Kitabı oku: «A Princess of Thule», sayfa 10

Ingram understood all this, and was pleased to see the happy look that Sheila wore. He talked to her with even a greater assumption than usual of fatherly fondness; and if she was a little shy, was it not because she was conscious of so great a secret? He was even unusually complaisant to Lavender, and lost no opportunity of paying him indirect compliments that Sheila could overhear.

“You poor young things!” he seemed to be saying to himself, “you’ve got all your troubles before you; but, in the meantime you can make yourselves as happy as you can.”

Was the weather at last about to break? As the afternoon wore on the heavens became overcast, for the wind had gone back from the course of the sun, and had brought up great masses of cloud from the rainy Southwest.

“Are we going to have a storm?” said Lavender, looking along the Southern sky, where the Barvas hills were momentarily growing blacker under the gathering darkness overhead.

“Storm?” said Mackenzie, whose notions of what constituted a storm were probably different from those of his guest. “No, there will be no storm. But it is no bad thing if we get back to Barvas very soon.”

Duncan sent the horses on, and Ingram looked out Sheila’s water-proof and the rugs. The Southern sky certainly looked ominous. There was a strange intensity of color in the dark landscape, from the deep purple of the Barvas hills, coming forward to the deep green of the pasture-land around them, and the rich reds and browns of the heather and the peat-cuttings. At one point of the clouded and hurrying sky, however, there was a soft and vaporous line of yellow in the gray; and under that, miles away in the West, a great dash of silver light struck upon the sea, and glowed there so that the eye could scarcely bear it. Was it the damp that brought the perfumes of the moorlands so distinctly toward them – the bog-myrtle, the water-mint and the wild thyme? There were no birds to be heard. The crimson masses of heather on the gray rocks seemed to have grown richer and deeper in color, and the Barvas hills had become large and weird in the gloom.

“Are you afraid of thunder!” said Lavender to Sheila.

“No,” said the girl, looking frankly toward him with her glad eyes, as though he had pleased her by asking that not very striking question. And then she looked around at the sea and the sky in the South, and said quietly: “But there will be no thunder; it is too much wind.”

Ingram, with a smile which he could scarcely conceal, hereupon remarked, “You’re sorry, Lavender, I know. Wouldn’t you like to shelter somebody in danger, or attempt a rescue, or do something heroic?”

“And Mr. Lavender would do that if there was any need,” said the girl, bravely, “and then it would be nothing to laugh at.”

“Sheila, you bad girl! how dare you talk like that to me?” said Ingram; and he put his arm within hers and said he would tell her a story.

But this race to escape the storm was needless, for they were just getting within sight of Barvas when a surprising change came over the dark and thunderous afternoon. The hurrying masses of cloud in the West parted for a little space, and there was a sudden and fitful glimmer of a stormy blue sky. Then a strange soft yellow and vaporous light shone across to the Barvas hills and touched up palely the great slopes, rendering them distant, ethereal and cloud-like. Then a shaft or two of wild light flashed down upon the landscape beside them. The cattle shone red in the brilliant green pastures. The gray rocks glowed in their setting of moss. The stream going by Barvas Inn was a streak of gold in its sandy bed. And then the sky above them broke into great billows of cloud – tempestuous and rounded masses of golden vapor that burned with the wild glare of the sunset. The clear spaces in the sky widened, and from time to time the wind sent ragged bits of yellow cloud across the shining blue. All the world seemed to be on fire, and the very smoke of it, the majestic masses of vapor that rolled by overhead, burned with a bewildering glare. Then, as the wind still blew hard, and kept veering around to the Northwest, the fiercely-lit clouds were driven over one by one, leaving a pale and serene sky to look down on the sinking sun and the sea. The Atlantic caught the yellow glow on its tumbling waves, and a deeper color stole across the slopes and peaks of the Barvas hills. Whither had gone the storm? There were still some banks of clouds away up in the Northeast, and in the clear green of the evening sky they had their distant grays and purples faintly tinged with rose.

“And so you are anxious and frightened, and a little pleased?” said Ingram to Sheila that evening, after he had frankly told her what he knew, and invited her further confidence. “That is all I can gather from you, but it is enough. Now you can leave the rest to me.”

“To you?” said the girl, with a blush of pleasure and surprise.

