Chapter Thirty One.A Labyrinth of Jealousies.No more on that night came the cousins together. If by chance they met, it was to pass one another as strangers unacquainted, exchanging neither speech nor look. Further attempt at reconciliation Eustace meant not to make now; he rather regretted having gone so far already.As for Reginald, he would not have listened to it. A sentiment inspired hostility to his cousin, far stronger than any vexation at his having forsaken the King’s cause—altogether different. For it was jealousy; the same he had first felt during that exciting scene at Hollymead, and since brooded over till it had become an all-pervading passion. Eustace had replaced him in the affections of Vaga Powell—or he at least suspected it—that was provocation enough for antipathy, even hatred. And almost this he now entertained for him.Whatever the political disagreement among the others assembled at Montserrat House, there was no open exhibition of it Royalists and Roundheads stood in groups, or moved about, chatting in a familiar, many of them friendly, way. Officers who had been face to face on the battlefield, and done their best to take one another a lives, here met in mutual good humour, with laughing allusion to the changed circumstances. And when the dancing commenced, gentlemen might be seen, noted adherents of the Parliament, some wearing its uniform, with ladies as their partners strongly affected to the King’s cause; while, in the couplesvis-à-visto them, the political sentiments would be reversed.But the majority of those who danced, being the gayjeunesse, had no thought of politics, nor care for them one way or the other. They left, that to their elders, and those more seriously disposed; to themselves the delights of the dance being the controlling influence of the hour.Still there were some, even of the youthful, with whom this was but a secondary consideration. Sabrina Powell preferred strolling about the grounds with Sir Richard Walwyn, for they had much to say to one another. Of late their opportunities of meeting had been few and far between, and they werefiancée.Different with Vaga. She was an ardent worshipper of Terpsichore, and few equalled her in the accomplishment of dancing—scarce any excelling. She was up in every set; and, could she have multiplied herself to count a score, would have found a partner for every unit. A very host sought, with eagerness, to engage her.There was one who observed this with a secret vexation—Clarisse. Not that she was without her share of aspiring partners; she had them in numbers equalling those of her “country cousin.” But even that did not satisfy her; craving universal incense she wanted all.Possibly, she would have cared less had the rival belle been any other than Vaga Powell. But already between the two had sprung up rivalry of a nature different from any competition as to who should shine brightest at a ball. In a word, they were both in love with Eustace Trevor, and each knew, or suspected it, of the other.On this night Clarisse had the advantage. Though her mother ostensibly gave the entertainment, she herself was the promoter of it—in a manner mistress of the ceremonies. As such, commanding the music, the arrangement of the dances, and, to a certain extent, who should dance with whom. Not much cared she, however, to exercise this control over other than Eustace Trevor, which she did so effectually, that the two danced together oftener than seemed consistent with ballroom etiquette, and far too frequently to escape observation.Remarks were made about it, and by the partisans of both sides. “That explains Madame Lalande’s defection from our cause,” said the Cavaliers. “We now know why this entertainment is being given,” remarked the Parliamentarians; “clearly for Captain Eustace Trevor.”And Vaga Powell! What thought she? How did she feel about it? As one at first perplexed, then sorely pained. She who, on the summit of Ruardean Hill, had talked so lightly of love—almost boasted of never having experienced the sentiment—was now within its toils and suffering its torments.And but little of its delights had she yet known—nothing beyond hopes and vague anticipations. For from the hour when Eustace Trevor plucked the ostrich feathers from his hat, replacing them by those of the egret, she and he had never another opportunity of taking up the thread of the dialogue her sister had so inopportunely interrupted. Several interviews between them since, but all under surveillance or constraint. This, however, had failed to change or weaken the sentiment with which he had inspired her; perhaps strengthened it. True to her profession of constancy, when she said—“If I ever had loved a man, I think I should love him still,” she did love him still; on that night with a passion burning as it was bitter.And the very thing that was filling her heart with gloom gave joy to another. Glad was Reginald Trevor to see his cousin Eustace paying attentions in the quarter where he seemed paying them—to Clarisse Lalande. During all the intervening time since he himself had suffered rebuff, or fancied it, despair had never quite mastered him. As most young Cavaliers, he believed himself a lady—slaughterer irresistible; and to the belief of his having made a conquest of Vaga Powell he would still have confidently clung; but his cousin, of late having better opportunity, had destroyed his chances. And now, seeing Eustace apparently neglectful of her, while all attention to Clarisse Lalande, the old confidence returned to him: he had been labouring under a misconception, and Vaga Powell loved him after all!Indeed, but for a lingering belief in this, he would not have been there. No thought of ball or supper had brought him to Montserrat House, but the hope of holding speech with her. For, notwithstanding all that had occurred, he entertained such hope. True, he had offended her father; but that was in the exercise of his duties, and under some provocation. Perhaps it was forgotten, or might be forgiven; perhaps she had more than forgiven it already. This night he would know.An opportunity of speaking with her soon offered. There was little difficulty in his obtaining that. Madame Lalande kept no guard over her nieces, having enough to do in looking after herchère Clarisse. And their father was not with them. If within the house he was not a partaker in its gaieties. With no relish for such, he had declined taking part in them. But liberal in this, as in everything else, he placed no constraint on the inclinations of his girls. They were free to dance, as to walk, ride, or go hawking.The two were standing together as Reginald Trevor approached them. He had but bowed as he was received on entering, and felt gratified at having his salutation returned. Still more now when permitted to enter into conversation with them; finding, if not affability, anything but the distant coldness he had half anticipated. The truth was they had heard many things about him in the interval; that, though fighting for a cause they detested, he had fought gallantly, and gained renown. It is woman’s nature to look leniently on the faults of a man who comports himself with courage; and these girls were both of generous disposition. Besides, he was now a defeated man; if not humiliated, a prisoner. Enough that to claim their compassion, and he had it.Only a few words were exchanged between him and Sabrina—commonplace, and relating to things of a past time. There was one she more desired conversing with; and, turning away, left Reginald Trevor alone with her sister. Long ere then she had learnt where Vaga’s predilection lay, and could trust this young lady to take care of herself.“I suppose you’ve quite forgotten me, Mistress Vaga?” he said, when Sabrina was out of hearing.“You give me credit for a very short memory, Captain Trevor,” she promptly returned, but in no unkindly tone. “Why should you think I’ve forgotten you?”“Oh! so many matters and events since I last had the pleasure of seeing you. And you’ve met so many other people, more interesting than myself, I could hardly hope for your bearing me in mind.”He spoke in a subdued, humble way, unlike his old swagger; which had the effect of still farther inclining her to kindness. As yet, however, it was but sympathy for his misfortunes.“But, Captain Trevor, all that would not justify me in forgetting a friend; as I think you were, and would have continued, but for these troubles that have turned so many friends to foes.”“No one regrets them more than I; and for the best of reasons.”He had a reason for regretting them in the fact of his being a prisoner. No light matter just then; for, though not kept confined in a prison, he might at any moment be cast into one, only to be led forth from it to execution. The King had not yet ceased fulminating his threats of retaliation; and, should these be carried out, he, in all likelihood, would be among the foremost of its victims.He was not speaking the truth, however, in saying he regretted the troubles. As a soldier of fortune they were bread to him, promising fame with promotion. He might look to regaining his liberty by exchange, or otherwise, and once more get upon the ladder of ascent.Nor had the reasons he spoke of aught to do with his being a prisoner; though she seemed, or affected, so to understand them.“Indeed, yes,” she rejoined, “you have been very unfortunate, Captain Trevor. I’m sorry you should have been taken; still more, fighting on the side you were.”“Oh, thank you!” he returned, encouraged by her kind words, and without heeding the last clause. “But ’tis not for that I care. What makes me regret the war is the loss of friendships. And,” he added, speaking in a lower tone, but more impressively, “the fear of having lost yours.”“But you have not, sir—so much as it is worth. My father was angry in those days; so were we all. But, then, you were not to blame—we could not think that, did not—knowing you acted under orders.”“Ah! never had I an order to execute so much against my wish, never one with such disagreeable consequences, separating me so long from—”He hesitated to say whom or what. But, mistaking her look of simple inquiry for one of a more interested nature, he completed the speech with one other word—“yourself.”She started, looking a little confused, but remained silent; which he, again misinterpreting, took as a permission to go on, which he did, with increased fervour.“Yes, Mistress Vaga! that was my chief regret, never out of my mind for a moment since. Many the night on watch and guard have I thought of you. Sleepless they would have been, even without duty to keep me awake.”“But why all this, sir? Why should I be a cause to keep you awake?”She spoke in a tone that suddenly checked and chilled him. For the question recalled a fact he seemed to overlook, or had forgotten—that Vaga Powell had never acknowledged him in the light of a lover; never before given him permission to address words to her such as he was now speaking.“Ah!” he answered, with a disappointed air, “if you do not know why, ’tis not much use my telling you.” Then adding, with a sigh, “I had hopes you would have understood me.”She did understand him perfectly; knew his aspirations and their hopelessness. And never was she less inclined to give heed to them than at that moment. For close by she saw her cousin Clarisse by the side of his cousin Eustace, the two standing up as partners for a dance about to begin.If Reginald Trevor suffered the pangs of an unrequited love, Vaga Powell was in a very torment of jealousy. For the air and attitude of the other two seemed to speak of something more than the mere indifference of dancing partners. The Creole had hold of his arm, was hanging upon it, her eyes upturned to his face with a languishing, loving smile, which he appeared to reciprocate.Rather a pleasing sight to Reginald, for reasons that just then presented themselves. But a painful one to her with whom he was conversing—torture itself.All at once a thought occurred to her, which promised something, if not relief. Anyhow, it gave this and more to Reginald Trevor. For of the many seeking her hand for the dance, he was the one preferred, and with an alacrity that somewhat surprised, while delighting him.His delight would have been less could he have fathomed her motive and design. Little dreamt he of either, or that he was about to be utilised solely as a pawn for playing the game ofpiques.
