CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT.
A HOME GAYER THAN CONGENIAL.
Madame Lalande, _nee_ Powell, was the widow of a West Indian planter,late deceased. Her husband, during life, had held commercialintercourse with Bristol, then chief port of communication with all theTransatlantic colonies. Though a Creole of French descent, the isle ofhis nativity, in the Antilles, had come under British rule; and hehimself rather affected English tastes and habits, often visitingEngland and making short sojourns in it. At a Bristol ball he had firstmet Gwendoline Powell, Ambrose's sister; had married in Bristol, andthere designed spending the evening of his days in retirement from thecares of business life. And when the time at length came for carryingthis design into execution, he sold off his West Indian plantation--anextensive one, with its human chattels, some hundreds in number--andinvested the proceeds in Bristol property, part of it being a handsomedwelling-house meant for his future home:
Into this he had entered about a year before the commencement of thecivil strife, which he lived not to see. The cold, moist climate of ourisland, so different to that of the tropical Antilles, was fatal to him,and in less than twelve months after settling on the Avon's banks he wasburied there, having succumbed to an attack of pleurisy. Possibly fastliving may have had something to do with it. He was a man of socialinclinings and sumptuous habits, which his great wealth enabled him toindulge without stint; and he had recklessly disregarded the care of hishealth.
Fortunately for those who inherited his property, his life ofextravagance had not been long enough to dissipate it, and MadameLalande was still one of the wealthiest women in Bristol, with no one toshare her wealth, save an only daughter, a girl of some eighteensummers, or, to speak more correctly, one summer of eighteen years inlength. For the occasional visits to England with her father and motherhad been made in this season, the rest of her life spent in a land wherewinter is unknown. All summer her life in every sense; from her cradlenot a wish denied, or taste ungratified, but everything lavished uponher which money could purchase or parental fondness bestow.
As a consequence, Clarisse Lalande had grown up a spoilt child; and nowthat she was almost a woman, the fruits of such folly made themselvesmanifest. Imperious and capricious, she had a temper which would notbrook restraint. For this it had never known, accustomed all her lifeto the obeisance of black slaves, and the flattery of mulattohand-maidens.
Flattery from others she had received too--a very incense of it--whichher beauty, without thought of her prospective wealth, commanded. For abeauty she was, of the true Creole type, with all its characteristics;the golden brown tint of skin, the crimson flush of cheeks, thebrilliancy of dark eyes, with a luxuriance of hair that defiedconfinement by ordinary clasp or comb. There was the suspicion of a"wave" in it; and report said that the blood in her father's veins hadnot been pure Circassian, but with a slight admixture of Ethiopian. Allthe more piquant were the charms it had transmitted to his daughter, asthe star-like fire in her brown-black eyes, and a figure of grandlyvoluptuous outline. Some of her mental characteristics, too, may havecome from it--a certain sensuousness, with the impatience of controlalready adverted to.
Such being Clarisse Lalande, it scarce needs saying that between her andher cousins Powell there was little congeniality either of tastes orsentiments. Though in person more resembling Sabrina, the two weremental antipodes; while sunbright Vaga, who looked altogether unlike herdark-skinned Creole cousin, had yet certain similar traits of temper;the which made mutual antipathy, at first sight, as when alkali and acidcome into contact. It afterwards became heart-hatred, inspired andnursed by the most powerful of influences.
Considering that Madame Lalande was Ambrose Powell's sister, and thather late husband had been a Protestant of Huguenot ancestry--at leastfour-fifths of him--one would naturally expect her to be on theParliamentary side--supposing her to take a side at all--with ardentinclinings thereto. Ardent inclinings had she, and side she took; but,strange perversity, _against_ the Parliament, not _for_ it!
And it was like mother, like daughter, for Clarisse, with all herfrivolousness of character, had political leanings too, or more properlycaprices, the frivolity itself their cause. In the eyes of theimperious young lady Roundheadism and Puritanism were things ofreproach, and the terms themselves often scornfully on her lips. Kinglyform of government was the only one fit for gentlepeople; and Cavaliersalone worthy to associate with such as she--those curled darlings, "deardelightful creatures," as, in her fond partiality, she was accustomed tocall them.
Wonderfully hospitable was Madame Lalande; that is, in a fashionableway. She gave grand entertainments, which was indeed but continuingwhat had been done before the death of her husband. Nor was it so longafter that event they were recommenced, and carried on with greater_eclat_ than ever. For Clarisse had become a toast and now an heiress--sole and safe from any possibility of late-born brother or sister toshare the demised wealth. There was keen competition for the favour ofher smiles. Knights and baronets were flitting about in plenty, withhere and there an earl; and as her ambitious mother aimed at having atitled son-in-law, so spread she the banquet to allure them.
During the brief rule of the gay Essex, as a matter of course MadameLalande's house was open to him; and so frequently was he its guest,there had been talk of an attraction in it beyond the delights of thedinner table or the joys of the dance. He was not a lord; but, as theson of one, in all probability some day would be.
Alas! for any matrimonial designs Madame Lalande might have upon therollicking Colonel for her daughter, her chances of showing him furtherhospitality were brought to an abrupt end, by his heels getting kickedup in a different way, and himself carried off a prisoner to BerkeleyCastle.
Withal the festivities in the house of the planter's relict went on asusual--nearly every night something of dinner party, and during the dayreceptions. If there was suffering in other homes of Bristol throughthe state of semi-siege in which the place was then held, nothing ofthis affected the home of the rich West Indian widow. There all wasgaiety and splendour.
Yet it had inmates who took little delight in its joys, and one whodetested them--that one Ambrose Powell. A new style of life, with acompanionship altogether uncongenial, was it to him; and, but for itsbeing forced upon him by the necessity of circumstances, he would nothave continued it a single day--not an hour. It was many long yearssince he had last met his sister; and, remembering her as a guilelesscountry girl--almost portionless too--seeing her now a sharp woman ofthe world, wealthy and devoted to ideas of frivolity and fashion,--aboveall, finding her changed from the political faith of their common fatherand family, he was alike surprised and shocked--angry, moreover, to thepoint of reproaching, even scolding her; and would have done so, but forthe question "_Cui bono_?" which had negative, though silent, answer inall he saw around. His dear sister Gwen, who in earlier days would havehumbly listened to his counsels, and been controlled by them, would nowresent the meekest suggestion as to her way of life or the conduct ofher affairs.
Many a time, after becoming her guest, did he regret having passed on,and beyond Gloucester, to seek an asylum in Bristol. But he was inBristol now, he and his; and how to get out of it was not a merequestion of inconvenience, but a matter of great difficulty, attendedwith danger. Though not so close to the door, after that 7th of Marchnight, the wolves were still without, on the roads--ravening everywhere.