Cole could not be ignorant of this gratifying fact, but so much the less could he be expected to divine her obstinate separation of his personality into two distinct entities, one of which was still repudiated by her. He discovered this mental peculiarity, however, one fine afternoon when, waking to find Madame Jeremy as he had taken to calling her, sewing by the open window, he was inspired, after looking at her in silence for a little while, to ask in a faraway voice whether it was a dream or whether it had really happened just now. As what happened, my dear, inquired Mrs. Jeremy, putting down her work and looking over at him indulgently.

Oh, perhaps he had been dreaming, and poor young gentleman, that he was back with the mother for whom he used to cry out when he was ill. You're kissing me, replied her patient with an intensification of his rapt manner. I'm afraid that it can only have been a dream. I only wish I could think. Oh, as if I should ever do such a thing, Mr. Rowell exclaimed Mrs. Jeremy, and positively bridling. How would it be so unpleasant an experience, queried the young man, looking very innocent, and how that Monsieur Jeremy shaves me so beautifully. It is true that I had much rather been awake.

Mrs. Jeremy took up her work again. Oh, you talk a great deal too much nonsense, sir. Oh, I know when you would not have kissed me, observed her tormentor. When I had on that uncomfortable grey gown and the beautiful complexion, you would rather have slapped me, I think. Down went the sewing again. Oh, don't speak about that baggage, ejaculated Mrs. Jeremy. When I think of her and her brazen face, imposing on a good kind gentleman like the captain, my blood fairly boils. Rowell stared a moment, and then burst into laughter. But Madame Jeremy, it was I, all the time. You don't mean to say that you still think it was a real girl.

I can assure you that my blood boils too when I think of that meager, if elegant, little meal you brought me up, when I could have eaten all that roast of the captain's, to which you so cruelly referred. What I brought was quite enough for the young person, said Mrs. Jeremy stubbornly, resuming her sewing. But no, it was not. I assure you that it was not. And it was all that she had to support her during her climb out of the window. Yes, and it insufficiently was probably the reason why she fell and broke her wrist. For this is her wrist, Madame Jeremy. Oh, come, you cannot really disbelieve me. And if I'm not the lady, where did she go to? What of Captain Barrington's reputation?

Oh, I don't wish to discuss that hussy, declared Mrs. Jeremy. But it's not in human nature to believe. She broke off abruptly and stood up as Captain Barrington himself appeared in the doorway. Oh, yes, sir, he's awake. How pleased to come in, sir, if you wish. Yet if, apparently, it was impossible for Mrs. Jeremy to concede the same identity to the fevered and half-drowned young man whom she had put to bed in the spare room on that Friday evening, and the painted hussy who had vanished from the same apartment on the previous Wednesday night, there was one subject on which her credulity was unlimited, and that was Boney and his doings.

And she would swallow any libel against that bugbear of the English nation, undiscovering which her whole naturally exercised his wits in finding food for so entertaining a propensity. One morning he had imperceptibly led her to the point where she exclaimed, Oh, and so people don't get married in France nowadays, and there being no churches left, and no clergymen. For twenty years ago she had heard of emigrated priests, but of the Concordat of 1802, never. Roel was pleased, because now he could administer a greater shock.

Oh, no, you're quite wrong there, Madame Chagamie. One does marry, a great deal, my last wife. Mrs. Jeremy, the most sure-handed of women, dropped the broom she was wielding. Your wife, your last wife! How didn't you know that I was married? asked Roel with elaborate carelessness. Oh, why not? I'm nearly five and twenty.

The reasonableness of this consideration further disconcerted his victim. But, she protested, remembering, you were married before, you say. You have been a widower already, at your age. Oh, no, said the young man, gazing at the ceiling. I'm glad to say I was never that.

And indeed, he added thoughtfully, even if one of them had died, I could hardly describe myself as widowed, because there would always remain the other two. You see, we are allowed three. Three what? demanded Mrs. Jeremy, her head turning. Three wives. It is the Emperor's wish.