No more on that night came the cousins together. If by chance they met, it was to pass one another as strangers unacquainted, exchanging neither speech nor look. Further attempt at reconciliation Eustace meant not to make now; he rather regretted having gone so far already.
As for Reginald, he would not have listened to it. A sentiment inspired hostility to his cousin, far stronger than any vexation at his having forsaken the King’s cause—altogether different. For it was jealousy; the same he had first felt during that exciting scene at Hollymead, and since brooded over till it had become an all-pervading passion. Eustace had replaced him in the affections of Vaga Powell—or he at least suspected it—that was provocation enough for antipathy, even hatred. And almost this he now entertained for him.
Whatever the political disagreement among the others assembled at Montserrat House, there was no open exhibition of it Royalists and Roundheads stood in groups, or moved about, chatting in a familiar, many of them friendly, way. Officers who had been face to face on the battlefield, and done their best to take one another a lives, here met in mutual good humour, with laughing allusion to the changed circumstances. And when the dancing commenced, gentlemen might be seen, noted adherents of the Parliament, some wearing its uniform, with ladies as their partners strongly affected to the King’s cause; while, in the couplesvis-à-visto them, the political sentiments would be reversed.
But the majority of those who danced, being the gayjeunesse, had no thought of politics, nor care for them one way or the other. They left, that to their elders, and those more seriously disposed; to themselves the delights of the dance being the controlling influence of the hour.
Still there were some, even of the youthful, with whom this was but a secondary consideration. Sabrina Powell preferred strolling about the grounds with Sir Richard Walwyn, for they had much to say to one another. Of late their opportunities of meeting had been few and far between, and they werefiancée.
Different with Vaga. She was an ardent worshipper of Terpsichore, and few equalled her in the accomplishment of dancing—scarce any excelling. She was up in every set; and, could she have multiplied herself to count a score, would have found a partner for every unit. A very host sought, with eagerness, to engage her.
There was one who observed this with a secret vexation—Clarisse. Not that she was without her share of aspiring partners; she had them in numbers equalling those of her “country cousin.” But even that did not satisfy her; craving universal incense she wanted all.
Possibly, she would have cared less had the rival belle been any other than Vaga Powell. But already between the two had sprung up rivalry of a nature different from any competition as to who should shine brightest at a ball. In a word, they were both in love with Eustace Trevor, and each knew, or suspected it, of the other.
On this night Clarisse had the advantage. Though her mother ostensibly gave the entertainment, she herself was the promoter of it—in a manner mistress of the ceremonies. As such, commanding the music, the arrangement of the dances, and, to a certain extent, who should dance with whom. Not much cared she, however, to exercise this control over other than Eustace Trevor, which she did so effectually, that the two danced together oftener than seemed consistent with ballroom etiquette, and far too frequently to escape observation.
Remarks were made about it, and by the partisans of both sides. “That explains Madame Lalande’s defection from our cause,” said the Cavaliers. “We now know why this entertainment is being given,” remarked the Parliamentarians; “clearly for Captain Eustace Trevor.”
And Vaga Powell! What thought she? How did she feel about it? As one at first perplexed, then sorely pained. She who, on the summit of Ruardean Hill, had talked so lightly of love—almost boasted of never having experienced the sentiment—was now within its toils and suffering its torments.
And but little of its delights had she yet known—nothing beyond hopes and vague anticipations. For from the hour when Eustace Trevor plucked the ostrich feathers from his hat, replacing them by those of the egret, she and he had never another opportunity of taking up the thread of the dialogue her sister had so inopportunely interrupted. Several interviews between them since, but all under surveillance or constraint. This, however, had failed to change or weaken the sentiment with which he had inspired her; perhaps strengthened it. True to her profession of constancy, when she said—“If I ever had loved a man, I think I should love him still,” she did love him still; on that night with a passion burning as it was bitter.
And the very thing that was filling her heart with gloom gave joy to another. Glad was Reginald Trevor to see his cousin Eustace paying attentions in the quarter where he seemed paying them—to Clarisse Lalande. During all the intervening time since he himself had suffered rebuff, or fancied it, despair had never quite mastered him. As most young Cavaliers, he believed himself a lady—slaughterer irresistible; and to the belief of his having made a conquest of Vaga Powell he would still have confidently clung; but his cousin, of late having better opportunity, had destroyed his chances. And now, seeing Eustace apparently neglectful of her, while all attention to Clarisse Lalande, the old confidence returned to him: he had been labouring under a misconception, and Vaga Powell loved him after all!
Indeed, but for a lingering belief in this, he would not have been there. No thought of ball or supper had brought him to Montserrat House, but the hope of holding speech with her. For, notwithstanding all that had occurred, he entertained such hope. True, he had offended her father; but that was in the exercise of his duties, and under some provocation. Perhaps it was forgotten, or might be forgiven; perhaps she had more than forgiven it already. This night he would know.
An opportunity of speaking with her soon offered. There was little difficulty in his obtaining that. Madame Lalande kept no guard over her nieces, having enough to do in looking after herchère Clarisse. And their father was not with them. If within the house he was not a partaker in its gaieties. With no relish for such, he had declined taking part in them. But liberal in this, as in everything else, he placed no constraint on the inclinations of his girls. They were free to dance, as to walk, ride, or go hawking.
The two were standing together as Reginald Trevor approached them. He had but bowed as he was received on entering, and felt gratified at having his salutation returned. Still more now when permitted to enter into conversation with them; finding, if not affability, anything but the distant coldness he had half anticipated. The truth was they had heard many things about him in the interval; that, though fighting for a cause they detested, he had fought gallantly, and gained renown. It is woman’s nature to look leniently on the faults of a man who comports himself with courage; and these girls were both of generous disposition. Besides, he was now a defeated man; if not humiliated, a prisoner. Enough that to claim their compassion, and he had it.
Only a few words were exchanged between him and Sabrina—commonplace, and relating to things of a past time. There was one she more desired conversing with; and, turning away, left Reginald Trevor alone with her sister. Long ere then she had learnt where Vaga’s predilection lay, and could trust this young lady to take care of herself.
“I suppose you’ve quite forgotten me, Mistress Vaga?” he said, when Sabrina was out of hearing.
“You give me credit for a very short memory, Captain Trevor,” she promptly returned, but in no unkindly tone. “Why should you think I’ve forgotten you?”
“Oh! so many matters and events since I last had the pleasure of seeing you. And you’ve met so many other people, more interesting than myself, I could hardly hope for your bearing me in mind.”
He spoke in a subdued, humble way, unlike his old swagger; which had the effect of still farther inclining her to kindness. As yet, however, it was but sympathy for his misfortunes.
“But, Captain Trevor, all that would not justify me in forgetting a friend; as I think you were, and would have continued, but for these troubles that have turned so many friends to foes.”
“No one regrets them more than I; and for the best of reasons.”
He had a reason for regretting them in the fact of his being a prisoner. No light matter just then; for, though not kept confined in a prison, he might at any moment be cast into one, only to be led forth from it to execution. The King had not yet ceased fulminating his threats of retaliation; and, should these be carried out, he, in all likelihood, would be among the foremost of its victims.
He was not speaking the truth, however, in saying he regretted the troubles. As a soldier of fortune they were bread to him, promising fame with promotion. He might look to regaining his liberty by exchange, or otherwise, and once more get upon the ladder of ascent.
Nor had the reasons he spoke of aught to do with his being a prisoner; though she seemed, or affected, so to understand them.
“Indeed, yes,” she rejoined, “you have been very unfortunate, Captain Trevor. I’m sorry you should have been taken; still more, fighting on the side you were.”
“Oh, thank you!” he returned, encouraged by her kind words, and without heeding the last clause. “But ’tis not for that I care. What makes me regret the war is the loss of friendships. And,” he added, speaking in a lower tone, but more impressively, “the fear of having lost yours.”
“But you have not, sir—so much as it is worth. My father was angry in those days; so were we all. But, then, you were not to blame—we could not think that, did not—knowing you acted under orders.”
“Ah! never had I an order to execute so much against my wish, never one with such disagreeable consequences, separating me so long from—”
He hesitated to say whom or what. But, mistaking her look of simple inquiry for one of a more interested nature, he completed the speech with one other word—“yourself.”
She started, looking a little confused, but remained silent; which he, again misinterpreting, took as a permission to go on, which he did, with increased fervour.
“Yes, Mistress Vaga! that was my chief regret, never out of my mind for a moment since. Many the night on watch and guard have I thought of you. Sleepless they would have been, even without duty to keep me awake.”
“But why all this, sir? Why should I be a cause to keep you awake?”
She spoke in a tone that suddenly checked and chilled him. For the question recalled a fact he seemed to overlook, or had forgotten—that Vaga Powell had never acknowledged him in the light of a lover; never before given him permission to address words to her such as he was now speaking.
“Ah!” he answered, with a disappointed air, “if you do not know why, ’tis not much use my telling you.” Then adding, with a sigh, “I had hopes you would have understood me.”
She did understand him perfectly; knew his aspirations and their hopelessness. And never was she less inclined to give heed to them than at that moment. For close by she saw her cousin Clarisse by the side of his cousin Eustace, the two standing up as partners for a dance about to begin.
If Reginald Trevor suffered the pangs of an unrequited love, Vaga Powell was in a very torment of jealousy. For the air and attitude of the other two seemed to speak of something more than the mere indifference of dancing partners. The Creole had hold of his arm, was hanging upon it, her eyes upturned to his face with a languishing, loving smile, which he appeared to reciprocate.
Rather a pleasing sight to Reginald, for reasons that just then presented themselves. But a painful one to her with whom he was conversing—torture itself.
All at once a thought occurred to her, which promised something, if not relief. Anyhow, it gave this and more to Reginald Trevor. For of the many seeking her hand for the dance, he was the one preferred, and with an alacrity that somewhat surprised, while delighting him.
His delight would have been less could he have fathomed her motive and design. Little dreamt he of either, or that he was about to be utilised solely as a pawn for playing the game ofpiques.
