ST. IVES
THE ADVENTURES OF A FRENCH PRISONER IN ENGLAND.
Author of "Treasure Island," "Kidnapped." etc.
CONCLUSION.
CHAPTER XXVIII (Continued).
EVENTS OF MONDAY: THE LAWYER'S PARTY.
IT is a strange thing how young men in their teens go down at the mere wind of the coming of men of twenty-five and upwards! The vapid ones fled without thought of resistance before the major and me; a few dallied awhile in the neighborhood—so to speak, with their fingers in their mouths—but presently these also followed the rout, and we remained face to face before Flora. There was a draught in that corner by the door; she had thrown her pelisse over her bare arms and neck, and the dark fur of the trimming set them off. She shone by contrast; the light played on her smooth skin to admiration, and the color changed in her excited face. For the least fraction of a second she looked from one to the other of her rival swains, and seemed to hesitate. Then she addressed Chevenix:
"You are coming to the Assembly, of course, Major Chevenix?" said she.
"I fear not; I fear I shall be otherwise engaged," he replied. "Even the pleasure of dancing with you, Miss Flora, must give way to duty."
For awhile the talk ran harmlessly on the weather, and then branched off towards the war. It seemed to be by no one's fault; it was in the air, and had to come.
"Good news from the scene of operations," said the major.
"Good news while it lasts," I said. "But will Miss Gilchrist tell us her private thought upon the war? In her admiration for the victors, does not there mingle some pity for the vanquished?"
"Indeed, sir," she said, with animation, "only too much of it! War is a subject that I do not think should be talked of to a girl. I am, I have to be—what do you call it?—a non-combatant? And to remind me of what others have to do and suffer: no, it is not fair! "
"Miss Gilchrist has the tender female heart," said Chevenix.
"Do not be too sure of that!" she cried. "I would love to be allowed to fight, myself!"
"On which side?" I asked.
"Can you ask?" she exclaimed. "I am a Scottish girl!"
"She is a Scottish girl!" repeated the major, looking at me. "And no one grudges you her pity!"
"And I glory in every grain of it she has to spare," said I. "Pity is akin to love."
"Well, and let us put that question to Miss Gilchrist. It is for her to decide, and for us to bow to the decision. Is pity, Miss Flora, or is admiration, nearest love?"
"Oh, come," said I, "let us be more concrete. Lay before the lady a complete case: describe your man, then I'll describe mine, and Miss Flora shall decide."
"I think I see your meaning," said he, "and I'll try. You think that pity—and the kindred sentiments—have the greatest power upon the heart. I think more nobly of women. To my view, the man they love will first of all command their respect; he will be steadfast—proud, if you please; dry, possibly—but of all things steadfast. They will look at him in doubt; at last they will see that stern face which he presents to all the rest of the world soften to them alone. First, trust, I say. It is so that a woman loves who is worthy of heroes."
"Your man is very ambitious, sir," said I, "and very much of a hero! Mine is a humbler and, I would fain think, a more human dog. He is one with no particular trust in himself, with no superior steadfastness to be admired for, who sees a lady's face, who hears her voice, and, without
Copyright, 1897, by the S. S McClure Co., New York.
