The Project Gutenberg eBook, A Mock Idyl, by Percy Ross This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org Title: A Mock Idyl Author: Percy Ross Release Date: February 28, 2014 [eBook #45042] Language: English Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 ***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A MOCK IDYL*** E-text prepared by Demian Katz and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team (http://www.pgdp.net) from page images generously made available by the Digital Library of the Falvey Memorial Library, Villanova University (http://digital.library.villanova.edu) Note: This story was originally serialized in two parts in Longman's Magazine in 1886; it was later reprinted as filler material in the Favorite Library edition of Little Golden's Daughter by Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller. This text is derived from the later reprint, beginning on page 141 of that volume. Images of the original pages are available through the Digital Library of the Falvey Memorial Library, Villanova University. See http://digital.library.villanova.edu/Item/vudl:322376 A MOCK IDYL. BY PERCY ROSS. CONTENTS I. THE PRAISE OF FRIENDSHIP. II. ARLETTA OF FALAISE. III. THE GODDESS. IV. THE WAY TO TAKE A PARTY. V. THE GODDESS IS HUMAN. VI. THE ADMIRAL IS SQUARED. VII. ROSCORIA'S BETROTHED. VIII. THE GIRL I LEFT BEHIND ME. IX. THE WAY WE BEHAVE WHEN WE ARE YOUNG. I. THE PRAISE OF FRIENDSHIP. Tregurtha and Roscoria are friends. Tregurtha is, as his name sufficiently indicates, a Cornishman. He was also a sharp lad, and, before his term of residence at his first dame's school was fairly run out, he cut his cables and escaped to sea. To this act of insubordination he had been instigated mainly by Louis Roscoria, a small schoolfellow, his junior by several years, and his stanch adherent. The two had shared a room, done each other's lessons, worn each other's hats, taken each other's floggings; and, in short, the devil himself had never come between them. But they parted pretty soon, for, encouraged by his young friend's energetic support, Dick Tregurtha made haste to follow his destiny and infuriate his parent by running away to sea. Small Roscoria, who was the good boy of the school and always got the prize for conduct, saw his friend well on his way, wished him God-speed, exchanged pocket-knives with him, and then lay on the grass kicking his heels, and howled in his grief until he got caned for refusing to tell what had become of Tregurtha. The friendship thus grounded on mutual services has never been broken. Dick once wrote from foreign parts an elaborate apology. He said he was sorry, but the sea was his god, and he hoped his father would overlook it. He added that, whether on sea or land, he trusted to be no discredit to the name Tregurtha, and ended by very properly observing, as boys do, that, since he had carved out his own line of action, he should feel his honor engaged to make it a successful one. Tregurtha's rather crusty parent did not overlook it. On receipt of this letter he presently called the rest of the family together and thanked God that he was rid of a knave. Meantime, Roscoria went to Eton, thence to Cambridge. He behaved after the manner of most brilliant men: showed a reluctance to give his mind to what was definitely expected of him, and scored heavily in exams, by some thoughtful rendering of a knotty point in Plato, or by striking ideas based on private reading of the German metaphysicians. He was far from being idle, but he took too æsthetic a pleasure in his work, and vexed the souls of middle-aged dons. Subsequently Roscoria (who of course left Cambridge without an idea as to his future) went abroad to tutor the sons of an Englishman in Rome. He remained there a year, after which time his father died, and left Louis Roscoria, sole descendant of an old family, owner of a meager estate in Devonshire, and possessor of means perhaps in proportion to his merit, but nothing over. Even scapegrace Tregurtha was better off, for his bodily wants were provided for on board a ship; and though promotion loomed very vaguely in the distance, yet his immediate salt pork and future were assured. Suddenly a brilliant and Utopian notion occurred to Louis the Philosopher. He was a bit of a philanthropist, and hopelessly romantic, and had been pained by public-school immorality. He was also an unpractical man by nature. So he resorted to his present employer, Mr. Rodda, also a Devonshire man, and said, "What if I set up a school?" "On your own account, man? Why, you would be ruined!" cried old Rodda, over his port. "I doubt it, sir," responded Roscoria, gayly. "You forget that moldy old house of mine. I shall never be able to let it, unless to an incurable lunatic, and it is too large for any decent bachelor to live alone in. Good! I fill it with a set of boys. I teach them on an entirely new and original system—and make a little money, which I need not tell you, sir, is wanted in this quarter." "I would lay you any money, if you had it, young man, that you fail," said Mr. Rodda, comfortably (he was a little "cheered" by this time;) "but if you are bent on the experiment, and as I have a high opinion of your principles, though none of your judgment, there is my youngest son, Tom; we can make nothing of him at home, and I don't believe he will ever be any good, so you may just take him as a beginning." "No, really, sir? You are too good," said Roscoria, flushing grandly with the inflatus of ambition. "I believe much can be done with boys by taking them young, and if I succeed with dear Tom—nothing ought ever to baffle me again." Roscoria settled down in his ancestral home at the head of a collection of such boys as a private tutor will generally get —awkward boys in temper, vicious boys, hopelessly dense boys, backward boys, idle, wool-gathering, foolish, blockish boys. Two lads had been expelled from Eton, but Roscoria thought himself a born reformer. A third youth had been recently superannuated: he was for ballast, Louis said. At first the young schoolmaster governed the wild set gently, having great faith in boyhood. Afterward he fell one afternoon upon a passage