CHAPTERCXXVI.FURTHER ENTANGLEMENTS.Lord Ethalwood, at this particular period of his career, stood a fair chance of getting himself into a scrape. His conduct, albeit that of a gentleman, could not, taking the most favourable view of it, be deemed prudent. He was enamoured of his hostess’s charming daughter, but at the same time carried on a flirtation with the maid, which, as discreet persons would say, was in every way reprehensible.It would have been well for him if he had taken the advice of Agatha, whose acute perceptive faculties enabled her to see the coming storm, which might probably overwhelm more than one of the inmates of Madame Trieste’s establishment.After the girl’s departure his reflections were by no means of an agreeable character, for at this time the idea of marriage was the very last thing that occurred to him.He was embued with much of the aristocratic prejudice which formed so strong an element in the character of his ancestor, the late earl, who before his death had made his great grandson promise—nay, indeed, swear—that he would never contract a marriage with any lady who was not nobly born, and it was therefore impossible for him to give his name to a girl of humble and obscure origin.He had not duly considered this when he first suffered himself to be allured and fascinated by the beautious and susceptible French maiden.He was not singular in this respect, for hundreds, and indeed thousands, have been equally reckless both before and since.His mother all this time was in entire ignorance of the course which was being pursued by her erratic son. She suspected something was amiss, perhaps, but then she argued that all members of the aristocracy must have their private amours—it was but in the natural order of things that such should be the case.Lord Ethalwood came to the conclusion that he had been both unwise and indiscreet, and the only course open to him was flight; he therefore on the following day intimated to Madame Trieste that he intended to return to his own chateau, and much to his surprise the widow did not make any objection to this, but upon the face of her daughter sat an expression of sadness and almost despair. She, however, did not make any observation.No doubt she had discovered that a fatal attachment had been growing from hour to hour in the young girl’s heart, and like a prudent mother she was solicitous of seeing her daughter married, feeling perfectly well that no good could come of her encouragement of the English nobleman’s attentions, seeing that it was not at all probable a gentleman in his position would form what everyone must consider amesalliance.Towards the middle of the day Lord Ethalwood set out for his own residence.He was not in his usual spirits upon returning to his chateau, and forbore from indulging in the pleasures of the chase.In consequence of this he felt the time hang heavy on his hands and had serious thoughts of returning to Broxbridge Hall, and plunging again into the vortex of fashionable life. But there was a loadstone which kept him from carrying out this good resolution.He had passed about a month of dull purposeless existence since his return, when one morning his valet delivered to him a letter in an unknown handwriting.The unexpected missive came from an old French gentleman who had been at one time an intimate associate of the late earl, who was most anxious to pay his respects to his successor.Any society was better than none, so in reply to the Frenchman’s letter Lord Ethalwood wrote an invitation to the writer, intimating that he would be glad if he would spend a day or two with him at his chateau.The name of his father’s friend was the Chevalier Gustave de Monpres, and punctual to the time appointed the chevalier arrived in a post-chaise at the chateau.He was a thin man, with a bald head and a heavy military moustache, and although verging on three score years and ten, was as active as a harlequin and as loquacious as a barber.He very soon made himself known to the English nobleman, whom, he said, was the image of his friend, the deceased earl.He was most profuse in his protestations of friendship, and passed his arm through that of his host as if he had known him for years, and led him into the park, where he insisted on giving his companion an account of the wonderful adventures he and the late earl had had together, and speaking to the present one as if he were a man of his own age.He certainly was a most vivacious, amusing old gentleman.Poor Reginald could not get a word in edgeway. It is true he did not make any great effort to out-talk the Frenchman, being convinced from the very first that he was in this respect “nowhere,” to make use of a sporting phase.The chevalier had sufficient penetration to see that his young friend was rather dispirited, from what cause he could not divine. However, he made up his mind to get at the pith and marrow of the subject before he left the chateau, and he was just the sort of man who was beyond all others the most likely to succeed in such a case.He told the young earl a series of anecdotes and stories about all sorts of people, and the general tenour of his conversation was what some persons would term free—it partook more of the libertine than the moralist. However, it served to beguile the tedium of the earl’s monotonous life, and he was in a measure amused with his vivacious guest.When the walk in the grounds was over, the dinner was served, and the two gentlemen sat down to what in truth might be termed a costly banquet.The chevalier, who was a connoisseur in gastronomic matters, tasted all the dishes, did honour to all the wines, and complimented infinitely the talents of Lord Ethalwood’schef, whom he declared to be a man of supreme ability and taste.As the meal progressed the old roué’s spirits frothed and sparkled like the champagne he swallowed, but his host remained dull and thoughtful, despite the exhilarating effects of the wine.His companion could not fail to observe this; he was too much a man of the world, and too great a courtier to rally the earl on the subject. He took a different course: he tacked about, changed the character of his discourse, for he had the protean power of adapting himself to all occasions. He therefore became affectionately insinuating, and even almost parental. This was more consonant with the earl’s state of mind at that time.The chevalier did not seem to be the same man he was an hour or so ago. He was so engaging, so soft and winning, and it might be said earnest and almost pathetic.“Oh, my dear young friend,” said he, “it is well to be young—but, at the same time, the young as well as the old have their cares, troubles, and anxieties, though these in most cases result from different causes. You are preoccupied to-day—there is doubtless good reason for this.”“Nothing in particular,” said Ethalwood—“but you must understand that at times I feel the effects of the severe fall I had some time ago.”“Ah, true, no doubt; but if there is nothing more serious than that—well, I think you’ll get over it in good time.”No.66.Illustration: THE MEETING OF THE RIVALS.THE MEETING OF THE RIVALS.The conversation was continued much in this strain, when by artfully calculated means the chevalier soon succeeded in drawing from Lord Ethalwood the cause of his preoccupation, and, indeed, of all that had happened in the house of Madame Trieste.Monsieur de Monpres’ eyes sparkled and his whole face was lit with an expression of joyousness when Lord Ethalwood had finished his confession. He was wholly in his element; he had before him a young man trembling on the brink of a moral abyss, and his was not the hand to be stretched forth to save him.