“Yes. I like new experiences. I am going to become an intermeddler now. I am going to arrange this affair, and become the negotiator between all the parties; and then, when I have secured the happiness of the whole of you, you will all set upon me and beat me with sticks, and thrust me out of your houses.”

“I do not think,” said Sheila, looking down, “that you need have much fear of that, Mr. Ingram.”

“Is the world going to alter because of me?”

“I would rather not have you try to do anything that is likely to get you into unhappiness,” she said.

“Oh, but that is absurd. You timid young folks can’t act for yourselves. You want agents and instruments that have got hardened by use. Fancy the condition of our ancestors, you know, before they had the sense to invent steel claws to tear their food in pieces – what could they do with their fingers? I am going to be your knife and fork, Sheila, and you’ll see what I shall carve out for you. All you’ve got to do is to keep your spirits up, and believe that nothing dreadful is going to take place merely because some day you will be asked to marry. You let things take their ordinary course. Keep your spirits up – don’t neglect your music or your dinner or your poor people down in Borvapost – and you’ll see it will all come right enough. In a year or two, or less than that, you will marry contentedly and happily, and your papa will drink a good glass of whisky at the wedding and make jokes about it, and everything will be as right as the mail. That’s my advice; see you attend to it.”

“You are very kind to me,” said the girl, in a low voice.

“But if you begin to cry, Sheila, then I throw up my duties. Do you hear? Now look: there goes Mr. Lavender down to the boat with a bundle of rugs, and I suppose you mean me to imperil my precious life by sailing about these rocky channels in the moonlight? Come along down to the shore; and mind you please your papa by singing ‘Love in thine eyes’ with Mr. Lavender, and if you would add to that ‘The Minute Gun at Sea,’ why, you know, I may as well have my little rewards for intermeddling now, as I shall have to suffer afterward.”

“Not through me,” said Sheila, in rather an uncertain voice; and then they went down to the Maighdean-mhara.

PART IV

CHAPTER VIII.
“O TERQUE QUATERQUE BEATE!”

CONSIDER what a task this unhappy man Ingram had voluntarily undertaken! Here were two young people presumably in love. One of them was laid under suspicion by several previous love affairs, though none of these, doubtless, had been so serious as the present. The other scarcely knew her own mind, or, perhaps, was afraid to question herself too closely, lest all the conflict between duty and inclination, with its fears and anxieties and troubles, should be too suddenly revealed. Moreover, this girl was the only daughter of a solitary and irascible old gentleman living in a remote island; and Ingram had not only undertaken that the love affairs of the young folks should come all right – thus assuming a responsibility which might have appalled the bravest – but was also expected to inform the King of Borva that his daughter was about to be taken away from him.

Of course, if Sheila had been a properly brought up young lady, nothing of this sort would have been necessary. We all know what the properly brought up young lady does under such circumstances. She goes straight to her papa and mamma and says, “My dear papa and mamma, I have been taught by my various instructors that I ought to have no secrets from my dear parents; and I therefore hasten to lay aside any little shyness or modesty or doubt of my own wishes I might feel, for the purpose of explaining to you the extent to which I have become a victim to the tender passion, and of soliciting your advice. I also place before you these letters I have received from the gentleman in question: probably they were sent in confidence to me, but I must banish any scruples that do not coincide with my duty to you. I may say that I respect, and even admire Mr. So-and-So; and I should be unworthy of the care bestowed upon my education by my dear parents, if I were altogether insensible to the advantages of his worldly position. But beyond this point I am at a loss to define my sentiments; and so I ask you, my dear papa and mamma, for permission to study the question for some little time longer, when I may be able to furnish you with a more accurate report of my feelings. At the same time, if the interest I have in this young man is likely to conflict with the duty I owe to my dear parents, I ask to be informed of the fact; and I shall then teach myself to guard against the approach of that insidious passion which might make me indifferent to the higher calls and interests of life.”

Happy the man who marries such a woman! No agonizing quarrels and delirious reconciliations, no piteous entreaties, and fits of remorse, and impetuous self-sacrifices await him, but a beautiful, methodical, placid life, as calm and accurate, and steadily progressive as the multiplication table. His household will be a miracle of perfect arrangement. The relations between the members of it will be as strictly defined as the pattern of the paper on the walls. And how can a quarrel arise when a dissecter of the emotions is close at hand to say where the divergence of opinion or interest began. And how can a fit of jealousy be provoked in the case of a person who will split up her affections into fifteen parts, give ten-fifteenths to her children, three-fifteenths to her parents, and the remainder to her husband? Should there be any dismal fractions going about, friends and acquaintances may come in for them.

