The Maid of Honour: A Tale of the Dark Days of France. Volume 3 of 3

With fingers still clasped over her eyes Gabrielle lay still, each minute passage in her melancholy life flitting across her brain. She had distinctly heard the brutal fiat of the abbé. Giddiness, delirium, coma, death. Within an hour the symptoms would commence-to last how long? No sign as yet of giddiness. On the contrary, that cold gust from out the grave appeared to have stimulated her mind, quickening its action, magnifying each thought in crystal clearness. It would soon be over. The release for which she had prayed so long and earnestly was close at hand. Her fretted spirit would find peace-she would be freed from the corroding bonds of harsh humanity. Not five and twenty, and the world was beautiful. Now, that she stood on the threshold, on the point of closing the door which may never be re-opened, Gabrielle found herself filled with a strange longing and regret. She knew not that it was the force of young and healthy life that was bubbling up in protest. Hope would not thus be slain. An overwhelming desire to live arose and possessed her being. An idea that was new and draught with horror flooded her mind, and she sat up panting. Her children! Why had she not thought of it before? A reason for welcoming death had been that they would be the better protected by her flitting. But was it indeed so? Had not her mother deserted her in a grievous plight through selfish cowardice? Alarmed for herself she had fled with a pretence that all was well. A fitting guardian for two children, truly. How clear it was-how dreadfully clear! The conspirators would work upon her fears-obtain possession of Victor and Camille. By securing their fortune she had imperilled their lives, for those who could do her to death with such cold barbarity, would stick at nothing when they found themselves foiled by her precautions. She must not die. No, she must live-for their sakes! To stand between them and the fate they had prepared for her. She sprang from the bed, a prey to violent agitation. There was a singing in her ears-her temples throbbed as though they would crack in sunder. She reeled and clung to the curtain. Her throat was parched with thirst. Were these the first symptoms of the fatal draught? No. It was excess of emotion and anxiety that made her giddy. She would live-live-live-in spite of the executioners, and God would help, for her cause was holy!

She was alone. Mademoiselle Brunelle for some reason had left her post. The marquise stole to the door, turned the key, gently shot the bolt into its socket. Then, grasping her long hair she forced it down her throat, inducing by irritation a violent sickness, which relieved her. But how to effect escape? Some one was already rattling the handle without-the deep voice of Algaé was shouting in imperious accents, "Open! Let me in!" Despair gave strength and courage. Gabrielle tore open the casement and got out upon the ledge. Below was a stone-paved courtyard; opposite, the outer wall, with the postern that gave on the pleasaunce. Was it locked? No matter. She wore the key of the new lock upon a bracelet. No time to think. With an agonized cry to Heaven for succour she leapt, but was held up for a moment by two strong hands, while close to hers was the face of Algaé, black and convulsed with fury. Mademoiselle, hearing a noise within, had rushed round by the boudoir, whose door the marquise had forgotten in her haste to lock. And now began a fierce and desperate tussle between the women, which, though neither knew it, was of infinite service to the victim, for it kept off drowsiness. Strong as she was, Algaé could not, cramped and strained, sustain the struggling weight, which escaped from her grasp and fell, while she loudly called for help. The patient was delirious-in madness had flung herself from the window and broken her bones upon the pavement. No. She rolled over and over, and was up again; and Algaé, grinding her teeth, seized one of the sculptured flower-pots of bronze and dashed it down at her. Sure the intended victim must bear a charmed life! She sped across the courtyard, succeeded in unlocking the postern, and emerged upon the garden moat.

"Well!" muttered Algaé, with a philosophic headshake, "she is in a trap, for beyond the moat is a wall she cannot pass, and the gates are closed and guarded. It was stupid of me not to wait, and the abbé will be angry. Yet the fault is his, for he distinctly said 'an hour.'"

Meanwhile, refreshed by the air and movement, the frenzied Gabrielle seemed to have wings upon her feet, as she clenched her hands and kept repeating with laboured breath, "I will live-live-live." Her mind was preternaturally clear-she could see with prophetic vision, and grapple with contingencies. She saw the wall and knew she could not pass it; guessed that the gates were guarded; but remembering a certain night, which seemed a century ago, when she had wickedly attempted suicide, she made with all speed for the end of the moat, at the spot where it joined the river. The wherry was there, swinging loosely and idly on its chain. She leapt into the boat and loosed the knotted links, and, accustomed to use the oars, impelled it across the river. By this happy thought she gained precious time, could take a short cut to Montbazon, and might yet be saved; for her pursuers, deprived of the boat, would have to make a circuit of a mile or more in order to reach the bridge. She would be saved-she knew she would be saved-and then there fell on her a cold and sickening fear. Her limbs were trembling. She was growing giddy; her sight was wavering-the sky looked brown and dark. Was she doomed to sink down and perish when escape was all but certain?