Mrs. Jeremy sat down heavily in the nearest chair. Mr. Roel! Oh, I dare say you don't believe me, went on Roel with an air of great candour. But I will tell you all about my wives, if you wish. Oh, I wonder that I've not mentioned them before, for I'm very fond of them all.

Julie and Anastasia and Claudine, the newest one. It is true that I've not seen any of them for nearly three years, and it is possible that by now some of them, if not all, have been confiscated. How confiscated! breathed his listener. Well, you see, explained the romancer, wondering how far he could go.

There's the future population of France to consider. And that, of course, is why the Emperor wishes. And one cannot complain if one is absent so long. I dare say I shall easily find some more. But I should like to tell you about Claudine.

Mrs. Jeremy rose to her feet. Oh, Mr. Roel, she said in strong indignation. I can't but think that you are jesting. If not, all I can say is, well, really, I'd rather not discuss it with you. And indeed she was quite red.

Oh, but don't you want to hear about Claudine? asked the invalid, with an ingratiating smile. She had the most beautiful. I'd Claudine her, said Mrs. Jeremy. And you, too, you young jack-o'-n-apes, if I thought it was true.

Three. Oh, madame Jeremy, that's not respectful, said Roel lazily. And surely Bonaparte's wishing me to have three wives is not as disgraceful as his habit of eating children. And you know that that is true, don't you?

Oh, get along with you, responded Mrs. Jeremy, breathing a sigh of relief as her lamb's guile was revealed. Oh, making game of me like that. I don't believe you are married at all. And I pity your wife when you do get one.

And my ideal wife, began whole, unrepressed, would be the lady with the wig who... But Mrs. Jeremy went out and shut the door. And while he was still smiling to himself over his late success, Captain Barrington's tread and that of the doctor were audible outside,

and his thoughts were diverted from the subject, not altogether pleasantly, by Mr. Touchwood's unbandaging and manipulating his wrist. Though he managed to keep up during the operation, almost his usual flow of perciflage, desiring to know, for instance, whether, supposing the wrist remained stiff in perpetuity,

it would gradually turn into a fossil. For he always expressed a great wish to be instructed in geology. One thing that won't easily turn into a fossil, young man, replied Mr. Touchwood, is your tongue, I fancy. Or your spirit, either, he added,

as he finished re-bandaging. There, I shan't have to hurt you like that again, I hope. And when may I get up? All in good time, responded Mr. Touchwood, as he generally did to this query.

There was, however, one person in the household who was not subjugated by the young man upstairs, and that was John Jeremy, late Captain's coxswain of the South, late Captain's coxswain of the Suffolk.

He was not hostile, but he was bewildered and inclined to be injured. Why Captain Barrington had turned round, as he had, running himself thereby into a danger which still threatened him, was a complete mystery. It seemed, too, as if the young beggar had done nothing but get him into hot water,

from the time when his master had called him to account in the Kestrel for hurting the blessed Wildcat when he saved him from drowning himself. And secretly John Jeremy, though not inhumane, thought it would be better for all parties if he had succeeded in his attempt, down to yesterday when Hannah had given him the rough side of her tongue

because the razor had slipped when he was shaving his lordship. For John Jeremy still performed that office, and performed it with much of the immense solemnity and subdued nervousness of the first occasion of all, when he had said humbly to the young man against the pillows,

Oh, I ask pardon if I have not done it well, sir, me not being used to shaving the captain, as always shaves his self, nor I haven't never shaved a gentleman in bed before. But Raoul, who had never set out to subjugate anybody, had no desire to wean the seaman from his rightful allegiance.

He guessed quite well why the good mariner looked upon him with distrust. And but thought the better of him for it. It was because Jeremy knew that a French prisoner's presence at Fairhaven was a standing menace to his master. Raoul could not forget it either.

This house, which was heaven after the past, could not harbor him forever. And what if Captain Barrington did have to pay dearly for his generosity? The thought tormented him at times, yet he was still bedridden and could not get away.