in Plato: "If he is willingly persuaded, well; but if not, like a bent and twisted tree, they make him straight by threats and blows." Blows! Happy thought! "The influence of my mind and character on theirs has failed," Roscoria thought. "Go to, now; let us see whether there be not some animal magnetism by which a lad may be drawn toward the good." And Roscoria felt up and down his strong young arm, and knew a complacent sense of muscle. At this time Roscoria met again, and liked as well as ever, Dick Tregurtha. Tregurtha had grown sun-browned, tall, and broad. Tregurtha had merry blue eyes and a winsome grin. One was happy to shake hands with a man who was obviously on such good terms with his own heart and conscience. "You helped me to run away from school, you know," he said, holding out his hand to Roscoria when they first met again. [Pg 142] [Pg 143] "Yes; did I serve you well by that?" asked Roscoria, who had grown into what our ancestors called "a pretty fellow," with features as correct as his own morality, and a pair of dreamy black eyes. "You did; I've not forgotten it. Here is your knife in token." "And here is yours. Come and dine with me." And the two young men got into a corner and foregathered together, and the friendship renewed by romance was riveted firm by reason. This is the one important feature in these two young men, and the one point that distinguishes them from others. Now passionate natures know no "friends," nor commonplace ones either. A friend is only granted to philosophers. When a sociable hunting-man asked the other day, "How do you make a friend? I never had one; I never wanted one," at least he knew what he was talking about. And indeed, few people want a friend, and there are many other sentiments to satisfy the unworthy. Is not love perennial, a thing as common as June roses? Acquaintanceship is necessary; affection is a partially inevitable state. But friendship ever was, as it is now, the rarest gift beneath the sun. Ask any one, all the same, who has ever known an assured friend, whether he would give him up for any pleasure or profit. Why, see how the theme of Friendship makes even Montaigne serious and eloquent. Observe how it has attracted great minds of all descriptions. If Byron could be brought to affirm that "Friendship is love without his wings"—well, there must be something in it. Friendship is for two of the same sex, during the difficult period of middle life. Of course the friendship should have been formed during youth, but then it will have been kept in abeyance, as it were, gradually forming into a solid rock to rest upon after the quicksands of love have been settled somehow. Then will it be found: "A living joy that shall its spirits keep When every beauty fades, and all the passions sleep." No wonder it is rare, for if such a glowing glory of content were often known among us, this world would grow too orderly, and men would all be angels for the sake of Friendship! II. ARLETTA OF FALAISE. "Tregurtha," said his friend one summer evening, "to-morrow is a holiday. The boys are all off on various expeditions, assisted by boats, donkeys, butterfly nets, or tins with worms. Even that little plague Tom Rodda is going, under the charge of a trusty sailor, for a day's shrimping. Now, in the midst of this general mouse-play, what is to become of the cat—meaning me? The pedagogue ought to go off on the spree like every one else. I am sure he is the hardest worked. You are with me; let us somehow celebrate your arrival ashore. We must go somewhere not haunted by the boys. Boys are my aversion, as you know; besides, if one meets them abroad they are in mischief. One has to cut up rough, and the result is that greatest of earth's failures, a spoilt holiday. What say you, O comrade, to a day's fishing in the Lyn?" "I don't say much," replied Tregurtha; "but if you will excuse me, I shall go and look up my flies." "6.30 a. m. Don't oversleep yourself," said Roscoria, chuckling youthfully, as he shook Tregurtha by the hand. Hard as disciplinarian Roscoria ever found it to arise on work-a-days, when getting out of bed meant reading prayers in a stentorian hoarse voice, and then administering an hour's Greek before breakfast, no such difficulty attended his leap from the arms of Morpheus when he heard Tregurtha's thundering knock on this most halcyon Saturday. "Propitious heavens, keep but this face all day!" was Louis' greeting to as fair an angler's sky as ever ushered in a holiday. Off clattered the companions in a hired and rakish-looking vehicle; Tregurtha in the front seat chaffing the driver, and Roscoria on an insecure perch behind, swinging his legs, beaming on his fly-book, and altogether presenting an aspect of radiant boyishness wholly incompatible with his grave scholastic calling. Up and down they went, walking up the hills to spare the worthy horse, dashing down them in true Devonshire fashion; past woods and down to the sea at Lynmouth, there to alight, drink cider, and buy fishing tickets. Then on again, rolling along the beautiful road to Watersmeet, where the trees were all in brightest foliage and the wildest flowers thick amidst the grass. The morning sun was sucking up the rain of last night from the glittering leaves, and a pensive breeze hovered in the air, causing the birds to sing. "Hey, Roscoria! but I hope it's not too bright!" was the remark the glory of the day evoked from his companion. "Tregurtha, do not tempt the gods; the day is heavenly, and if we do not dine on trout to-night——" The remainder of Roscoria's song of praise was abruptly cut short, for in assuming too negligent an attitude for greater convenience of harangue he had overbalanced himself, and now lay prone on the road some twenty yards behind. Having picked himself up and dusted his hat, Roscoria reascended in more cautious vein, whilst the driver cheered on his horse, reflecting on the probable results of matutinal cider on a youth whose ordinary "habit" was the Pierian spring. After what seemed to these artists of the greenheart-wand an unconscionably long, though lovely drive, the lowest point [Pg 144] [Pg 145] was reached where it is of any use to rig up a rod—namely, that