Chapter Thirty Two.A Contradanza.It was acontredanse; the “contradanza” of Spain transmitted through France to England, where it had become naturalised, and by a misapprehension of terms called “country dance” It was thepièce de resistanceof the time, before the introduction of the cotillon, quadrille, and other “square” dances.The assemblage being a large one, several sets danced at the same time, inside the house and without, the music in a central position availing for all.The set in which figured Mademoiselle Lalande was, of course, the select one, comprising theéliteof the family’s friends and resident gentry, with the strangers of greatest distinction, military and civilian. It was formed on the lawn outside, in front of the withdrawing-room windows, where a spread of smooth, firm turf afforded ample space, and a floor for dancing good as that of any ballroom. Better, slips and tumbles considered. Around and overhead were strings of lamps suspended from the trees, while a profusion of flowers, now in full blow, filled the air with incense. A warm summer’s night, with such surroundings, the Creole girl might have fancied herself back in her native isle of the Antilles, under the palms and amidst the flashingcocuyos.As if she had such a fancy, her grand dark eyes were aglow with delight—triumph in them too. But neither had to do with any thought of scenes or things transatlantic. The cause was by her side, and she took no pains to conceal it. Impassioned child of the tropics, never in her life gainsaid, she had needed not the resorts of subterfuge; instead openly demanding and having whatever she desired. And now desiring Eustace Trevor, she believed she had secured him.Certainly it seemed so; and as if with her wiles and witchery—bold ways the sober Bristolians called them—she had succeeded in weaving a spell around him. Once already had he been her partner, and now for the second time was he standing up with her, to all appearance absorbed in what she said, making impressive responses, partaking of her joy and triumph.This was what Vaga Powell supposed; and no wonder at her jealousy stung to the highest, bitterest pitch. But the green-eyed monster sees with eyes that distort and exaggerate, as hers were doing then. She was putting a wrong interpretation on what she saw, reading it reversely to the truth. A disinterested spectator, with skill in physiognomy, could have told that Eustace Trevor, so far from being taken up with Clarisse Lalande, would have been glad to get disembarrassed of her. He too was at that moment suffering pangs of jealousy equal to those he inflicted. This from seeing his cousin the partner of Vaga Powell, thinking of Reginald’s acquaintance with her older than his own, and recalling something he had heard of between them antecedent to the time of his introduction at Hollymead. Only a rumour it was—a vague whisper—but it spoke of relations of a nature warmer and more confidential than those of mere friendship.Could it have been so, and was there a renewal of them? These were the questions self-asked by theci-devantgentleman-usher. Seemingly answered in the affirmative by what he now saw. For, young as was the younger daughter of Ambrose Powell, she was no child of simplicity, but could play at coquetting with the oldest and cleverest coquette there. If he in her eyes seemed too assiduously attentive to Clarisse, she in his appeared the same with Reginald.An odd position of affairs it was with thisquartetteof cousins as regarded their feelings towards one another—a play of cross purposes, triangularly twisted and sinister, but in a manner symmetrical. The two men in love with the same woman, the two women loving the same man, yet two of the four not loved at all—as it were, left out in the cold. And these last the ones that were joyous and exultant, the others despondent and sad.Could hearts see into hearts, and read the writing therein, all this would have been reversed; the glad ones would have ceased to be gay, and on the instant, while the sad ones would as suddenly have found joy. But the people so perversely astray could not comprehend one another. Not likely with everything done to hinder it—glances, attitudes, gestures, all meant to deceive.And so the mutual misconception remained throughout the night. Dance succeeded dance, but in none was Eustace Trevor the partner of Vaga Powell.And yet the fault was not with him, though it may appear so. His dancing the first set with Clarisse was quite accidental so far as he was concerned. He had not sought to engage her; on the contrary she seeking him—in a manner commanding him. Officially privileged, she might do so without incurring censure or challenging remark. But when the thing was repeated, and for the second time in succession they were seen standing up together, a whisper went round that it meant something more than mere inadvertency—in short, a decided preference.And so was it with her at least, he neither feeling it nor conscious of her design. For, in truth, he had been on the way to seek Vaga Powell and ask her for the second set, when once more encountering Clarisse, as by chance, she exclaimed, in a half patronising, half-coaxing way,—“How well you dance, Captain Trevor! So different from all the others.”Rather surprised by such a plain-spoken compliment, flattery in fact—he was about to give it this name—but, without waiting his rejoinder, she rattled on,—“And I hope you’re enough satisfied withmydancing to have me for your partner again—you will, won’t you?”Solicitation seeming bold, almost to shamelessness. It would have been this in an English girl; but one knowing Clarisse Lalande, her impulsive nature, and the way she had been brought up, could better pardon it.“It will give me the greatest pleasure,” was his response. He would not have been man—less gentleman—to answer otherwise. Both gallantry and good manners enforced an affirmative.“Consider yourself engaged then!”“By all means, Mademoiselle. For which set?”“Oh! now—the next. I wish it.”Another surprise to him, anything but agreeable. It interfered with his intentions, spoiling his own programme. But there was no help for it, no gain saying a wish so plainly expressed, and he stammered out assent with the best grace possible.As the music for the second set was just commencing, she thrust her jewelled fingers inside his arm, and conducted him, rather than he her, back to the place of dancing.It was then Vaga Powell experienced that jealous pang which determined her to the line of action she was pursuing. But it was a jealousy neither new, nor born of that hour; only in that hour reaching the climax and acme of its keenness. Eustace Trevor twice dancing with her cousin, and never coming near herself! Never once, even to say a word, since the one or two of ceremony exchanged between them at his first entering and reception. No wonder at her being a prey to jealousy!But she was not alone in the experience of its misery. He, in his turn, was tasting of it too. When at length released from his engagement with the Creole, inopportune as irksome, and he again sought Vaga Powell, it was to find her in a mood aught but amiable. And with Reginald still by her side—she had no difficulty in retaininghim—the two seemingly engrossed with one another. Well and skilfully—too well and too skilfully—was the damsel of Dean Forest playing her part.As Eustace approached them, Reginald drew back a pace, and stood in an attitude of dignified stiffness, with a perceptible triumph in his eyes, and something like a sneer on his lips. No word of salutation passed between the cousins now—not even nod of recognition—and one seeing who knew them not would have supposed them utter strangers. Eustace but bowed to the lady; and, as the music was just sounding the prelude to another dance, he asked, in rather a timid, doubting way,—“May I have you for a partner, Mistress Vaga?”At another time, even earlier that night, he might have addressed her differently and more familiarly—ay, would have been safe in saying—“Let us dance, dear Vaga!” But he had neither thought nor confidence to “dear” her now, nor she the desire to be deared. Curt, and almost disdainful was her answer,—“Sorry; but I’m engaged.”He did not need being told to whom, the triumphant bearing of his cousin declared that; and, with a bow of feigned resignation, and much bitterness of heart, he withdrew, leaving them to themselves.And so the jealous fire, just kindled in his breast, burned on in hers, not that night to be extinguished.
It was acontredanse; the “contradanza” of Spain transmitted through France to England, where it had become naturalised, and by a misapprehension of terms called “country dance” It was thepièce de resistanceof the time, before the introduction of the cotillon, quadrille, and other “square” dances.
The assemblage being a large one, several sets danced at the same time, inside the house and without, the music in a central position availing for all.
The set in which figured Mademoiselle Lalande was, of course, the select one, comprising theéliteof the family’s friends and resident gentry, with the strangers of greatest distinction, military and civilian. It was formed on the lawn outside, in front of the withdrawing-room windows, where a spread of smooth, firm turf afforded ample space, and a floor for dancing good as that of any ballroom. Better, slips and tumbles considered. Around and overhead were strings of lamps suspended from the trees, while a profusion of flowers, now in full blow, filled the air with incense. A warm summer’s night, with such surroundings, the Creole girl might have fancied herself back in her native isle of the Antilles, under the palms and amidst the flashingcocuyos.
As if she had such a fancy, her grand dark eyes were aglow with delight—triumph in them too. But neither had to do with any thought of scenes or things transatlantic. The cause was by her side, and she took no pains to conceal it. Impassioned child of the tropics, never in her life gainsaid, she had needed not the resorts of subterfuge; instead openly demanding and having whatever she desired. And now desiring Eustace Trevor, she believed she had secured him.
Certainly it seemed so; and as if with her wiles and witchery—bold ways the sober Bristolians called them—she had succeeded in weaving a spell around him. Once already had he been her partner, and now for the second time was he standing up with her, to all appearance absorbed in what she said, making impressive responses, partaking of her joy and triumph.
This was what Vaga Powell supposed; and no wonder at her jealousy stung to the highest, bitterest pitch. But the green-eyed monster sees with eyes that distort and exaggerate, as hers were doing then. She was putting a wrong interpretation on what she saw, reading it reversely to the truth. A disinterested spectator, with skill in physiognomy, could have told that Eustace Trevor, so far from being taken up with Clarisse Lalande, would have been glad to get disembarrassed of her. He too was at that moment suffering pangs of jealousy equal to those he inflicted. This from seeing his cousin the partner of Vaga Powell, thinking of Reginald’s acquaintance with her older than his own, and recalling something he had heard of between them antecedent to the time of his introduction at Hollymead. Only a rumour it was—a vague whisper—but it spoke of relations of a nature warmer and more confidential than those of mere friendship.
Could it have been so, and was there a renewal of them? These were the questions self-asked by theci-devantgentleman-usher. Seemingly answered in the affirmative by what he now saw. For, young as was the younger daughter of Ambrose Powell, she was no child of simplicity, but could play at coquetting with the oldest and cleverest coquette there. If he in her eyes seemed too assiduously attentive to Clarisse, she in his appeared the same with Reginald.
An odd position of affairs it was with thisquartetteof cousins as regarded their feelings towards one another—a play of cross purposes, triangularly twisted and sinister, but in a manner symmetrical. The two men in love with the same woman, the two women loving the same man, yet two of the four not loved at all—as it were, left out in the cold. And these last the ones that were joyous and exultant, the others despondent and sad.