But how was Sheila to go to her father and explain to him what she could not explain to herself? She had never dreamed of marriage. She had never thought of having to leave Borva and her father’s house. But she had some vague feeling that in the future lay many terrible possibilities that she did not as yet dare to look at – until, at least, she was more satisfied as to the present. And how could she go to her father with such a chaos of unformed wishes and fears to place before him? That such a duty should have devolved upon Ingram was certainly odd enough, but it was not her doing. His knowledge of the position of these young people was not derived from her. But, having got it, he had himself asked her to leave the whole affair in his hands, with that kindness and generosity which had more than once filled her heart with an unspeakable gratitude toward him.

“Well, you are a good fellow!” said Lavender to him, when he heard of this decision.

“Bah!” said the other with a shrug of his shoulders, “I mean to amuse myself. I shall move you about like pieces on a chess-board, and have a pretty game with you. How to checkmate the king with a knight and a princess in any number of moves you like – that is the problem; and my princess has a strong power over the king where she is just now.”

“It’s an uncommonly awkward business, you know, Ingram,” said Lavender, ruefully.

“Well, it is. Old Mackenzie is a tough old fellow to deal with, and you’ll do no good by making a fight of it. Wait! Difficulties don’t look so formidable when you take them one by one as they turn up. If you really love the girl, and mean to take your chance of getting her, and if she cares enough for you to sacrifice a good deal for your sake, there is nothing to fear.”

“I can answer for myself, anyway,” said Lavender, in a tone of voice that Ingram rather liked; the young man did not always speak with the same quietness, thoughtfulness, and modesty.

And how naturally and easily it came about, after all! They were back again at Borva. They had driven around and about Lewis, and had finished up with Stornoway; and, now that they had got back to the island in Loch Roag, the quaint little drawing-room had, even to Lavender, a homely and friendly look. The big stuffed fishes and the sponge shells were old acquaintances; and he went to hunt up Sheila’s music just as if he had known that dusky corner for years.

“Yes, yes,” called Mackenzie, “it iss the English songs we will try now.”

He had a notion that he was himself rather a good hand at a part song – just as Sheila had innocently taught him to believe that he was a brilliant whist player when he had mastered the art of returning his partner’s lead – but fortunately at this moment he was engaged with a long pipe and a big tumbler of hot whisky and water. Ingram was similarly employed, lying back in a cane-bottomed easy-chair, and placidly watching the smoke ascending to the roof. Sometimes he cast an eye to the young folks at the other end of the room. They formed a pretty sight, he thought. Lavender was a good-looking fellow enough, and there was something pleasing in the quiet and assiduous fashion in which he waited upon Sheila, and in the almost timid way in which he spoke to her. Sheila herself sat at the piano, clad all in slate-gray silk, with a narrow band of scarlet velvet around her neck; and it was only by a chance turning of the head that Ingram caught the tender and handsome profile, broken only by the onward sweep of the long eyelashes.

 
“Love in thine eyes for ever plays,”
 

Sheila sang, with her father keeping time by patting his forefinger on the table.

 
“He in thy snowy bosom strays,”
 

sang Lavender; and then the two voices joined together:

 
“He makes thy rosy lips his care,
And walks the mazes of thy hair.”
 

Or were there not three voices? Surely, from the back part of the room the musicians could hear a wandering bass come in from time to time, especially at such portions as “Ah, he never – ah, he never touched thy heart!” which old Mackenzie considered very touching. But there was something quaint and friendly and pleasant in the pathos of those English songs, which made them far more acceptable to him than Sheila’s wild and melancholy legends of the sea. He sang “Ah, he never, never touched thy heart!” with an outward expression of grief, but with much inward satisfaction. Was it the quaint phraseology of the old duets that awoke in him some faint ambition after histrionic effect? At all events, Sheila proceeded to another of his favorites, “All’s Well,” and here, amid the brisk music, the old man had an excellent opportunity of striking in at random

 
The careful watch patrols the deck
To guard the ship from foes or wreck.
 

