The Abbot's Ghost, or Maurice Treherne's Temptation/Chapter 4

Chapter IV. Feeding The Peacocks

It was indeed a charming sight, the twelve stately birds perched on the broad stone balustrade, or prancing slowly along the terrace, with the sun gleaming on their green and golden necks and the glories of their gorgeous plumes, widespread, or sweeping like rich trains behind them. In pretty contrast to the splendid creatures was their young mistress, in her simple morning dress and fur-trimmed hood and mantle, as she stood feeding the tame pets from her hand, calling their fanciful names, laughing at their pranks, and heartily enjoying the winter sunshine, the fresh wind, and the girlish pastime. As Treherne slowly approached, he watched her with lover’s eyes, and found her very sweet and blithe, and dearer in his sight than ever. She had shunned him carefully all the day before, had parted at night with a hasty handshake, and had not come as usual to bid him good-morning in the library. He had taken no notice of the change as yet, but now, remembering his promise to his aunt, he resolved to let the girl know that he fully understood the relation which henceforth was to exist between them.

“Good-morning, cousin. Shall I drive you away, if I take a turn or two here?” he said, in a cheerful tone, but with a half-reproachful glance.

She looked at him an instant, then went to him with extended hand and cheeks rosier than before, while her frank eyes filled, and her voice had a traitorous tremor in it, as she said, impetuously: “I will be myself for a moment, in spite of everything. Maurice, don’t think me unkind, don’t reproach me, or ask my leave to come where I am. There is a reason for the change you see in me; it’s not caprice, it is obedience.”

“My dear girl, I know it. I meant to speak of it, and show you that I understand. Annon is a good fellow, as worthy of you as any man can be, and I wish you all the happiness you deserve.”

“Do you?” And her eyes searched his face keenly.

“Yes; do you doubt it?” And so well did he conceal his love, that neither face, voice, nor manner betrayed a hint of it.

Her eyes fell, a cloud passed over her clear countenance, and she withdrew her hand, as if to caress the hungry bird that gently pecked at the basket she held. As if to change the conversation, she said playfully, “Poor Argus, you have lost your fine feathers, and so all desert you, except kind little Juno, who never forgets her friends. There, take it all, and share between you.”

Treherne smiled, and said quickly, “I am a human Argus, and you have been a kind little Juno to me since I lost my plumes. Continue to be so, and you will find me a very faithful friend.”

“I will.” And as she answered, her old smile came back and her eyes met his again.

“Thanks! Now we shall get on happily. I don’t ask or expect the old life—that is impossible. I knew that when lovers came, the friend would fall into the background; and I am content to be second, where I have so long been first. Do not think you neglect me; be happy with your lover, dear, and when you have no pleasanter amusement, come and see old Maurice.”

She turned her head away, that he might not see the angry color in her cheeks, the trouble in her eyes, and when she spoke, it was to say petulantly, “I wish Jasper and Mamma would leave me in peace. I hate lovers and want none. If Frank teases, I’ll go into a convent and so be rid of him.”

Maurice laughed, and turned her face toward himself, saying, in his persuasive voice, “Give him a trial first, to please your mother. It can do no harm and may amuse you. Frank is already lost, and, as you are heart-whole, why not see what you can do for him? I shall have a new study, then, and not miss you so much.”

“You are very kind; I’ll do my best. I wish Mrs. Snowdon would come, if she is coming; I’ve an engagement at two, and Frank will look tragical if I’m not ready. He is teaching me billiards, and I really like the game, though I never thought I should.”

“That looks well. I hope you’ll learn a double lesson, and Annon find a docile pupil in both.”

“You are very pale this morning; are you in pain, Maurice?” suddenly asked Octavia, dropping the tone of assumed ease and gaiety under which she had tried to hide her trouble.

“Yes, but it will soon pass. Mrs. Snowdon is coming. I saw her at the hall door a moment ago. I will show her the peacocks, if you want to go. She won’t mind the change, I dare say, as you don’t like her, and I do.”

“No, I am sure of that. It was an arrangement, perhaps? I understand. I will not play Mademoiselle De Trop.”

Sudden fire shone in the girl’s eyes, sudden contempt curled her lip, and a glance full of meaning went from her cousin to the door, where Mrs. Snowdon appeared, waiting for her maid to bring her some additional wrappings.

“You allude to the note you stole. How came you to play that prank, Tavie?” asked Treherne tranquilly.

“I saw her put it under the urn. I thought it was for Jasper, and I took it,” she said boldly.

“Why for Jasper?”

“I remembered his speaking of meeting her long ago, and describing her beauty enthusiastically—and so did you.”

“You have a good memory.”

“I have for everything concerning those I love. I observed her manner of meeting my brother, his devotion to her, and, when they stood laughing together before the fire, I felt sure that she wished to charm him again.”

