CHAPTER X. SMALL CAUSES

A clock sounded one of the later morning hours of the night as Gower

Woodseer stood at his hotel door, having left Fleetwood with a band of

revellers. The night was now clear. Stars were low over the ridge of

pines, dropped to a league of our strange world to record the doings.

Beneath this roof lay the starry She. He was elected to lie beneath it

also: and he beheld his heavenly lady floating on the lull of soft white

cloud among her sister spheres. After the way of imaginative young men,

he had her features more accurately now she was hidden, and he idealized

her more. He could escape for a time from his coil of similes and paint

for himself the irids of her large, long, grey eyes darkly rimmed;

purest water-grey, lucid within the ring, beneath an arch of lashes.

He had them fast; but then he fell to contemplating their exceeding

rareness; And the mystery of the divinely grey swung a kindled fancy

to the flight with some queen-witch of woods, of whom a youth may dream

under the spell of twilights, East or West, among forest branches.

She had these marvellous eyes and the glamour for men. She had not yet

met a man with the poetical twist in the brain to prize her elementally.

All admitted the glamour; none of her courtiers were able to name it,

even the poetical head giving it a name did not think of the witch in

her looks as a witch in her deeds, a modern daughter of the mediaeval.

To her giant squire the eyes of the lady were queer: they were unlit

glass lamps to her French suppliant; and to the others, they were

attractively uncommon; the charm for them being in her fine outlines,

her stature, carriage of her person, and unalterable composure;

particularly her latent daring. She had the effect on the general mind

of a lofty crag-castle with a history. There was a whiff of gunpowder

exciting the atmosphere in the anecdotal part of the history known.

Woodseer sat for a certain time over his note-book. He closed it with a

thrilling conceit of the right thing written down; such as entomologists

feel when they have pinned the rare insect. But what is butterfly

or beetle compared with the chiselled sentences carved out of air to

constitute us part owner of the breathing image and spirit of an adored

fair woman? We repeat them, and the act of repeating them makes her come

close on ours, by virtue of the eagle thought in the stamped gold of the

lines.

Then, though she is not ever to be absolutely ours (and it is an

impoverishing desire that she should be), we have beaten out the golden

sentence--the essential she and we in one. But is it so precious after

all? A suspicious ring of an adjective drops us on a sickening descent.

The author dashed at his book, examined, approved, keenly enjoyed, and

he murderously scratched the adjective. She stood better without it, as

a bright planet star issuing from clouds, which are perhaps an adornment

to our hackneyed moon. This done, he restored the book to his coat’s

breast-pocket, smiling or sneering at the rolls of bank-notes there,

disdaining to count them. They stuffed an inner waistcoat pocket and his

trousers also. They at any rate warranted that we can form a calculation

of the chances, let Lord Fleetwood rave as he may please.

Woodseer had caught a glimpse of the elbow-point of his coat when

flinging it back to the chair. There was distinctly abrasion.

Philosophers laugh at such things. But they must be the very ancient

pallium philosophers, ensconced in tubs, if they pretend to merriment

over the spectacle of nether garments gapped at the spot where man is

most vulnerable. He got loose from them and held them up to the candle,

and the rays were admitted, neither winking nor peeping. Serviceable old

clothes, no doubt. Time had not dealt them the final kick before they

scored a good record.

They dragged him, nevertheless, to a sort of confession of some

weakness, that he could not analyze for the swirl of emotional thoughts

in the way; and they had him to the ground. An eagle of the poetic

becomes a mere squat toad through one of these pretty material strokes.

Where then is Philosophy? But who can be philosopher and the fervent

admirer of a glorious lady? Ask again, who in that frowzy garb can

presume to think of her or stand within fifty miles of her orbit?

A dreary two hours brought round daylight. Woodseer quitted his restless

bed and entered the abjured habiliments, chivalrous enough to keep from

denouncing them until he could cast the bad skin they now were to his

uneasy sensations. He remembered having stumbled and fallen on the slope

of the hill into this vale, and probably then the mischief had occurred

though a brush would have, been sufficient, the slightest collision.