These two lines he had absolutely mastered, and always sang them, whatever might be the key he happened to light on, with great vigor. He soon went to the length of improvising a part for himself in the closing passages, and laid down his pipe altogether as he sang —

 
What cheer? Brother, quickly tell!
Above! Below! Good-night! All, all’s well!
 

From that point, however, Sheila and her companion wandered away into fields of melody whither the King of Borva could not follow them; so he was content to resume his pipe and listen placidly to the pretty airs. He caught but bits and fragments of phrases and sentiments, but they evidently were comfortable, merry, good-natured songs for the young folks to sing. There was a good deal of love-making, and rosy morns appearing, and merry zephyrs, and such odd things, which, sung briskly and gladly by two young and fresh voices, rather drew the hearts of contemplative listeners to the musicians.

“They sing very well, whatever,” said Mackenzie with a critical air to Ingram, when the young people were so busily engaged with their own affairs as apparently to forget the presence of the others. “Oh yes, they sing very well whatever; and what should the young folks sing about but making love and courting, and all that?”

“Natural enough,” said Ingram, looking rather wistfully at the two at the other end of the room. “I suppose Sheila will have a sweetheart some day?”

“Oh, yes, Sheila will hef a sweetheart some day,” said her father, good-humoredly. “Sheila is a good-looking girl; she will hef a sweetheart some day.”

“She will be marrying, too, I suppose,” said Ingram cautiously.

“Oh, yes, she will marry – Sheila will marry; what will be the life of a young girl if she does not marry?”

At this moment, as Ingram afterward described it, a sort of “flash of inspiration” darted in upon him, and he resolved there and then to brave the wrath of the old king, and place all the conspiracy before him, if only the music kept loud enough to prevent his being overheard.

“It will be hard on you to part with Sheila when she marries,” said Ingram, scarcely daring to look up.

“Oh, ay, it will be that,” said Mackenzie, cheerfully enough. “But it iss every one will hef to do that, and no great harm comes of it. Oh, no, it will not be much whatever; and Sheila, she will be very glad in a little while after, and it will be enough for me to see that she is ferry contented and happy. The young folk must marry, you will see; and what is the use of marrying if it is not when they are young? But Sheila, she will think of none of these things. It was young Mr. MacIntyre of Sutherland – you hef seen him last year in Stornoway; he has three thousand acres of a deer forest in Sutherland – and he will be ferry glad to marry my Sheila. But I will say to him, ‘It is not for me to say yes or no to you, Mr. MacIntyre: it is Sheila herself will tell you that.’ But he was afraid to speak to her; and Sheila herself will know nothing of why he came twice to Borva the last year.”

“It is very good of you to leave Sheila quite unbiased in her choice,” said Ingram: “many fathers would have been sorely tempted by that deer forest.”

Old Mackenzie laughed a loud laugh of derision that fortunately did not stop Lavender’s execution of “I would that my love would silently.”

“What the teffle,” said Mackenzie, “hef I to want a deer forest for my Sheila? Sheila is no fisherman’s lass. She has plenty for herself, and she will marry just the young man she wants to marry, and no other one; that is what she will do, by Kott!”

All this was most hopeful. If Mackenzie had himself been advocating Lavender’s suit, could he have said more? But, notwithstanding all these frank and generous promises, dealing with a future which the old man considered as indefinitely remote, Ingram was still afraid of the announcement he was about to make.

“Sheila is fortunately situated,” he said, “in having a father who thinks only of her happiness. But I suppose she has never yet shown a preference for any one?”

“Not for any one but yourself,” said her father, with a laugh.

And Ingram laughed, too, but in an embarrassed way, and his sallow face grew darker with a blush. Was there not something painful in the unintentional implication that of course Ingram could not be considered a possible lover of Sheila’s, and that the girl herself was so well aware of it that she could openly testify to her regard for him?

“And it would be a good thing for Sheila,” continued her father, more gravely, “if there was any young man about the Lewis that she would tek a liking to; for it will be some day I can no more look after her, and it would be bad for her to be left alone all by herself in the island.”

“And you don’t think you see before you now some one who might take on him the charge of Sheila’s future?” said Ingram, looking toward Lavender.

“The English gentleman?” said Mackenzie, with a smile. “No, that anyway is not possible.”

“I fancy it is more than possible,” said Ingram, resolved to go straight at it. “I know for a fact that he would like to marry your daughter, and I think that Sheila, without knowing it herself almost, is well inclined toward him.”