“Ha, ha!” laughed the old chevalier. “Carrying on a flirtation with the mistress and her maid both at the same time—excellent! Why you are a perfect Don Giovanni, my young friend. By the way I know Lieutenant Trieste, the husband of the lady whose house afforded you such timely shelter; but, of course, a man in your exalted station would never for a moment contemplate uniting yourself to a person in Mademoiselle’s humble position—that’s altogether out of the question.”“It is quite out of the question.”“Good; I am glad to hear you say so, because it proves to me that you are a sensible young man. I should not trouble myself much about the young mountaineer; fellows of his character are not worth wasting one’s thoughts over. Bah! she’ll never marry him—never—take my word for it.”“Unless I return to England.”“Ah, that’s quite a different matter, but you do not intend to return?”“Not just at present, at any rate,” added the chevalier, with a sarcastic smile. “I think I know you too well for that, although our acquaintance is of such short duration. Be of good cheer, and don’t give up the girl to a boor like that.”The chevalier took the young man’s soul, as it were, and softened it in the fire of passions which he excited with his contaminating breath; then he kneaded it like molten wax, and gave it back more or less after the pattern of his own.His language had the glitter of the serpent, that seems to caress its victim the better to destroy it. Without once wounding the sensibility of his listener, the chevalier scoffed down all his beliefs, demolished all his illusions.Lord Ethalwood had heard much of the lax morals of our continental neighbours, and in Monsieur de Monpres he had a bright example.“Come, come,” said the latter, “you must bear a more cheerful aspect. I tell you freely I don’t intend to take my departure from your hospitable house until I see you looking bright and cheerful.”The old Frenchman kept his word, for he remained several days with the young earl. During his stay he was explanatory as regards Madame Trieste, whom he described as a very clever and cunning mother, speculating on the inexperience of a young man of name and fortune, with the view of entrapping him into a marriage with her daughter. This, he said, was all fair enough. She had a perfect right to do the best she could for her child, but on the other hand the earl had an equal right to take excellent care not to snap at the bait so artfully presented to him.Finally he demonstrated that Gerome Chanet, the girl’s betrothed husband, was simply a supernumerary called in to play a part, to serve the ends of the chief actors in the drama, by exhibiting himself in the character of a betrothed, to force his lordship into a declaration of love.Ethalwood listened to all his unprincipled counsellor had to say, and pointed out to him that Chanet was desperately and madly in love with Theresa.At this the old Frenchman shrugged his shoulders and shook his head in a most significant manner.When the chevalier had taken his departure Ethalwood felt in some measure relieved. While he was with him he lent an attentive ear to all he had to say, and he was inclined to believe that he was tolerably right so far as the main facts were concerned, but despite this he could not bring himself to believe that the young mountaineer was playing a double game, or acting as a subordinate to others. It appeared to be altogether foreign to his nature; besides, Agatha herself had told him that Chanet was very much in earnest, and this declaration was proved but too plainly by subsequent events.“I cannot believe all he says,” murmured Ethalwood, “but nevertheless there is much truth in many of his observations. Doubtless he is enabled to see things much more clearly than I can myself. He’s a sharp-sighted old gentleman, without a doubt, and he hasn’t been too particular at any period of his life. I wonder what the proud old earl could have seen in him to make him his companion. I suppose he did do so? I never heard him mention his name, though. But, Lord bless me! how many years ago must it have been?”Lord Ethalwood was restless and fidgety—so much so, that he could not remain any longer at his own chateau; so he determined upon paying Madame Trieste another visit. He longed to learn something about the fair Theresa, and was a little piqued that no messenger had been sent by Madame Trieste to inquire how he was, or bring him an invitation.As he was proceeding in the direction of madame’s house he was met by the chevalier, who was being driven along in his old lumbering post-chaise.“Going to the widow’s—are you?” said the chevalier—“good, excellent! I am going close to where she lives. Jump in, and we’ll drive there. That is close to her house; you can then alight, and walk the remainder of the distance alone.”Ethalwood availed himself of the offer, and drove within half a mile or so of his destination. He alighted and walked rapidly on. When he presented himself he found Madame Trieste in her garden. She was alone, and as he passed through the gate she raised her eyes with such a look of astonishment as to almost imply that she did not recognise him.This a little disconcerted him, and he felt half disposed to turn back and go away in dudgeon. The probability is that he would have done so had not the widow advanced a few steps and exclaimed in a tone of surprise—“What! my lord? Well, you do astonish me.”“And pray, madame, what reason is there for astonishment? I have not heard from you. Not a scrap of intelligence has reached me from either yourself or your daughter, and hence it is I have deemed it my duty to call.”“Ah, yes, of course,” observed Madame Trieste; “yes, quite natural you should do so, and—ahem—have you quite recovered from the effects of your accident?”“Yes, I hope so.”Her manner was constrained, not to say cold, and the earl was at a loss to account for her altered demeanour.“I am glad you are yourself again.”“And so you see, madame,” he observed, assuming a cheerful, confidential tone, “I could not keep away from you any longer—so I’ve just run over to see how you all are.”“Certainly; it’s very kind of you, I’m sure.”Lord Ethalwood was under the impression from the lady’s manner that his presence in her chateau was not altogether desired, but he did not choose to take any notice of this. There might be something amiss, and he was determined, if possible, to find out what that something was.Without invitation he unslung his game-bag and ascended the stairs leading to the apartment he had before occupied.Madame Trieste looked a little surprised, but said nothing.On the landing he met Agatha.“Gracious me!” she ejaculated—“you here, my friend.”“Certainly. Is there anything astonishing in that? I am here, as you see.”The maid drew back and seemed to be a little disconcerted.“Like mistress, like maid,” murmured his lordship to himself. “It does not much matter—I don’t intend to be baffled if I can help it. Hang their blank looks and frigid manner.”Agatha still stood contemplating her mistress’s visitor.“Why, what ails you, my little pet? You look scared.”“Do I?”“I fancy so. Are you not well?”“I am well enough, as far as health is concerned.”“Are you in trouble then?”“Oh, my lord!” returned the girl. “You went away from here leaving sorrow behind you. This you ought to know without my telling you, and you have returned to bring misery and despair.”“Upon my word, Agatha, for the life of me I cannot understand what you mean. Explain yourself.”“Let me pass,” exclaimed Agatha.He endeavoured to detain her, but she refused to answer his questions, and fled along the passage with the speed of an antelope.“Perverse, obstinate girl!” exclaimed the English nobleman. “What can possess the little jade? The whole household appears to be under some malign influence, which is both extraordinary and unaccountable.”As he passed on towards the apartment he had previously occupied, he observed in one of the sitting-rooms Theresa Trieste, who was reclining in a large arm-chair in a pensive attitude.