Only, it was odd that the accident should have come to pass just

previous to his introduction. How long antecedent was it? He belaboured

his memory to reckon how long it was from the moment of the fall to the

first sight of that lady.

His window looked down on the hotel stable-yard. A coach-house door was

open. Odd or not--and it certainly looked like fate--that he should be

bowing to his lady so shortly after the mishap expelling him, he had to

leave the place. A groom in the yard was hailed, and cheerily informed

him he could be driven to Carlsruhe as soon as the coachman had finished

his breakfast. At Carlsruhe a decent refitting might be obtained, and he

could return from exile that very day, thanks to the praiseworthy early

hours of brave old Germany.

He had swallowed a cup of coffee with a roll of stale bread, in the best

of moods, and entered his carriage; he was calling the order to start

when a shout surprised his ear: ‘The fiddler bolts!’

Captain Abrane’s was the voice. About twenty paces behind, Abrane,

Fleetwood, and one whom they called Chummy Potts, were wildly waving

arms. Woodseer could hear the captain’s lowered roar: ‘Race you, Chummy,

couple of louis, catch him first!’ The two came pelting up to the

carriage abreast.

They were belated revellers, and had been carelessly strolling under the

pinky cloudlets bedward, after a prolonged carousal with the sons and

daughters of hilarious nations, until the apparition of Virgin Luck on

the wing shocked all prospect of a dead fight with the tables that day.

‘Here, come, no, by Jove, you, Mr. Woodsir! won’t do, not a bit! can’t

let you go,’ cried Abrane, as he puffed. ‘What! cut and run and leave

us, post winnings--bankers--knock your luck on the head! What a fellow!

Can’t let you. Countess never forgive us. You promised--swore it--play

for her. Struck all aheap to hear of your play! You’ve got the trick.

Her purse for you in my pocket. Never a fellow played like you. Cool as

a cook over a-gridiron! Comme un phare! St. Ombre says--that Frenchman.

You astonished the Frenchman! And now cut and run? Can’t allow it.

Honour of the country at stake.’

‘Hands off!’ Woodseer bellowed, feeling himself a leaky vessel in dock,

his infirmities in danger of exposure. ‘If you pull!--what the deuce do

you want? Stop!’

‘Out you come,’ said the giant, and laughed at the fun to his friends,

who were entirely harmonious when not violently dissenting, as is the

way with Night’s rollickers before their beds have reconciled them to

the day-beams.

Woodseer would have had to come and was coming; he happened to say:

‘Don’t knock my pipe out of my mouth,’ and touched a chord in the giant.

‘All--right; smoke your pipe,’ was answered to his remonstrance.

During the amnesty, Fleetwood inquired: ‘Where are you going?’

‘Far a drive,--to be sure. Don’t you see!’

‘You’ll return?’

‘I intend to return.’

‘He’s beastly excited,’ quoth Abrane.

Fleetwood silenced him, though indeed Woodseer appeared suspiciously

restive.

‘Step down and have a talk with me before you start. You’re not to go

yet.’

‘I must. I’m in a hurry.’

‘What ‘s the hurry?’

‘I want to smoke and think.’

‘Takes a carriage on the top of the morning to smoke and think! Hark at

that!’ Abrane sang out. ‘Oh, come along quietly, you fellow, there’s a

good fellow! It concerns us all, every man Jack; we’re all bound up

in your fortunes. Fellow with luck like yours can’t pretend to behave

independently. Out of reason!’

‘Do you give me your word you return?’ said Fleetwood.

Woodseer replied: ‘Very well, I do; there, I give my word. Hang it!

now I know what they mean by “anything for a quiet life.” Just a shake

brings us down on that cane-bottomed chair!’

‘You return to-day?’

‘To-day, yes, yes.’

Fleetwood signified the captive’s release; and Abrane immediately

suggested:

‘Pop old Chummy in beside the fellow to mount guard.’

