Sue Petigru Bowen - The Actress in High Life

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"I hope I could find topics more agreeable to us both," said L'Isle,
laughing and blushing. "But unluckily I have in my pocket Sir
Rowland's order to meet him there, and have intelligence he is waiting
for. I am afraid he will have to wait."

"I am afraid, he will," said Lady Mabel, coolly, "for I do not see how
you are to get out of the house now. By this time Moodie has bolted,
barred, and locked every door and window below, hidden the keys, and
gone to bed in his usual condition. He never can find them again,
until his head gets clear in the morning."

"What!" exclaimed L'Isle, "that respectable old man drunk every
night!"

"Not _every_ night!" said Lady Mabel. "But have you forgotten in what
condition he came back with us from Evora?"

"True. But I thought that an accident, and more the effect of sickness
than drinking. He seemed quite sober when you came home, and a graver
and more sedate man I do not know."

"O, he is a Presbyterian, you know, and the more liquor he swallows
the graver and more sanctimonious he becomes."

"That may be. Still Lady Mabel, I must find some way of getting out of
the house. Already I shall be too late at Alcantara."

"I am afraid Sir Rowland will not drink in your news at breakfast. But
if it be good, it will come in capitally after dinner, by way of
dessert."

"After dinner!" said L'Isle hurriedly. "I must be there many hours
before that!"

"Then I am sorry to have kept you here so long. I suppose Jenny and I
must keep watch by ourselves all night, for I cannot keep those
heavy-headed fellows awake."

"Awake and watching!" exclaimed L'Isle.

"Yes--awake and watching," Lady Mabel answered. "If you could stay we
would not insist on your sitting up with us. I could have Papa's room
made ready for you; and if I knew that you were asleep in Papa's bed,
with your drawn sword on one side, and a pair of his pistols, cocked,
on the other, I would not be in the least afraid."

"Afraid of what?" asked L'Isle in astonishment.

"Of these robbers, who go plundering and murdering all over the
country by night!" said Lady Mabel, her large blue eyes opening wide
in well-feigned terror.

"Oh, don't talk of them, my lady!" said Jenny, with a stifled scream,
and an affected shudder.

"Have you not heard of them?" Lady Mabel asked in a tone of surprise.

"I cannot say I have--at least of any depredations here at Elvas."

"But we are outside of Elvas--to our sorrow; and the monks, great
engineers as they have elsewhere proved themselves, have constructed
but a very weak fortress in this building. Our garrison is weaker
still. Papa carried off his two most efficient servants. William is a
simpleton, Tomkins a craven, and Moodie, though bold as a lion, is an
old man, already bound hand and foot, and gagged by his strong enemy."

"But where is the Portuguese part of your household?" L'Isle asked.

"Being thieves in a small way," said Lady Mabel, "we always, at night,
lock them out of this part of the building. While the robbers were
cutting our throats up-stairs, they might be stealing our silver
below. We have an anxious time here, I assure you. It is as much as I
can do to keep poor Jenny from going off into hysterics; she will not
go to bed lest she should be robbed and murdered in her sleep. It is
lucky that I, being a soldier's daughter, have a little courage."

"Courage!" exclaimed L'Isle, "I am astonished at your sudden
timidity. Why, there is a sentinel day and night here at
headquarters."

"But out of sight and hearing at the other end of this old rambling
monk's roost," said Lady Mabel, "mounting guard over papa's musty
despatches."

"And the fellow now there," said Jenny, "told me he could not quit
them--no, not if we were robbed and murdered twice over. I could
scream now, only that I'm afraid the villains might hear me!"

While L'Isle looked suspiciously at the maid, not so good an actress
as her mistress, Lady Mabel glanced her eye at the clock. Apparent
time called it one, real time said it was two hours after
midnight. She felt sure of her game, and need wear the mask no longer.
She had been acting a long and trying part, and began to feel tired,
and now showed it by letting her terror subside into one or two little
yawns, which became her so well, that L'Isle never thought her more
lovely than now when she was getting tired of his company.

It was high time to get rid of him. But now a real fear come over her,
and she shrunk from his searching glance with unfeigned timidity.
Still the thing had to be done; so nerving herself to the task, she
stepped close up beside him, and looking confidingly in his face,
said: "I am truly sorry to have kept you here so long, and hope you
will not find Sir Rowland fretting and fuming at the delay of your
news; but I was so anxious to have your protection, having just
learned that these horrid ruffians are not _guerilleros_ from the
Spanish band at Badajoz, but some of your own regiment disguised as
banditti."