“Mademoiselle Theresa,” ejaculated Lord Ethalwood, “whence this altered demeanour?”“My lord!” cried the French maiden—“you here!”“Yes—may I enter?”“If it pleases you to do so—you can of course.”Lord Ethalwood entered, and crept up to the chair on which the young woman was seated.“Tell me,” said he in a voice of deep emotion, “the reason for my being received so coldly by the inhabitants of a house where I was wont to receive nought but kindness. Have I done ought to offend you, Theresa?”“Nothing whatever,” was the quick response, “but the aspect of affairs has greatly altered since you were last here, and I am no longer my own mistress—am not free to do as I might wish.”“Not your own mistress? Surely you are not united to that——”“No, I am not,” she answered, interrupting him quickly; “but I was under an engagement which is now broken off. Ah, why did you leave so precipitately?” she added, regarding him with a reproving look.“Why?” he replieed. “For a very cogent reason, Theresa. I learned from your mother that you were affianced to the young man I was introduced to just before I took my departure. I was duly impressed with the awkwardness of the situation in which I so suddenly and unexpectedly found myself, and felt it my duty to retire from a scene in which I appeared to be an interloper. From prudential motives I deemed it expedient to leave.”“Just at a time when your presence was most needed,” returned Theresa.“Just at a time when my presence was least needed—so I concluded.”“You might have consulted me on the subject, my lord, before you took your departure. I am free to confess that I think you have not acted altogether so prudently as you might have done under the circumstances.”“So you upbraid me. This is most wicked. I durst not trust myself here any longer. But oh, Theresa, you have been for ever uppermost in my thoughts, and I could no longer remain away—hence it is I am here now. You will not—you cannot—find it in your heart to censure me—me who would lay down my life for you.”“Ah, sir, these are but words—idle words—the past cannot be recalled, but the actual present is absolute, and the future is terrible.”“Why terrible, Theresa?”“Do not ask me such a question, my lord. It comes with ill grace from you.”Lord Ethalwood was puzzled, as well he might be. He did not very well know how to construe the meaning of the young girl’s words. He remained silent and thoughtful for some little time, and then said in a low tone—“Possibly I may be mistaken. This young man who has caused us all so much anxiety may not be after all the one you would have chosen for a husband of your own free will, but your mother——”“He is her choice—not mine,” cried Theresa, with sudden energy.“Tell me frankly, dearest,” said Lord Ethalwood, bending fondly over her—“do you love him?”“No—a thousand times no!” she answered. “I should have thought that was self-evident.”“Theresa,” said he, taking her hand within his own, “I thank you for this candid avowal. I have no desire to see you sacrificed on the altar of filial duty or affection. Be bold and resolute—discard him, dearest, send him adrift.”“You wish me to do so?”“I do most earnestly desire it; since I feel perfectly well assured that your future happiness will be sacrificed by so ill-assorted a match.”He bent over her and kissed her on either cheek as a brother might kiss a sister.Her face flashed up, and she burst into tears.“Leave me now, my lord,” she exclaimed suddenly. “Madame my mother will wonder what has become of you. Possibly she may suspect something. Rejoin her, I pray.”“But you? I cannot consent to part so suddenly from one I hold so dear.”“Go, my lord; it is not well for you to remain any longer here.”“But when shall we be able to converse further on this subject? When can I see you again?”“Offer to take me out for a walk towards evening. This you can easily do.”“Enough—so be it. I will do so.”Lord Ethalwood returned to his own chamber, where he reflected overall the incidents of the day. It was evident enough that Theresa Trieste was greatly piqued at his abandoning the field, and leaving her to the control of her mother, and he assumed that she was desirous of evading or cancelling the contract made with Gerome Chanet. This was evident enough, but the earl found himself on the horns of a dilemma. He could not make honourable proposals to the widow’s charming daughter, and how to act in the matter he could not very well determine. He came to the conclusion that it would be best to trust to chance. After remaining for some time in his own apartment he deemed it advisable to pay his respects to the mistress of the establishment. So he descended below, and found Madame Trieste at work in the summer-house. She was alone, and Lord Ethalwood without further ceremony entered the rural retreat and sat himself down beside the widow.“You see, madame, I don’t stand on ceremony,” said he, in a tone of familiarity, “I take the privilege accorded to an old friend of the family. I come without invitation, and I remain without much pressing.”“You are welcome, Lord Ethalwood,” said madame, with a furtive glance at her visitor.“Ah, that’s well. I feel assured of that.”He then inquired about the health of Theresa.“She has not been at all herself for some days past,” observed madame. “Indeed she has been constrained to keep her room.”“Goodness me! I hope she is not in danger,” cried his lordship, with well-simulated anxiety.“I hope not. It would be a source of great anxiety and trouble to me if I thought there was anything serious in the malady of my poor dear child.”“And it would be an equal source of trouble to me.”The widow looked up, but made no reply to this last observation.“Is your daughter’s indisposition likely to delay the ceremony appointed to take place at no very distant date?” observed the earl.“You ask me a question I shall find it difficult to answer, monsieur,” returned the lady.“And why so, I pray?”“I am not certain that the marriage will ever take place at all. We can none of us tell what may happen. It is an old saying that ‘there’s many a slip between the cup and the lip.’”“But I understood,” stammered out his lordship, “at least such was my impression, that all the preliminaries were arranged, and that a special time had been appointed.”“So it had, but what of that?”“I presume the contracting parties have no desire to withdraw from the covenant?”“I don’t know about that. There is a new aspect in affairs, and one of the contracting parties has imprudently chosen to withdraw.”“Indeed, you surprise me. Which may it be? Excuse my plain questioning. I am deeply interested in all that concerns your dear amiable daughter.”“You are very kind, I am sure,” observed madame, with something like sarcasm in her tone.Lord Ethalwood bowed courteously.“You surprise me, madame,” said he. “One of the parties has a wish to withdraw—eh?”“It is more than a wish—it is a positive refusal. Theresa will not consent under any circumstances to give her hand to Monsieur Chanet.”“How very remarkable!”“Not at all so, monsieur. There is nothing at all remarkable or surprising in the matter. Theresa is inflexible.”“But what is her reason?”Madame shrugged her shoulders.“Ah, sir,” she remarked, “you would be a clever man if you could account for the caprices and fancies of a young maiden. Theresa will not give me any reason. All she says is, that she will not become the wife of Gerome, and he, poor fellow! probably doats upon her.”“Then he is very much to be pitied.”“He is. You are just right—he is greatly to be pitied, but of what avail is pity or commiseration to a despairing lover?”“Not much avail.”“None whatever.”“I do hope and trust he will get over the disappointment.”“I don’t think he ever will.”“That is very sad, indeed. But cannot you divine the reason for her objecting to the union?”