She tottered along the path, and groping on for a few steps with outstretched arms like one struck blind, reeled and fell, moaning. The singing in her ears was deafening-like the howling of a hurricane through some dense forest; but through it she all at once heard something-a voice that was once familiar. Raising with an effort her heavy eyelids, she was aware of a man with a horse's bridle on his arm, who was supporting her and sprinkling water on her face. She was certainly growing blind as well as giddy. The man loomed unnaturally large, and seemed at one instant crushingly close, at another a league away.

Grasping the strands of memory which, crystalline no more, was slipping, slipping, she knitted her brows in a wild effort to remember him.

"As I'm a living sinner, 'tis the marquise," the man said, when he had recovered from his amazement. "Poor soul! In so terrible a plight. Only just in time, it seems."

Jean! Jean Boulot! Gabrielle suddenly remembered, and tightly clutched his hand. "Jean-dear Jean!" she gasped. "Save me! I am poisoned, but I will not die; I must not, cannot die. They are in pursuit-will kill us both. Quick-for love of the dear saints-take me at once to Montbazon!"

Jean pursed his lips, and frowned. "How like the wickedness of aristos!" he muttered. "It is time their evil brood was banished from off the world. Poisoned, you say, madame. What was it?"

"Hemlock," she answered, faintly; "but I have got rid of most of it."

"Hemlock," Jean echoed; "the children hereabouts often eat it, and are saved by tea and charcoal. Courage, madame, all will yet be well. One word more. What of Toinon?"

"She is under lock and key," returned Gabrielle, "but safe, for in the hue and cry for me, her existence will be forgotten."

Sturdy Jean Boulot mounted his horse, and supporting the marquise in front of him, made with all speed by the bridle path for Montbazon.

He was as surprised as shocked, and blamed himself unreasoningly. He of all men should know the depth of enormity of which the noblesse were capable, for was he not always making speeches thereanent for the behoof of less enlightened lieges? Knowing how bad they were, he had abandoned the post of duty, for it was his duty to protect his love and the heiress of the family whose bread he had eaten from childhood. Why, knowing what she must know, had Toinon so long delayed to write to him? By an unlucky circumstance he had been sent on a mission to Tours. Hence, he had not got her letter till after many days; but, having read it, had started off forthwith. And Toinon was locked up by those miscreants! Perhaps they had murdered her as they had attempted to murder her mistress. First he must obey madame, and carry her to Montbazon. That was his plain duty. Then he would raise the peasantry, who were ready and trained to arms, and, if need were, storm the chateau. And woe to all of them if Toinon indeed had perished!

CHAPTER XXVIII.
THE BARON IS ENERGETIC

The wonder of the timorous inmates of Montbazon knew no bounds when they beheld Boulot-once gamekeeper, now formidable and obnoxious deputy of Blois-careering into their courtyard with a fainting woman in his arms; and astonishment was merged in dismay when Madame de Vaux recognzied the Marquise de Gange, who had been stricken down, according to report, by a virulent and malignant malady.

Since, for some time past, the Seigneurie by common consent had dwelt in a condition of siege, it was only owing to the lucky circumstance of its being Angelique's fête-day that Jean found the gate unguarded.

Things having quieted down somewhat-though not for long, as the Seigneurie knew too well, for public opinion was ever on the ebb and flow of mischief-it occurred to old De Vaux that this was the propitious moment to go a hunting. It was on the cards that the noble pastime of the chase might be stopped altogether shortly, and so he seized the opportunity to give a little party in his daughter's honour. Was it not unfeeling, then, to the last degree, that a neighbour who was not invited because she was infectious, should choose this precise moment for a morning call? The gentlemen were away, the ladies were sipping tea, a l'Anglaise, and munching biscuits, discussing the while the all-important topic of dress. Of course they would not demean themselves by donning the ridiculous garments of the Republic. The queen, poor martyr, was sitting in sackcloth and ashes while quaffing the cup of bitterness, and it behoved faithful subjects to don mourning. But then money was so dreadfully tight, and nobody had any mourning; and, besides, the truculent and abominable upstarts who ruled the roast might take umbrage at such eccentricity and be disagreeable; and when everyone's tenure of property and even life, was so precarious, it was as well to wear coats that would turn.