Could hearts see into hearts, and read the writing therein, all this would have been reversed; the glad ones would have ceased to be gay, and on the instant, while the sad ones would as suddenly have found joy. But the people so perversely astray could not comprehend one another. Not likely with everything done to hinder it—glances, attitudes, gestures, all meant to deceive.
And so the mutual misconception remained throughout the night. Dance succeeded dance, but in none was Eustace Trevor the partner of Vaga Powell.
And yet the fault was not with him, though it may appear so. His dancing the first set with Clarisse was quite accidental so far as he was concerned. He had not sought to engage her; on the contrary she seeking him—in a manner commanding him. Officially privileged, she might do so without incurring censure or challenging remark. But when the thing was repeated, and for the second time in succession they were seen standing up together, a whisper went round that it meant something more than mere inadvertency—in short, a decided preference.
And so was it with her at least, he neither feeling it nor conscious of her design. For, in truth, he had been on the way to seek Vaga Powell and ask her for the second set, when once more encountering Clarisse, as by chance, she exclaimed, in a half patronising, half-coaxing way,—
“How well you dance, Captain Trevor! So different from all the others.”
Rather surprised by such a plain-spoken compliment, flattery in fact—he was about to give it this name—but, without waiting his rejoinder, she rattled on,—
“And I hope you’re enough satisfied withmydancing to have me for your partner again—you will, won’t you?”
Solicitation seeming bold, almost to shamelessness. It would have been this in an English girl; but one knowing Clarisse Lalande, her impulsive nature, and the way she had been brought up, could better pardon it.
“It will give me the greatest pleasure,” was his response. He would not have been man—less gentleman—to answer otherwise. Both gallantry and good manners enforced an affirmative.
“Consider yourself engaged then!”
“By all means, Mademoiselle. For which set?”
“Oh! now—the next. I wish it.”
Another surprise to him, anything but agreeable. It interfered with his intentions, spoiling his own programme. But there was no help for it, no gain saying a wish so plainly expressed, and he stammered out assent with the best grace possible.
As the music for the second set was just commencing, she thrust her jewelled fingers inside his arm, and conducted him, rather than he her, back to the place of dancing.
It was then Vaga Powell experienced that jealous pang which determined her to the line of action she was pursuing. But it was a jealousy neither new, nor born of that hour; only in that hour reaching the climax and acme of its keenness. Eustace Trevor twice dancing with her cousin, and never coming near herself! Never once, even to say a word, since the one or two of ceremony exchanged between them at his first entering and reception. No wonder at her being a prey to jealousy!
But she was not alone in the experience of its misery. He, in his turn, was tasting of it too. When at length released from his engagement with the Creole, inopportune as irksome, and he again sought Vaga Powell, it was to find her in a mood aught but amiable. And with Reginald still by her side—she had no difficulty in retaininghim—the two seemingly engrossed with one another. Well and skilfully—too well and too skilfully—was the damsel of Dean Forest playing her part.
As Eustace approached them, Reginald drew back a pace, and stood in an attitude of dignified stiffness, with a perceptible triumph in his eyes, and something like a sneer on his lips. No word of salutation passed between the cousins now—not even nod of recognition—and one seeing who knew them not would have supposed them utter strangers. Eustace but bowed to the lady; and, as the music was just sounding the prelude to another dance, he asked, in rather a timid, doubting way,—
“May I have you for a partner, Mistress Vaga?”
At another time, even earlier that night, he might have addressed her differently and more familiarly—ay, would have been safe in saying—“Let us dance, dear Vaga!” But he had neither thought nor confidence to “dear” her now, nor she the desire to be deared. Curt, and almost disdainful was her answer,—
“Sorry; but I’m engaged.”
He did not need being told to whom, the triumphant bearing of his cousin declared that; and, with a bow of feigned resignation, and much bitterness of heart, he withdrew, leaving them to themselves.
And so the jealous fire, just kindled in his breast, burned on in hers, not that night to be extinguished.
Chapter Thirty Three.A Pas-Seul.Wide the breach now between Vaga Powell and Eustace Trevor, growing wider as the moments passed. Though the evolutions of the dance often brought them near one another, no more speech exchanged they that night; nor glances either. If by chance their eyes met there was a retirement on both sides, quick and subtle, as though each felt caught in some criminal act. For all they were mutually observant, and when only one looked, the other unconscious, it was with gaze continued, regard telling the tale of love and jealousy plainer and truer than could words.What had caused the rupture was still there to hinder its healing—on one side Clarisse, practising all her arts and seductions; on the other Reginald doing the same. And both, so far as they themselves believed, and general appearance might be trusted, with sinister success.Between these two, aiming at like ends, there was much similitude otherwise. Equally vain, Creole girl as Cavalier, they had grand reliance in their respective powers, each over the opposite sex. Though no Adonis, Reginald Trevor was a fairly handsome man—of the martial type, whom many a woman would have fancied, as many had. So favoured, and conscious of it, not so strange his restored confidence that he still possessed the affections of Vaga Powell. He had entertained this belief, and then partially lost it, but now it was back with him again, her behaviour seeming to justify it.There was less in the past to cloud the hopes of Clarisse—less known to her. For the antecedent circumstances between Eustace Trevor and her cousin had as yet been revealed to her only in a scant desultory way. She had heard of his having spent some days at Hollymead; had been told also of his sudden conversion there, and half suspected the cause. But she had herself observed nothing to confirm her suspicions. He had been several times on visit to Montserrat House, but always in the company of his colonel, Sir Richard; and while there his interviews with Vaga were under her own eyes and others. They might have met outside without her having knowledge of it. But it was in truth the brilliant beauty of her country cousin, which more than aught else troubled and had given rise to her jealousy. Still what was it to her own, with her powers of fascination? Nothing that night, thought she; and thus confident in herself, she noticed not the strange distraught air of her partner, as now and then his eyes turned furtively to the partner of his cousin.Thus unobservant, the two who cared not for one another danced joyously on little dreaming of that mad jealousy between the other two, but for which there would have been a quick change in the arrangement of the couples.“What next? What now?”The questions passing from lip to lip, late on in the night, and after anothercontredansehad come to a close. A whisper had got wing of something to succeed, altogether different—a dance of a special character, introduced to the Bristolians by the daughter of Madame Lalande.In those days, the era of the morris and other picturesque dances, excellence in the Coryphean art was esteemed a qualification; not lightly held as now, and deemed rather degrading. The French Queen had encouraged this, and noble dames oft vied with each other in saltatory displays.To show her superiority, Clarisse Lalande had prepared a surprise for the assembly at Montserrat House—a dance of the Antilles, in which she could have no competitor, nor need fear any if she had. It was also of Spanish origin, much practised in the West India islands; where, then as now, dancing was a thing of every night, and often of the day—even the negroes giving half their off-labour hours to it, jigging with a grace unknown to the peasantry of European lands. Their white “massas” were, many of them, perfectmaîtres-de-danse, and their young mistresses very Odalisques. Monsieur Lalande had prided himself on this accomplishment, and, as a matter of course, his daughter did the same—hence the resolve to make display of her proficiency.The music had been prearranged; the time too—after supper, when the excitement which comes of the wine cup would make it more attractive in the eyes of the spectators; though Clarisse Lalande was thinking of only one of them, and how it would affect him.It was new to most of the people present, but not all. The familiars of Montserrat House had witnessed it before, and were aware of its peculiarities. Apas-seulit was, danced only by a lady, though a gentleman had something to do with it at the termination. The lady commences in slow movement and gentle step, accompanied by pantomimic gestures; as she passes on every now and then stooping down, or reaching upward, to take hold of some object that has caught her eye. It is, in fact, a representation, in dumb show, of an Indian girl straying along a forest path in the act of gathering flowers. Nor does she pause while plucking them, only poising an instant on one limb, and, with a whirl, orpirouette, continuing onward. The step admits of many changes and every variety of attitude; according to whether the blossoms tempting her be on the right or left, down upon the earth, or overhead among the branches of the trees. All which affords fine opportunity for displaying the graces of figure and movement, with skill or cleverness in the pantomimic representation. After this has gone on for a time, the flower gatherer is seen to start, her features changing expression. Some sound in the forest has caught her ear. She pauses, bends low, and listens. At first interrogatively; then with apprehension, ending in alarm. Flight follows, the lines of if hither and thither in irregular zigzags, as if the affrighted girl, in her confusion, knows not which way to go. The movement is now violent, the gesticulation excited. At length the retreat takes a steadier course, around the outer edge of the arena, not by forward steps, but the whirling gyrations of a waltz. This being kept up for a turn or two, fatigue is counterfeited, with continued fear of the pursuing enemy, and by looks and gestures appeal is made to the spectators for help. These know, however, that only one is privileged to offer it—he whom she will designate by tossing to him a riband, kerchief, glove, or some such token. Hisrôle, then, is simply to step forth and place himself in the attitude of a rescuer, when the fugitive flings herself into his arms, looking all gratitude.When Clarisse Lalande took the floor, or, to speak more correctly, the turf,—for it was outside in the place already described,—there were few knowing the character of the novel dance but could give a guess as to who would be summoned to the rescue. Too soon to be thinking of that yet, however; all thoughts being engrossed by the Creole herself, all eyes fixed upon her, as she appeared in the open space, around which the spectators were now standing two deep. The whole company was there; the other dancing places, inside and out, for the time deserted.It was seen that she had changed her dress—this done during the interlude of supper—and was now in the costume of a Carib queen, short skirt and low boddice. Robes rather gauzy and transparent; at which some present were not slow to speak disapprovingly. But these were in the minority; the wonderful beauty of the girl, with a knowledge that her ways and bringing up had not been as theirs, made the majority large and something more than lenient. And when she became engaged in the innocent occupation of flower-gathering, like a brilliant butterfly flitting from one to another, satire was silent; even the most Puritanical seeming to forget all about the thinness and scantiness of her attire.Then came the start, the listening attitude, the affectation of alarm, followed by the confused flight; in grandvoltesin side-bounds, as an antelope surprised by a panther. At length the circling retreat, round and round the ring of spectators, at first in a rapid whirl, till feigning exhaustion, her movements gradually became slower and feebler, as though she would drop to the earth.Every eye was now on the alert; they knew thefinalewas near, and the recipient of the favour would soon be declared. It often means nothing beyond mere compliment; and as oft for delicate reasons, the favoured one is not the one wished for. But no such influences were likely to affect the present case, and thedénouementwas looked for with a rare intensity of interest.The girl had drawn off one of her jewelled gloves—in those days they were so adorned—and held it with arm astretch, ready to be flung. Still, she went undulating on, at each turn of her face toward the spectators seeming to search among them. Many a one had wishes, and more than one a hope of seeing that glove tossed to him. For Clarisse Lalande had a large following of lovers. All save one to suffer disappointment, with more or less chagrin. And yet giving no gratification to him at whose feet it eventually fell, as the wise ones knew it would—Eustace Trevor.With less show of alacrity than resignation he took it up; this an exigency of the performance. After which, with open arms, he received the exhausteddanseuse, her breasts heaving and panting as though they would burst the silken corset that so slightly confined them.Cold-blooded man he, many might have thought him. But had other breasts been thus near his own, another heart beating so close to his, he would have shown warmth enough.