nice little field through which the river runs so sweetly, just before you come to Brendon. Here our two holiday-makers descended, with many a parting gibe at their good- natured jehu. Then down they sat in the moist grass, after the manner of men under thirty, and out each drew a bulging pocket-book. Thereafter, silence, save for such murmurs as: "Hallo, I don't believe this reel runs smoothly!" "Where is that penknife?" "Tregurtha, lend us a blue upright if you value my happiness!" and so on in that delightful, half-excited talk that precedes trial of one's luck. Noon approached; the two young men were fishing steadily, separated by several pools; now and then they passed each other with a cheery jest or an absent-minded greeting, according as they happened to be engrossed in their sport, or only idly lashing at the water. Now Tregurtha was on in front, in a fragrant meadow, with some interested lambs for his spectators. He was musing sleepily as he cast his line, for fish in the Lyn do not run very large, and Tregurtha's sport, though he had a dozen nice trout in his basket, was not of a nature to claim the highest powers of his intellect. An unexpected rousing came to him, however. A large and goodly fish rolled over suddenly and took the fly well in his mouth, then plunged for the lower depths and lay there sulking. Tregurtha was at once all promptitude and energy. He threw a stone to move the wary trout; he left it alone; he gave it a tentative jerk; he tried every means to persuade or frighten his victim into stirring, but it all seemed useless, the fish was obstinate. Tregurtha was just beginning to wonder whether he should have to walk in and fetch his trout, or whether he would take a seat and wait its pleasure, when the matter came to a crisis. One of the inquisitive young lambs, which was very tame, and thought Tregurtha was the farmer's lad, dashed suddenly in between his legs with a bound, after the sportive manner of its race. Tregurtha stumbled, let the point of his rod down for an instant, recovered his footing, and hastily rectified his position. Alas! is it necessary to state that the line flew up flippantly into the empty air, and the fly settled on the top bough of an alder hanging over the opposite bank. The fish—well fishes, unlike human beings, know how to use an opportunity; this trout was off to the dentist to cure him of a toothache. Tregurtha was not an irritable man; he did not swear; he did not stamp; he turned to the mischief-working lamb and said: "Is this your vaunted innocence, you horrid little meddling beast?" and then he whistled softly to himself, rubbed up his rough hair all on end, and stood still, looking rueful. "Oh, tell me how to woo thee, love!" sang suddenly a sweet voice round the bend of the stream, and then a break occurred in the song, and the singer petulantly exclaimed, "Oh, bothered be these stones forever; they are so slippery!" Tregurtha's rod fell from his paralyzed hand as round the corner came, wading through the shallow part of the running stream close to the head of the very pool he was fishing, a maiden! Yes, and a lady too, though her gown was caught up and thrown over one arm, displaying as its substitute a short striped skirt of brilliant coloring, and her lovely feet shone white through the sunlit waters as unconsciously she stepped along. "Heaven have mercy on me!" Tregurtha thought wildly, as he stood rooted to the spot, marveling meanwhile why he did not cast himself into the deep pool before him. The inevitable moment came; the damsel lifted her large dark eyes and saw him. "Oh, I beg—I beg—I beg your pardon!" almost roared Tregurtha in the excess of his manly bashfulness. What did the maid? Blushed crimson first, and stared at the intruder with a speechless horror, letting drop, by instinct, her pretty overskirt. Then she turned quickly, seized the branch of a large oak-tree and tried to raise herself by it to the opposite bank, where, once arrived, she could have vanished in a second through the wood. Alas! as she clung to the bough, the traitor broke, and down went the maiden, with a shivering cry, under the surface of the water. Well, at any rate, here was an occasion where a man need not feel an idiot, nor like Actæon before the wrath of Artemis. Tregurtha felt a sense of positive relief as he plunged in after the lady, and dragged her out and on to her much-desired bank, all breathless, faint, and frightened. "I wonder now what on earth you would like me to do for you?" Tregurtha asked, depositing his burden respectfully upon a mossy seat. "Oh—ah!—thank you. I think you had better perhaps go," the maiden answered, panting still for breath, and shaking her dripping hair. "You are faint. You would like—at least, no, not some water—you have had enough, and I—I dare not offer you some whisky. There's your poor hat still in the water. Oh, gracious! to think of my spoiling all your pleasure in this way." Tregurtha seized upon the hat, squeezing the water out of it (much to the detriment of its shape) as if it were the juice from an orange. Reduced to a pulp of straw and muslin, he brought it to its mistress, who, smiling, said, "This hat has seen many a wild frolic, but I sadly fear this most embarrassing, though amusing, incident has finished my companion, and it will cover my foolish head no more. I must go home, or I shall catch a cold." "But pray accept my apologies—my most sincere and humblest apologies," began Tregurtha. "I beg you will not mention—— Oh dear, dear!" The damsel burst suddenly into uncontrollable, resistless laughter. "Please could you keep away, right round the corner, until I fetch my boots? I am so sorry to have interrupted you in your, no doubt, successful fishing." Here she glanced inquiringly at the line caught and mazily entangled in the alder bush. "Good-morning, sir." Tregurtha blushed deeply, bowed and strode away as though avenging Fate were at his heels—away over the meadow, through its little gate, along the road, down to the river again, where Roscoria stood coolly, immersed in hopes of monster trout. [Pg 146] [Pg 147] "Well, old fellow; why, you've been wading! Fish gone?" asked Louis. "Fish be —— I've