L'Isle started back one step. In an instant, from the fairy land of
hope and love, his Eden of delights, with every soothing and
intoxicating influence around him, he found himself transported to a
bleak common, stripped of his dreamy joys, exposed to the ridicule of
the enchantress, and soon to be pelted with the pitiless jests of all
who might hear of his adventure. He looked at Lady Mabel, almost
expecting to see her undergo some magic transformation. But there she
stood unchanged, except that there was a little sneer on her lip, a
glance of triumph from her eye, an expression of intense but
mischievous enjoyment in her whole air, and, what he had never
observed before, a strong likeness to her father.

Striving quickly and proudly to recover himself, L'Isle said, with
admirable gravity, "You have convinced me, Lady Mabel, that it is my
especial duty to protect you from my own banditti. I will not leave
you, not close an eye in sleep, while a shadow of danger hangs over
you. But," he added, slowly drawing near to a window, and gently
opening it, "I have observed that house-breakers always choose the
darkest hours to hide their deeds of darkness. For to-night the danger
is over. The moon is overhead, and not a cloud obscures the sky. We
English may envy these Southern nations their nights, though not their
days." Half a dozen nightingales were now pouring out their rival
melodies in the grove. Looking out on the landscape before him, its
features softened rather than concealed by the sober silvery light, he
repeated:

"How sweet the moonlight sleeps on yonder bank,
* * * * In such a night as this,
When the sweet wind did gently kiss the trees,
And they did make no noise--in such a night
Troilus, methinks, mounted the Trojan walls,
And sighed his soul toward the Grecian tents,
Where Cressid lay that night."

While repeating these lines, he measured with his eye the distance to
the ground. The comfort-loving monks had provided lofty ceilings and
abundant air for their apartments under the scorching sun of
Alemtejo. But in L'Isle's angry, defiant mood, he would have leapt
from the top of Pompey's Pillar, rather than stay to be laughed at by
Lady Mabel. Seating himself on the window-sill, he turned and threw
his legs out of the window.

"For Heaven's sake, Colonel L'Isle, what are you dreaming of?"

"I am dreaming that, happy as Ulysses, I have listened to the Syren,
and escaped her snares."

She had sprang forward as he spoke, and now threw out her arms to draw
him back. He eluded her clasp, and dropped to the ground on his feet,
but fell backward, and did not at once rise again. She shrieked, and
then called out in a piteous tone: "Speak to me, Colonel L'Isle. For
Heaven's sake, speak. Say you are not injured--not hurt."

"Console yourself, Lady Mabel," said he, rising slowly. "I have not
broken my neck, and shall not break my appointment. And, now, I must
bid you good-night; or shall I say good-morning?"

As L'Isle turned, he spied old Moodie standing in the open gateway of
the court, with a light in his hand, and knitting his shaggy brows. He
looked neither very drunk, nor much afraid of robbers, but trembled
with rage on seeing L'Isle's mode of breaking out of the mansion. With
a strong effort of self-control, L'Isle walked off without limping,
and was soon lost in the gloomy shades of the olive and the orange
grove.

Lady Mabel had played out the comedy, and now came--reflection. What
had she done? How would it tell? Above all, what would L'Isle think of
her? What were his feelings now? And what would they be when the exact
truth-the whole plot--was known to him? Every faculty hitherto
engrossed in the part she was playing, until this moment she had never
looked on this side of the picture? Now, bitter self-reproach, womanly
shame, and tears--vain, useless tears--filled up the remaining hours
of the night. Jenny Aiken's feeble attempts at consolation were worse
than futile, and she was sent off abruptly to her room for
misconstruing the cause of her mistress' grief. Lady Mabel found
little relief in remembering her father's injunction, to play her part
well, and not fail of success. She was hardly soothed even by the
resolution she took to rate that father soundly for the gross
impropriety he had permitted, induced--nay, almost commanded--her to
perpetrate.

CHAPTER XIX.

_Don Pedro_.--By this light he changes more and more. I think he
be angry, indeed.
_Claudio_.--If he be, he knows how to turn his girdle.
_Benedict_.--Shall I speak a word in your ear?
_Claudio_.--God bless me from a challenge.

Much ado about Nothing.

Sir Rowland Hill, with a stout division, had been posted during the
winter at Coria, facing Marshal Soult in the valley of the
Tagus--holding him to bail not to disturb the peace and quiet of the
British army cantoned along the frontier. The Marshal had now
swallowed or pocketed all that he could find in the rich, but hapless
vale of Plasencia, and of late had been casting hungry glances on the
country south of the river. This had induced Sir Rowland to ride over
from Coria to Alcantara, to look to his line of communication with the
southern provinces. This old city had been long sinking into decay;
the French General, Lapisse, spent one night in it four years ago; and
well nigh completed the work which time had begun. Still its position
and its famous bridge, one arch of which had been blown up, and had
now been hastily repaired, made it an important point at this time.