Wide the breach now between Vaga Powell and Eustace Trevor, growing wider as the moments passed. Though the evolutions of the dance often brought them near one another, no more speech exchanged they that night; nor glances either. If by chance their eyes met there was a retirement on both sides, quick and subtle, as though each felt caught in some criminal act. For all they were mutually observant, and when only one looked, the other unconscious, it was with gaze continued, regard telling the tale of love and jealousy plainer and truer than could words.
What had caused the rupture was still there to hinder its healing—on one side Clarisse, practising all her arts and seductions; on the other Reginald doing the same. And both, so far as they themselves believed, and general appearance might be trusted, with sinister success.
Between these two, aiming at like ends, there was much similitude otherwise. Equally vain, Creole girl as Cavalier, they had grand reliance in their respective powers, each over the opposite sex. Though no Adonis, Reginald Trevor was a fairly handsome man—of the martial type, whom many a woman would have fancied, as many had. So favoured, and conscious of it, not so strange his restored confidence that he still possessed the affections of Vaga Powell. He had entertained this belief, and then partially lost it, but now it was back with him again, her behaviour seeming to justify it.
There was less in the past to cloud the hopes of Clarisse—less known to her. For the antecedent circumstances between Eustace Trevor and her cousin had as yet been revealed to her only in a scant desultory way. She had heard of his having spent some days at Hollymead; had been told also of his sudden conversion there, and half suspected the cause. But she had herself observed nothing to confirm her suspicions. He had been several times on visit to Montserrat House, but always in the company of his colonel, Sir Richard; and while there his interviews with Vaga were under her own eyes and others. They might have met outside without her having knowledge of it. But it was in truth the brilliant beauty of her country cousin, which more than aught else troubled and had given rise to her jealousy. Still what was it to her own, with her powers of fascination? Nothing that night, thought she; and thus confident in herself, she noticed not the strange distraught air of her partner, as now and then his eyes turned furtively to the partner of his cousin.
Thus unobservant, the two who cared not for one another danced joyously on little dreaming of that mad jealousy between the other two, but for which there would have been a quick change in the arrangement of the couples.
“What next? What now?”
The questions passing from lip to lip, late on in the night, and after anothercontredansehad come to a close. A whisper had got wing of something to succeed, altogether different—a dance of a special character, introduced to the Bristolians by the daughter of Madame Lalande.
In those days, the era of the morris and other picturesque dances, excellence in the Coryphean art was esteemed a qualification; not lightly held as now, and deemed rather degrading. The French Queen had encouraged this, and noble dames oft vied with each other in saltatory displays.
To show her superiority, Clarisse Lalande had prepared a surprise for the assembly at Montserrat House—a dance of the Antilles, in which she could have no competitor, nor need fear any if she had. It was also of Spanish origin, much practised in the West India islands; where, then as now, dancing was a thing of every night, and often of the day—even the negroes giving half their off-labour hours to it, jigging with a grace unknown to the peasantry of European lands. Their white “massas” were, many of them, perfectmaîtres-de-danse, and their young mistresses very Odalisques. Monsieur Lalande had prided himself on this accomplishment, and, as a matter of course, his daughter did the same—hence the resolve to make display of her proficiency.
The music had been prearranged; the time too—after supper, when the excitement which comes of the wine cup would make it more attractive in the eyes of the spectators; though Clarisse Lalande was thinking of only one of them, and how it would affect him.
It was new to most of the people present, but not all. The familiars of Montserrat House had witnessed it before, and were aware of its peculiarities. Apas-seulit was, danced only by a lady, though a gentleman had something to do with it at the termination. The lady commences in slow movement and gentle step, accompanied by pantomimic gestures; as she passes on every now and then stooping down, or reaching upward, to take hold of some object that has caught her eye. It is, in fact, a representation, in dumb show, of an Indian girl straying along a forest path in the act of gathering flowers. Nor does she pause while plucking them, only poising an instant on one limb, and, with a whirl, orpirouette, continuing onward. The step admits of many changes and every variety of attitude; according to whether the blossoms tempting her be on the right or left, down upon the earth, or overhead among the branches of the trees. All which affords fine opportunity for displaying the graces of figure and movement, with skill or cleverness in the pantomimic representation. After this has gone on for a time, the flower gatherer is seen to start, her features changing expression. Some sound in the forest has caught her ear. She pauses, bends low, and listens. At first interrogatively; then with apprehension, ending in alarm. Flight follows, the lines of if hither and thither in irregular zigzags, as if the affrighted girl, in her confusion, knows not which way to go. The movement is now violent, the gesticulation excited. At length the retreat takes a steadier course, around the outer edge of the arena, not by forward steps, but the whirling gyrations of a waltz. This being kept up for a turn or two, fatigue is counterfeited, with continued fear of the pursuing enemy, and by looks and gestures appeal is made to the spectators for help. These know, however, that only one is privileged to offer it—he whom she will designate by tossing to him a riband, kerchief, glove, or some such token. Hisrôle, then, is simply to step forth and place himself in the attitude of a rescuer, when the fugitive flings herself into his arms, looking all gratitude.
When Clarisse Lalande took the floor, or, to speak more correctly, the turf,—for it was outside in the place already described,—there were few knowing the character of the novel dance but could give a guess as to who would be summoned to the rescue. Too soon to be thinking of that yet, however; all thoughts being engrossed by the Creole herself, all eyes fixed upon her, as she appeared in the open space, around which the spectators were now standing two deep. The whole company was there; the other dancing places, inside and out, for the time deserted.
It was seen that she had changed her dress—this done during the interlude of supper—and was now in the costume of a Carib queen, short skirt and low boddice. Robes rather gauzy and transparent; at which some present were not slow to speak disapprovingly. But these were in the minority; the wonderful beauty of the girl, with a knowledge that her ways and bringing up had not been as theirs, made the majority large and something more than lenient. And when she became engaged in the innocent occupation of flower-gathering, like a brilliant butterfly flitting from one to another, satire was silent; even the most Puritanical seeming to forget all about the thinness and scantiness of her attire.
Then came the start, the listening attitude, the affectation of alarm, followed by the confused flight; in grandvoltesin side-bounds, as an antelope surprised by a panther. At length the circling retreat, round and round the ring of spectators, at first in a rapid whirl, till feigning exhaustion, her movements gradually became slower and feebler, as though she would drop to the earth.
Every eye was now on the alert; they knew thefinalewas near, and the recipient of the favour would soon be declared. It often means nothing beyond mere compliment; and as oft for delicate reasons, the favoured one is not the one wished for. But no such influences were likely to affect the present case, and thedénouementwas looked for with a rare intensity of interest.
The girl had drawn off one of her jewelled gloves—in those days they were so adorned—and held it with arm astretch, ready to be flung. Still, she went undulating on, at each turn of her face toward the spectators seeming to search among them. Many a one had wishes, and more than one a hope of seeing that glove tossed to him. For Clarisse Lalande had a large following of lovers. All save one to suffer disappointment, with more or less chagrin. And yet giving no gratification to him at whose feet it eventually fell, as the wise ones knew it would—Eustace Trevor.
With less show of alacrity than resignation he took it up; this an exigency of the performance. After which, with open arms, he received the exhausteddanseuse, her breasts heaving and panting as though they would burst the silken corset that so slightly confined them.
Cold-blooded man he, many might have thought him. But had other breasts been thus near his own, another heart beating so close to his, he would have shown warmth enough.