had such an experience, Roscoria. I have seen a lady!" "Mercy on us, Tregurtha! is that so unusual? Why, man, you are almost pale! Tell us your wonderful story." Tregurtha did so, "with stammering lips and insufficient sound," whilst Roscoria opened his basket and took therefrom an ample lunch, besides displaying the trout he had caught. "They are not large," he said, surveying the fish affectionately, "but they are very beautiful. And now, friend, are you too much overcome for mutton sandwiches, or will you try a limb of that blessed duck that old Rodda sent down?" "But, Roscoria," murmured Tregurtha, as he ate, "I am afraid you don't quite enter into the extreme indelicacy of the situation!" "Far be it from me," retorted Louis—"cake, Tregurtha?" "Not with duckling, thank you. The lady—her feet—I should say her boots——" "Were off, I understand," quoth Louis, dryly. "Hallo! is this the lady?" He alluded to the appearance of a very small girl, bare-foot, grave, and chubby, who wandered into the meadow from an adjacent farmyard, and stood as near as she dared go to the sportsmen, gazing with friendly, covetous eyes on their outspread repast. "Child," said Roscoria at last, "do you like cake?" The infant nodded her head solemnly, her big eyes brightening the while. "Then take hold of this and be merry," replied the pedagogue, extending an ambrosial slice. The small child hesitated after the manner of her sex and age, hung her head, bit her tiny fingers, and finally advanced and received the donation. She did not seem at all inclined to go, but stood solemnly munching by Roscoria's side as he reclined on the grass, and she did not prevent the crumbs from falling down his neck, which was not pleasant. "Child," said Roscoria again, "you may sit down." Down sat the wee lass comfortably enough, and gazed into Roscoria's fine black eyes as if she had not often seen so goodly a gentleman. Roscoria endeavored hard to meet her stare, and for five minutes or so he succeeded; but those two serious blue eyes embarrassed him at length, and, turning to Tregurtha, with a somewhat nervous laugh, he observed, in Greek, that the infant was alarming to him, and that he should be compelled to hide his eyes within his robe. "Who gave you—I mean, what is your name?" Tregurtha asked the baby. True to her training, the child arose, shook out her frock, and made a courtesy, whilst she answered, with effort to remember: "Hanner Marier." "Then Hannah—or Anna—Maria, would your mother give us each a glass of cider, think you?" "Should you like some?" inquired A. M., as she sought Roscoria's face again. "Dearly, my lass." Anna Maria showed she could move; she positively darted home, to return much slower, and with a portentous gravity of demeanor, bearing in tremulous hands one glass of cider held very tight. But to whom to give it? There lies a sad struggle for her between duty and inclination. She glanced yearningly at Roscoria's dark head, propped up expectantly on elbow, then she measured Tregurtha's noble length stretched out beside his friend. Slowly, reluctantly, but overpoweringly came the truth upon her youthful mind: Tregurtha was the taller, ergo, in her infant logic, he—the elder —must the first be served. Without waiting an instant, wee Hebe gave the Cornishman his due, and fled away again. Once more she came, more careful even than before; and, with a nascent spark of coquetry in those rustic eyes, she smiled and said: "And this, sir, is for you!" "Here's your health, my bonny lass!" cried Louis, raising the glass to his lips. "Long may those cheeks of yours retain their roses, and may you ever be as able to look a decent man in the face!" Anna Maria, not quite comprehending this ovation, turned so earnestly serious, and so riveted her intent gaze on the handsome countenance of Louis, that the unfortunate young man could stand fire no longer, and ended his refreshing drink by the most ignominious fit of choking. "You had better go, my dear," interposed Tregurtha hastily, slipping a shilling into the child's hand; "he isn't used to so much admiration." Anna Maria reluctantly departed, with many a backward glance at Louis, who, when the firm young feet had borne his small admirer solidly away, threw out his arms with a groan of intense relief and said: "By Heaven, Tregurtha, there is great power in the human eye! I feel completely mesmerized." "What a thing it is to be good-looking!" observed Tregurtha, lighting a cigar. "Now, I wonder how stands the heart of this young Adonis? Has he yet learnt that the proper study of mankind is woman?" Roscoria laughed, tumbled down into the soft grass again, and meditatively responded: "I shall end like Shelley by finding all modern love unsatisfactory, because of an ideal attachment to Antigone. The lady of this century talks too loud; she cannot laugh either. She is matter-of-fact; she has an eye to the main chance." "You are fastidious, my boy. Case of Narcissus over again, I imagine." [Pg 148] [Pg 149] "Don't you be an old fool, Tregurtha," said Louis, more pleased than he liked to show by the implied compliment. He rolled lazily to the verge of the river, and was just about to examine his own visage, when he suddenly caught his friend's eye of malicious criticism, and, after affecting to have seen a trout in the water, jumped up and said "Come along!" "Hallo! my rod. I forgot. It is still adhering to an alder." "Fetch it, then." "I daren't." "Still fearing the silver-footed Thetis? Why, man, she will be far enough by this time! But if that is the case, matters are easily settled; I'll go." Roscoria went off accordingly, wondering what on earth he would not do for Tregurtha, and, when he had waded the stream, climbed the tree, disentangled the line, and substituted other flies for those which had been jerked off, the two anglers started at a brisk walk to go further up the river. It is a pleasant country this, in which to spend a summer day. The trees are very magnificent and full of foliage; the glens are bold and varied; and the river-courses glittering through many a winsome spot. With good sport, light hearts, intense capacities for enjoyment, the two young men spent a rare afternoon, to