“I have my ideas upon the subject; but these are only surmises, which are vague and unsupported by facts. Still, I am under the impression that there is a reason—what this is I do not care to say.”“Oh, no—I suppose so. Far be it from me to intrude upon family secrets. These are matters which no man has a right to inquire into.”“It is altogether a most unfortunate affair, and one I have great reason to regret. I wish now we had never seen Gerome Chanet. I fancy we should all of us have been spared a great deal of anxiety had we not known him.”“That is likely enough, madame,” returned Ethalwood, “but it is impossible for the wisest of us to foresee these things. It would have been well, perhaps, if I had not been so close an intimate of the family.”“I have not said so, my lord.”“No, madame, you are a great deal too considerate to make such an uncourteous observation, but we cannot alter the events which are now past. We have to consider the future, and your daughter’s happiness in the years that are to come.”“I am afraid she is tossed about in a stormy sea of trouble at the present moment. How it will end none of us can determine.”“She has a sincere and attached friend in me, and anything I can possibly do to serve her will be most cheerfully done.”“She looks upon you as her friend, Lord Ethalwood. I hope she is not mistaken.”“Mistaken, madame! Do you doubt my sincerity?”“I have the greatest possible esteem for you,” returned Madame Trieste.The conversation was abruptly brought to a close by the girl, Agatha, making her appearance. She announced the arrival of a visitor.At first Ethalwood thought it was his rival, but he was presently informed that the new arrival was an old lady who was a near neighbour of his hostess. The latter left the summer-house, and Lord Ethalwood soon found himself alone in the little alcove.He was ill at ease, troubled in his mind, and did not know very well how to act. The matter could be easily enough brought to a satisfactory conclusion by his openly avowing his attachment for the French maiden, but for prudential reasons he refrained from adopting such a course.His oath to his deceased relative was an insurmountable barrier, and, in addition to this, there were others of a lesser note.Nevertheless, he was not disposed to give up the beauteous young female who held him in bondage.“I am a silly, weak, love-sick fool,” he murmured, “to be hesitating and vacillating after this fashion. I haven’t a grain of resolution left in my whole composition. What must—what can be the end of all this? Nothing but trouble and difficulty! And yet I appear to be powerless. I cannot—nay, I will not—abandon Theresa.”These words were hardly out of his mouth when the party in question made her appearance in the garden. Lord Ethalwood at once rose to meet her.She was dressed as if about to go abroad, and he at once remembered her suggestion respecting an afternoon walk.“This is most kind and considerate on your part,” he exclaimed. “I perceive you are ready, and, I hope, willing, to do me the honour of becoming my companion for a short ramble.”The young girl nodded, and said, “You must mention the subject to madame, my mother.”“By all means, Mademoiselle Trieste,” said he, leading her to the alcove, and conducting her to a seat. This done, he flew into the house and informed Madame that he and her daughter were about to take a ramble over the mountains for an hour or so. The widow made no objection, and the young man and the maiden were soon far away from the house, taking their way over a narrow footpath, which was the beaten track of travellers who took delight in wandering over the mountains.The conversation between the two was, as may readily be imagined, of a tender nature. Lord Ethalwood was profuse in his protestations. He told his companion that he found life insupportable when he was away from her, and a thousand other declarations of a similar character, one or two of which would have sufficed to turn the young girl’s head.She listened to him, and, like an infatuated fool that she was, believed all he said. She was flattered by the encomiums he passed upon her, charmed with his protestations of love. He, in his turn, was at no loss to perceive the effect his words had on her, and he felt proud that he had so much power over a young and confiding maiden.They sat on the promontory of a rock, and looked out at the distant mountains, whose peeks were now gilded with the rays of the setting sun. Here he again poured into her ear the soft and delusive whispers of love, and Theresa Trieste was enraptured by his eloquence, which sounded as sweet and seductive as the Arcadian lutes did to the village maidens of old.While thus seated together, their arms encircling each other’s waist, their hands locked together and touching, a dark form was visible on an adjacent rock. It was that of a hunter, who paused, and whose eyes of flame were instantly fixed on the lovers. This was Gerome Chanet, who stood like a statue—still, silent, and immovable. Fire was at his heart, and the demon of jealousy had him in his clutches.“Theresa!” he hissed between his clenched teeth, “and withhim—with the Englishman. Heaven be merciful to me, for I feel as one about to sink into some dark and fathomless abyss.”Neither Lord Ethalwood nor his companion was aware that their actions were being watched by the terrible and vengeful young mountaineer.When by chance either of them turned their heads Gerome crept behind a mountain peak and stood motionless.He was the very personification of mute despair.No wonder. Theresa Trieste had cast him off. The reason was now but too palpable. Gerome felt that he had lost the dearly-coveted prize he had sought with such pertinacity for so many years.The looks, the attitude, the low whispers which the loving pair were exchanging told the mountaineer of the utter hopelessness of his case.Theresa would not condescend to even look at him after this.He felt so supremely miserable at this time that the thought crossed his mind of committing suicide there and then by precipitating himself from the promontory upon which he stood.But upon second thoughts he made up his mind to make one last desperate effort. He would send a messenger to the earl and ask him to give him an interview. As a gentleman, he could not refuse this request.Having made up his mind to this course of action, Gerome Chanet crept like a guilty thing over the rocks, and had his dark and miserable hours all alone.Meanwhile the lovers had lingered, as lovers usually do, much longer than they had intended, and warned by the shadows of the evening, they both rose and made the best of their way back to Madame Trieste’s residence.The widow cast an inquiring look at the lovers. She judged rightly enough that ample time had been afforded them for explanations as to the past and promises and good resolutions for the future. As may be readily imagined nothing would have pleased her better than seeing Lord Ethalwood in the character of an acknowledged suitor of her daughter, but she was far too prudent to suggest or even hint at such a thing. Like a prudent mother she thought it best to leave the young people alone, as in any case matters would not be forwarded by her interference.The evening passed over pleasantly enough; the inmates of the chateau were more sociable and in better spirits than they had been in the earlier portion of the day. From Theresa’s manner Madame Trieste augured that she had had a satisfactorytête-a-têtewith the earl, and he on his part was more than usually pleasant and animated.
Lord Ethalwood, at this particular period of his career, stood a fair chance of getting himself into a scrape. His conduct, albeit that of a gentleman, could not, taking the most favourable view of it, be deemed prudent. He was enamoured of his hostess’s charming daughter, but at the same time carried on a flirtation with the maid, which, as discreet persons would say, was in every way reprehensible.
