Our applicant for the post of secretary entered the street of Lord Ormont’s London house, to present himself to his boyhood’s hero by appointment.

He was to see, perhaps to serve, the great soldier.  Things had come to this; and he thought it singular.  But for the previous introduction to Lady Charlotte, he would have thought it passing wonderful.  He ascribed it to the whirligig.

The young man was not yet of an age to gather knowledge of himself and of life from his present experience of the fact, that passionate devotion to an object strikes a vein through circumstances, as a travelling run of flame darts the seeming haphazard zigzags to catch at the dry of dead wood amid the damp; and when passion has become quiescent in the admirer, there is often the unsubsided first impulsion carrying it on.  He will almost sorely embrace his idol with one or other of the senses.

Weyburn still read the world as it came to him, by bite, marvelling at this and that, after the fashion of most of us.  He had not deserted his adolescent’s hero, or fallen upon analysis of a past season.  But he was now a young man, stoutly and cognizantly on the climb, with a good aim overhead, axed green youth’s enthusiasms a step below his heels:  one of the lovers of life, beautiful to behold, when we spy into them; generally their aspect is an enlivenment, whatever may be the carving of their features.  For the sake of holy unity, this lover of life, whose gaze was to the front in hungry animation, held fast to his young dreams, perceiving a soul of meaning in them, though the fire might have gone out; and he confessed to a past pursuit of delusions.  Young men of this kind will have, for the like reason, a similar rational sentiment on behalf of our world’s historic forward march, while admitting that history has to be taken from far backward if we would gain assurance of man’s advance.  It nerves an admonished ambition.

He was ushered into a London house’s library, looking over a niggard enclosure of gravel and dull grass, against a wall where ivy dribbled.  An armchair was beside the fireplace.  To right and left of it a floreate company of books in high cases paraded shoulder to shoulder, without a gap; grenadiers on the line.  Weyburn read the titles on their scarlet-and-blue facings.  They were approved English classics; honoured veterans, who have emerged from the conflict with contemporary opinion, stamped excellent, or have been pushed by the roar of contemporaneous applauses to wear the leather-and-gilt uniform of our Immortals, until a more qualmish posterity disgorges them.  The books had costly bindings.  Lord Ormont’s treatment of Literature appeared to resemble Lady Charlotte’s, in being reverential and uninquiring.  The books she bought to read were Memoirs of her time by dead men and women once known to her.  These did fatigue duty in cloth or undress.  It was high drill with all of Lord Ormont’s books, and there was not a modern or a minor name among the regiments.  They smelt strongly of the bookseller’s lump lots by order; but if a show soldiery, they were not a sham, like a certain row of venerably-titled backs, that Lady Charlotte, without scruple, left standing to blow an ecclesiastical trumpet of empty contents; any one might have his battle of brains with them, for the twining of an absent key.

The door opened.  Weyburn bowed to his old star in human shape:  a grey head on square shoulders, filling the doorway.  He had seen at Olmer Lady Charlotte’s treasured miniature portrait of her brother; a perfect likeness, she said ­complaining the neat instant of injustice done to the fire of his look.

Fire was low down behind the eyes at present.  They were quick to scan and take summary of their object, as the young man felt while observing for himself.  Height and build of body were such as might be expected in the brother of Lady Charlotte and from the tales of his prowess.  Weyburn had a glance back at Cuper’s boys listening to the tales.

The soldier-lord’s manner was courteously military ­that of an established superior indifferent to the deferential attitude he must needs enact.  His curt nick of the head, for a response to the visitor’s formal salutation, signified the requisite acknowledgment, like a city creditor’s busy stroke of the type-stamp receipt upon payment.

The ceremony over, he pitched a bugle voice to fit the contracted area:  “I hear from Mr. Abner that you have made acquaintance with Olmer.  Good hunting country there.”

“Lady Charlotte kindly gave me a mount, my lord.”

“I knew your father by name ­Colonel Sidney Weyburn.  You lost him at Toulouse.  We were in the Peninsula; I was at Talavera with him.  Bad day for our cavalry.”

“Our officers were young at their work then.”

“They taught the Emperor’s troops to respect a charge of English horse.  It was teaching their fox to set traps for them.”

Lord Ormont indicated a chair.  He stood.

“The French had good cavalry leaders,” Weyburn said, for cover to a continued study of the face,

“Montbrun, yes:  Murat, Lassalle, Bessieres.  Under the Emperor they had.”

“You think them not at home in the saddle, my lord?”

“Frenchmen have nerves; horses are nerves.  They pile excitement too high.  When cool, they’re among the best.  None of them had head for command of all the arms.”

“One might say the same of Seidlitz and Ziethen?”

“Of Ziethen.  Seidlitz had a wider grasp, I suppose.”  He pursed his month, pondering.  “No; and in the Austrian service, too; generals of cavalry are left to whistle for an independent command.  There’s a jealousy of our branch!” The injured warrior frowned and hummed.  He spoke his thought mildly:  “Jealousy of the name of soldier in this country!  Out of the service, is the place to recommend.  I’d have advised a son of mine to train for a jockey rather than enter it.  We deal with that to-morrow, in my papers.  You come to me?  Mr. Abner has arranged the terms?  So I see you at ten in the morning.  I am glad to meet a young man ­Englishman ­who takes an interest in the service.”