This proposition had been put and unanimously carried, and everyone was getting on as nicely as possible, when, all of a sudden, killjoy, Jean Boulot, dropped from the clouds with his unconscious and fever-stricken burthen.

Too anxious, and too full of contempt for the company to be polite, he strode sternly into the salon, and gently laying the marquise on the sofa, took summary possession of the teapot, while the frightened ladies stared.

"There is charcoal, no doubt, in the kitchen," he said, quietly, "send for some, please, directly."

Charcoal? Was the man crazy? Infectious, too, perhaps. How shocking! But it was not politic to offend one of the rising stars. Madame de Vaux rang the bell for charcoal, and waited for an explanation.

Jean ground a piece of it with a poker, on the hearth, and dribbled the powder into the tea-pot. What devil's broth was he brewing? The man must be very mad. If the gentlemen would only return. Having satisfied himself with regard to the decoction, the deputy, instead of insisting that the baroness should drink it, carefully poured a few drops down the throat of the marquise, and presently she sighed deeply and opened her weary eyes.

"She is saved!" he cried with satisfaction. "Now, ladies, if you can think of anyone except yourselves, complete the work. Ply her with draughts of this, and see that she does not sleep. She has been poisoned by two miscreants; but God has protected the innocent against their villainy."

"Poisoned!" exclaimed Angelique, interested; "we were told it was a fever."

"Villains who murder innocent women can also lie," retorted Jean in scorn. "This lady, I tell you, after undergoing endless outrage at their hands, which is noted above in detail, has been cruelly poisoned by the two half-brothers of her husband. Providence, in its inscrutable wisdom, has chosen me as the humble instrument of rescue-and also of revenge. As there are stars above us, those wretches shall be terribly punished. I go now to execute their sentence."

The habit of leading others had made another man of Jean. He spoke simply, but with a stern native dignity that enforced respect. The ladies looked with awe on his tall retreating figure, about which there were none of the petty airs of courtliness, and never for a moment doubted that he spoke the truth.

This poor, pitiful, dishevelled heap of soiled clothing was not infectious. The Marquise de Gange had been singled out as victim of an appalling tragedy, which, had it been consummated, would have set the whole province aflame with fury. What was he about to do, this formidable deputy? Pray Heaven he would not raise such a tornado about their ears as would bring ruin on an entire class. Given that many of the class had sinned grievously and often, that was no reason for confounding the guiltless with the guilty. The peasantry were so crassly ignorant and so oafishly benighted-so ready in these days to believe the worst-that they might choose to look on old De Vaux as an accomplice of the Lorge people, and wreak vengeance on him and his. It had not been his business to interfere in the private affairs of other persons, and had, moreover, been deliberately misinformed.

His wife, as she turned it all over, grew very much alarmed and gave vent to shrillest jeremiads. What a stroke of ill-luck it was that the baron should have chosen this especial morning to sally forth on a fool's errand, leaving his family to be fooled by fickle Fortune! The baroness felt convinced that there was something dreadful imminent, and there was not a single male upon the premises. Even the tottering old domestics had gone forth to act as piqueurs. If the gentlemen would only return and settle what was to be done; but if they met with success in sport they would not be back till nightfall. Meanwhile, it was evident that the orders of the obnoxious Jean must be obeyed, and that the ladies must succour the marquise.

Hark! What was that? Voices in altercation in the passage, and a screaming of terror-stricken maids.

Hatless, with dress disordered and wild mien, Pharamond and Phebus dashed into the room.

"Where is our darling Gabrielle?" the former cried in agitation, undisguised. "Poor soul! Poor suffering angel! She has gone mad; escaped raging through a window, distraught by the delirium of fever."

Madame de Vaux was speechless from fright. The abbé whom she had been accustomed to see all smiles and compliments, wore the aspect of some malignant demon, as he eagerly scanned the company. His lips were bloodless, his pale face convulsed, while his brother mechanically followed his lead, like one under influence of Mesmer.

