CHAPTER XXXIV
FRIENDSHIP
Henry owed his life to me!
I cannot tell with what pride I continually repeated these words:
"I have saved Henry's life."
How I blessed the fortunate chance that permitted me to prove to Falmouth that my friendship was warm and true.
Until then, though I was entirely absorbed in my affection for him, I felt that there was wanting some great sacrifice, which would be a solemn consecration of my devotedness.
If my act had any value in my own eyes, it was because I should stand higher in his. It showed me that I was capable of a generous resolution, and reassured me on the firmness of my attachment to Falmouth.
Now, with a nature like mine, to believe in myself was to believe in him; to think of myself as a true, warm, and devoted friend, was to believe myself capable of inspiring true, ardent, and devoted friendship.
I felt that intrepid confidence of the soldier who, being perfectly sure of his conduct under fire, waits impatiently and securely for another occasion to show his courage. The reaction of this self-reliance was so great that it influenced even my former sentiments.
Proud of my conduct towards Falmouth, I understood that Hélène and Marguerite had loved me for qualities they saw in me, and which I had never discovered until now. For the first time I knew real happiness. I at last was able to understand all the devotion these two noble beings had bestowed on me.
An hour after the doctor left me, the door of my chamber opened, and I saw Falmouth, who was carried in by two of his servants.
His armchair was scarcely at my bedside, before Henry threw himself in my arms.
In this mute embrace, his head was leaning on my shoulder, and I could feel his tears and his trembling hands; he was only able to say these words: "Arthur,—Arthur,—my friend, my friend!"
Although this was so long ago, and black care has dimmed the radiance of that happy day, nothing has ever wiped out the remembrance of it, which is still vivid enough to quicken my heart's pulses and thrill me with delight.
It would be impossible to tell with what delicacy and effusion Falmouth expressed his gratitude. Words can never describe his accent, his look, nor his voice.
The head winds lasted for several days longer, and prevented our reaching Malta as soon as we had hoped.
Lord Falmouth's wound was healing rapidly, but mine was making very slow progress towards improvement.
Henry, in the meantime, tended me with the most affectionate solicitude.
With what sad anxiety would he watch the doctor's face, when my wound was dressed every morning! How many eager questions he would ask as to the probable time of my recovery! How much impatience he showed when the doctor would shorten or prolong the date.
Shall I speak of the many trifling, but charming ways in which he revealed his affectionate thoughtfulness for my comfort, all of which I appreciated and enjoyed?
Falmouth told me the whole story of his life, and I hid nothing from him in relation to mine.
He was twelve years older than I; he spoke eloquently and convincingly. He had seen much of the world, and his words began to have great weight with me, as he spoke with singular authority.
Nothing could be more elevated or liberal than his moral or political convictions.
I was overwhelmed with astonishment and admiration, in thus discovering, every day, some new jewel of exquisite feeling, lofty reason, or deep learning, under the cold and sarcastic exterior that Falmouth usually affected.
What a surprise it was to find, under the sceptic and mocking mask of a Byronic Don Juan, the warm and valiant heart of Schiller's Posa, with its ardent and holy love of humanity, its sincere faith in the good. He had the same generous faith in men, the same splendid plans for the good of humanity.
If Falmouth now appeared to me in this new light, it was because, during our long voyage, we had touched on all these subjects.
Until this period of my life, I had been totally indifferent to all political questions. I now began to feel the vibration of a new chord in my being, as, transported with indignation, Henry told me of the long arguments he, a peer of England, had sustained in Parliament, against the Tory party, which he considered the disgrace of his country.
It was impossible to remain unmoved before such eloquent emotion, such keen regret as Falmouth's. He deplored the futility of his efforts, but most of all his culpable weakness in having abandoned the contest before his party had given up all hope of obtaining a victory.
I enter into all these details because they lead to one of the most painful episodes in my life.
For two days Falmouth appeared to be lost in thought. Several times I besought him to confide the subject of his preoccupation to me. He always answered with a smile, that I was not to worry, as he was working for both of us, and that I should very soon know the result of his ponderings.
In fact, one morning Henry entered my room with a solemn air, gave me a sealed letter, and said, with emotion: "Read this, my friend,—it concerns your future, our future."
Then he pressed my hand and went out.
Here is his letter.
Here are the few simple pages, where Falmouth's noble soul revealed itself in all its greatness.
What was my answer?
Alas! it is the most abominable of my souvenirs.