be long remembered in their winter evenings as one of the brightest of their holidays. They were approaching toward six o'clock the boundary of the famed Doone Valley, where they owned the fair spell of the enchanter Blackmore, who, with his poetic wand, has conjured up the past for us, and haled dead men out of their coffins to live again and be famous beyond the wildest hopes of their lifetime. Then, whilst musing by himself, Roscoria chanced to notice a churlish coolness in the air, a depth of shadow from the neighboring oak, a meaning hush and quiet stealing all about; and all he said to the deepening beauty of the summer eve was this: "Hang it all, I must put up my rod!" Sitting with his back turned to the river that he might not be tempted, Roscoria did so slowly, to give Tregurtha as many extra seconds as possible. He then went to fetch his unwilling companion, who had to be hauled from the bank by the coat-collar; then off and away to the place appointed for Jehu to meet them, and home in contented silence to the Young Gentlemen's Academy. The supper consumed within the halls of Torres that night was truly Homeric. Witness the behavior of the cook. She was an energetic woman; but she sank down at last upon the nearest chair, and, wringing stalwart arms in desperation, cried, "May the Lord stay their stomachs, for I cannot!" III. THE GODDESS. One sultry afternoon Roscoria—the vices of boyhood vexing overmuch his burdened heart—betook himself to green meadows with a volume of Plato. He had announced his intention of reading in the same until he had cooled down, a process which usually took him precisely three hours. Long before he was expected, however, he was heard by Tregurtha coming along the bridge over the moat toward his front window, and presently he sprung in by the same, with an excited look in his eyes and the manner of a man who has a fact to tell. "Save you, Tregurtha! I am hit hard," was his greeting. "I beg your pardon," said Tregurtha, politely, looking up from a piece of carpentering. "Did you ever hear, Dick, of love at first sight?" "Yes; and a very shady proceeding it always seemed to me, if, indeed, it be not a chimera. But, Roscoria, you are not feeling anything in your head, are you? Giddiness, perhaps? A feeling as if you had lost your memory? I hope it's nothing serious; but, my dear fellow, the sun was rather hot when you started." "You great ass! I tell you it is not the head that is affected; it's the heart." "Same thing, dear boy." "I have seen, Tregurtha—I have seen an Olympian goddess treading the grass of a nineteenth-century field!" "You've seen a milkmaid!" "Richard, if I thought I could annihilate you, I would try. She was majestic, pensive, golden-haired, distracting; a daughter of the gods, I swear." "My dear sir, I think you had better take it easy," interposed Tregurtha anxiously. "Take the armchair near the window, and open your grief. There really is no hurry." Roscoria was at last induced to sit down, Tregurtha standing by him, with bent brows of perplexity, in his shirt-sleeves, with his hammer still in his hand. Louis began his recital by a torrent of Greek, comparing his mysterious goddess to almost every heroine of antiquity, and using so great a multitude of compound adjectives and fantastic turns of speech [Pg 150] that his hearer faintly seized a newspaper and fanned himself therewith. "As it is some time since I was at school, Roscoria," interpolated his friend on the first opportunity, "you will excuse me if I do not quite follow you. If you could speak English mainly, I would pardon the use of a few Grecisms." "I am sorry," said Roscoria, "and, by Jupiter, will try to speak of her in English. Listen. I was taking my solitary ramble through a field skirting a beautiful little wood of Sir John Villiers', filled with wild hyacinths. I had my eyes fixed on my book for a long while, but when I lifted them, what think you, friend, they saw?" "From the way in which you have carried on, I should imagine a woman." Roscoria looked up in admiration at his friend's sagacity. "She came straight by me, walking softly and dreamily, looking aside at the blue hyacinths, and her hat was held in her hand, so that the sun shone on her wonderful hair till it scintillated like a shower of gold. She was tall, yes; but she had an air so ethereal, and in her white dress she showed so like a cloud, that I held my breath lest she should vanish. I thought, indeed, she was some mystic vision I had conjured up from Plato's pages—the Absolute Good she might have been—she was so fair, so spiritual, and the air was so still around us; and there were we alone in the summer silence." "Did she speak?" inquired Tregurtha (for he was a sailor, and his friend's manner was impressive). "When she saw me standing still before her she dropped her eyes and made for a gate leading into the wood. The fastening was troublesome, so I went and opened it for her. She turned as she passed through, and bent her head—with a queenliness, heavens!—and smiled and whispered a word of thanks. I saw her eyes then for an instant; they—but I ought not to speak of them, and, after all, I don't know what color they were. She walked a short distance whilst I was shutting the gate again, and I was not the man to spoil her solitude, so I went off very fast; but looking back just once— only once, Tregurtha—I saw her standing amongst those blue-bells, gathering them, whilst the sunbeams slanted through the pale green larch boughs on to that glinting, golden head. After all, what immense possibilities this world contains! I believe this—this vision to have been the daughter of a mortal man who was once a boy, probably also a schoolboy! But then there was a woman in the case." "Thank you, old fellow," said Richard, consulting his watch: "this has been very instructive; just as good as 'Half-hours with the best Poets;' but I suppose we must all descend to commonplace. You must tone yourself down and come to supper." "Supper!" gasped Roscoria, blankly. "Supper," retorted Tregurtha, firmly. "You shall note that not all your boys are overcome by an affaire de cœur, and that if you keep them waiting much longer there will