Weyburn fancied the hearing of a step; he heard the whispering dress.  It passed him; a lady went to the armchair.  She took her seat, as she had moved, with sedateness, the exchange of a toneless word with my lord.  She was a brune.  He saw that when he rose to do homage.

Lord Ormont resumed:  “Some are born to it, must be soldiers; and in peace they are snubbed by the heads; in war they are abused by the country.  They don’t understand in England how to treat an army; how to make one either!

“The gentleman ­Mr. Weyburn:  Mr. Arthur Abner’s recommendation,” he added hurriedly, with a light wave of his hand and a murmur, that might be the lady’s title; continuing:  “A young man of military tastes should take service abroad.  They’re in earnest about it over there.  Here they play at it; and an army’s shipped to land without commissariat, ambulances, medical stores, and march against the odds, as usual ­if it can march!

“Albuera, my lord?”

“Our men can spurt, for a flick o’ the whip.  They’re expected to be constantly ready for doing prodigies ­to repair the country’s omissions.  All the country cares for is to hope Dick Turpin may get to York.  Our men are good beasts; they give the best in ’em, and drop.  More’s the scandal to a country that has grand material and overtasks it.  A blazing disaster ends the chapter!”

This was talk of an injured veteran.  It did not deepen the hue of his ruddied skin.  He spoke in the tone of matter of fact.  Weyburn had been prepared for something of the sort by his friend, Arthur Abner.  He noted the speaker’s heightened likeness under excitement to Lady Charlotte.  Excitement came at an early call of their voices to both; and both had handsome, open features, bluntly cut, nothing of aquiline or the supercilious; eyes bluish-grey, in arched recesses, horny between the thick lids, lively to shoot their meaning when the trap-mouth was active; effectively expressing promptitute for combat, pleasure in attack, wrestle, tag, whatever pertained to strife; an absolute sense of their right.

As there was a third person present at this dissuasion of military topics, the silence of the lady drew Weyburn to consult her opinion in her look.

It was on him.  Strange are the woman’s eyes which can unoffendingly assume the privilege to dwell on such a living object as a man without become gateways for his return look, and can seem in pursuit of thoughts while they enfold.  They were large dark eyes, eyes of southern night.  They sped no shot; they rolled forth an envelopment.  A child among toys, caught to think of other toys, may gaze in that way.  But these were a woman’s eyes.

He gave Lord Ormont his whole face, as an auditor should.  He was interested besides, as he told a ruffled conscience.  He fell upon the study of his old hero determinedly.

The pain of a memory waking under pillows, unable to do more than strain for breath, distracted his attention.  There was a memory:  that was all he knew.  Or else he would have lashed himself for hanging on the beautiful eyes of a woman.  To be seeing and hearing his old hero was wonder enough.

Recollections of Lady Charlotte’s plain hints regarding the lady present resolved to the gross retort, that her eyes were beautiful.  And he knew them ­there lay the strangeness.  They were known beautiful eyes, in a foreign land of night and mist.

Lord Ormont was discoursing with racy eloquence of our hold on India:  his views in which respect were those of Cuper’s boys.  Weyburn ventured a dot-running description of the famous ride, and out flew an English soldier’s grievance.  But was not the unjustly-treated great soldier well rewarded, whatever the snubs and the bitterness, with these large dark eyes in his house, for his own?  Eyes like these are the beginning of a young man’s world; they nerve, inspire, arm him, colour his life; he would labour, fight, die for them.  It seemed to Weyburn a blessedness even to behold them.  So it had been with him at the early stage; and his heart went swifter, memory fetched a breath.  Memory quivered eyelids, when the thought returned ­of his having known eyes as lustrous.  First lights of his world, they had more volume, warmth, mystery ­were sweeter.  Still, these in the room were sisters to them.  They quickened throbs; they seemed a throb of the heart made visible.

That was their endowment of light and lustre simply, and the mystical curve of the lids.  For so they could look only because the heart was disengaged from them.  They were but heavenly orbs.

The lady’s elbow was on an arm of her chair, her forefinger at her left temple.  Her mind was away, one might guess; she could hardly be interested in talk of soldiering and of foreign army systems, jealous English authorities and officials, games, field-sports.  She had personal matters to think of.

Adieu until to-morrow to the homes she inhabited!  The street was a banishment and a relief when Weyburn’s first interview with Lord Ormont was over.

He rejoiced to tell his previous anticipations that he had not been disappointed; and he bade hero-worshippers expect no gilded figure.  We gather heroes as we go, if we are among the growing:  our constancy is shown in the not discarding of our old ones.  He held to his earlier hero, though he had seen him, and though he could fancy he saw round him.

Another, too, had been a hero-lover.  How did that lady of night’s eyes come to fall into her subjection?