Moreover, since he had not been traced here three weeks ago, why should he be traced now, when he was drowned and forgotten? Thus Captain Barrington, when he had broached the question to him. But the possibility was there. Another trouble was that from beneath Captain Barrington's roof

he dared not write to Juliana Forrest, as he longed to do. Not that he imagined she would be anxious about him. A greedy, he knew, would soon acquaint her with the news of his escape, if only to get the residue of the money which, he had informed, the fugitive, was now due. Raoul had tried in vain to find out what was the total sum expended,

having a firm intention of repaying it somehow. And as Miss Forrest had, most evidently, abandoned her siege en règle of the transport office, she would not have heard of his supposed drowning. It was unlikely to be in the newspapers, and even if it had come to Creedy's ears, he would not be very anxious to pass on the fact to her.

No, he longed to write to Miss Forrest for other reasons. But not having Creedy's facilities for private communication, he could not do it, lest the letter should fall into the wrong hands. So, since he could not tell her what he felt, he thought of her the more. And about Captain Barrington, he thought continually.

Why he had done what he had done, for his sake. Why he now believed what he, Raoul, said. Why he was not married. Or why he was on leave so long, in wartime. He had tried to discover the last from Jeremy, and Jeremy had replied, quite snappily, for him.

A man must have a rest sometime, even from sinking of French ships. Further, why his face in repose was so stern and sad. Raoul decided in the end that Captain Barrington had a secret grieve. How probably he loved, or had loved, in vain. The lady had married another, who was dead, had eloped,

had dilted him at the office, and had been married to another. He had eloped, had dilted him at the altar. He longed to question Mrs. Jeremy on the point, but delicacy restrained him. He did not, however, feel any hesitation in questioning the good lady about that half-mythical sister of Captain Barrington's,

who was so largely responsible for his present situation. What nobody at Fairhaven realized was that Miss Barrington would shortly be at hand to answer for herself, since, for reasons of her own, she was shortening her stay at Exeter by a full six days. Thus she descended upon Fairhaven, en route for her own home,

on the other side of the river, six days before she was expected there. Hervey, indeed, had not been thinking about her return at all. The ten days which had passed since his prisoner and he had shaken hands, having given him more immediate occupation. Aware of her departure from plan, Miss Barrington was therefore neither hurt

nor surprised to find, when she arrived at her brother's door, that he was out, and Mrs. Jeremy likewise. She was conscious of a strange, but surely erroneous, impression that Jeremy had no great desire to admit her. At least he displayed no alacrity about the business.

But then John Jeremy was never instinct with that quality, and he scratched his head with a puzzled air as he looked at her baggage. Be you going to stay, ma'am? Yes, a night or so, responded Miss Lavinia. Unless there's any reason why I should not, she added.

You've not, I trust, got smallpox in the house. How smallpox? And Lord, no, Miss Barrington, whoever said so, exclaimed Jeremy, looking alarmed. And then she said, Miss Barrington, gathering by the visitor's face that the query was not meant seriously,

he added, but without a smile. I'll bring your portmante to your room in a minute or two, ma'am, for if you'll excuse me, I've got someone to seat you in the kitchen, Hannah being out. And eyeing her again with that slow, curious, half distrustful look,

he vanished. Oh, Jeremy is becoming a cook, thought Miss Barrington, as she went upstairs, and culinary cares are weighing upon his spirits. Miss Barrington's bedroom at Fairhaven was supposed to be ready for occupation at half an hour's notice, and since Mrs. Jeremy was out,

Miss Lavinia took off her bonnet and cloak, and herself began to remove the shrouds from the furniture. Thus employed, she soon detected that something was missing from the room. The little inlaid table by the bed was a little bit of a mess, which Hervey had brought her as a present from Spain.