It would have been well for him if he had taken the advice of Agatha, whose acute perceptive faculties enabled her to see the coming storm, which might probably overwhelm more than one of the inmates of Madame Trieste’s establishment.
After the girl’s departure his reflections were by no means of an agreeable character, for at this time the idea of marriage was the very last thing that occurred to him.
He was embued with much of the aristocratic prejudice which formed so strong an element in the character of his ancestor, the late earl, who before his death had made his great grandson promise—nay, indeed, swear—that he would never contract a marriage with any lady who was not nobly born, and it was therefore impossible for him to give his name to a girl of humble and obscure origin.
He had not duly considered this when he first suffered himself to be allured and fascinated by the beautious and susceptible French maiden.
He was not singular in this respect, for hundreds, and indeed thousands, have been equally reckless both before and since.
His mother all this time was in entire ignorance of the course which was being pursued by her erratic son. She suspected something was amiss, perhaps, but then she argued that all members of the aristocracy must have their private amours—it was but in the natural order of things that such should be the case.
Lord Ethalwood came to the conclusion that he had been both unwise and indiscreet, and the only course open to him was flight; he therefore on the following day intimated to Madame Trieste that he intended to return to his own chateau, and much to his surprise the widow did not make any objection to this, but upon the face of her daughter sat an expression of sadness and almost despair. She, however, did not make any observation.
No doubt she had discovered that a fatal attachment had been growing from hour to hour in the young girl’s heart, and like a prudent mother she was solicitous of seeing her daughter married, feeling perfectly well that no good could come of her encouragement of the English nobleman’s attentions, seeing that it was not at all probable a gentleman in his position would form what everyone must consider amesalliance.
Towards the middle of the day Lord Ethalwood set out for his own residence.
He was not in his usual spirits upon returning to his chateau, and forbore from indulging in the pleasures of the chase.
In consequence of this he felt the time hang heavy on his hands and had serious thoughts of returning to Broxbridge Hall, and plunging again into the vortex of fashionable life. But there was a loadstone which kept him from carrying out this good resolution.
He had passed about a month of dull purposeless existence since his return, when one morning his valet delivered to him a letter in an unknown handwriting.
The unexpected missive came from an old French gentleman who had been at one time an intimate associate of the late earl, who was most anxious to pay his respects to his successor.
Any society was better than none, so in reply to the Frenchman’s letter Lord Ethalwood wrote an invitation to the writer, intimating that he would be glad if he would spend a day or two with him at his chateau.
The name of his father’s friend was the Chevalier Gustave de Monpres, and punctual to the time appointed the chevalier arrived in a post-chaise at the chateau.
He was a thin man, with a bald head and a heavy military moustache, and although verging on three score years and ten, was as active as a harlequin and as loquacious as a barber.
He very soon made himself known to the English nobleman, whom, he said, was the image of his friend, the deceased earl.
He was most profuse in his protestations of friendship, and passed his arm through that of his host as if he had known him for years, and led him into the park, where he insisted on giving his companion an account of the wonderful adventures he and the late earl had had together, and speaking to the present one as if he were a man of his own age.
He certainly was a most vivacious, amusing old gentleman.
Poor Reginald could not get a word in edgeway. It is true he did not make any great effort to out-talk the Frenchman, being convinced from the very first that he was in this respect “nowhere,” to make use of a sporting phase.
The chevalier had sufficient penetration to see that his young friend was rather dispirited, from what cause he could not divine. However, he made up his mind to get at the pith and marrow of the subject before he left the chateau, and he was just the sort of man who was beyond all others the most likely to succeed in such a case.
He told the young earl a series of anecdotes and stories about all sorts of people, and the general tenour of his conversation was what some persons would term free—it partook more of the libertine than the moralist. However, it served to beguile the tedium of the earl’s monotonous life, and he was in a measure amused with his vivacious guest.
When the walk in the grounds was over, the dinner was served, and the two gentlemen sat down to what in truth might be termed a costly banquet.
The chevalier, who was a connoisseur in gastronomic matters, tasted all the dishes, did honour to all the wines, and complimented infinitely the talents of Lord Ethalwood’schef, whom he declared to be a man of supreme ability and taste.
As the meal progressed the old roué’s spirits frothed and sparkled like the champagne he swallowed, but his host remained dull and thoughtful, despite the exhilarating effects of the wine.
His companion could not fail to observe this; he was too much a man of the world, and too great a courtier to rally the earl on the subject. He took a different course: he tacked about, changed the character of his discourse, for he had the protean power of adapting himself to all occasions. He therefore became affectionately insinuating, and even almost parental. This was more consonant with the earl’s state of mind at that time.
The chevalier did not seem to be the same man he was an hour or so ago. He was so engaging, so soft and winning, and it might be said earnest and almost pathetic.
“Oh, my dear young friend,” said he, “it is well to be young—but, at the same time, the young as well as the old have their cares, troubles, and anxieties, though these in most cases result from different causes. You are preoccupied to-day—there is doubtless good reason for this.”
“Nothing in particular,” said Ethalwood—“but you must understand that at times I feel the effects of the severe fall I had some time ago.”
“Ah, true, no doubt; but if there is nothing more serious than that—well, I think you’ll get over it in good time.”
No.66.
Illustration: THE MEETING OF THE RIVALS.THE MEETING OF THE RIVALS.
THE MEETING OF THE RIVALS.
The conversation was continued much in this strain, when by artfully calculated means the chevalier soon succeeded in drawing from Lord Ethalwood the cause of his preoccupation, and, indeed, of all that had happened in the house of Madame Trieste.
Monsieur de Monpres’ eyes sparkled and his whole face was lit with an expression of joyousness when Lord Ethalwood had finished his confession. He was wholly in his element; he had before him a young man trembling on the brink of a moral abyss, and his was not the hand to be stretched forth to save him.
“Ha, ha!” laughed the old chevalier. “Carrying on a flirtation with the mistress and her maid both at the same time—excellent! Why you are a perfect Don Giovanni, my young friend. By the way I know Lieutenant Trieste, the husband of the lady whose house afforded you such timely shelter; but, of course, a man in your exalted station would never for a moment contemplate uniting yourself to a person in Mademoiselle’s humble position—that’s altogether out of the question.”
“It is quite out of the question.”
“Good; I am glad to hear you say so, because it proves to me that you are a sensible young man. I should not trouble myself much about the young mountaineer; fellows of his character are not worth wasting one’s thoughts over. Bah! she’ll never marry him—never—take my word for it.”