The old man started up from his chair: “Eh? what! my Sheila?”

“Yes, papa,” said the girl, turning around at once.

She caught sight of a strange look on his face, and in an instant was by his side; “Papa, what is the matter with you?”

“Nothing, Sheila, nothing,” he said, impatiently. “I am a little tired of the music, that is all. But go on with the music. Go back to the piano, Sheila, and go on with the music, and Mr. Ingram and me, we will go outside for a little while.”

Mackenzie walked out of the room, and said aloud in the hall, “Ay, are you coming, Mr. Ingram? It iss a fine night, this night, and the wind is in a very good way for the weather.”

And then, as he went out to the front, he hummed aloud, so that Sheila should hear:

 
Who goes there? Stranger, quickly tell!
A friend! The word? Good-night! All’s well!
All’s well! Good-night! All’s well!
 

Ingram followed the old man outside with a somewhat guilty conscience suggesting odd things to him. Would it not be possible now to shut one’s ears for the next half hour? Angry words were only little perturbations in the air. If you shut your ears till they were all over, what harm could be done? All the big facts of life would remain the same. The sea, the sky, the hills, the human beings around you, even your desire of sleep for the night, and your wholesome longing for breakfast in the morning, would all remain, and the angry words would have passed away. But perhaps it was a proper punishment that he should now go out and bear all the wrath of this fierce old gentleman, whose daughter he had conspired to carry off. Mackenzie was walking up and down the path outside, in the cool and silent night. There was not much moon now, but a clear and lambent twilight showed all the familiar features of Loch Roag and the Southern hills, and down there in the bay you could vaguely make out the Maighdean-mharra rocking in the tiny waves that washed in on the white shore. Ingram had never looked on this pretty picture with a less feeling of delight!

“Well, you see, Mr. Mackenzie,” he was beginning, “you must make this excuse for him – ”

But Mackenzie put aside Lavender at once. It was all about Sheila that he wanted to know. There was no anger in his words; only a great anxiety and sometimes an extraordinary and pathetic effort to take a philosophical view of the situation. What had Sheila said? Was Sheila deeply interested in the young man? Would it please Sheila if he was to go in-doors and give at once his free consent to her marrying this Mr. Lavender?

“Oh, you must not think,” said Mackenzie, with a certain loftiness of air, even amidst his great perturbation and anxiety – “you must not think I hef not foreseen all this. It wass some day or other Sheila will be sure to marry; and although I did not expect – no, I did not expect that– that she would marry a stranger and an Englishman, if it will please her, that is enough. You cannot tell a young lass the one she should marry; it iss all a chance the one she likes, and if she does not marry him it is better she will not marry at all. Oh, yes, I know that ferry well. And I hef known there wass a time coming when I would give away my Sheila to some young man; and there iss no use complaining of it. But you hef not told me much about this young man, or I hef forgotten; it is the same thing whatever. He has not much money, you said – he is waiting for some money. Well, this is what I will do, I will give him all my money if he will come and live in the Lewis.”

All the philosophy he had been mustering up fell away from that last sentence. It was like the cry of a drowning man who sees the last lifeboat set out for shore, leaving him to his fate. And Ingram had not a word to say in reply to that piteous entreaty.

“I do not ask him to stop in Borva; no, it iss a small place for one that hass lived in a town. But the Lewis, that is quite different; and there iss very good houses in Stornoway.”

“But, surely, sir,” said Ingram, “you need not consider all this just yet. I am sure neither of them has thought any such thing.”

“No,” said Mackenzie, recovering himself, “perhaps not. But we hef our duties to look at the future of young folks. And you will say that Mr. Lavender hass only expectations of money?”

“Well, the expectation is almost a certainty. His aunt, I have told you, is a very rich old lady, who has no other near relations, and she is extremely fond of him, and would do anything for him. I am sure the allowance he has now is greatly in excels of what she spends on herself.”

“But they might quarrel, you know – they might quarrel. You hef always to look to the future; they might quarrel and what will he do then?”

“Why, you don’t suppose he couldn’t support himself if the worst were to come to the worst? He is an amazingly clever fellow – ”

“Ah, that is very good,” said Mackenzie in a cautious sort of way, “but has he ever made any money?”

“Oh, I fancy not – nothing to speak of. He has sold some pictures, but I think he has given more away.”