Chapter Thirty Four.Guardian Angels.“The swift Rhone cleaves his way betweenHeights which appear as lovers who have partedIn hate, whose mining depths so interveneThat they can meet no more, though broken-hearted;Though in their souls, which thus each other thwarted,Love was the very root of the fond rageWhich blighted their life’s bloom, and then departed—Itself expired, leaving them an ageOf years, all winters - war within themselves to wage.”Was it to be thus with Eustace Trevor and Vaga Powell?Verily, it seemed so on that night; and never more than at that moment, when he, with her cousin—Indian queen in counterfeit—strolled off arm in arm along the lamplit walks. A sight to tear her heart. And it tore it; might have altogether rent and ruined it had the mutual misunderstanding continued. Ay, “blighted the life’s bloom” of both, “leaving them an age of years, all winters.”But kind fate decreed it otherwise; before another night shadowed Avon’s banks, whatever of confidence had hitherto been between them was reestablished, and true love triumphed over jealousy.Partly by accident was the happy result brought about; though it might have come without that. For on the side of each was a watchful monitor, who understood the situation better than either of themselves.The guardian angels were Sir Richard Walwyn and Sabrina Powell; his friendship, and her sisterly solicitude standing the younger lovers in stead.“Why has your sister not danced with Captain Trevor—I mean my Captain Trevor?” queried the soldier knight of his betrothed. “I haven’t seen him near her all the night. Has there come a coolness between them, think you?”“Something of the sort, I fear.”“But from what cause? Have you any idea?”“Oh! the cause is clear enough! though she hasn’t made me herconfidante.”“The Creole cousin?”“Just so.”“But Vaga has nothing to fear from her; nor need being jealous, in the least.”“Why do you say so, Richard?”“Because Trevor don’t care a straw for Mademoiselle Lalande.”“Then what means the way he’s been carrying on with her?”“Rather, say, the way she’s carrying on with him. It don’t—signify, however. Let her practise all her arts; she’ll have her pains for nothing. I know he’s madly in love with your sister; has been ever since first setting eyes upon her at Hollymead. That much he has confided to me.”“He may have changed. Clarisse is very beautiful—very attractive?”“True, she is. But not the style to attract him. Nor is he of the fickle sort. At Whitehall he bore the reputation of having a heart of adamant; with no end of sighing damsels doing their endeavour to soften it. Indeed, scandal spoke of its very obduracy being the cause of his dismissal from Court; a certain Royal lady having assailed it unsuccessfully, and for that reason turned against him. Such a man once in love, as I know he is with your sister, is not likely to veer about so suddenly.”“But, you remember with what suddenness he changed sides, politically?”“Ah! that’s different, and to his credit. It was not of his own choosing that he was on the wrong one. And, soon as finding it so, he espoused the right one. All the more likely his standing firm, and proving true in an affair of the heart. But are you sure the fault is not on Vaga’s side? I’ve observed her a good deal in the company of the other Trevor, and several times dancing with him. What does that mean?”“I cannot tell. He may be forcing his company upon her; and she, offended at Eustace’s behaviour, accepts it.”“Likely then they are playing at spite—that is, my captain and your sister. It’s a dangerous game, and we must do something to stop it.”They thus exchanging confidences were engaged lovers of long standing, who, but for the war coming on, would now have been man and wife. Hence their interest in the two who were in danger of going astray was of a protecting character. Sabrina, especially anxious about the upshot on the score of her sister’s happiness, rejoined with alacrity,—“We must. Are you sure Eustace loves Vaga?”“Sure as that I love you, dearest. I had evidence of it, not many hours ago, and from his own lips. On the way hither—we came together you may know—he spoke of a heaviness at his heart, and that he had never started to go to a ball with less anticipation of pleasure. On my asking for explanation, he said it was on account of your sister. It was weeks since he had seen her; and something seemed to whisper she would not be the same to him as she had been. Trying to laugh away his fancies, and pressing him for a more tangible reason, he merely added ‘Reginald.’ I know he has always had a suspicion, if not jealousy, about his cousin’s relations with Vaga, before he himself came to know her. When he returned the other day, and he learnt that Reginald was in Bristol—had been for some time—he took it for granted he would also be often here in this house. That, of course, considering the Cavalier inclinings of your aunt and cousin. No doubt the thought, or fancy, of Master Rej being restored to Vaga’s favour is what affects him now.”“It’s but a fancy, then. Master Rej couldn’t be restored to favour he never had. As for Vag—”She broke off abruptly at the sound of voices and footsteps. Two persons in conversation were coming along the gravelled walk. The place was a pavilion, trellised all round, the trellis supporting a thick growth of climbers that formed a curtain to it. There was a lamp suspended inside, but its light had gone out, either through neglect or because the day would soon be dawning. The dialogue given above took place within the pavilion; that to follow occurring just outside by the entrance.It was between two of the four, about whom they inside had been conversing—Clarisse and Eustace. She was still upon his arm, as he had conducted her off the dancing ground; she now rather conducting him towards that quiet spot, whither she had no idea of any one having preceded them.“It seems so strange, Captain Trevor, you fighting for the Parliament?”“Why strange, Mademoiselle?”“Because of your father, and all your family, being on the King’s side; your brave cousin too. Besides, you’re so different from these plebeian Puritans and Roundheads; unlike them in every way.”“Not every way, I hope, and would be sorry to think I was. Rather would I resemble them in their ways of truth and right—their aspirations for liberty, and the self-sacrificing courage they have shown to achieve it.”“But the Cavaliers show courage too; as much, and more than they.”“Neither more, nor as much. Pardon me, Mademoiselle, for contradicting you. Hitherto they’ve been better horsed, by robbing the poor farmers, emptying every stable they came across. That’s given them the advantage of us. But there’ll be a turn to it soon, and we shall pay the score back to Rupert and his plunderers.”“Oh, Captain Trevor! To speak so of the gallant Prince—calling him a plunderer. For shame!”“He’s all that, and more—a ruthless murderer. Nor is the King himself much less, after his doings of the other day with the wretched captives of Cirencester.”“You naughty, naughty rebel!” she rejoined, with a laugh telling how little the misfortunes of the Cirencestrians affected her, adding—“And I feel inclined to call you renegade as well.”“Call me that, and welcome. ’Tis no disgrace for a man to turn coat when he discovers he has been wearing it wrong side out; not put on so by himself but by others. For what I’ve done, Mademoiselle Lalande, I feel neither shame nor repentance; instead, glory in it.”“What a grand, noble fellow!” thought Sir Richard, as also the other listener inside the pavilion; the latter with added reflection how worthy he was to mate with her sister.It was less his reasoning, than the defiance flung to her in tone so independent, that caused the Creole to shrink back from what she had said. Fearing it might have given offence, she hastened to heal the wound by the salve of self-humiliation.“O sir! I but spoke jestingly; and please don’t think I meant reproaching you. As you know, we women have but little understanding of things political; of English politics I less than any, from being a stranger to the country—almost a foreigner. In truth, I know not clearly which party may be in the right. Nor do I care either—that is, enough to quarrel with my friends, and certainly not with yourself, Captain Trevor. So please pardon what I’ve said—forget it. You will, won’t you?”Hernaïveadmission and submission inclined him to a better opinion of her than he had hitherto entertained. “After all,” thought he, “she has a woman’s heart true, but led astray by sinister surroundings.” So reflecting, he returned kindly,—“There’s nothing either to be pardoned or forgotten,chère Mademoiselle. And if there was, how could I refuse a request made as you make it?”He spoke more warmly than had been his wont with her; addressed her as “chère Mademoiselle”—that also unusual. It was all on the spur of the moment, and without thought of its being taken in the way of endearment. But it was so taken, and had the effect of misleading her.“I’m so glad we’re to continue friends,” she exclaimed, impressively; then in changed tone adding—“About my glove? Is it to be returned? Or do you wish to keep it?”Questions that took him by surprise, at the same time perplexing him. For, though offering a choice of ways, it was a delicate matter which should be taken. The glove was still in his hand, as he had picked it up. To retain it would imply something more than he was in the mind for; while returning it implied something else, equally against his inclinations. It might give offence—be even regarded as a rudeness.A happy thought struck him—a compromise which promised to release him from his dilemma. The glove was a costly thing, embroidered with thread of gold, and beset with jewels.“It is too valuable,” he said; “I could not think of keeping it. Oh, no!” and he held it out towards her.But she refused to take it, saying with a laugh,—“Very considerate of you, sir; and thanks! But I’m not so poor, that it will be impossible for me to replace it by one of like value.”Foiled, he drew back his hand; now with no alternative but to keep the token he cared not for.“Since you are so generous, Mademoiselle, I accept your gift with gratitude.”Even the cold formality of this speech failed to dispel the illusion she had been all the night labouring under. Unused to discomfiture of any kind, she thought not of defeat in the game of passion she was playing.“Oh! it’s nothing to be grateful for,” she lightly rejoined. “Only your due for rescuing me from the pursuing enemy. Ha-ha-ha!”He was about to stow the favour under the breast of his doublet, when he saw her glance go up to the crown of his hat, over which still waved the feathers of the egret, plucked by the base of Ruardean hill.“Perhaps you wouldn’t care to carry it there?” she said, half jestingly. “It might spoil the look of that pretty plume.”He was doubly perplexed now. To place the glove in his hat meant letting it remain there, meant more—a symbol to show that the giver of it was esteemed beyond all others. And that in her case would not be true. Besides, what wouldshesay—what think—whose favour, not proffered but asked for, was already there? Despite all the contrarieties of the night, Eustace Trevor was not prepared to break with Vaga Powell by offering her such a slight—an insult. With much to make him sad and angry, he was neither sad nor angry enough for retaliation as that. Sure, moreover, to recoil upon himself—a reflection which needed no other to determine him.But the challenge had been thrown out, and called for instant response—a yes or a no. Subterfuge was no longer possible, even had it been of his nature, and he resolved upon making a clean breast of it.“Mademoiselle Lalande, however proud of the trophy you’ve been good enough to bestow on me, there’s a reason why I cannot wear it as you suggest?”“A reason, indeed!” the voice in a tone half vexed, half surprise. “May I know it?” Then, as if repenting the question, she quickly added, “Oh, never mind! Give me back my glove, sir. Good-night!”They, listening inside the pavilion, heard no more words, only the sound of footsteps passing away; first light ones in rapid repetition; then others heavier and slower; after which silence profound.
“The swift Rhone cleaves his way betweenHeights which appear as lovers who have partedIn hate, whose mining depths so interveneThat they can meet no more, though broken-hearted;Though in their souls, which thus each other thwarted,Love was the very root of the fond rageWhich blighted their life’s bloom, and then departed—Itself expired, leaving them an ageOf years, all winters - war within themselves to wage.”
“The swift Rhone cleaves his way betweenHeights which appear as lovers who have partedIn hate, whose mining depths so interveneThat they can meet no more, though broken-hearted;Though in their souls, which thus each other thwarted,Love was the very root of the fond rageWhich blighted their life’s bloom, and then departed—Itself expired, leaving them an ageOf years, all winters - war within themselves to wage.”
Was it to be thus with Eustace Trevor and Vaga Powell?
Verily, it seemed so on that night; and never more than at that moment, when he, with her cousin—Indian queen in counterfeit—strolled off arm in arm along the lamplit walks. A sight to tear her heart. And it tore it; might have altogether rent and ruined it had the mutual misunderstanding continued. Ay, “blighted the life’s bloom” of both, “leaving them an age of years, all winters.”
But kind fate decreed it otherwise; before another night shadowed Avon’s banks, whatever of confidence had hitherto been between them was reestablished, and true love triumphed over jealousy.