Angelique, who was bending with solicitude over Gabrielle, turned on the pair, no whit afraid. "The Marquise de Gange," she said, "has been committed to our custody, and for the present will remain under our care."

"Not so, not so!" replied the abbé, in vehement haste, "We will bear her home to the chateau. It would be unseemly to permit our sorely-stricken relative to be looked on by the curiosity of strangers. The poor soul raves, suffers from distracting delusions. You can see for yourselves that she is mad."

"Mad or sane," returned Angelique, bluntly, "here the marquise stays until my father and the gentlemen return. She is exhausted and unfit to travel."

Prudence! It would not do to offer too obstinate a resistance. Time must be gained by parley that the potion might do its work. Resuming with an effort something of his other self, the abbé bowed and bit his lip and scrutinized the patient.

Why, what was this? The victim exhibited none of the symptoms that were to be expected. Yet the poison must have circulated long ago. Surrounded by ministering women, Gabrielle had recovered consciousness, and lay, clinging for protection to Angelique, gazing with dread upon her butcher. Inert and numb, her limbs, half paralysed, were moved with difficulty; but it was plain that the intellect was clear. Ere now, she should have been foaming in frenzy, or, that phase past, be plunged in the stertorous slumber from which she would wake no more.

Intelligence shone from the haggard eyes of the victim. Had Providence worked a miracle on her behalf? Was she to escape him after all? A vapour as of blood swam before the sight of Pharamond and drenched his brain. With a fierce curse he drew a pistol from his breast, The women shrieked and implored mercy. Angelique, who was nearest to him struck the weapon up and the bullet lodged in the ceiling. In a whirl of frantic unreason he unsheathed his sword, and reckless now of consequences to himself, battled towards the marquise through the group of cowering women. There was that about him which suggested the red-eyed rat at bay that springs at the throat of his tormentor, inflicts what harm he can before he is crushed himself. Pharamond knew he was undone, and cared not, provided he might hack and slash that tender body which never might be his. The brave Angelique closed with him, and her fingers were cut to the bone in the effort to wrest away the sword. At the sight of her daughter bleeding, her aged mother sent up a scream and attacked the abbé with her nails.

A hubbub in the courtyard-a clatter of many hoofs-a confused babble of voices. The hunters had returned in haste, for a rumour was speeding with swift wings, bearing over the land the fiery cross of vengeance-shouting of a tragedy at Lorge, which concerned the White Chatelaine.

A woman's scream of agony-here at quiet Montbazon! What could have happened. M. de Vaux staggered, and dreading he knew not what, made for the salon as fast as his old legs would carry him, while a posse of country gentlemen remained on their horses irresolute. But not for long. Two frantic men with hair untied and streaming, and bloody swords in their hands, dashed from the salon window and endeavoured to escape out of the gate. Though it was hopeless to struggle against overwhelming numbers, they fought with clenched teeth the fight of desperation, but speedily found themselves disarmed, tied roughly back to back.

"Grand Dieu! It must be true then!" exclaimed a booby round-eyed squire, for here was the suave and polished churchman by whose condescensions he had been wont to be flattered, torn by the passions of the beast, soiled with dirt and blood.

The game was up-no doubt of it-but the abbé was not one to bow under adverse fate and play the penitent. How to explain away an onslaught upon women. The situation was awkward, but might even yet be brazened out, if the devil would only help, since, while there is life there is hope.

"She is mad-quite mad-poor suffering soul," he mechanically murmured; "we came to take her home."

Danger past, Madame de Vaux did what many a worthy dame has done before. She sank on a seat and fainted, while Angelique rapidly related the tragical details of the last half-hour.

The baron's brow grew cloudy as he listened. A terrible scandal this, such as in more halcyon days would have caused a violent commotion, but which at a critical moment like the present might start an overwhelming conflagration.

The hunting party had come upon a howling mob armed with such bucolic weapons as were handy, running along the road with incoherent threats. One who lagged behind was stopped, and being questioned, declared that he knew not what had chanced, but stout Jean Boulot was back again and furious, and that was enough for him. Under the circumstances it was prudent to return to Montbazon and resume the state of siege.