What an odd thing! And yet, perhaps not so odd, after all, considering the confusion in this room at her last visit. What had become of that unfortunate young Frenchman, the cause of its disorganization? She had often thought of his fate during the last three weeks,

but she had seen nothing in the newspaper, and had not received any letter from Hervey. Perhaps he had got clear away, as she could not but hope. And no, she was not going to submit to being deprived, for no reason, of her little Spanish table, and if Hannah had taken it into the spare bedroom, she would soon have it out again.

So Miss Barrington went resolutely through the powdering closet, the fatal powdering closet, to investigate, remembering as she went her previous incursion into the spare bedroom, and what had happened. She had met her eyes when she got there. It becomes, therefore, a question for psychologists,

whether her mental preoccupation with her former shock tended to heighten, or to alleviate her second one. Miss Lavinia herself inclined afterward to the first alternative. At all events, so she averred later to her brother, she staggered and clutched her hand to her head, like any heroine of romance,

and her heart stopped beating. How absolutely ceased, my dear Hervey! And I said, aloud, I believe, How good God! am I going mad! and is that to be my end? For there, but this time well in the bed, not on it,

there he was again, the same young scamp, lying motionless in something the same attitude, save that to-date you could see more than his profile. And there was a vagabond table by the bedside, laden with a glass, a spoon, a bottle or two, a portion of jelly,

and rosily ensconced on a mat of their own leaves, two, or more correctly one and a half, of Hervey's incomparable nectarines, those nectarines for which duchesses might have sued in vain, and of which she, his dear and only sister, received a bare half-dozen, in the course of the summer.

Their presence here was as astounding and as eloquent as that of the runaway. If Hervey gave him those! As once before, Miss Lavinia ventured nearer. The occupant of the bed was sound asleep, again. Yet he was not quite the young man of her first discovery,

who had looked thin and tired indeed, but not wasted or transparent. Since she last saw him, Hervey's wildcat visitant had clearly been very ill. How but how in the name of fortune!

And deciding that, if not insane already, she certainly would soon become so unless she took steps to obtain information, Miss Barrington crept from the room in search of Jeremy, the door not being locked. And the door not being locked, this time.

And met him mounting the stairs, carefully carrying, not her baggage, but a covered bowl on a tray. Oh, stop, Jeremy, she said, imperiously. You can put down that turtle soup, or peacock's tongues, or whatever it is, for a moment.

He's fast asleep. But if you don't tell me how he got here again, and what has happened, you may as well order a coach and four for Bedlam at once. Every time that Raoul came to his senses, in this pleasant room, in this heavenly bed,

these lavender scented sheets, it was a fresh shock of bliss to him. Yes, once again he was really here in decency and comfort, and not... He moved, gave a little sigh of utter contentment,

and then became aware that the door handle was turning somewhat hesitatingly. He remembered that he was, for an hour or so, under the guardianship of Jeremy, and that Jeremy was always rather timid in discharging this function, and required encouragement. How come in, Palinurus? he said.

For it pleased him to err what remained of his classical knowledge, on one quite incapable of appreciating it, and who, though it had been explained to him that this appellation was the name of a Trojan pile, remained quite unaffected by it, as Raoul considered, extraordinary appropriateness. But there came in instead a very handsome grey-haired lady bearing a bowl on a tray.

Raoul flushed up to the roots of his hair, that hair which, as he was instantly and painfully conscious, must be extremely untidy. Shaved he had been that morning, by Palinurus, but he felt in no state to receive a strange lady.

I must apologize for intruding, said the newcomer in a very pleasant voice, as she set down the bowl by the deli and the nectarines. I hope you will allow me to replace John Jeremy till his spouse returns. I'm Lavinia Barrington. I'm Lavinia Barrington.

Captain Barrington's sister, of whom I think you must have heard when you were here before, though you may have doubted her existence. The rather hollow grey eyes went over her, and a little smile came into them. We were to have met in the garden that evening, I think, murmured their owner. I hope, Madame, that you are so kind as to accept me as your wife.

I did not know that I was to have the honor. Nobody knew, said Miss Barrington frankly, least of all myself. Now, about the soup. You're ready for it. Can you manage without bandaged wrist?

