Beauchamp's Career. Complete

‘Renee!’ said Roland.

‘Brother!’ she cried.

‘You see that I cannot suffer you to be borne away.’

‘No; do not!’

But the boat was flying fast from Venice, and she could have fallen at his feet and kissed them for not countermanding it.

‘You are in my charge, my sister.’

‘Yes.’

‘And now, Nevil, between us two,’ said Roland.

Beauchamp required no challenge. He seemed, to Rosamund Culling, twice older than he was, strangely adept, yet more strangely wise of worldly matters, and eloquent too. But it was the eloquence of frenzy, madness, in Roland’s ear. The arrogation of a terrible foresight that harped on present and future to persuade him of the righteousness of this headlong proceeding advocated by his friend, vexed his natural equanimity. The argument was out of the domain of logic. He could hardly sit to listen, and tore at his moustache at each end. Nevertheless his sister listened. The mad Englishman accomplished the miracle of making her listen, and appear to consent.

Roland laughed scornfully. ‘Why Trieste? I ask you, why Trieste? You can’t have a Catholic priest at your bidding, without her father’s sanction.’

‘We leave Renee at Trieste, under the care of madame,’ said Beauchamp, ‘and we return to Venice, and I go to your father. This method protects Renee from annoyance.’

‘It strikes me that if she arrives at any determination she must take the consequences.’

‘She does. She is brave enough for that. But she is a girl; she has to fight the battle of her life in a day, and I am her lover, and she leaves it to me.’

‘Is my sister such a coward?’ said Roland.

Renee could only call out his name.

‘It will never do, my dear Nevil; Roland tried to deal with his unreasonable friend affectionately. ‘I am responsible for her. It’s your own fault—if you had not saved my life I should not have been in your way. Here I am, and your proposal can’t be heard of. Do as you will, both of you, when you step ashore in Venice.’

‘If she goes back she is lost,’ said Beauchamp, and he attacked Roland on the side of his love for Renee, and for him.

Roland was inflexible. Seeing which, Renee said, ‘To Venice, quickly, my brother!’ and now she almost sighed with relief to think that she was escaping from this hurricane of a youth, who swept her off her feet and wrapt her whole being in a delirium.

‘We were in sight of the city just now!’ cried Roland, staring and frowning. ‘What’s this?’

Beauchamp answered him calmly, ‘The boat’s under my orders.’

‘Talk madness, but don’t act it,’ said Roland. ‘Round with the boat at once. Hundred devils! you haven’t your wits.’

To his amazement, Beauchamp refused to alter the boat’s present course.

‘You heard my sister?’ said Roland.

‘You frighten her,’ said Beauchamp.

‘You heard her wish to return to Venice, I say.’

‘She has no wish that is not mine.’

It came to Roland’s shouting his command to the men, while Beauchamp pointed the course on for them.

‘You will make this a ghastly pleasantry,’ said Roland.

‘I do what I know to be right,’ said Beauchamp.

‘You want an altercation before these fellows?’

‘There won’t be one; they obey me.’

Roland blinked rapidly in wrath and doubt of mind.

‘Madame,’ he stooped to Rosamund Culling, with a happy inspiration, ‘convince him; you have known him longer than I, and I desire not to lose my friend. And tell me, madame—I can trust you to be truth itself, and you can see it is actually the time for truth to be spoken—is he justified in taking my sister’s hand? You perceive that I am obliged to appeal to you. Is he not dependent on his uncle? And is he not, therefore, in your opinion, bound in reason as well as in honour to wait for his uncle’s approbation before he undertakes to speak for my sister? And, since the occasion is urgent, let me ask you one thing more: whether, by your knowledge of his position, you think him entitled to presume to decide upon my sister’s destiny? She, you are aware, is not so young but that she can speak for herself…’

‘There you are wrong, Roland,’ said Beauchamp; ‘she can neither speak nor think for herself: you lead her blindfolded.’

‘And you, my friend, suppose that you are wiser than any of us. It is understood. I venture to appeal to madame on the point in question.’

The poor lady’s heart beat dismally. She was constrained to answer, and said, ‘His uncle is one who must be consulted.’

‘You hear that, Nevil,’ said Roland.

Beauchamp looked at her sharply; angrily, Rosamund feared. She had struck his hot brain with the vision of Everard Romfrey as with a bar of iron. If Rosamund had inclined to the view that he was sure of his uncle’s support, it would have seemed to him a simple confirmation of his sentiments, but he was not of the same temper now as when he exclaimed, ‘Let him see her!’ and could imagine, give him only Renee’s love, the world of men subservient to his wishes.

Then he was dreaming; he was now in fiery earnest, for that reason accessible to facts presented to him; and Rosamund’s reluctantly spoken words brought his stubborn uncle before his eyes, inflicting a sense of helplessness of the bitterest kind.

They were all silent. Beauchamp stared at the lines of the deck-planks.

His scheme to rescue Renee was right and good; but was he the man that should do it? And was she, moreover, he thought—speculating on her bent head—the woman to be forced to brave the world with him, and poverty? She gave him no sign. He was assuredly not the man to pretend to powers he did not feel himself to possess, and though from a personal, and still more from a lover’s, inability to see all round him at one time and accurately to weigh the forces at his disposal, he had gone far, he was not a wilful dreamer nor so very selfish a lover. The instant his consciousness of a superior strength failed him he acknowledged it.

Renee did not look up. She had none of those lightnings of primitive energy, nor the noble rashness and reliance on her lover, which his imagination had filled her with; none. That was plain. She could not even venture to second him. Had she done so he would have held out. He walked to the head of the boat without replying.

Soon after this the boat was set for Venice again.

When he rejoined his companions he kissed Rosamund’s hand, and Renee, despite a confused feeling of humiliation and anger, loved him for it.

Glittering Venice was now in sight; the dome of Sta. Maria Salute shining like a globe of salt.

Roland flung his arm round his friend’s neck, and said, ‘Forgive me.’

‘You do what you think right,’ said Beauchamp.

‘You are a perfect man of honour, my friend, and a woman would adore you. Girls are straws. It’s part of Renee’s religion to obey her father. That’s why I was astonished!… I owe you my life, and I would willingly give you my sister in part payment, if I had the giving of her; most willingly. The case is, that she’s a child, and you?’

‘Yes, I’m dependent,’ Beauchamp assented. ‘I can’t act; I see it. That scheme wants two to carry it out: she has no courage. I feel that I could carry the day with my uncle, but I can’t subject her to the risks, since she dreads them; I see it. Yes, I see that! I should have done well, I believe; I should have saved her.’

‘Run to England, get your uncle’s consent, and then try.’