He put no question as to the name she bore; it hung in a black suspense ­vividly at its blackest illuminated her possessor.  A man is a hero to some effect who wins a woman like this; and, if his glory bespells her, so that she flings all to the winds for him, burns the world; if, for solely the desperate rapture of belonging to him, she consents of her free will to be one of the nameless and discoloured, he shines in a way to make the marrow of men thrill with a burning envy.  For that must be the idolatrous devotion desired by them all.

Weyburn struck down upon his man’s nature ­the bad in us, when beauty of woman is viewed; or say, the old original revolutionary, best kept untouched; for a touch or a meditative pause above him, fetches him up to roam the civilized world devouringly and lawlessly.  It is the special peril of the young lover of life, that an inflammability to beauty in women is in a breath intense with him.  He is, in truth, a thinly-sealed volcano of our imperishable ancient father; and has it in him to be the multitudinously-amorous of the mythologic Jove.  Give him head, he can be civilization’s devil.  Is she fair and under a shade? ­then is she doubly fair.  The shadow about her secretes mystery, just as the forest breeds romance:  and mystery is a measureless realm.  If we conceive it, we have a mysterious claim on her who is the heart of it.

He marched on that road to the music of sonorous brass for some drunken minutes.

The question came, What of the man who takes advantage of her self-sacrifice?

It soon righted him, and he did Lord Ormont justice, and argued the case against Lady Charlotte’s naked hints.

This dark-eyed heroine’s bearing was assured, beyond an air of dependency.  Her deliberate short nod to him at his leave-taking, and the toneless few words she threw to my lord, signified sufficiently that she did not stand defying the world or dreading it.

She had by miracle the eyes which had once charmed him ­could again ­would always charm.  She reminded him of Aminta Farrell’s very eyes under the couchant-dove brows ­something of her mouth, the dimple running from a corner.  She had, as Aminta had, the self-collected and self-cancelled look, a realm in a look, that was neither depth nor fervour, nor a bestowal, nor an allurement; nor was it an exposure, though there seemed no reserve.  One would be near the meaning in declaring it to bewilder men with the riddle of openhandedness.  We read it ­all may read it ­as we read inexplicable plain life; in which let us have a confiding mind, despite the blows at our heart, and some understanding will enter us.

He shut the door upon picture and speculations, returning to them by another door.  The lady had not Aminta’s freshness:  she might be taken for an elder sister of Aminta.  But Weyburn wanted to have her position defined before he set her beside Aminta.  He writhed under Lady Charlotte’s tolerating scorn of “the young woman.”  It roused an uneasy sentiment of semi-hostility in the direction of my lord; and he had no personal complaint to make.

Lord Ormont was cordial on the day of the secretary’s installation; as if ­if one might dare to guess it ­some one had helped him to a friendly judgement.

The lady of Aminta’s eyes was absent at the luncheon table.  She came into the room a step, to speak to Lord Ormont, dressed for a drive to pay a visit.

The secretary was unnoticed.

Lord Ormont put inquiries to him at table, for the why of his having avoided the profession of arms; and apparently considered that the secretary had made a mistake, and that he would have committed a greater error in becoming a soldier ­“in this country.”  A man with a grievance is illogical under his burden.  He mentioned the name “Lady Ormont” distinctly during some remarks on travel.  Lady Ormont preferred the Continent.

Two days later she came to the armchair, as before, met Weyburn’s eyes when he raised them; gave him no home in hers ­not a temporary shelter from the pelting of interrogations.  She hardly spoke.  Why did she come?

But how was it that he was drawn to think of her?  Absent or present, she was round him, like the hills of a valley.  She was round his thoughts ­caged them; however high, however far they flew, they were conscious of her.

She took her place at the midday meal.  She had Aminta’s voice in some tones; a mellower than Aminta’s ­the voice of one of Aminta’s family.  She had the trick of Aminta’s upper lip in speaking.  Her look on him was foreign; a civil smile as they conversed.  She was very much at home with my lord, whom she rallied for his addiction to his Club at a particular hour of the afternoon.  She conversed readily.  She reminded him, incidentally that her aunt would arrive early next day.  He informed her, some time after, of an engagement “to tiffin with a brother officer,” and she nodded.

They drove away together while the secretary was at his labour of sorting the heap of autobiographical scraps in a worn dispatch-box, pen and pencil jottings tossed to swell the mess when they had relieved an angry reminiscence.  He noticed, heedlessly at the moment, feminine handwriting on some few clear sheets among them.

Next day he was alone in the library.  He sat before the box, opened it and searched, merely to quiet his annoyance for having left those sheets of the fair amanuensis unexamined.  They were not discoverable.  They had gone.

He stood up at the stir of the door.  It was she, and she acknowledged his bow; she took her steps to her chair.

He was informed that Lord Ormont had an engagement, and he remarked, “I can do the work very well.”  She sat quite silent.

He read first lines of the scraps, laid them in various places, as in a preparation for conjurer’s tricks at cards; refraining from a glance, lest he should disconcert the eyes he felt to be on him fitfully.

At last she spoke, and he knew Aminta in his hearing and sight.

“Is Emile Grenat still anglomane?”

An instant before her voice was heard he had been persuading himself that the points of unlikeness between his young Aminta and this tall and stately lady of the proud reserve in her bearing flouted the resemblance.