be a bread riot. Here is comfort for you. The Tremenheeres give a tennis party; hie you to it, and if this Oread of yours be mortal, she will surely there be found. It is a good way to distinguish women from angels: the former, if young, can scarcely resist a party." IV. THE WAY TO TAKE A PARTY. In the interval between the evening mentioned and the day of the tennis-party, Roscoria was out early and late, whenever his calling permitted, roaming restlessly in the woods, haunting the sunny fields like a dark shadow, seeking for his goddess in the spot where he had seen her, and in every other romantic and flowery nook that he thought likely. Of course he never saw her. If he had been his own cook, the venerable Mrs. Tartlett, if he had been his youngest pupil, small Tom Rodda; if he had been the parish blacksmith, or cowboy, or even the parson—a paterfamilias—he would assuredly have seen her. But as he was her lover, and was searching for her high and low, he never caught so much as the glimmer of her fair white robe dim in the distance. Consequently, Roscoria grew irritable, knowing the pangs of baffled will, but he did not lose his hope. He could have sworn that he should meet her again. So on the important day he got himself up in white flannels and pre-Raphaelite red cap, caught up his racket, and ran off. Half-way toward his destination he wisely slackened his pace, lest, meeting his charmer, he might be too much out of breath to speak to her. As he crossed a field not far from the hallowed locality where he had lost his heart, he stopped short and passed his hand across his eyes. Yes; surely she was no other! A tall form, walking in that dreamy, quiet, contented way that he had noticed before; in a white dress—the white dress—and there came the sunlight down on her golden hair as she passed from under the shade of that oak. She held as a screen a large horse-chestnut leaf, and she stooped often to gather or to scrutinize some wild flower. It was the same lady, and the charm was the same. Roscoria began by an impulsive start after her, then he stopped again, for what could he possibly say? He could not rush forward and exclaim, "Lady, you are the most adorable creature beneath the sun— what is your name?" for that would sound bizarre, not to say impertinent. As he was thus musing, however, a chance occurred in his favor; drawing out her kerchief the unconscious maiden let an envelope slip from out her pocket and fall noiselessly in the grass. She walked on unwitting, but Roscoria saw his opportunity, ran up and seized the letter. It was addressed to "Miss Lyndis Villiers." In the first fervor of his satisfaction Roscoria imprinted a chaste salute upon the letters of her name; then, looking again [Pg 151] [Pg 152] at the handwriting, he observed, with a sharp revulsion of feeling, that it was rather manly in character. Perhaps he had kissed his rival's ink! With a shiver Roscoria proceeded to make the most of his time. He walked up after the lady, doffed his small cap, and said, "Excuse me—this is your letter, I think?" The lady gave a slight start, and received her property with a gratitude much tempered by the haughty surprise of the Englishwoman when addressed by a stranger. Then she blushed, for she recognized the handsome stranger. And then there seemed nothing more to be done, and Roscoria's wits were hampered by his admiration of her, so she bowed and went her way. This was well; but her way happened also to be Roscoria's, and he walked faster than she did; moreover, there was before them a stile, and beyond that stile the only lane, a narrow one, toward the Tremenheeres. He walked behind, like a footman, until the delay at the said stile obliged him to come up with the lady. Then, as he clomb the barrier and noted the narrowness of the lane below, a sense of the comic struck him hard, and he burst into a cheery, irrepressible laugh. Much pained he was with his own irreverence when he had done so, but Miss Villiers turned at the sound, and smilingly accosted him as she stood in the lane, looking upward: "I fear I detain you; go on, you walk more quickly than I." So brilliant an idea now flashed into Roscoria's brain that he saw blue sparks before his eyes for several minutes afterward. "You have a racket to carry; as we are bound in the same direction, apparently, may I——?" Her lips parted for thanks, so Roscoria was over the stile with the dexterity of an acrobat, and next moment was walking by his goddess' side, her rackets in his hand, in the most blissful tremor. "I ought to tell you my name to show you that I am respectable," he began. "I am Louis Roscoria, an instructor of youth, and owner of that curious, moldy building, Torres Hall." "That beautiful, ivy-grown, moated mansion, with willows growing all round?" "The same, if you call it beautiful." "I have sketched it several times from a distance already" (beatification of Roscoria!), "although I have only recently come to live here. Of course I know your name. Have you not a great friend, a Mr. Tregurtha?" "Rather!" cried Louis, "and I am glad that people connect the fact with my name." "Why, of course," said Lyndis, looking up with kind eyes; "you two are called 'Damon and Pythias.'" "I dare say. I am awfully proud of Dick (that's Tregurtha, Miss Villiers); he is a fine fellow, and he manages me completely. Whatever he suggests seems to be better, somehow, than what I can think of myself. It's his nature, you know; there's no system about it whatever: that's just where it lies. He has a way with him; I have no way with me; and all the Philosophy in the world won't give me one. Only, I hold that he makes one radical mistake in judging of my system of education: he won't let me thrash my own boys when he can help it, which I think is rather hard on any preceptor." "Oh, it is!" said Lyndis, sympathetically; "but I dare say you are too fond of correction, or whence this dudgeon at being debarred from it?" "Well—— But if there is such an anomaly as 'righteous indignation,' what a fervor of godliness must the sight of the average boy excite in the breast of the right-minded schoolmaster! And can indignation find a better vent than blows? Why, even