In a Gothic hall, which looked as if it had not long since been
visited by the Vandals, but which had of old been often thronged with
members of the once chivalrous order of Alcantara, now as effete in
knighthood as that of Malta; a military secretary was writing at a
small table, at the dictation of Sir Rowland Hill, who stood near,
perchance, as good a knight as ever trod that floor. Officers came in
to him, and were sent out again on various missions. Lord Strathern
was seated by a larger table at the other end of the room, conversing
gaily with his fellow-travelers from Elvas, and waiting Sir Rowland's
leisure.

Sir Rowland presently looked at his watch, and raising his voice,
inquired--"My Lord, has L'Isle come yet?"

"Not yet," Lord Strathern answered with a smiling countenance, while
Sir Rowland's expressed disappointment. He knew that the
commander-in-chief was about to order a combination of simultaneous
movements. Every part of the allied force from Gallicia to Andalusia
had its task allotted, and he was anxious to know how far the _Conde
di Abispal's_ could be relied on.

"L'Isle is usually before his time," said Sir Rowland. "Do you think
he got my order yesterday?"

"I have little doubt of it," said my lord.

"But I doubt his being here soon," said Bradshawe, dipping in his oar
to trouble the waters. "He had to go last night to a concert in
Elvas."

"A concert detain him! I do not understand that."

"Nor I, Sir Rowland," said Bradshawe coolly. "I only heard it without
pretending to understand it."

Sir Rowland looked puzzled, but his unfinished dispatch claimed his
attention, and he turned again to his secretary.

Meanwhile Lord Strathern was in high spirits. "The hour has come, but
not the man!" he said, and began to triumph over Conway, and laugh at
L'Isle so merrily, that he would have soon found it in his heart to
forgive the latter all his offensive strictures on him. But, suddenly,
his merriment gave place to a look of surprise and disappointment.
Conway, turning to ascertain the cause, saw L'Isle walk into the room
as if he had come hither at his leisure; yet, something in his
bearing, betrayed that his pride was in arms.

"I am glad to see you, L'Isle," said Sir Rowland. "I were loath to
close my dispatch without adding the intelligence you might bring
me. By the bye, some of these gentlemen thought that you would not be
here so soon."

"They must have supposed that I had not received your order, sir,"
said L'Isle, glancing haughtily round on Lord Strathern; "but, having
got it, I am here."

"It seems to have cost you hard riding though, and more fatigue than
you are yet equal to," said Sir Rowland, remembering his late
wounds. "And you have had a fall," he added, observing some marks on
his clothes.

"Not from my horse," said L'Isle, shortly and somewhat bitterly. "But
it is of no consequence," and he hastened to produce his notes and
furnish Sir Rowland with the information expected from him.

Besides the unerased marks of a fall, L'Isle's clothes were
travel-stained, and his face was pale, less, perhaps, from fatigue and
loss of sleep, than from the violent excitement and revulsion of
feelings he had lately undergone. But he soon withdrew Sir Rowland's
attention from himself to his full and precise account of the state of
the Andalusian reserve, and the garrison of Badajoz.

"I am glad to find that this body of Spanish troops are not, like too
many Spanish armies, men of straw, an army on paper," said Sir
Rowland. "The French are trying to occupy so extended a position here
in Estremadura, that our Andalusian friends may do capital service in
harassing their out-posts, and cutting off their convoys."

"If they can be kept out of the plains, and induced not to fight,"
said L'Isle, smiling. "But the Spaniard is always seeking to surround
the enemy, and force him to battle."

"At all events," said Sir Rowland, "I can now give Lord Wellington a
definite and reliable account of their condition;" and, making a sign
to L'Isle to accompany him, he walked across the room and seated
himself at the larger table. Here he held a somewhat prolonged
conference with Lord Strathern, in which the other gentlemen were, at
times, called upon to take part. When compelled to speak, L'Isle
distinguished himself by giving admirable specimens of the lapidary
style, not one spare word. Sir Rowland had many questions to ask and
instructions to give; but, these over, he gave a less professional
turn to the conversation, and then said: "I hope, my lord, you and
these gentlemen will share my poor dinner to-day; but remember, I am
not at home in Alcantara, and cannot feast you, as you do your friends
at Elvas; neither can we sit long and drink deep, as I must return
to-night to Coria."

"We will dine with you with pleasure," said Lord Strathern. "Pray,
Bradshawe, who could have told Sir Rowland that we sit long and drink
deep at Elvas?"