“Then it iss not easy, tek my word for it, Mr. Ingram, to begin a new trade when you are twenty-five years of age, and the people who will tek your pictures for nothing, will they pay for them if you wanted the money?”

It was obviously the old man’s eager wish to prove to himself that, somehow or other, Lavender might come to have no money, and be made dependent on his father-in-law. So far, indeed, from sharing the sentiments ordinarily attributed to that important relative, he would have welcomed with a heartfelt joy the information that the man who, as he expected, was about to marry his daughter, was absolutely penniless. Not even all the attractions of that deer forest in Sutherlandshire – particularly fascinating as they must have been to a man of his education and surroundings – had been able to lead the old King of Borva even into hinting to his daughter that the owner of that property would like to marry her. Sheila was to choose for herself. She was not like a fisherman’s lass, bound to consider ways and means. And now that she had chosen, or at least indicated the possibility of her doing so, her father’s chief desire was that his future son-in-law should come and take and enjoy his money, so only that Sheila might not be carried away from him forever.

“Well, I will see about it,” said Mackenzie, with an affectation of cheerful and practical shrewdness. “Oh, yes, I will see about it when Sheila has made up her mind. He is a very good young man, whatever – ”

“He is the best-hearted fellow I know,” said Ingram, warmly. “I don’t think Sheila has much to fear if she marries him. If you had known him as long as I have, you would know how considerate he is to everybody about him, how generous he is, how good-natured and cheerful, and so forth; in short, he is a thorough good fellow, and that’s what I have to say about him.”

“It iss well for him he will hef such a champion,” said Mackenzie, with a smile; “there is not many Sheila will pay attention to as she does to you.”

They went indoors again, Ingram scarcely knowing how he had got so easily through the ordeal, but very glad it was over.

Sheila was still at the piano, and on their entering she said, “Papa, here is a song you must learn to sing with me.”

“And what iss it, Sheila?” he said, going over to her.

“ ‘Time has not thinned my flowing hair.’ ”

He put his hand on her head and said, “I hope it will be a long time before he will thin your hair, Sheila.”

The girl looked up surprised. Scotch folks are, as a rule, somewhat reticent in their display of affection, and it was not often that her father talked to her in that way. What was there in his face that made her glance instinctively toward Ingram. Somehow or other her hand sought her father’s hand, and she rose and went away from the piano, with her head bent down and tears beginning to tell in her eyes.

“Yes, that is a capital song,” said Ingram, loudly. “Sing ‘The Arethusa,’ Lavender – ‘Said the saucy Arethusa.’ ”

Lavender, knowing what had taken place, and not daring to follow with his eyes Sheila and her father, who had gone to the other end of the room, sang the song. Never was a gallant and devil-may-care sea-song sung so hopelessly without spirit. But the piano made a noise, and the verses took up time. When he had finished he almost feared to turn around, and yet there was nothing dreadful in the picture that presented itself. Sheila was sitting on her father’s knee, with her head buried in his bosom, while he was patting her head and talking in a low voice to her. The King of Borva did not look particularly fierce.

“Yes, it iss a teffle of a good song,” he said, suddenly. “Now get up, Sheila, and go and tell Mairi we will have a bit of bread and cheese before going to bed. And there will be a little hot water wanted in the other room, for this room it iss too full of the smoke.”

Sheila, as she went out of the room, had her head cast down, and, perhaps, an extra tinge of color in her young and pretty face. But surely, Lavender thought to himself as he watched her anxiously, she did not look grieved. As for her father, what should he do now? Turn suddenly around and beg Mackenzie’s pardon, and throw himself on his generosity? When he did, with much inward trembling, venture to approach the old man, he found no such explanation possible. The King of Borva was in one of his grandest moods – dignified, courteous, cautious, and yet inclined to treat everybody and everything with a sort of lofty good humor. He spoke to Lavender in the most friendly way, but it was about the singular and startling fact that modern research had proved many of the Roman legends to be utterly untrustworthy. Mr. Mackenzie observed that the man was wanting in proper courage who feared to accept the results of such inquiries. It was better that we should know the truth, and then the kings who had really made Rome great might emerge from the fog of tradition in their proper shape. There was something quite sympathetic in the way he talked of those ill-treated sovereigns, whom the vulgar mind had clothed in mist.