Mr. Percy and the Prophet, Page 3

  ‘Percy, my boy!’ cried the Major, recognising the melody, ‘you’re in luck’s way—it’s going to be a waltz!’

  Almost as he spoke, the notes of the symphony glided by subtle modulations into the inspiriting air of the waltz. Percy claimed his partner’s hand. Miss Charlotte hesitated, and looked at her mother.

  ‘Surely you waltz?’ said Percy.

  ‘I have learnt to waltz,’ she answered modestly; ‘but this is such a large room, and there are so many people!’

  ‘Once round,’ Percy pleaded; ‘only once round!’

  Miss Bowmore looked again at her mother. Her foot was keeping time with the music, under her dress; her heart was beating with a delicious excitement; kind-hearted Mrs Bowmore smiled and said, ‘Once round, my dear, as Mr Linwood suggests.’

  In another moment, Percy’s arm took possession of her waist, and they were away on the wings of the waltz!

  Could words describe, could thought realize, the exquisite enjoyment of the dance?

  Enjoyment? It was more—it was an epoch in Charlotte’s life—it was the first time she had waltzed with a man. What a difference between the fervent clasp of Percy’s arm and the cold formal contact of the mistress who had taught her! How brightly his eyes looked down into hers; admiring her with such a tender restraint, that there could surely be no harm in looking up at him now and then in return. Round and round they glided, absorbed in the music and in themselves. Occasionally her bosom just touched him, at those critical moments when she was most in need of support. At other intervals, she almost let her head sink on his shoulder in trying to hide from him the smile which acknowledged his admiration too boldly. ‘Once round,’ Percy had suggested; ‘once round,’ her mother had said. They had been ten, twenty, thirty times round; they had never stopped to rest like other dancers; they had centred the eyes of the whole room on them—including the eyes of Captain Bervie—without knowing it; her delicately pale complexion had changed to rosy-red; the neat arrangement of her hair had become disturbed; her bosom was rising and falling faster and faster in the effort to breathe—before fatigue and heat overpowered her at last, and forced her to say to him faintly, ‘I’m very sorry—I can’t dance any more!’

  Percy led her into the cooler atmosphere of the refreshment-room, and revived her with a glass of lemonade. Her arm still rested on his—she was just about to thank him for the care he had taken of her—when Captain Bervie entered the room.

  ‘Mrs Bowmore wishes me to take you back to her,’ he said to Charlotte. Then, turning to Percy, he added: ‘Will you kindly wait here while I take Miss Bowmore to the ballroom? I have a word to say to you—I will return directly.’

  The Captain spoke with perfect politeness—but his face betrayed him. It was pale with the sinister whiteness of suppressed rage.

  Percy sat down to cool and rest himself. With his experience of the ways of men, he felt no surprise at the marked contrast between Captain Bervie’s face and Captain Bervie’s manner. ‘He has seen us waltzing, and he is coming back to pick a quarrel with me.’ Such was the interpretation which Mr Linwood’s knowledge of the world placed on Captain Bervie’s politeness. In a minute or two more the Captain returned to the refreshment-room, and satisfied Percy that his anticipations had not deceived him.

  VI LOVE

  Four days had passed since the night of the ball.

  Although it was no later in the year than the month of February, the sun was shining brightly, and the air was as soft as the air of a day in spring. Percy and Charlotte were walking together in the little garden at the back of Mr Bowmore’s cottage, near the town of Dartford in Kent.

  ‘Mr Linwood,’ said the young lady, ‘you were to have paid us your first visit the day after the ball. Why have you kept us waiting? Have you been too busy to remember your new friends?’

  ‘I have counted the hours since we parted, Miss Charlotte. If I had not been detained by business—’

  ‘I understand! For three days business has controlled you. On the fourth day, you have controlled business—and here you are? I don’t believe one word of it, Mr Linwood!’

  There was no answering such a declaration as this. Guiltily conscious that Charlotte was right in refusing to accept his well-worn excuse, Percy made an awkward attempt to change the topic of conversation.