the long-suffering Moses had to break something when he found his Hebrews dancing round a calf!" "I would not adopt a profession which develops the indignation to so great an extent," said Lyndis, rather amused by her companion's impetuosity. "Do not say that, Miss Villiers; whatever we have most at heart will disgust us sometimes. We have our ideal (or we ought to have), and the reality is coarse, indeed, in comparison, but it is better than nothing at all; and is it not in itself an ennobling thing to be constantly engaged in a tremendous struggle, whether the vantage be to you or no?" Roscoria looked at Lyndis with a far-away intensity and a sad determination of expression, which made her think she had never seen so enthusiastic a young man. "It is a glorious vocation, teaching," said Lyndis, gently. "It seems so when you praise it." Lyndis here grew a little absent-minded. She could follow him when he talked of his boys, but when he began on this new vein of sentiment she knew she must begin to dictate to him what he should say next. So she observed that the weather was fine, a fact that Roscoria had noticed before. "It is the finest day I ever saw in my life, as well as the happiest," he replied loudly, and with fervor. Beautiful Lyndis! she looked up with those starry eyes of hers and—begged his pardon! So the poor young man was obliged to pretend he had said something else. And there they were at the Tremenheeres' gate already, and Lyndis, with a somewhat more distant smile, took her racket, passed through the tiresome gate, and was lost amongst the laurels, whilst Roscoria hesitated. He did not attempt to follow her, but, after speaking a few words to his host and hostess, went in search of Tregurtha. Now Tregurtha, though he had started a quarter of an hour after his friend, and taken the longer route by the circumambient road, instead of going across country, had—for some reason inexplicable except to very young people [Pg 153] [Pg 154] —arrived long before Roscoria, and was disposed to be foolishly jocose upon the subject. Louis checked this tendency in his friend, though with some difficulty; and Tregurtha grew somber as he recounted the boredom of his experiences over a set of tennis, wherein his antagonists had dawdled about without any manner of spirit, whilst, as he himself was the best player on the ground, his partner naturally was the worst. Observing that Roscoria grew lax in his attention to these plaints, Tregurtha went and hovered aimlessly around a tea-table. He was speedily dislodged from this refuge by the hostess herself, who stormed up to him with a rustle of silk akin in sound to the spray of a mighty cataract, and an all-conquering inflation of demeanor peculiar to the grandees of Devonshire and Cornwall, and, seizing him by the arm, bore down upon the other end of the long salon with him in tow. Tregurtha was a Cornishman himself, so he was equal to the occasion—drew up his height and adopted an attitude of breezy and elegant ease as he listened to Mrs. Tremenheere lisping something about a "Miss ——" (he could not catch the name), "introduce—very clever—not my style—pretty though——" etc., until she stormed off again, leaving Tregurtha anchored opposite a small but rather stately foreign-looking damsel, of pleasing exterior, with a pair of great soft blue-black eyes, which were gazing up at him with an expression of absolute fright. The occasion did not seem to warrant this nervousness, and Tregurtha was just thinking to himself, "What a shame to bring her out just yet! she looks so young and shy," when the maiden before him turned hastily round and slipped out by the French window on to the lawn, laughing consumedly. That laugh! he knew it. Dick pursued in hot curiosity and identified her. This was she—the heroine of the stockingless episode—this was Thetis—this was Arletta of Falaise. "I think we have met before," quoth he, not without relish of the joke. But the lady of the hyacinthine eyes was too deeply conscious of that fact to enunciate a syllable. So there they two stood together on that almost deserted lawn (let us not be compelled to explain that every one else was drinking claret-cup!), under the heat of that summer sun, for several silent moments; and the man was losing his heart. There was magic in the air that afternoon, for out came Roscoria presently (looking very much en l'air), and with him a tall, fair-haired woman, who only wanted wings. Tregurtha forgot himself in an instant, and, laying his hand on Louis' shoulder, led him up to Thetis, impressively and proudly observing: "Miss ——, allow me to introduce my friend" (with emphasis) "Louis Roscoria!" "Keeper of the Wild Beasts' Asylum, Torres Hall," murmured the said Roscoria, irreverently. "I have been deputed to arrange another set; shall we four play?" Tregurtha gave vent to a muffled cheer, and the quartet marched (with some unseemly haste, lest other men should take their bishoprics) to the best ground, and there began. Tregurtha and Roscoria were noted players; together they were, in Devonshire at least, invincible. In a single, Tregurtha had the best of it. The set was exciting. At first the two sides won game for game. Lyndis, as a tennis-player, was grace personified. She looked so lovely and moved so lightly that it seemed a marvel why hers was not always the winning side. Roscoria, too, exerted every muscle, and writhing about with the cleverness of a lively cobra, ought to have done wonders, but he tried too hard, and lost. Tregurtha, with less grace, had a longer reach and a greater power of hard hitting, so he turned to his partner about the fourth game, saying, "We will win this set, I think," and proceeded to do so. His partner was a capital player, shirked no balls, and had a prompt little way with a back-hander, which looked spirited and was useful. It was she who won the set (said Tregurtha), for it was she who returned Roscoria's last serve, with the twist on, by a malicious little slant just over the net, where the ball fell almost a yard before the feet of the goddess Lyndis, who beamed with gracious impotence upon it. The baffled pair, Roscoria and Miss Villiers, strolled to an arbor, and