Potts was hustled and precipitated into the carriage by the pair,

with whom he partook this last glimmer of their night’s humorous

extravagances, for he was an easy creature. The carriage drove off.

‘Keep him company!’ they shouted.

‘Escort him back!’ said he, nodding.

He remarked to Woodseer: ‘With your permission,’ concerning the seat

he took, and that ‘a draught of morning air would do him good.’ Then he

laughed politely, exchanged wavy distant farewells with his comrades,

touched a breast-pocket for his case of cigars, pulled forth one,

obtained ‘the loan of a light,’ blew clouds and fell into the

anticipated composure, quite understanding the case and his office.

Both agreed as to the fine morning it was. Woodseer briefly assented to

his keeper’s reiterated encomium on the morning, justified on oath. A

fine morning, indeed. ‘Damned if I think I ever saw so fine a morning!’

Potts cried. He had no other subject of conversation with this

hybrid: and being equally disposed for hot discourse or for sleep, the

deprivation of the one and the other forced him to seek amusement in his

famous reading of character; which was profound among the biped equine,

jockeys, turfmen, sharpers, pugilists, demireps. He fronted Woodseer

with square shoulders and wide knees, an elbow on one, a fist on the

other, engaged in what he termed the ‘prodding of his eel,’ or ‘nicking

of his man,’ a method of getting straight at the riddle of the fellow by

the test of how long he could endure a flat mute stare and return look

for look unblinking. The act of smoking fortifies and partly covers

the insolence. But if by chance an equable, not too narrowly focussed,

counterstare is met, our impertinent inquisitor may resemble the

fisherman pulled into deep waters by his fish. Woodseer perused his man,

he was not attempting to fathom him: he had besides other stuff in his

head. Potts had naught, and the poor particle he was wriggled under

detection.

‘Tobacco before breakfast!’ he said disgustedly tossing his cigar to the

road. ‘Your pipe holds on. Bad thing, I can tell you, that smoking on

an empty stomach. No trainer’d allow it, not for a whole fee or double.

Kills your wind. Let me ask you, my good sir, are you going to turn?

We’ve sat a fairish stretch. I begin to want my bath and a shave, linen

and coffee. Thirsty’ as a dog.’

He heard with stupefaction, that he could alight on the spot, if he

pleased, otherwise he would be driven into Carlsruhe. And now they had a

lingual encounter, hot against cool; but the eyes of Chummy Potts

having been beaten, his arguments and reproaches were not backed by

the powerful looks which are an essential part of such eloquence as

he commanded. They fled from his enemy’s currishly, even while he was

launching epithets. His pathetic position subjected him to beg that

Woodseer would direct the driver to turn, for he had no knowledge of

‘their German lingo.’ And said he: ‘You’ve nothing to laugh at, that

I can see. I’m at your mercy, you brute; caught in a trap. I never

walk;--and the sun fit to fry a mackerel along that road! I apologize

for abusing you; I can’t do more. You’re an infernally clever

player--there! And, upon my soul, I could drink ditchwater! But if

you’re going in for transactions at Carlsruhe, mark my words, your

luck’s gone. Laugh as much as you like.’

Woodseer happened to be smiling over the excellent reason for not

turning back which inflicted the wofulness. He was not without sympathy

for a thirsty wretch, and guessing, at the sight of an avenue of limes

to the left of the road, that a wayside inn was below, he said: ‘You can

have coffee or beer in two minutes,’ and told the driver where to pull

up.