“Again? Then she did charm him once?” asked Treherne, anxious to know how much Jasper had told his sister.

“He always denied it, and declared that you were the favorite.”

“Then why not think the note for me?” he asked.

“I do now” was the sharp answer.

“But she told you it was for the major, and sent it.”

“She deceived me; I am not surprised. I am glad Jasper is safe, and I wish you a pleasant tête-à-tête.”

Bowing with unwonted dignity, Octavia set down her basket, and walked away in one direction as Mrs. Snowdon approached in another.

“I have done it now,” sighed Treherne, turning from the girlish figure to watch the stately creature who came sweeping toward him with noiseless grace.

Brilliancy and splendor became Mrs. Snowdon; she enjoyed luxury, and her beauty made many things becoming which in a plainer woman would have been out of taste, and absurd. She had wrapped herself in a genuine Eastern burnous of scarlet, blue, and gold; the hood drawn over her head framed her fine face in rich hues, and the great gilt tassels shone against her rippling black hair. She wore it with grace, and the barbaric splendor of the garment became her well. The fresh air touched her cheeks with a delicate color; her usually gloomy eyes were brilliant now, and the smile that parted her lips was full of happiness.

“Welcome, Cleopatra!” cried Treherne, with difficulty repressing a laugh, as the peacocks screamed and fled before the rustling amplitude of her drapery.

“I might reply by calling you Thaddeus of Warsaw, for you look very romantic and Polish with your pale, pensive face, and your splendid furs,” she answered, as she paused beside him with admiration very visibly expressed in her eyes.

Treherne disliked the look, and rather abruptly said, as he offered her the basket of bread, “I have disposed of my cousin, and offered to do the honors of the peacocks. Here they are—will you feed them?”

“No, thank you—I care nothing for the fowls, as you know; I came to speak to you,” she said impatiently.

“I am at your service.”

“I wish to ask you a question or two—is it permitted?”

“What man ever refused Mrs. Snowdon a request?”

“Nay, no compliments; from you they are only satirical evasions. I was deceived when abroad, and rashly married that old man. Tell me truly how things stand.”

“Jasper has all. I have nothing.”

“I am glad of it.”

“Many thanks for the hearty speech. You at least speak sincerely,” he said bitterly.

“I do, Maurice—I do; let me prove it.”

Treherne’s chair was close beside the balustrade. Mrs. Snowdon leaned on the carved railing, with her back to the house and her face screened by a tall urn. Looking steadily at him, she said rapidly and low, “You thought I wavered between you and Jasper, when we parted two years ago. I did; but it was not between title and fortune that I hesitated. It was between duty and love. My father, a fond, foolish old man, had set his heart on seeing me a lady. I was his all; my beauty was his delight, and no untitled man was deemed worthy of me. I loved him tenderly. You may doubt this, knowing how selfish, reckless, and vain I am, but I have a heart, and with better training had been a better woman. No matter, it is too late now. Next my father, I loved you. Nay, hear me—I will clear myself in your eyes. I mean no wrong to the general. He is kind, indulgent, generous; I respect him—I am grateful, and while he lives, I shall be true to him.”

“Then be silent now. Do not recall the past, Edith; let it sleep, for both our sakes,” began Treherne; but she checked him imperiously.

“It shall, when I am done. I loved you, Maurice; for, of all the gay, idle, pleasure-seeking men I saw about me, you were the only one who seemed to have a thought beyond the folly of the hour. Under the seeming frivolity of your life lay something noble, heroic, and true. I felt that you had a purpose, that your present mood was but transitory—a young man’s holiday, before the real work of his life began. This attracted, this won me; for even in the brief regard you then gave me, there was an earnestness no other man had shown. I wanted your respect; I longed to earn your love, to share your life, and prove that even in my neglected nature slept the power of canceling a frivolous past by a noble future. Oh, Maurice, had you lingered one week more, I never should have been the miserable thing I am!”

There her voice faltered and failed, for all the bitterness of lost love, peace, and happiness sounded in the pathetic passion of that exclamation. She did not weep, for tears seldom dimmed those tragical eyes of hers; but she wrung her hands in mute despair, and looked down into the frost-blighted gardens below, as if she saw there a true symbol of her own ruined life. Treherne uttered not a word, but set his teeth with an almost fierce glance toward the distant figure of Sir Jasper, who was riding gaily away, like one unburdened by a memory or a care.

Hurriedly Mrs. Snowdon went on, “My father begged and commanded me to choose your cousin. I could not break his heart, and asked for time, hoping to soften him. While I waited, that mysterious affair hurried you from Paris, and then came the wreck, the illness, and the rumor that old Sir Jasper had disinherited both nephews. They told me you were dying, and I became a passive instrument in my father’s hands. I promised to recall and accept your cousin, but the old man died before it was done, and then I cared not what became of me.