  They happened, at the moment, to be standing near a small conservatory at the end of the garden. The glass door was closed, and the few plants and shrubs inside had a lonely, neglected look. ‘Does nobody ever visit this secluded place?’ Percy asked jocosely, ‘or does it hide discoveries in the rearing of plants, which are forbidden mysteries to a stranger?’

  ‘Satisfy your curiosity, Mr Linwood, by all means,’ Charlotte answered in the same tone. ‘Open the door, and I will follow you.’

  Percy obeyed. In passing through the doorway, he encountered the bare hanging branches of some creeping plant, long since dead, and detached from its fastenings on the woodwork of the roof. He pushed aside the branches so that Charlotte could easily follow him in, without being aware that his own forced passage through them had a little deranged the folds of spotless white cambric which a well-dressed gentleman wore round his neck in those days. Charlotte seated herself, and directed Percy’s attention to the desolate conservatory with a saucy smile.

  ‘The mystery which your lively imagination has associated with this place,’ she said,

  ‘means, being interpreted, that we are too poor to keep a gardener. Make the best of your disappointment, Mr Linwood, and sit here by me. We are out of hearing and out of sight of mamma’s other visitors. You have no excuse now for not telling me what has really kept you away from us.

  She fixed her eyes on him as she said those words. Before Percy could think of another excuse, her quick observation detected the disordered condition of his cravat, and discovered the upper edge of a black plaster attached to one side of his neck.

  ‘You have been hurt in the neck!’ she said. ‘That is why you have kept away from us for the last three days!’

  ‘A mere trifle,’ he answered, in great confusion; ‘please don’t notice it.’

  Her eyes, still resting on his face, assumed an expression of suspicious enquiry, which Percy was entirely at a loss to understand. Suddenly, she started to her feet, as if a new idea had occurred to her. ‘Wait here,’ she said, flushing with excitement, ‘till I come back: I insist on it!’

  Before Percy could ask for an explanation, she had left the conservatory.

  In a minute or two, Miss Bowmore returned, with a newspaper in her hand. ‘Read that,’

  she said, pointing to a paragraph distinguished by a line drawn round it in ink.

  The passage that she indicated contained an account of a duel which had recently taken place in the neighbourhood of London. The names of the duellists were not mentioned.

  One was described as an officer, and the other as a civilian. They had quarrelled at cards, and had fought with pistols. The civilian had had a narrow escape of his life. His antagonist’s bullet had passed near enough to the side of his neck to tear the flesh, and had missed the vital parts, literally, by a hair’s-breadth.

  Charlotte’s eyes, riveted on Percy, detected a sudden change of colour in his face the moment he looked at the newspaper. That was enough for her. ‘You are the man!’ she cried. ‘Oh, for shame, for shame! To risk your life for a paltry dispute about cards.’

  ‘I would risk it again,’ said Percy, ‘to hear you speak as if you set some value on it.’

  She looked away from him without a word of reply. Her mind seemed to be busy again with its own thoughts. Did she meditate returning to the subject of the duel? Was she not satisfied with the discovery which she had just made?

  No such doubts as these troubled the mind of Percy Linwood. Intoxicated by the charm of her presence, emboldened by her innocent betrayal of the interest that she felt in him, he opened his whole heart to her as unreservedly as if they had known each other from the days
of their childhood. There was but one excuse for him. Charlotte was his first love.

  ‘You don’t know how completely you have become a part of my life, since we met at the ball,’ he went on. ‘That one delightful dance seemed, by some magic which I can’t explain, to draw us together in a few minutes as if we had known each other for years.

  Oh, dear! I could make such a confession of what I felt—only I am afraid of offending you by speaking too soon. Women are so dreadfully difficult to understand. How is a man to know at what time it is considerate towards them to conceal his true feelings; and at what time it is equally considerate to express his true feelings? One doesn’t know whether it is a matter of days or weeks or months—there ought to be a law to settle it.