“Unless I return to England.”
“Ah, that’s quite a different matter, but you do not intend to return?”
“Not just at present, at any rate,” added the chevalier, with a sarcastic smile. “I think I know you too well for that, although our acquaintance is of such short duration. Be of good cheer, and don’t give up the girl to a boor like that.”
The chevalier took the young man’s soul, as it were, and softened it in the fire of passions which he excited with his contaminating breath; then he kneaded it like molten wax, and gave it back more or less after the pattern of his own.
His language had the glitter of the serpent, that seems to caress its victim the better to destroy it. Without once wounding the sensibility of his listener, the chevalier scoffed down all his beliefs, demolished all his illusions.
Lord Ethalwood had heard much of the lax morals of our continental neighbours, and in Monsieur de Monpres he had a bright example.
“Come, come,” said the latter, “you must bear a more cheerful aspect. I tell you freely I don’t intend to take my departure from your hospitable house until I see you looking bright and cheerful.”
The old Frenchman kept his word, for he remained several days with the young earl. During his stay he was explanatory as regards Madame Trieste, whom he described as a very clever and cunning mother, speculating on the inexperience of a young man of name and fortune, with the view of entrapping him into a marriage with her daughter. This, he said, was all fair enough. She had a perfect right to do the best she could for her child, but on the other hand the earl had an equal right to take excellent care not to snap at the bait so artfully presented to him.
Finally he demonstrated that Gerome Chanet, the girl’s betrothed husband, was simply a supernumerary called in to play a part, to serve the ends of the chief actors in the drama, by exhibiting himself in the character of a betrothed, to force his lordship into a declaration of love.
Ethalwood listened to all his unprincipled counsellor had to say, and pointed out to him that Chanet was desperately and madly in love with Theresa.
At this the old Frenchman shrugged his shoulders and shook his head in a most significant manner.
When the chevalier had taken his departure Ethalwood felt in some measure relieved. While he was with him he lent an attentive ear to all he had to say, and he was inclined to believe that he was tolerably right so far as the main facts were concerned, but despite this he could not bring himself to believe that the young mountaineer was playing a double game, or acting as a subordinate to others. It appeared to be altogether foreign to his nature; besides, Agatha herself had told him that Chanet was very much in earnest, and this declaration was proved but too plainly by subsequent events.
“I cannot believe all he says,” murmured Ethalwood, “but nevertheless there is much truth in many of his observations. Doubtless he is enabled to see things much more clearly than I can myself. He’s a sharp-sighted old gentleman, without a doubt, and he hasn’t been too particular at any period of his life. I wonder what the proud old earl could have seen in him to make him his companion. I suppose he did do so? I never heard him mention his name, though. But, Lord bless me! how many years ago must it have been?”
Lord Ethalwood was restless and fidgety—so much so, that he could not remain any longer at his own chateau; so he determined upon paying Madame Trieste another visit. He longed to learn something about the fair Theresa, and was a little piqued that no messenger had been sent by Madame Trieste to inquire how he was, or bring him an invitation.
As he was proceeding in the direction of madame’s house he was met by the chevalier, who was being driven along in his old lumbering post-chaise.
“Going to the widow’s—are you?” said the chevalier—“good, excellent! I am going close to where she lives. Jump in, and we’ll drive there. That is close to her house; you can then alight, and walk the remainder of the distance alone.”
Ethalwood availed himself of the offer, and drove within half a mile or so of his destination. He alighted and walked rapidly on. When he presented himself he found Madame Trieste in her garden. She was alone, and as he passed through the gate she raised her eyes with such a look of astonishment as to almost imply that she did not recognise him.
This a little disconcerted him, and he felt half disposed to turn back and go away in dudgeon. The probability is that he would have done so had not the widow advanced a few steps and exclaimed in a tone of surprise—
“What! my lord? Well, you do astonish me.”
“And pray, madame, what reason is there for astonishment? I have not heard from you. Not a scrap of intelligence has reached me from either yourself or your daughter, and hence it is I have deemed it my duty to call.”
“Ah, yes, of course,” observed Madame Trieste; “yes, quite natural you should do so, and—ahem—have you quite recovered from the effects of your accident?”
“Yes, I hope so.”
Her manner was constrained, not to say cold, and the earl was at a loss to account for her altered demeanour.
“I am glad you are yourself again.”
“And so you see, madame,” he observed, assuming a cheerful, confidential tone, “I could not keep away from you any longer—so I’ve just run over to see how you all are.”
“Certainly; it’s very kind of you, I’m sure.”
Lord Ethalwood was under the impression from the lady’s manner that his presence in her chateau was not altogether desired, but he did not choose to take any notice of this. There might be something amiss, and he was determined, if possible, to find out what that something was.
Without invitation he unslung his game-bag and ascended the stairs leading to the apartment he had before occupied.
Madame Trieste looked a little surprised, but said nothing.
On the landing he met Agatha.
“Gracious me!” she ejaculated—“you here, my friend.”
“Certainly. Is there anything astonishing in that? I am here, as you see.”
The maid drew back and seemed to be a little disconcerted.
“Like mistress, like maid,” murmured his lordship to himself. “It does not much matter—I don’t intend to be baffled if I can help it. Hang their blank looks and frigid manner.”
Agatha still stood contemplating her mistress’s visitor.
“Why, what ails you, my little pet? You look scared.”
“Do I?”
“I fancy so. Are you not well?”
“I am well enough, as far as health is concerned.”
“Are you in trouble then?”
“Oh, my lord!” returned the girl. “You went away from here leaving sorrow behind you. This you ought to know without my telling you, and you have returned to bring misery and despair.”
“Upon my word, Agatha, for the life of me I cannot understand what you mean. Explain yourself.”
“Let me pass,” exclaimed Agatha.
He endeavoured to detain her, but she refused to answer his questions, and fled along the passage with the speed of an antelope.
“Perverse, obstinate girl!” exclaimed the English nobleman. “What can possess the little jade? The whole household appears to be under some malign influence, which is both extraordinary and unaccountable.”
As he passed on towards the apartment he had previously occupied, he observed in one of the sitting-rooms Theresa Trieste, who was reclining in a large arm-chair in a pensive attitude.
“Mademoiselle Theresa,” ejaculated Lord Ethalwood, “whence this altered demeanour?”
“My lord!” cried the French maiden—“you here!”
“Yes—may I enter?”