The sight of a grey-jacketed, green-collared sportsman, dog at

heel, crossing the flat land to the hills of the forest, pricked him

enviously, and caused him to ask what change had come upon him, that he

should be hurrying to a town for a change of clothes. Just as Potts was

about to jump out, a carriage, with a second behind it, left the inn

door. He rubbed a hand on his unshaven chin, tried a glance at his

shirt-front, and remarking: ‘It won’t be any one who knows me,’ stood to

let the carriages pass. In the first were a young lady and a gentleman:

the lady brilliantly fair, an effect of auburn hair and complexion,

despite the signs of a storm that had swept them and had not cleared

from her eyelids. Apparently her maid, a damsel sitting straight up,

occupied the carriage following; and this fresh-faced young person

twice quickly and bluntly bent her head as she was driven by. Potts was

unacquainted with the maid. But he knew the lady well, or well enough

for her inattention to be the bigger puzzle. She gazed at the Black

Forest hills in the steadiest manner, with eyes betraying more than

they saw; which solved part of the puzzle, of course. Her reasons for

declining to see him were exposed by the presence of the gentleman

beside her. At the same time, in so highly bred a girl, a defenceless

exposure was unaccountable. Half a nod and the shade of a smile would

have been the proper course; and her going along on the road to the

valley seemed to say it might easily have been taken; except that there

had evidently been a bit of a scene.

Potts ranked Henrietta’s beauty far above her cousin Livia’s. He was

therefore personally offended by her disregard of him, and her bit of a

scene with the fellow carrying her off did him injury on behalf of his

friend Fleetwood. He dismissed Woodseer curtly. Thirsting more to gossip

than to drink, he took a moody draught of beer at the inn, and by the

aid of a conveyance, hastily built of rotten planks to serve his needs,

and drawn by a horse of the old wars,’ as he reported on his arrival

at Baden,--reached that home of the maltreated innocents twenty minutes

before the countess and her party were to start for lunch up the

Lichtenthal. Naturally, he was abused for letting his bird fly: but

as he was shaven, refreshed, and in clean linen, he could pull his

shirt-cuffs and take seat at his breakfast-table with equanimity while

Abrane denounced him.

‘I’ll bet you the fellow’s luck has gone,’ said Potts. ‘He ‘s no new

hand and you don’t think him so either, Fleet. I’ve looked into the

fellow’s eye and seen a leery old badger at the bottom of it. Talks vile

stuff. However, ‘perhaps I didn’t drive out on that sweltering Carlsruhe

road for nothing.’

He screwed a look at the earl, who sent Abrane to carry a message and

heard the story Potts had to tell.

‘Henrietta Fakenham! no mistake about her; driving out from a pothouse;

man beside her, military man; might be a German. And, if you please,

quite unacquainted with your humble servant, though we were as close as

you to me. Something went wrong in that pothouse. Red eyes. There had

been a scene, one could swear. Behind the lady another carriage, and her

maid. Never saw the girl before, and sets to bowing and smirking at me,

as if I was the-fellow of all others! Comical. I made sure they were

bound for this place. They were on the Strasburg road. No sign of them?’

‘You speak to me?’ said Fleetwood.

Potts muttered. He had put his foot into it.

‘You have a bad habit of speaking to yourself,’ Fleetwood remarked, and

left him. He suffered from the rustics he had to deal with among his

class, and it was not needed that he should thunder at them to make his

wrath felt.

Livia swam in, asking: ‘What has come to Russett? He passed me in one of

his black fits.’

The tale of the Carlsruhe road was repeated by Potts. She reproved him.

‘How could you choose Russett for such a report as that! The admiral was

on the road behind. Henrietta--you’re sure it was she? German girls have

much the same colouring. The gentleman with her must have been one of

the Court equerries. They were driving to some chateau or battlefield

the admiral wanted to inspect. Good-looking man? Military man?’

‘Oh! the man! pretty fair, I dare say,’ Potts rejoined. ‘If it wasn’t

Henrietta Fakenham, I see with the back of my head. German girl! The

maid was a German girl.’

‘That may well be,’ said Livia.

She conceived the news to be of sufficient importance for her to

countermand the drive up the Lichtenthal, and take the Carlsruhe road

instead; for Henrietta was weak, and Chillon Kirby an arch-plotter, and

pleader too, one of the desperate lovers. He was outstaying his leave of

absence already, she believed; he had to be in England. If he feared to

lose Henrietta, he would not hesitate to carry her off. Livia knew him,

and knew the power of his pleading with a firmer woman than Henrietta.