M. de Vaux was a gentleman to the backbone, if not endowed with wits, and could in a moment of peril prove as calmly firm and quietly undaunted as the procession of Parisian nobles who were wearing out with steady and unflinching footfall the steps of the guillotine. He recognized the gravity of his position, but accepted it without a murmur, for it never should be said that the last baron of the house of de Vaux had blenched in face of duty. The Marquis de Gange and his villainous brothers had happily been baulked in an attempted crime-that the absent marquis was less guilty than the rest he was not prepared to believe; and if he, the baron, could help it, they should not escape their punishment.

It was unlucky for him and his that the scene should have been transferred to his own tranquil hearth, for no good would accrue to the inhabitants of Montbazon by the sheltering of unsavoury company. Two of the peccant brothers were here, and here they should remain, advienne que pourra, until their unwilling host could hand them to the myrmidons of justice. If it could be prevented, there should be no lynch law at Montbazon. The miscreants had earned their doom, which, doubtless would be breaking on the wheel; and yet, who could tell what would be the lot of persons who were reckoned amongst the gangrened, and who were guilty of such heinous sin?

The mob would learn ere long the facts of the case, and their fury would not be lessened by the discovery that the one member of the hated class whom they all revered for her goodness had been chosen as the intended victim.

There would be a rush to Lorge, which would be found to be an open and empty cage, and after that there would be a scouring of the country in all directions in search of the dastardly criminals. They would be found here at Montbazon; there was no help for it, and the lord of Montbazon would loyally do his best to protect them from mob violence. But Montbazon was not a strong fortress like Lorge, which could afford to smile grimly down on a crowd of excited pigmies. The gates must be closed, and if the mob did come he would explain his just intentions, parley with and endeavour to persuade them.

Cheerfully determined to obey orders, the young men of the hunt were closing the gates when a horseman dashed in at a gallop, and the exhausted beast sank panting on the stones. M. de Vaux looked up and sighed, and again commanded that the doors should be closed and locked.

Here was the missing scoundrel, the marquis himself, as agitated as the other two. Verily the will of Heaven was startlingly clear, for the missing culprit had, of his own free will, delivered himself into the net.

The eyes of Clovis fell on a group in the angle of the courtyard, and, blushing, he hung his head. His brothers, unkempt and bound, none the better for rough usage, tied back to back like common malefactors, while a young seigneur whom all three knew well was mounting guard on them.

"M. de Vaux," he stammered, "things look black, I know, but I implore you not to condemn me in your mind unheard. I swear to you that I did not know of this. I was coming home from an absence due to business, and was as horrified as you could be when I was informed of the terrible story."

"You will all three be broken on the wheel," was the pithy answer of the baron.

The chevalier, with chin sunk upon his breast, saw and heard nothing; his weak brain was in a daze. But the abbé glanced quickly at the marquis and smiled with profound disdain. He had always felt for his elder brother a contempt so deep that it approached near to loathing. Worldly prudence alone had cloaked his feelings, for he knew him to be of the mean sort that, too feeble for independent action, will, while prating virtue, glibly accept the fruit of another's wickedness, or denounce him in case of failure. The aspect of this sorry apologetic craven acted on the abbé's nerves like a dash of refreshing spray. The old gleam glittered for a moment from under half-closed lids. He shook himself, raised his head proudly, and pointing a finger at Clovis, harshly laughed aloud-

"Remember that, unluckily, we are related," he sneered; "and spare me this humiliating spectacle. We have all three played our game and lost, and must pay the stakes with resignation."

"I assure you, Monsieur le Baron, that he lies malignantly," the hapless Clovis began; but his words died away in confusion, for his flesh quivered under the abbé's words and scathing looks as under a whip.

"Believe him not," scoffed Pharamond. "We are guilty of lamentable failure, for which I am honestly ashamed, due in part to the pusillanimity of yonder cur; and failure, as we all know, is the one sin that never may hope for pardon. He knew perfectly well the intended programme, and having given his tacit consent was despatched on a mission, which he apparently has bungled, that we might not be hampered by his cowardice. We failed, as better and stronger men have failed, and I am sorry for the mistake. It would have been shorter and safer to have made away with him as well as his puling wife. Speak, chevalier-you are a drunken sot, but not a craven-is not this the truth?"

Urged by the sharp elbow of his brother, lustily applied, Phebus raised his head and looked dreamily around; then saying simply "Yes; what you say is truth," relapsed into stupid reverie.