“If it pleases you to do so—you can of course.”
Lord Ethalwood entered, and crept up to the chair on which the young woman was seated.
“Tell me,” said he in a voice of deep emotion, “the reason for my being received so coldly by the inhabitants of a house where I was wont to receive nought but kindness. Have I done ought to offend you, Theresa?”
“Nothing whatever,” was the quick response, “but the aspect of affairs has greatly altered since you were last here, and I am no longer my own mistress—am not free to do as I might wish.”
“Not your own mistress? Surely you are not united to that——”
“No, I am not,” she answered, interrupting him quickly; “but I was under an engagement which is now broken off. Ah, why did you leave so precipitately?” she added, regarding him with a reproving look.
“Why?” he replieed. “For a very cogent reason, Theresa. I learned from your mother that you were affianced to the young man I was introduced to just before I took my departure. I was duly impressed with the awkwardness of the situation in which I so suddenly and unexpectedly found myself, and felt it my duty to retire from a scene in which I appeared to be an interloper. From prudential motives I deemed it expedient to leave.”
“Just at a time when your presence was most needed,” returned Theresa.
“Just at a time when my presence was least needed—so I concluded.”
“You might have consulted me on the subject, my lord, before you took your departure. I am free to confess that I think you have not acted altogether so prudently as you might have done under the circumstances.”
“So you upbraid me. This is most wicked. I durst not trust myself here any longer. But oh, Theresa, you have been for ever uppermost in my thoughts, and I could no longer remain away—hence it is I am here now. You will not—you cannot—find it in your heart to censure me—me who would lay down my life for you.”
“Ah, sir, these are but words—idle words—the past cannot be recalled, but the actual present is absolute, and the future is terrible.”
“Why terrible, Theresa?”
“Do not ask me such a question, my lord. It comes with ill grace from you.”
Lord Ethalwood was puzzled, as well he might be. He did not very well know how to construe the meaning of the young girl’s words. He remained silent and thoughtful for some little time, and then said in a low tone—
“Possibly I may be mistaken. This young man who has caused us all so much anxiety may not be after all the one you would have chosen for a husband of your own free will, but your mother——”
“He is her choice—not mine,” cried Theresa, with sudden energy.
“Tell me frankly, dearest,” said Lord Ethalwood, bending fondly over her—“do you love him?”
“No—a thousand times no!” she answered. “I should have thought that was self-evident.”
“Theresa,” said he, taking her hand within his own, “I thank you for this candid avowal. I have no desire to see you sacrificed on the altar of filial duty or affection. Be bold and resolute—discard him, dearest, send him adrift.”
“You wish me to do so?”
“I do most earnestly desire it; since I feel perfectly well assured that your future happiness will be sacrificed by so ill-assorted a match.”
He bent over her and kissed her on either cheek as a brother might kiss a sister.
Her face flashed up, and she burst into tears.
“Leave me now, my lord,” she exclaimed suddenly. “Madame my mother will wonder what has become of you. Possibly she may suspect something. Rejoin her, I pray.”
“But you? I cannot consent to part so suddenly from one I hold so dear.”
“Go, my lord; it is not well for you to remain any longer here.”
“But when shall we be able to converse further on this subject? When can I see you again?”
“Offer to take me out for a walk towards evening. This you can easily do.”
“Enough—so be it. I will do so.”
Lord Ethalwood returned to his own chamber, where he reflected overall the incidents of the day. It was evident enough that Theresa Trieste was greatly piqued at his abandoning the field, and leaving her to the control of her mother, and he assumed that she was desirous of evading or cancelling the contract made with Gerome Chanet. This was evident enough, but the earl found himself on the horns of a dilemma. He could not make honourable proposals to the widow’s charming daughter, and how to act in the matter he could not very well determine. He came to the conclusion that it would be best to trust to chance. After remaining for some time in his own apartment he deemed it advisable to pay his respects to the mistress of the establishment. So he descended below, and found Madame Trieste at work in the summer-house. She was alone, and Lord Ethalwood without further ceremony entered the rural retreat and sat himself down beside the widow.
“You see, madame, I don’t stand on ceremony,” said he, in a tone of familiarity, “I take the privilege accorded to an old friend of the family. I come without invitation, and I remain without much pressing.”
“You are welcome, Lord Ethalwood,” said madame, with a furtive glance at her visitor.
“Ah, that’s well. I feel assured of that.”
He then inquired about the health of Theresa.
“She has not been at all herself for some days past,” observed madame. “Indeed she has been constrained to keep her room.”
“Goodness me! I hope she is not in danger,” cried his lordship, with well-simulated anxiety.
“I hope not. It would be a source of great anxiety and trouble to me if I thought there was anything serious in the malady of my poor dear child.”
“And it would be an equal source of trouble to me.”
The widow looked up, but made no reply to this last observation.
“Is your daughter’s indisposition likely to delay the ceremony appointed to take place at no very distant date?” observed the earl.
“You ask me a question I shall find it difficult to answer, monsieur,” returned the lady.
“And why so, I pray?”
“I am not certain that the marriage will ever take place at all. We can none of us tell what may happen. It is an old saying that ‘there’s many a slip between the cup and the lip.’”
“But I understood,” stammered out his lordship, “at least such was my impression, that all the preliminaries were arranged, and that a special time had been appointed.”
“So it had, but what of that?”
“I presume the contracting parties have no desire to withdraw from the covenant?”
“I don’t know about that. There is a new aspect in affairs, and one of the contracting parties has imprudently chosen to withdraw.”
“Indeed, you surprise me. Which may it be? Excuse my plain questioning. I am deeply interested in all that concerns your dear amiable daughter.”
“You are very kind, I am sure,” observed madame, with something like sarcasm in her tone.
Lord Ethalwood bowed courteously.
“You surprise me, madame,” said he. “One of the parties has a wish to withdraw—eh?”
“It is more than a wish—it is a positive refusal. Theresa will not consent under any circumstances to give her hand to Monsieur Chanet.”
“How very remarkable!”
“Not at all so, monsieur. There is nothing at all remarkable or surprising in the matter. Theresa is inflexible.”
“But what is her reason?”
Madame shrugged her shoulders.
“Ah, sir,” she remarked, “you would be a clever man if you could account for the caprices and fancies of a young maiden. Theresa will not give me any reason. All she says is, that she will not become the wife of Gerome, and he, poor fellow! probably doats upon her.”
“Then he is very much to be pitied.”
“He is. You are just right—he is greatly to be pitied, but of what avail is pity or commiseration to a despairing lover?”
