“I beg your pardon,” he said, most unconsciously
verifying Fleda’s words in his own person,—“but
Mr. Carleton, do me the favour to say that I have
misunderstood your words. They are incomprehensible
to me, sir.”
“I must abide by them nevertheless, Capt.
Rossitur,” Mr. Carleton answered with a smile.
“I will not permit this thing to be done, while,
as I believe, I have the power to prevent it.
You see,” he said, smiling again,—“I
put in practice my own theory.”
Charlton looked exceedingly disturbed, and maintained
a vexed and irresolute silence for several minutes,
realizing the extreme disagreeableness of having more
than his match to deal with.
“Come, Capt. Kossitur,” said the
other turning suddenly round upon him,—“say
that you forgive me what you know was meant in no
disrespect to you?”
“I certainly should not,” said Rossitur,
yielding however with a half laugh, “if it were
not for the truth of the proverb that it takes two
to make a quarrel.”
“Give me your hand upon that. And now that
the question of honour is taken out of your hands,
grant not to me but to those for whom I ask it, your
promise to forgive this man.”
Charlton hesitated, but it was difficult to resist
the request, backed as it was with weight of character
and grace of manner, along with its intrinsic reasonableness;
and he saw no other way so expedient of getting out
of his dilemma.
“I ought to be angry with somebody,” he
said, half laughing and a little ashamed;—“if
you will point out any substitute for Thorn I will
let him go—since I cannot help myself—with
pleasure.”
“I will bear it,” said Mr. Carleton lightly.
“Give me your promise for Thorn and hold me
your debtor in what amount you please.”
“Very well—I forgive him,”
said Rossitur;—“and now Mr. Carleton
I shall have a reckoning with you some day for this.”
“I will meet it. When you are next in England
you shall come down to—— shire,
and I will give you any satisfaction you please.”
They parted in high good-humour; but Charlton looked
grave as he went down the staircase; and very oddly
all the way down to Whitehall his head was running
upon the various excellencies and perfections of his
cousin Fleda.
There
is a fortune coming
Towards you, dainty, that will take thee
thus,
And set thee aloft.
Ben Jonson.
That day was spent by Fleda in the never-failing headache
which was sure to visit her after any extraordinary
nervous agitation or too great mental or bodily trial.
It was severe this time, not only from the anxiety
of the preceding night but from the uncertainty that
weighed upon her all day long. The person who
could have removed the uncertainty came indeed to the
house, but she was too ill to see anybody.
The extremity of pain wore itself off with the day,
and at evening she was able to leave her room and
come down stairs. But she was ill yet, and could
do nothing but sit in the corner of the sofa, with
her hair unbound, and Florence gently bathing her
head with cologne.