  Dear Miss Charlotte, when a poor fellow loves you at first sight, as he has never loved any other woman, and when he is tormented by the fear that some other man may be preferred to him, can’t you forgive him if he lets out the truth a little too soon?’ He ventured, as he put that very downright question, to take her hand. ‘It really isn’t my fault,’ he said simply. ‘My heart is so full of you, I can talk of nothing else.’

  To Percy’s delight, the first experimental pressure of his hand, far from being resented, was softly returned. Charlotte looked at him again, with a new resolution in her face.

  ‘I’ll forgive you for talking nonsense, Mr Linwood,’ she said; ‘and I will even permit you to come and see me again, on one condition—that you tell the whole truth about the duel. If you conceal the smallest circumstance, our acquaintance is at an end.’

  ‘Haven’t I owned everything already?’ Percy inquired, in great perplexity. ‘Did I say No, when you told me I was the man?’

  ‘Could you say No, with that plaster on your neck?’ was the ready rejoinder. ‘I am determined to know more than the newspaper tells me. Will you declare, on your word of honour, that Captain Bervie had nothing to do with the duel? Can you look me in the face, and say that the real cause of the quarrel was a disagreement at cards? When you were talking with me just before I left the ball, how did you answer a gentleman who asked you to make one at the whist-table? You said, “I don’t play at cards.” Ah! You thought I had forgotten that? Don’t kiss my hand! Trust me with the whole truth, or say good-bye for ever.

  ‘Only tell me what you wish to know, Miss Charlotte,’ said Percy humbly. ‘If you will put the question, I will give the answers—as well as I can.’

  On this understanding, Percy’s evidence was extracted from him as follows:

  ‘Was it Captain Bervie who quarrelled with you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Was it about me?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘He said I had committed an impropriety in waltzing with you.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because your parents disapproved of your waltzing in a public ballroom.’

  ‘That’s not true! What did he say next?’

  ‘He said I had added tenfold to my offence, by waltzing with you in such a manner as to make you the subject of remark to the whole room.

  ‘Oh! did you let him say that?’

  ‘No; I contradicted him instantly. And I said, besides, “It’s an insult to Miss Bowmore, to suppose that she would permit any impropriety.”~

  ‘Quite right! And what did he say?’

  ‘Well, he lost his temper; I would rather not repeat what he said when he was mad with jealousy. There was nothing to be done with him but to give him his way.’

  ‘Give him his way? Does that mean fight a duel with him?’

  ‘Don’t be angry—it does.’

  ‘And you kept my name out of it, by pretending to quarrel at the card-table?’

  ‘Yes. We managed it when the card-room was emptying at suppertime, and nobody was present but Major Mulvany and another friend as witnesses.’

  ‘And when did you fight the duel?’

  ‘The next morning.’

  ‘You never thought of me, I suppose?’

  ‘Indeed, I did; I was very glad that you had no suspicion of what we were at.’

  ‘Was that all?’

  ‘No; I had your flower with me, the flower you gave me out of your nosegay, at the ball.’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Oh, never mind, it doesn’t matter.’

  ‘It does matter. What did you do with my flower?’

  ‘I gave it a sly kiss while they were measuring the ground; and (don’t tell anybody!) I put it next to my heart to bring me luck.’

  ‘Was that just before he shot at you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How did he shoot?’

  ‘He walked (as the seconds had arranged it) ten paces forward; and then he stopped, and lifted his pistol—’

  ‘Don’t tell me any more! Oh, to think of my being the miserable cause of such horrors!

  I’ll never dance again as long as I live. Did you think he had killed you, when the bullet wounded your poor neck?’

  ‘No; I hardly felt it at first.’

  ‘Hardly felt it? How he talks! And when the wretch had done his best to kill you, and when it came to your turn, what did you do?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘What! You didn’t walk your ten paces forward?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And you never shot at him in return?’

  ‘No; I had no quarrel with him, poor fellow; I just stood where I was, and fired in the air—’

  Before he could stop her, Charlotte seized his hand, and kissed it with an hysterical fervour of admiration, which completely deprived him of his presence of mind.