“General Snowdon was my father’s friend; he pitied me; he saw my desolate, destitute state, my despair and helplessness. He comforted, sustained, and saved me. I was grateful; and when he offered me his heart and home, I accepted them. He knew I had no love to give; but as a friend, a daughter, I would gladly serve him, and make his declining years as happy as I could. It was all over, when I heard that you were alive, afflicted, and poor. I longed to come and live for you. My new bonds became heavy fetters then, my wealth oppressed me, and I was doubly wretched—for I dared not tell my trouble, and it nearly drove me mad. I have seen you now; I know that you are happy; I read your cousin’s love and see a peaceful life in store for you. This must content me, and I must learn to bear it as I can.”

She paused, breathless and pale, and walked rapidly along the terrace, as if to hide or control the agitation that possessed her.

Treherne still sat silent, but his heart leaped within him, as he thought, “She sees that Octavia loves me! A woman’s eye is quick to detect love in another, and she asserts what I begin to hope. My cousin’s manner just now, her dislike of Annon, her new shyness with me; it may be true, and if it is—Heaven help me—what am I saying! I must not hope, nor wish, nor dream; I must renounce and forget.”

He leaned his head upon his hand, and sat so still Mrs. Snowdon rejoined him, pale, but calm and self-possessed. As she drew near, she marked his attitude, the bitter sadness of his face, and hope sprang up within her. Perhaps she was mistaken; perhaps he did not love his cousin; perhaps he still remembered the past, and still regretted the loss of the heart she had just laid bare before him. Her husband was failing, and might die any day. And then, free, rich, beautiful, and young, what might she not become to Treherne, helpless, poor, and ambitious? With all her faults, she was generous, and this picture charmed her fancy, warmed her heart, and comforted her pain.

“Maurice,” she said softly, pausing again beside him, “if I mistake you and your hopes, it is because I dare ask nothing for myself; but if ever a time shall come when I have liberty to give or help, ask of me anything, and it is gladly yours.”

He understood her, pitied her, and, seeing that she found consolation in a distant hope, he let her enjoy it while she might. Gravely, yet gratefully, he spoke, and pressed the hand extended to him with an impulsive gesture.

“Generous as ever, Edith, and impetuously frank. Thank you for your sincerity, your kindness, and the affection you once gave me. I say ‘once,’ for now duty, truth, and honor bar us from each other. My life must be solitary, yet I shall find work to do, and learn to be content. You owe all devotion to the good old man who loves you, and will not fail him, I am sure. Leave the future and the past, but let us make the present what it may be—a time to forgive and forget, to take heart and begin anew. Christmas is a fitting time for such resolves, and the birth of friendship such as ours may be.”

Something in his tone and manner struck her, and, eyeing him with soft wonder, she exclaimed, “How changed you are!”

“Need you tell me that?” And he glanced at his helpless limbs with a bitter yet pathetic look of patience.

“No, no—not so! I mean in mind, not body. Once you were gay and careless, eager and fiery, like Jasper; now you are grave and quiet, or cheerful, and so very kind. Yet, in spite of illness and loss, you seem twice the man you were, and something wins respect, as well as admiration—and love.”

Her dark eyes filled as the last word left her lips, and the beauty of a touched heart shone in her face. Maurice looked up quickly, asking with sudden earnestness, “Do you see it? Then it is true. Yes, I am changed, thank God! And she has done it.”

“Who?” demanded his companion jealously.

“Octavia. Unconsciously, yet surely, she has done much for me, and this year of seeming loss and misery has been the happiest, most profitable of my life. I have often heard that afflictions were the best teachers, and I believe it now.”

Mrs. Snowdon shook her head sadly.

“Not always; they are tormentors to some. But don’t preach, Maurice. I am still a sinner, though you incline to sainthood, and I have one question more to ask. What was it that took you and Jasper so suddenly away from Paris?”

“That I can never tell you.”

“I shall discover it for myself, then.”

“It is impossible.”

“Nothing is impossible to a determined woman.”

“You can neither wring, surprise, nor bribe this secret from the two persons who hold it. I beg of you to let it rest,” said Treherne earnestly.

“I have a clue, and I shall follow it; for I am convinced that something is wrong, and you are—”

“Dear Mrs. Snowdon, are you so charmed with the birds that you forget your fellow-beings, or so charmed with one fellow-being that you forget the birds?”

As the sudden question startled both, Rose Talbot came along the terrace, with hands full of holly and a face full of merry mischief, adding as she vanished, “I shall tell Tavie that feeding the peacocks is such congenial amusement for lovers, she and Mr. Annon had better try it.”

“Saucy gypsy!” muttered Treherne.

But Mrs. Snowdon said, with a smile of double meaning, “Many a true word is spoken in jest.”