Partly by accident was the happy result brought about; though it might have come without that. For on the side of each was a watchful monitor, who understood the situation better than either of themselves.
The guardian angels were Sir Richard Walwyn and Sabrina Powell; his friendship, and her sisterly solicitude standing the younger lovers in stead.
“Why has your sister not danced with Captain Trevor—I mean my Captain Trevor?” queried the soldier knight of his betrothed. “I haven’t seen him near her all the night. Has there come a coolness between them, think you?”
“Something of the sort, I fear.”
“But from what cause? Have you any idea?”
“Oh! the cause is clear enough! though she hasn’t made me herconfidante.”
“The Creole cousin?”
“Just so.”
“But Vaga has nothing to fear from her; nor need being jealous, in the least.”
“Why do you say so, Richard?”
“Because Trevor don’t care a straw for Mademoiselle Lalande.”
“Then what means the way he’s been carrying on with her?”
“Rather, say, the way she’s carrying on with him. It don’t—signify, however. Let her practise all her arts; she’ll have her pains for nothing. I know he’s madly in love with your sister; has been ever since first setting eyes upon her at Hollymead. That much he has confided to me.”
“He may have changed. Clarisse is very beautiful—very attractive?”
“True, she is. But not the style to attract him. Nor is he of the fickle sort. At Whitehall he bore the reputation of having a heart of adamant; with no end of sighing damsels doing their endeavour to soften it. Indeed, scandal spoke of its very obduracy being the cause of his dismissal from Court; a certain Royal lady having assailed it unsuccessfully, and for that reason turned against him. Such a man once in love, as I know he is with your sister, is not likely to veer about so suddenly.”
“But, you remember with what suddenness he changed sides, politically?”
“Ah! that’s different, and to his credit. It was not of his own choosing that he was on the wrong one. And, soon as finding it so, he espoused the right one. All the more likely his standing firm, and proving true in an affair of the heart. But are you sure the fault is not on Vaga’s side? I’ve observed her a good deal in the company of the other Trevor, and several times dancing with him. What does that mean?”
“I cannot tell. He may be forcing his company upon her; and she, offended at Eustace’s behaviour, accepts it.”
“Likely then they are playing at spite—that is, my captain and your sister. It’s a dangerous game, and we must do something to stop it.”
They thus exchanging confidences were engaged lovers of long standing, who, but for the war coming on, would now have been man and wife. Hence their interest in the two who were in danger of going astray was of a protecting character. Sabrina, especially anxious about the upshot on the score of her sister’s happiness, rejoined with alacrity,—
“We must. Are you sure Eustace loves Vaga?”
“Sure as that I love you, dearest. I had evidence of it, not many hours ago, and from his own lips. On the way hither—we came together you may know—he spoke of a heaviness at his heart, and that he had never started to go to a ball with less anticipation of pleasure. On my asking for explanation, he said it was on account of your sister. It was weeks since he had seen her; and something seemed to whisper she would not be the same to him as she had been. Trying to laugh away his fancies, and pressing him for a more tangible reason, he merely added ‘Reginald.’ I know he has always had a suspicion, if not jealousy, about his cousin’s relations with Vaga, before he himself came to know her. When he returned the other day, and he learnt that Reginald was in Bristol—had been for some time—he took it for granted he would also be often here in this house. That, of course, considering the Cavalier inclinings of your aunt and cousin. No doubt the thought, or fancy, of Master Rej being restored to Vaga’s favour is what affects him now.”
“It’s but a fancy, then. Master Rej couldn’t be restored to favour he never had. As for Vag—”
She broke off abruptly at the sound of voices and footsteps. Two persons in conversation were coming along the gravelled walk. The place was a pavilion, trellised all round, the trellis supporting a thick growth of climbers that formed a curtain to it. There was a lamp suspended inside, but its light had gone out, either through neglect or because the day would soon be dawning. The dialogue given above took place within the pavilion; that to follow occurring just outside by the entrance.
It was between two of the four, about whom they inside had been conversing—Clarisse and Eustace. She was still upon his arm, as he had conducted her off the dancing ground; she now rather conducting him towards that quiet spot, whither she had no idea of any one having preceded them.
“It seems so strange, Captain Trevor, you fighting for the Parliament?”
“Why strange, Mademoiselle?”
“Because of your father, and all your family, being on the King’s side; your brave cousin too. Besides, you’re so different from these plebeian Puritans and Roundheads; unlike them in every way.”
“Not every way, I hope, and would be sorry to think I was. Rather would I resemble them in their ways of truth and right—their aspirations for liberty, and the self-sacrificing courage they have shown to achieve it.”
“But the Cavaliers show courage too; as much, and more than they.”
“Neither more, nor as much. Pardon me, Mademoiselle, for contradicting you. Hitherto they’ve been better horsed, by robbing the poor farmers, emptying every stable they came across. That’s given them the advantage of us. But there’ll be a turn to it soon, and we shall pay the score back to Rupert and his plunderers.”
“Oh, Captain Trevor! To speak so of the gallant Prince—calling him a plunderer. For shame!”
“He’s all that, and more—a ruthless murderer. Nor is the King himself much less, after his doings of the other day with the wretched captives of Cirencester.”
“You naughty, naughty rebel!” she rejoined, with a laugh telling how little the misfortunes of the Cirencestrians affected her, adding—“And I feel inclined to call you renegade as well.”
“Call me that, and welcome. ’Tis no disgrace for a man to turn coat when he discovers he has been wearing it wrong side out; not put on so by himself but by others. For what I’ve done, Mademoiselle Lalande, I feel neither shame nor repentance; instead, glory in it.”
“What a grand, noble fellow!” thought Sir Richard, as also the other listener inside the pavilion; the latter with added reflection how worthy he was to mate with her sister.
It was less his reasoning, than the defiance flung to her in tone so independent, that caused the Creole to shrink back from what she had said. Fearing it might have given offence, she hastened to heal the wound by the salve of self-humiliation.
“O sir! I but spoke jestingly; and please don’t think I meant reproaching you. As you know, we women have but little understanding of things political; of English politics I less than any, from being a stranger to the country—almost a foreigner. In truth, I know not clearly which party may be in the right. Nor do I care either—that is, enough to quarrel with my friends, and certainly not with yourself, Captain Trevor. So please pardon what I’ve said—forget it. You will, won’t you?”
Hernaïveadmission and submission inclined him to a better opinion of her than he had hitherto entertained. “After all,” thought he, “she has a woman’s heart true, but led astray by sinister surroundings.” So reflecting, he returned kindly,—“There’s nothing either to be pardoned or forgotten,chère Mademoiselle. And if there was, how could I refuse a request made as you make it?”
He spoke more warmly than had been his wont with her; addressed her as “chère Mademoiselle”—that also unusual. It was all on the spur of the moment, and without thought of its being taken in the way of endearment. But it was so taken, and had the effect of misleading her.
“I’m so glad we’re to continue friends,” she exclaimed, impressively; then in changed tone adding—“About my glove? Is it to be returned? Or do you wish to keep it?”
Questions that took him by surprise, at the same time perplexing him. For, though offering a choice of ways, it was a delicate matter which should be taken. The glove was still in his hand, as he had picked it up. To retain it would imply something more than he was in the mind for; while returning it implied something else, equally against his inclinations. It might give offence—be even regarded as a rudeness.
A happy thought struck him—a compromise which promised to release him from his dilemma. The glove was a costly thing, embroidered with thread of gold, and beset with jewels.
“It is too valuable,” he said; “I could not think of keeping it. Oh, no!” and he held it out towards her.
But she refused to take it, saying with a laugh,—
“Very considerate of you, sir; and thanks! But I’m not so poor, that it will be impossible for me to replace it by one of like value.”
Foiled, he drew back his hand; now with no alternative but to keep the token he cared not for.
“Since you are so generous, Mademoiselle, I accept your gift with gratitude.”
Even the cold formality of this speech failed to dispel the illusion she had been all the night labouring under. Unused to discomfiture of any kind, she thought not of defeat in the game of passion she was playing.
“Oh! it’s nothing to be grateful for,” she lightly rejoined. “Only your due for rescuing me from the pursuing enemy. Ha-ha-ha!”
He was about to stow the favour under the breast of his doublet, when he saw her glance go up to the crown of his hat, over which still waved the feathers of the egret, plucked by the base of Ruardean hill.
“Perhaps you wouldn’t care to carry it there?” she said, half jestingly. “It might spoil the look of that pretty plume.”
He was doubly perplexed now. To place the glove in his hat meant letting it remain there, meant more—a symbol to show that the giver of it was esteemed beyond all others. And that in her case would not be true. Besides, what wouldshesay—what think—whose favour, not proffered but asked for, was already there? Despite all the contrarieties of the night, Eustace Trevor was not prepared to break with Vaga Powell by offering her such a slight—an insult. With much to make him sad and angry, he was neither sad nor angry enough for retaliation as that. Sure, moreover, to recoil upon himself—a reflection which needed no other to determine him.
But the challenge had been thrown out, and called for instant response—a yes or a no. Subterfuge was no longer possible, even had it been of his nature, and he resolved upon making a clean breast of it.
“Mademoiselle Lalande, however proud of the trophy you’ve been good enough to bestow on me, there’s a reason why I cannot wear it as you suggest?”
“A reason, indeed!” the voice in a tone half vexed, half surprise. “May I know it?” Then, as if repenting the question, she quickly added, “Oh, never mind! Give me back my glove, sir. Good-night!”
They, listening inside the pavilion, heard no more words, only the sound of footsteps passing away; first light ones in rapid repetition; then others heavier and slower; after which silence profound.