"Some thirsty fellow," said Bradshawe, "who had drained the last drop
from his last bottle."

"Oh, my lord," said Sir Rowland, laughing, "I meant no
insinuation. But I must finish my despatch," and he returned to his
secretary.

While Lord Strathern and his companions awaited Sir Rowland's leisure,
L'Isle sat moodily apart, turning an unsocial shoulder toward his
lordship, giving him a glimpse of his back.

Lord Strathern smiled; he saw the earth stains, and saw, moreover,
evident marks of anger and chagrin in L'Isle's demeanor. His curiosity
was strongly excited, and he resolved to make the silent man find his
tongue.

"Pray, L'Isle how came you to let your horse slip from under you, and
measure your length in the road?"

"You are mistaken, my lord," said L'Isle, formally; "my horse did not
throw me."

"You are so used to success that you will acknowledge no failure, not
even a fall from your horse, or your hobby-horse. Perhaps you got
tired, and took a nap by the roadside, which accounts for your getting
here no sooner."

L'Isle was too angry to trust himself with an answer, but Major
Conway, turning to Bradshawe, said gaily: "Colonel L'Isle is here soon
enough for me; he is within the time, and I have won the fifty
guineas."

L'Isle started. Here was a revelation! His last night's adventure was
no secret. There were more parties to the plot than he had imagined.

"Sir!" said he, turning upon Conway, with a cold, hard manner. "Am I
to understand that you have done me the honor to bet on my movements?"

"Here is gratitude for you," exclaimed Conway, pacifically appealing
to his companions, and his voice attracted Sir Rowland's attention.
"Here have I been showing for him the height of friendship, hazarding
my best friends, my guineas, on his infallible fulfillment of duty;
and my full faith in him is received as an outrage."

"I suppose, sir," said L'Isle, turning on Bradshawe, with freezing
politeness, "it is you who have so obligingly afforded my volunteer
backer so singular an opportunity of proving his friendship?"

"I cannot claim the credit of it," answered Bradshawe, with easy
urbanity. "I am not even a stakeholder in the game; though, as a mere
looker-on, I confess having watched it with keen and growing
interest." And with a little wave of the hand he passed L'Isle gently
over to Lord Strathern.

L'Isle looked from the imperturbable colonel to the pacific major, who
professed to be so zealously his partisan, and back again to the
former. Not seeing how he could fasten a quarrel on either, he turned
somewhat reluctantly on Lord Strathern, who complacently awaited him.

"As for you, my lord, I might have felt surprise at your making me the
subject of such a bet, but it is lost in astonishment at the means you
took to win it!"

"And, after all to lose it," said Lord Strathern, in a mocking,
dolorous tone. "Is it not provoking?"

"No scruple," continued L'Isle, "seems to have stood in your way, my
lord, in the choice of either means or agent."

"On the contrary," said Lord Strathern, blandly, "I always
scrupulously choose the best of both."

"You must have contrived this plot," L'Isle persisted, "though the
chief actor be in Elvas. But I will say no more here."

"A few words more, I pray," said Lord Strathern, smiling. "I
understood that you were to have been detained in Elvas. How the devil
did you get away?"

L'Isle turned abruptly away, seeing that the more anger and
mortification he showed, the more gratified Lord Strathern seemed to
be. Rising from his seat, he walked up to Sir Rowland, who had been
watching him with much curiosity, and said: "I suppose, sir, you have
no further use for me here. If so, pray excuse my absence from your
table to-day, as I have occasion to return at once to Elvas."

Sir Rowland bid his secretary go and send off the despatch at once;
then looking fixedly at L'Isle, said: "I may need you here for a day
or two."

L'Isle bit his lip till the blood came, while Sir Rowland, stepping
over to Lord Strathern, asked in an undertone: "What is the matter
with L'Isle, my lord? he seems strangely out of humor."

"The truth is, Sir Rowland," said his lordship, in a confidential
tone, "somebody in Elvas has been quizzing L'Isle, and a man of his
vanity cannot stand being quizzed."

"Quizzed!" said Sir Rowland. "Does quizzing make a man mad?"

L'Isle dared not trust himself longer in Lord Strathern's company; he
wanted time to recover his self-command; so he again addressed Sir
Rowland: "That I left Elvas so suddenly, and unprepared for a
prolonged absence, matters little, Sir Rowland; but I have been so
little with my regiment of late, that--"

"Let your major take care of it a few days longer," Sir Rowland
answered, in a positive tone.

"You had better let L'Isle go, Sir Rowland," said Lord Strathern. "He
is afraid to lose sight of his regiment, lest they become banditti."