The abbé was growing lively, for now, thanks to Clovis's ineptitude, he no longer played the ridiculous role. The marquis hoped to whitewash himself by steady lying at the expense of his more brilliant confederate. That should never be. None but a fool would have deemed such a denouément possible. But for the advent of the new-comer, Pharamond might have stuck to his guns, and have adroitly wriggled out of the meshes of the law, delightfully pure and unsullied, though for a moment stained by calumny; for though the marquise had for some unaccountable reason recovered, there was nothing but her word for the absurd story of the goblet, sword, and pistol. Even had she died no trace of the herb would have been found. Mademoiselle Brunelle and the servants of the chateau would with one accord have sworn-as they aspired to an edifying end and a cosy seat in Heaven-that madame had suffered from a serious complaint, accompanied by delirious hallucination. That she was better now was in the nature of things, due partly to tenderest solicitude on the part of her affectionate family, and an additional proof, if any still were wanting, that the story of the poison was a dream. But Clovis, by his own dastardly and execrable meanness, had cut the ground from under the feet of the suspected trio; for the abbé had been goaded for once to forget himself and his own interests in order, with a pretty display of scornful protest, to inflict revenge upon another. In sober truth, the abbé felt outraged in his best feelings by the move of Clovis.

Pharamond had confessed with easy nonchalance to an attempt of superior wickedness, and was rather flattered than otherwise by the silent horror depicted on the bovine countenances of the Seigneurie. They appeared to gaze, face to face, on the Satanic one, and were abashed by his unexpected propinquity.

It was time the painful scene should end, for nothing could come of it but unworthy recrimination. Two had freely and publicly confessed, the third stood cowering like a beaten hound that dares not even whine. In every curved line of his bent figure there was confession.

The baron observed gravely to the company assembled, "We are responsible, gentlemen, for the guarding of these persons, till they can be safely removed to Blois. For the present, if you please, we will lock them in the dining-hall, as the strongest and safest room."

"By all means," exclaimed the abbé, heartily, "and I hope there will be something on the board. The good baron was always hospitable. Owing to press of business, hem! I had no time for breakfast, and vow I am plaguy hungry."

It was a day of ill-luck and penance for our esteemed churchman, for no single wish of his was to be gratified, even in so small a matter as a meal. The three brothers were pushed with scant ceremony into the one imposing chamber of the chateau, whose walls were tolerably thick and windows placed too high for escape to be possible, and there they were left, gruesomely to contemplate one another, uncomely spectacle enough, for in truth, they looked like boon companions, whose night had been spent in orgies. The abbé was so blythe in the knowledge that his fate was sealed, and that he had in his recklessness given himself as it were with his own foot, the final kick out of the world, that he overflowed with amiability.

To behold Clovis, the selfish and heartless, the superficially plausible scientific humbug, sobbing like a woman, with tears showering through dirty fingers, was a joy and a triumph, for whatever might befall the abbé though only a half brother with no prospect of ever blossoming into a full-blown marquis, he never, no, never, under any stress whatever, could fall so low as this grovelling male Niobe, who had been privileged by Destiny to wear the glittering thing called coronet. Not that that particular covering was in vogue as a fashionable hat just now, but the absurd era of topsyturvydom, would no doubt be smothered shortly by somebody with an uncompromising will and iron fist, and the saturnalia of plebeian folly be suppressed. Then coronets would rise in the market again, and this gibbering thing would come strutting back from exile-a worm on end-with other emigrants, to enjoy again the sweets of life. He would be free and rich, while his brothers bore the brunt. He would possibly speak now and again with reticence of his unfortunately shady family connections, who had tried to commit murder in his absence, and swear with seraphic gaze fixed upon æther, that he was well quit of such surroundings. Ah! It was a satisfaction to think that a sturdy spoke had been placed in the wheel of the heaven-bound chariot, which had brought it down to earth with a thump, as helpless as a hamstrung horse. If the half-brothers were to bear the burthen of their misdeeds, so should the elder one. He should not escape scot-free. "If," swore the abbé to himself, "we are to be broken on the wheel, as de Vaux so genially suggests, the only boon I will crave shall be that Clovis the coward shall suffer first, and that I may be present as eye witness." Such being his somewhat decided views with regard to the head of the family, it was rather odd that he should be so agreeable and frolicsome and, metaphorically, skip around his brother.