Then, I think, a little rearrangement of pillows first. She tucked them under him. Was that how Mrs. Jeremy does it? I said, yes, but I don't know. And she sat herself down to watch the consumption of its contents.

What is the stuff like? Can Jeremy cook? I expect it is really of Hannah's compounding. Oh, it tastes indeed like the soups of Mrs. Jeremy, replied the invalid, lifting his eyes from it. She cooks divinely.

Miss Barrington, you are so kind as to accept me as your wife. I think, Madame, that you are so kind as to accept me as your wife. I'm sorry. Miss Barrington, I am spoiled in this house. You cannot figure to what an extent.

Not to speak of owing Captain Barrington my life. How tutt, said Miss Lavinia. You came very near owing him the opposite, I fancy. Or rather. How do you know, my dear young man, that I am the cause of all your troubles?

As a woman generally is, of a man's. Raoul seemed to ponder this. A trace of a smile appeared. It had a kind of secret quality. Then he observed politely.

I hope that I should welcome anything at the hands of a lady, and address themself once more to the bowl. Your nation has always been gallant, observed Miss Lavinia, smiling in her turn. How could I assure you that the coals of fire which you are preparing to heap on my head have already been preceded by the ashes of penitence? In other words, I was afterwards extremely sorry that I had betrayed you to my brother. But a woman's repentance always comes too late.

Haven't you found it so, Mr. Raoul? I? No, said the young man, momentarily taken aback. I have not made any philosophic reflections on the subject. How do you think, then, Miss Barrington, that it is better not to repent at all? For a woman, perhaps, since the result is always so ineffectual, pronounced his visitor.

Ah, no, not always, said Raoul quickly. No, I cannot allow that. And he finished the soup. And have you made any philosophic reflections about a man's repentance, inquired Miss Lavinia, as she took the empty bowl from him. There was certainly meaning in her tone this morning.

And there was certainly meaning in her tone this time, and Raoul colored faintly. No, he said, his eyes lighting up. Those are cold things, reflections. For undeserved goodness, one is only gratitude. This is all very extraordinary, thought Miss Lavinia, and I don't wonder that Jeremy could give me no coherent account of what has been taking place.

Of course, Harvey has the best heart in the world, but still. My brother has gone to Tartin, I hear, she remarked, casting a side glance on the symbolic nectarines. Yes, he has the goodness to do a commission for me, and to buy me some clothes, said Raoul, with half concealed elation. Tomorrow I am to get up for a little. More clothes, exclaimed Miss Barrington.

You reject, then, that elegant grey gown, of which you were so careful, but, Miss Lavinia. The young man in the bed gave her a look which said so much that Miss Lavinia's heart warmed toward him. With a little further acquaintance, they would understand each other perfectly. Oh, I regret that I never saw you in it, she went on. Perhaps some day. I believe that I have it in my room still. I have half a mind to get it.

Oh, but you must not let Mrs. Jeremy see it, said Raoul, smiling. It might give her a cool design, that costume. Oh, I trust, then, that she is not made away with it, said Miss Lavinia. I would never forgive her. She got up with her surprising ease of movement, and went incontinently through the closet into her own room. She had to open and shut a good many drawers in the chest where she had laid the dress and wig the morning after the battle, and in the middle of her search suddenly heard Hervey's voice in the other room.

Ah, my sister is not here, then. Did you not sound relieved? But you will have her and Mrs. Jeremy fighting over your body now, I expect, my boy. Have you slept at all this afternoon? Yes, thank you, sir, replied the invalid, while Miss Barrington caught her breath. My boy! And Hervey's tone! And the young Frenchman's, when he answered him. Miracles had been going forward in that room.

And by even that brief contemplation of them, she deprived herself of the mischievous pleasure of having her first meeting with her repentant brother, in the presence of his former victimizer and victim. For by the time she got through the cupboard, the bedroom door had shut behind him.