there sat talking. It might have been ten minutes that they sat there—as Roscoria thought it was—or it might have been an hour and ten minutes to boot. Anyhow, it was heaven. There sat Lyndis Villiers in a low wicker chair, all embowered in fragrant honeysuckle, and looking herself like pink eglantine with her gold hair and soft rose cheeks. The admiring sunlight played on her dress, all snowy white, save where a pretty caprice had moved her to place a bunch of glittering buttercups. There she rested, one hand round a branch of honeysuckle, her eyes still, kind, and peaceful; her voice sweet and calm, speaking her very thoughts, and those such wise and pure ones! There was Lyndis, the Ideal realized, and there opposite sat Roscoria, clasping his knee in his hands in deep preoccupation, not himself at all, nor conscious of himself, but "a self aloof, that gazed and listened like a soul in dreams, weaving the wondrous tale it marvels at." He only knew from time to time, as her voice ceased, or her head was turned away for a moment, that he had come under one of those divine madnesses which the gods send upon men; that life grew more wonderful every moment, and that ever after he should be able to say—I have once been happy. Meanwhile Tregurtha and his partner of the white face and dark eyes were eating strawberries in an adjacent hayfield. It was pleasant there also, and the damsel, for all her grave looks, was playful, and conversation was uninterrupted. "Tell me a sea story," she asked, after a little desultory persiflage had been exchanged; and Tregurtha settled himself on a large haycock and began to recount his own adventures in various storms and casualties on the ocean, just as he told them to Roscoria's boys at night. And as he did so, his blue eyes kindling, and his hands closing and unclosing with the excitement of memory and the thought of the wild sea wind, he caught full sight of the blue-black eyes of his hearer, who had come nearer and was watching and listening to him with parted lips. She reminded him of a woman he had known years ago in Spain, who died; and those eyes struck a sharp pain to his heart, so that he finished his story with his hand over his brow to keep them from him. So, as he did not look again at her, Rosetta quietly finished all the strawberries, for she was, as yet, very young. [Pg 155] [Pg 156] A loud, impatient halloo aroused them both, as a stout, warlike, flurried, elderly gentleman came puffing indignantly through the tumbled hay (most like a threshing machine), much encumbered by a large feminine shawl, which he carried on his arm, and shouting to Rosetta: "Why, why, dash it, my love, I call this insubordination, you know. Didn't I tell you an hour you should have and no more? And how long do you suppose you've kept the horses waiting? I can tell you, madam, you're the only human being who dare keep Admiral Sir John Villiers' carriage and himself waiting in this way. How d'ye do, sir? I'm glad to make your acquaintance. Sailor, I see. Of course! didn't I know what the tattooing on your wrist meant? Got an anchor on mine, sir. Confound your impudence, miss, what are you laughing at? Oh! the shawl—stuck to my coat-button, has it? Well, and if it has; have you no reverence, you saucy minx? Put it round your neck, treasure. I hate a woman who catches cold!" Thus was Rosetta swept off from the glances of her first admirer by Admiral Sir John Villiers, the owner of Braceton Park, renowned as the most awkward customer in Devonshire. V. THE GODDESS IS HUMAN. The friends found their way home together in the cool of the evening; both very quiet, but Roscoria evidently meditating some deep design. At night, growing confidential as they patrolled the garden, smoking, Louis proceeded to rave of his goddess "for an hour by his dial." Tregurtha heard and nodded in silence. He was a more reserved man than his friend, so he did not even mention the maid who ate his share of the strawberries. Indeed, he forgot her whilst listening to the outpourings of his ingenuous comrade. "I shall never be any good at my work, I'm afraid," complained Roscoria; "that beautiful face is the only thing my mind will comprehend." "Well, if I were you, as you seem so far gone, I should take some steps," advised Dick. "I'm no friend of shilly-shallying. If you love the girl, go and tell her so, I advise." "I wish I'd more money," sighed the schoolmaster. "Many a good paterfamilias has wished that before you, my lad," observed Tregurtha, with a laugh. "How does the country curate get on with his six children, do you suppose?" "Eh, I don't know. O Lord! I hope I never shall be the father of a boy!" exclaimed the pedagogue, with a sudden agitated glance up at the bedroom windows, as the dread crossed his mind that he might have been overheard all this while. However, all objection melted before the warmth of Roscoria's attachment, and one night he gave up his keys and authority to Tregurtha, bade him bolt the shutters and troll out prayers to the household in his jovial bass, for Louis Roscoria was going to a ball to "declare himself." He had found out all about Lyndis (or thought he had). She was the niece of Admiral Sir John Villiers; her father dead; her mother married again to a hunting, racing type of man who wanted no stepdaughter about. So fair Lyndis was staying with her uncle for the time, looking after the housekeeping in return for his kind protection. But Roscoria gathered much hope that his suit might possibly be the means of relieving her from any unsettled feeling that she might have about her future. And thus it came to pass that at the termination of their fifth dance together they were sitting in a ferny grotto—the goddess was all robed in blue this time, as if she had brought down a piece of summer sky trailing after her—and Louis began all at once to show the tenderness he felt. There was a little of the usual fencing with the subject, and then Roscoria came out with a few leading questions. He had heard rumors—very disquieting rumors—in short, would she set his mind at rest? Lyndis bent the glory of her mystic eyes upon him for an instant, whilst she said: "I was going to be married, b...