Chapter Thirty Five.A Complete Eclaircissement.“Mademoiselle’s game is up. You see, Sabrina, I was right, and he’s loyal to his love—true to theguageof the egret’s plume.”“Indeed, yes! What a tale for Vaga! And I shall tell it her soon.”“’Twill gladden her, you think?”“I’m quite sure of it. Though I haven’t evidence of her heart’s inclinings in speech plain as that we’ve just—Hish! Another couple coming this way! Really, Richard, we ought not to stay here; ’tis bad as being eaves-droppers.”“Never mind about the eavesdropping. It will sit light on my conscience, after leading to such good results. Who may be the pair approaching now, I wonder?”They listened. To hear music, with the hum of many voices afar off; but two near, and drawing nearer.“My sister!” said Sabrina, almost instantly recognising one of them; then, after another brief interval of silence, adding, “and Reginald Trevor!”Continuing to advance, the two were soon up to the pavilion; and made stop, on the same spot where but five minutes before stood their respective cousins.Now, however, it was the gentleman who spoke first—after their coming to a stand—and as if changing the subject of the dialogue already in progress.“My cousin Eust seems beside himself with Mademoiselle Lalande. I never saw man so madly in love with a woman. I wonder if she reciprocates it?”He was pouring gall into Vaga Powell’s heart, and apparently without being conscious of it. For, by this, he had reached full confidence that his own love was reciprocated by her with whom he was conversing.“Like enough,” was the response, in tones so despairingly sad, that, but for his being a fool in his own conceit, he might have drawn deductions from it to make him suspect his folly. More, could he have but seen the expression upon her features at that moment—pain, almost agony. The pantomimic dance—just over, all its acts, incidents, and gestures were still fresh before her mind—the latest the most vivid—the dropping of the glove; its being taken up, as she supposed, with eager alacrity; then, the man she loved throwing wide open his arms to receive into them the woman she hated! All this was in her thoughts, a very tumult of trouble—in her heart as a flaming fire.The darkness favoured her, or Reginald Trevor could not have failed perceiving it on her face. But, indeed, she would have little cared if he had. Dissembling with him all the night, she meant doing so no more. Though the play was not with him, the game had gone against her; she had lost the stakes, as she supposed, irretrievably; and now would retire into the shadow and bitterness of solitude.Little dreamt he of how she was suffering, or the cause. Knowing it, he might have sprung away from her side, quickly and angrily as had Clarisse from that of Eustace.Continuing the conversation, he said, insinuatingly,—“On second thoughts, I’m wrong, Mistress Vaga. Ihaveknown a man as much in love with a woman as my cousin is with yours—know one now?”“Indeed?”The exclamatory rejoinder was purely mechanical, she who made it not having enough interest in what had been said to inquire who was the individual he alluded to. Yet this was the very question he courted. He had to angle for it further, saying,—“May I tell you who it is?”“Oh, certainly; if you desire to do so.”Even this icy response failed to check him. He either did not perceive its coldness, or mistook it for reticence due to the occasion. Several times, since his first abortive attempt, he had been on the eve of making fuller declaration to her—in short, a proposal of marriage. But she had been dancing with others besides himself, and no good opportunity had as yet offered. That seemed to have come now. So, taking advantage of it, and her permission, he said, in an impressive way,—“The man is Reginald Trevor—myself.”If he expected her to give a start of feigned surprise, and follow it up by the inquiry, “Who is the woman?” he was disappointed. For he but heard repeated the laconic exclamation she had already used, and in like tones of careless indifference.“Indeed!” That, and nothing more.Still unrepulsed he returned to the attack; again, as it were, begging the question,—“Shall I name the woman?”“Not if you don’t wish it, sir.” Response that should have made him withhold the information, if not driven him from her presence. A very rebuff it was; and yet Reginald Trevor looked not on it in this light. Instead, still strong in his false faith and foolish hope, he persisted, saying,—“But I do wish it, and will tell you; though you may little care to know. I cannot help the confession. She I love is yourself—yourself, Vaga Powell; and ’tis with all my heart, all my soul!” The avowal, full and passionate, affected her no more than the hints he had already thrown out. In the same calm tone, firm, and with the words measured, she made response,—“Captain Trevor, you’ve told me almost as much before. And if I never gave you answer to say the feeling you profess for me was not reciprocated, I say it now. It is not—never can be. Friends, if you wish, let us remain; but for the other—”“You needn’t go on!” he interrupted, impatiently, almost rudely. “I’ve heard enough; and now know what’s the obstacle between us. Not your father, as I once supposed, but my cousin. Well, have him, if you can get him. As for myself, I’m consoled by thinking there are as good fish in the sea as ever were caught out of it, and I go to catch one of them. Adieu, Mistress Vaga Powell!” Saying which, he strode off in true Cavalier swagger, humming a gaychanson; having left her alone in the darkness of night, and the gloom of despair.Only for an instant was she thus. Then she felt arms flung around her, tenderly, lovingly, while listening to speech which promised to relieve her of her misery.“I was so glad, Vag,” said Sabrina, “hearing what you said. And I’ve heard something said by another, at which you’ll be glad, when I tell it you.”Almost at the same instant of time, though in a different part of the grounds, Sir Richard Walwyn was in like manner promising to let light into the heart of Eustace Trevor.
“Mademoiselle’s game is up. You see, Sabrina, I was right, and he’s loyal to his love—true to theguageof the egret’s plume.”
“Indeed, yes! What a tale for Vaga! And I shall tell it her soon.”
“’Twill gladden her, you think?”
“I’m quite sure of it. Though I haven’t evidence of her heart’s inclinings in speech plain as that we’ve just—Hish! Another couple coming this way! Really, Richard, we ought not to stay here; ’tis bad as being eaves-droppers.”
“Never mind about the eavesdropping. It will sit light on my conscience, after leading to such good results. Who may be the pair approaching now, I wonder?”
They listened. To hear music, with the hum of many voices afar off; but two near, and drawing nearer.
“My sister!” said Sabrina, almost instantly recognising one of them; then, after another brief interval of silence, adding, “and Reginald Trevor!”
Continuing to advance, the two were soon up to the pavilion; and made stop, on the same spot where but five minutes before stood their respective cousins.
Now, however, it was the gentleman who spoke first—after their coming to a stand—and as if changing the subject of the dialogue already in progress.
“My cousin Eust seems beside himself with Mademoiselle Lalande. I never saw man so madly in love with a woman. I wonder if she reciprocates it?”
He was pouring gall into Vaga Powell’s heart, and apparently without being conscious of it. For, by this, he had reached full confidence that his own love was reciprocated by her with whom he was conversing.
“Like enough,” was the response, in tones so despairingly sad, that, but for his being a fool in his own conceit, he might have drawn deductions from it to make him suspect his folly. More, could he have but seen the expression upon her features at that moment—pain, almost agony. The pantomimic dance—just over, all its acts, incidents, and gestures were still fresh before her mind—the latest the most vivid—the dropping of the glove; its being taken up, as she supposed, with eager alacrity; then, the man she loved throwing wide open his arms to receive into them the woman she hated! All this was in her thoughts, a very tumult of trouble—in her heart as a flaming fire.
The darkness favoured her, or Reginald Trevor could not have failed perceiving it on her face. But, indeed, she would have little cared if he had. Dissembling with him all the night, she meant doing so no more. Though the play was not with him, the game had gone against her; she had lost the stakes, as she supposed, irretrievably; and now would retire into the shadow and bitterness of solitude.
Little dreamt he of how she was suffering, or the cause. Knowing it, he might have sprung away from her side, quickly and angrily as had Clarisse from that of Eustace.
Continuing the conversation, he said, insinuatingly,—
“On second thoughts, I’m wrong, Mistress Vaga. Ihaveknown a man as much in love with a woman as my cousin is with yours—know one now?”
“Indeed?”
The exclamatory rejoinder was purely mechanical, she who made it not having enough interest in what had been said to inquire who was the individual he alluded to. Yet this was the very question he courted. He had to angle for it further, saying,—
“May I tell you who it is?”
“Oh, certainly; if you desire to do so.”
Even this icy response failed to check him. He either did not perceive its coldness, or mistook it for reticence due to the occasion. Several times, since his first abortive attempt, he had been on the eve of making fuller declaration to her—in short, a proposal of marriage. But she had been dancing with others besides himself, and no good opportunity had as yet offered. That seemed to have come now. So, taking advantage of it, and her permission, he said, in an impressive way,—
“The man is Reginald Trevor—myself.”
If he expected her to give a start of feigned surprise, and follow it up by the inquiry, “Who is the woman?” he was disappointed. For he but heard repeated the laconic exclamation she had already used, and in like tones of careless indifference.
“Indeed!” That, and nothing more.
Still unrepulsed he returned to the attack; again, as it were, begging the question,—
“Shall I name the woman?”
“Not if you don’t wish it, sir.” Response that should have made him withhold the information, if not driven him from her presence. A very rebuff it was; and yet Reginald Trevor looked not on it in this light. Instead, still strong in his false faith and foolish hope, he persisted, saying,—
“But I do wish it, and will tell you; though you may little care to know. I cannot help the confession. She I love is yourself—yourself, Vaga Powell; and ’tis with all my heart, all my soul!” The avowal, full and passionate, affected her no more than the hints he had already thrown out. In the same calm tone, firm, and with the words measured, she made response,—
“Captain Trevor, you’ve told me almost as much before. And if I never gave you answer to say the feeling you profess for me was not reciprocated, I say it now. It is not—never can be. Friends, if you wish, let us remain; but for the other—”
“You needn’t go on!” he interrupted, impatiently, almost rudely. “I’ve heard enough; and now know what’s the obstacle between us. Not your father, as I once supposed, but my cousin. Well, have him, if you can get him. As for myself, I’m consoled by thinking there are as good fish in the sea as ever were caught out of it, and I go to catch one of them. Adieu, Mistress Vaga Powell!” Saying which, he strode off in true Cavalier swagger, humming a gaychanson; having left her alone in the darkness of night, and the gloom of despair.
Only for an instant was she thus. Then she felt arms flung around her, tenderly, lovingly, while listening to speech which promised to relieve her of her misery.
“I was so glad, Vag,” said Sabrina, “hearing what you said. And I’ve heard something said by another, at which you’ll be glad, when I tell it you.”
Almost at the same instant of time, though in a different part of the grounds, Sir Richard Walwyn was in like manner promising to let light into the heart of Eustace Trevor.