L'Isle's flushed cheek and compressed lips, showed that he felt the
taunt, while Sir Rowland exclaimed, in surprise: "Are they so unruly?
Then you must look to them yourself, my lord, for I shall keep Colonel
L'Isle a while with me. The truth is, L'Isle, I divine your urgent
business at Elvas. Some one there has given you gross offence, and you
seek revenge under the name of satisfaction. There is always sin and
folly enough in these affairs; but here, within sight of the smoke of
the enemy's camp, and now, when we are about to fall upon them, these
personal feuds are criminal madness. I would put you under arrest,
sooner than let you post off to Elvas on so bloodthirsty an errand."

Sir Rowland uttered this speech with an air worthy of his Puritan
uncle, of Calvinistic memory; but, in spite of the respect due to the
speaker, it was too much for the gravity of his hearers. Lord
Strathern and his companions burst into a roar of laughter, and even
L'Isle, amidst all his anger, felt tempted to join them.

"Gentlemen," said Sir Rowland, in grave astonishment, "I like a joke
as well as any of you. Pray explain this, that I may share your
enjoyment."

Bradshawe, with an effort, cut short his laughter, to say: "As a
neutral party, Sir Rowland, I will be Colonel L'Isle's surety, that in
whatever mood he may set out for Elvas, as soon as he finds himself in
the presence of his enemy there, he will be gentle as a lamb."

"You deal in mysteries; who in Elvas is so safe from L'Isle's
resentment?"

"Nobody but Lady Mabel Stewart."

"Lady Mabel Stewart!" exclaimed Sir Rowland, looking at Lord
Strathern. "If a lady contrived this plot, I shall never unravel it;
so you must do it for me."

"Perhaps the explanation," said Bradshawe, "would come more gracefully
from my lord."

"If I knew the details of it," said Lord Strathern, interrupting his
hearty laughter, for he seemed resolved, at all hazard, to recover his
fifty guineas, in sport, out of L'Isle. "I can tell but the beginning;
and then, Sir Rowland, you can squeeze the rest out of L'Isle
himself."

"By all means," said Sir Rowland. "L'Isle, take a seat, and learn to
stand fire. You must not dodge from a volley of laughter, that happens
to be aimed at yourself."

L'Isle reluctantly sat down, while Lord Strathern said: "Have you ever
discovered, Sir Rowland, that L'Isle is a monomaniac?"

"No! On what point?"

"Discipline! He is a little touched here," said my lord, laying his
finger on his temple, "on the subject of discipline. He never eats
heartily, nor sleeps quietly, but after detecting the breach of a
dozen of the rules and regulations made for the government of his
Majesty's troops. He fancies that they were made expressly to afford
him the pleasure of detecting the breach of them."

"Is this disease prevalent in your brigade, my lord?" Sir Rowland
inquired in a sarcastic tone.

"By no means; I have kept it down; for my method, looking to the
spirit, not the letter of the law, discourages it greatly."

"I have seen something of your method, my lord," said Sir Rowland,
smiling; "but cannot say that I have mastered its peculiar merits."

"That is very likely," said Lord Strathern, complacently. "As every
art has its mysteries--so each man may have some peculiar gift in the
application of his art; even though taught by the same master, no two
men's handwriting are exactly alike; so each of us may have some
inimitable peculiarity in his soldiership. It is certain that L'Isle,
not understanding my more enlarged and liberal system, wished to force
me into his own narrow notions, and when I would not yield to him, he
intimated to me that I was training up banditti. I had to recommend to
him the study of one of the articles of war, which he had
overlooked. It treats of subordination, and of each man's minding his
own business. Neither of us was very successful in keeping his temper;
and, indeed, being a good deal ruffled, I afterward spoke pretty
freely of L'Isle's conduct to these gentlemen, who dined with me.
Mabel shared my feelings, and, with my consent, set a trap for him,
hoping to teach him that he himself might be caught tripping. How he
escaped in time to get here you must learn from himself."

"Come, L'Isle, we have heard the prologue," said Sir Rowland; "be not
bashful, but give us the comedy."

What was L'Isle to do? It was evidently something more than curiosity
that made Sir Rowland so earnest to sift this matter. He could hardly
refuse all explanation to him--and he felt that it would never do to
give an account of Lady Mabel's behavior, to himself, as he had
construed it. Lord Strathern, too, did not exactly know what he was
urging him to do. Suddenly recollecting Lady Mabel's note, L'Isle drew
it from his pocket, and handed it to her father, for his private
reading. To L'Isle's astonishment, Lord Strathern read it out with
great _gusto_, and commented on it.

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