“Not much avail.”
“None whatever.”
“I do hope and trust he will get over the disappointment.”
“I don’t think he ever will.”
“That is very sad, indeed. But cannot you divine the reason for her objecting to the union?”
“I have my ideas upon the subject; but these are only surmises, which are vague and unsupported by facts. Still, I am under the impression that there is a reason—what this is I do not care to say.”
“Oh, no—I suppose so. Far be it from me to intrude upon family secrets. These are matters which no man has a right to inquire into.”
“It is altogether a most unfortunate affair, and one I have great reason to regret. I wish now we had never seen Gerome Chanet. I fancy we should all of us have been spared a great deal of anxiety had we not known him.”
“That is likely enough, madame,” returned Ethalwood, “but it is impossible for the wisest of us to foresee these things. It would have been well, perhaps, if I had not been so close an intimate of the family.”
“I have not said so, my lord.”
“No, madame, you are a great deal too considerate to make such an uncourteous observation, but we cannot alter the events which are now past. We have to consider the future, and your daughter’s happiness in the years that are to come.”
“I am afraid she is tossed about in a stormy sea of trouble at the present moment. How it will end none of us can determine.”
“She has a sincere and attached friend in me, and anything I can possibly do to serve her will be most cheerfully done.”
“She looks upon you as her friend, Lord Ethalwood. I hope she is not mistaken.”
“Mistaken, madame! Do you doubt my sincerity?”
“I have the greatest possible esteem for you,” returned Madame Trieste.
The conversation was abruptly brought to a close by the girl, Agatha, making her appearance. She announced the arrival of a visitor.
At first Ethalwood thought it was his rival, but he was presently informed that the new arrival was an old lady who was a near neighbour of his hostess. The latter left the summer-house, and Lord Ethalwood soon found himself alone in the little alcove.
He was ill at ease, troubled in his mind, and did not know very well how to act. The matter could be easily enough brought to a satisfactory conclusion by his openly avowing his attachment for the French maiden, but for prudential reasons he refrained from adopting such a course.
His oath to his deceased relative was an insurmountable barrier, and, in addition to this, there were others of a lesser note.
Nevertheless, he was not disposed to give up the beauteous young female who held him in bondage.
“I am a silly, weak, love-sick fool,” he murmured, “to be hesitating and vacillating after this fashion. I haven’t a grain of resolution left in my whole composition. What must—what can be the end of all this? Nothing but trouble and difficulty! And yet I appear to be powerless. I cannot—nay, I will not—abandon Theresa.”
These words were hardly out of his mouth when the party in question made her appearance in the garden. Lord Ethalwood at once rose to meet her.
She was dressed as if about to go abroad, and he at once remembered her suggestion respecting an afternoon walk.
“This is most kind and considerate on your part,” he exclaimed. “I perceive you are ready, and, I hope, willing, to do me the honour of becoming my companion for a short ramble.”
The young girl nodded, and said, “You must mention the subject to madame, my mother.”
“By all means, Mademoiselle Trieste,” said he, leading her to the alcove, and conducting her to a seat. This done, he flew into the house and informed Madame that he and her daughter were about to take a ramble over the mountains for an hour or so. The widow made no objection, and the young man and the maiden were soon far away from the house, taking their way over a narrow footpath, which was the beaten track of travellers who took delight in wandering over the mountains.
The conversation between the two was, as may readily be imagined, of a tender nature. Lord Ethalwood was profuse in his protestations. He told his companion that he found life insupportable when he was away from her, and a thousand other declarations of a similar character, one or two of which would have sufficed to turn the young girl’s head.
She listened to him, and, like an infatuated fool that she was, believed all he said. She was flattered by the encomiums he passed upon her, charmed with his protestations of love. He, in his turn, was at no loss to perceive the effect his words had on her, and he felt proud that he had so much power over a young and confiding maiden.
They sat on the promontory of a rock, and looked out at the distant mountains, whose peeks were now gilded with the rays of the setting sun. Here he again poured into her ear the soft and delusive whispers of love, and Theresa Trieste was enraptured by his eloquence, which sounded as sweet and seductive as the Arcadian lutes did to the village maidens of old.
While thus seated together, their arms encircling each other’s waist, their hands locked together and touching, a dark form was visible on an adjacent rock. It was that of a hunter, who paused, and whose eyes of flame were instantly fixed on the lovers. This was Gerome Chanet, who stood like a statue—still, silent, and immovable. Fire was at his heart, and the demon of jealousy had him in his clutches.
“Theresa!” he hissed between his clenched teeth, “and withhim—with the Englishman. Heaven be merciful to me, for I feel as one about to sink into some dark and fathomless abyss.”
Neither Lord Ethalwood nor his companion was aware that their actions were being watched by the terrible and vengeful young mountaineer.
When by chance either of them turned their heads Gerome crept behind a mountain peak and stood motionless.
He was the very personification of mute despair.
No wonder. Theresa Trieste had cast him off. The reason was now but too palpable. Gerome felt that he had lost the dearly-coveted prize he had sought with such pertinacity for so many years.
The looks, the attitude, the low whispers which the loving pair were exchanging told the mountaineer of the utter hopelessness of his case.
Theresa would not condescend to even look at him after this.
He felt so supremely miserable at this time that the thought crossed his mind of committing suicide there and then by precipitating himself from the promontory upon which he stood.
But upon second thoughts he made up his mind to make one last desperate effort. He would send a messenger to the earl and ask him to give him an interview. As a gentleman, he could not refuse this request.
Having made up his mind to this course of action, Gerome Chanet crept like a guilty thing over the rocks, and had his dark and miserable hours all alone.
Meanwhile the lovers had lingered, as lovers usually do, much longer than they had intended, and warned by the shadows of the evening, they both rose and made the best of their way back to Madame Trieste’s residence.
The widow cast an inquiring look at the lovers. She judged rightly enough that ample time had been afforded them for explanations as to the past and promises and good resolutions for the future. As may be readily imagined nothing would have pleased her better than seeing Lord Ethalwood in the character of an acknowledged suitor of her daughter, but she was far too prudent to suggest or even hint at such a thing. Like a prudent mother she thought it best to leave the young people alone, as in any case matters would not be forwarded by her interference.
The evening passed over pleasantly enough; the inmates of the chateau were more sociable and in better spirits than they had been in the earlier portion of the day. From Theresa’s manner Madame Trieste augured that she had had a satisfactorytête-a-têtewith the earl, and he on his part was more than usually pleasant and animated.