  ‘Why shouldn’t I kiss the hand of a hero?’ she cried, with tears of enthusiasm sparkling in her eyes. ‘Nobody but a hero would have given that man his life; nobody but a hero would have pardoned him, while the blood was streaming from the wound that he had inflicted. I respect you, I admire you. Oh, don’t think me bold! I can’t control myself when I hear of anything noble and good. You will understand me better when we get to be old friends—won’t you?’

  She spoke in low sweet tones of entreaty. Percy’s arm stole softly round her.

  ‘Are we never to be nearer and dearer to each other than old friends?’ he asked in a whisper. ‘I am not a hero—your goodness overrates me, dear Miss Charlotte. My one ambition is to be the happy man who is worthy enough to win you. At your own time! I wouldn’t distress you, I wouldn’t confuse you, I wouldn’t for the whole world take advantage of the compliment which your sympathy has paid to me. If it offends you, I won’t even ask if I may hope.’

  She sighed as he said the last words; trembled a little, and silently looked at him.

  Percy read his answer in her eyes. Without meaning it on either side, their heads drew nearer together; their cheeks, then their lips, touched. She started back from him, and rose to leave the conservatory. At the same moment, the sound of slowly-approaching footsteps became audible on the gravel walk of the garden. Charlotte hurried to the door.

  ‘My father!’ she exclaimed, turning to Percy. ‘Come, and be introduced to him.’

  Percy followed her into the garden.

  VII POLITICS

  Judging by appearances, Mr Bowmore looked like a man prematurely wasted and worn by the cares of a troubled life. His eyes presented the one feature in which his daughter resembled him. In shape and colour they were exactly reproduced in Charlotte; the difference was in the expression. The father’s look was habitually restless, eager, and suspicious. Not a trace was to be seen in it of the truthfulness and gentleness which made the charm of the daughter’s expression. A man whose bitter experience of the world had soured his temper and shaken his faith in his fellow-creatures—such was Mr Bowmore as he presented himself on the surface. He received Percy politely—but with a preoccupied air. Every now and then, his restless eyes wandered from the visitor to an open letter in his hand. Charlotte, observing him, pointed to the letter.

  ‘Have you any bad news there, papa
?’ she asked.

  ‘Dreadful news!’ Mr Bowmore answered. ‘Dreadful news, my child, to every Englishman who respects the liberties which his ancestors won. My correspondent is a man who is in the confidence of the Ministers,’ he continued, addressing Percy. ‘What do you think is the remedy that the

  Government proposes for the universal distress among the population, caused by an infamous and needless war? Despotism, Mr Linwood; despotism in this free country is the remedy! In one week more, sir, Ministers will bring in a Bill for suspending the Habeas Corpus Act!’

  Before Percy could do justice in words to the impression produced on him, Charlotte innocently asked a question which shocked her father.

  ‘What is the Habeas Corpus Act, papa?’

  ‘Good God!’ cried Mr Bowmore, ‘is it possible that a child of mine has grown up to womanhood, in ignorance of the palladium of English liberty? Oh, Charlotte! Charlotte!’

  ‘I am very sorry, papa. If you will only tell me, I will never forget it.’

  Mr Bowmore reverently uncovered his head, saluting an invisible Habeas Corpus Act.

  He took his daughter by the hand, with a certain parental sternness: his voice trembled with emotion as he spoke his next words:

  ‘The Habeas Corpus Act, my child, forbids the imprisonment of an English subject, unless that imprisonment can be first justified by law. Not even the will of the reigning monarch can prevent us from appearing before the judges of the land, and summoning them to declare whether our committal to prison is legally just.’

  He put on his hat again. ‘Never forget what I have told you, Charlotte!’ he said solemnly. ‘I would not remove my hat, sir,’ he continued, turning to Percy, ‘in the presence of the proudest autocrat that ever sat on a throne. I uncover, in homage to the grand law which asserts the sacredness of human liberty. When Parliament has sanctioned the infamous Bill now before it, English patriots may be imprisoned, may even be hanged, on warrants privately obtained by the paid spies and informers of the men who rule us. Perhaps I weary you, sir. You are a young man; the conduct of the Ministry may not interest you.’