Page:Seventy-six, or, Love and battle (IA seventysixlove00nealrich).pdf/16

 sorrow and apprehension would have been unmanly.

At last we parted. "Farewell!, madam," said I; "I shall not see you in the morning."

"Heaven bless you," she replied, cordially pressing my hand. "May God be with you, in battle and in sleep—night and day—bien bon soir."

"Amen!" said some one faintly at my side—it was Clara. I turned to offer her my hand, but unaccountable timidity took sudden possession of me, and I could not. I gave it to Lucia, who burst into tears.

I was astonished. What was there to affect her so deeply more than her sister? why at all? Might it not be that her heart was full before to running over, and that she was glad of any pretence to discharge the fountain of tears.

"Farewell," said I again; "farewell!"

Clara put her hand upon my arm as I passed her, but instantly withdrew it; and when I looked, she had turned away her face, so that I could not tell if it were designedly done or not,—but I lay awake, I know, many a long hour, sleepy as I was, that night, endeavouring to reconcile such an accident with her habitual reserve, and lofty, severe, rectitude of deportment. It could not be—no—Clara Arnauld was not a woman to feel at the heart, and least of all for such a man as I—uninformed, inexperienced, and—

We were in our saddles by early daylight the next morning, and trotted slowly past the windows of the chamber where we knew that the young ladies slept. A white hand stirred the curtain—nothing more. I could have sworn that it was Clara's, but on looting into Archibald's eyes, I was sure that he thought it Lucia's.

Alas! It was the hand of neither; it was that of a man! A man!—what!—said I, half audibly, in the bedchamber of—the next moment I saw that it was Mr. Arnauld himself, evidently wishing to see us without being seen himself, for he hastily disappeared, and the next minute the curtain of another window fell suddenly, as if some one had just left it. After all then, my heart was right—it was she.

"What a charming creature she is," said I, half unwilling to interrupt the solemn stillness of our ride.

"Yes," said my brother; "full blooded." But reining his beautiful mare about so as to see her blood-red nostrils, through which her breath issued, like a bright vapour, for a whole yard upon the cold air— "But she was sadly put to it yesterday, and I feared for her wind. Not blown, I hope, but—"

"Oh! I understand you now," I replied, completely puzzled for a moment; "you are always thinking of your mare."

"Aye, brother; what else have I to think of. She knows me—see."

As he spoke he loosened the rein for a moment, the fire flashed from her wild eyes, and she shot by me like an arrow.

The road was a very dangerous one, encumbered with trees and rocks, roots, stumps, and broken all up with the feet of heavy cattle, so that I held my breath for a moment, till I saw him rein her short, as if upon a pivot, without stopping.

"By heaven, Archibald, how did you teach her that?" said I, coming up with him.

He laughed, but there was a mournfulness in the sound, as there was even in the warm flush upon his pallid front, and the arrowy brightness of his intensely blue eyes—they were not the symptoms of health or happiness.

"I'll tell you, brother. I was reading some time since about the Arabian horses, and when we get to a better place I will show you that there is no such mighty matter in stopping at full speed, or mounting and dismounting at a gallop. But what were you speaking of, brother?"

"Of the most charming creature in the world," said I, feeling every word that I uttered.

"Yes, yes, brother, responded Archibald, stooping on the off side of his mare, and turning the stirrup with his foot; "yes; but I cannot well bear to talk of her now."

"But," I replied, unwilling to let the conversation die away so soon—we were just approaching the highest ground in the neighbourhood, from which we would have a view of twenty miles all about us—"I do not like her coquetry."

"What!" said Archibald, abruptly.

"No," I continued; "nor that womanish pedantry and affectation."

"Affectation!" said he, riveting his eyes upon me in astonishment; "what the devil do you mean, John."

"Oh! I do not hope to convince you of it, such a favourite as you are—(he coloured to the eyes)—and that vile habit of sprinkling all she says with a smattering of poetry, and French, and Italian—a smattering of—"

"I'll tell you what, brother," said he, riding up to me. I can't put np with this. I told you once before, that I did not like to talk upon the subject; and I tell you once more, and once for all, that I won't put up with it."

I was amazed. We stopped our horses, and faced each other for a moment upon the very summit of the elevation.

"Are you mad?" said I. "One would think that you were in love with her—(the fire streamed from his eyes). Take care what you are about. That husband is not the gentlest of men, or the most forgiving, nor will he be the more likely to treat you gently for your passionate adoration of his wife because he is the greatest profligate of the country."

"Husband! wife!" said Archibald, impatiently, and stooping from the saddle—"what are you talking about?"

"Mrs. Arnauld," I replied.

He drew a long breath, and reached me his hand, with a smile that went to my heart. "I am a little absent, I believe," said he—"you know that I am apt to be thoughtful, and just now—((he appeared to forget himself, for a moment, in another reverie,— but started again at the sound of two or three shot, that appeared to be fired in the valley below:—when the mare plunged suddenly, and had well nigh dislodged him on the spot.

"She had well nigh broken your neck then, brother," said I, looking about for the sportsmen, who, I supposed, were out after game; but I could see nothing—not even the smoke of their pieces—yet they sounded very near to us.

"I deserved it," said he, reining her up firmly, and adjusting himself to the seat; "tame as she is, I ought never to forget what she has been—a horseman will always mind his saddle, rein and stirrup, (no matter what he is upon) as if expected to be run away with every moment. Ha!—another, that!—the game must be well up this morning."

"That was a pistol shot," said I.

"O yes, I dare say it was," he answered; "our troop are amusing themselves at a mark. But you were speaking of her affectation!—I am sorry for it, on some accounts! she is so truly charming in every other respect—and then, it cannot have escaped you,