CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR.
GUARDIAN ANGELS.
"The swift Rhone cleaves his way between Heights which appear as lovers who have parted In hate, whose mining depths so intervene That 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 rage Which blighted their life's bloom, and then departed-- Itself expired, leaving them an age Of 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 armin arm along the lamplit walks. A sight to tear her heart. And it toreit; might have altogether rent and ruined it had the mutualmisunderstanding 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'sbanks, whatever of confidence had hitherto been between them wasreestablished, and true love triumphed over jealousy.
Partly by accident was the happy result brought about; though it mighthave 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; hisfriendship, and her sisterly solicitude standing the younger lovers instead.
"Why has your sister not danced with Captain Trevor--I mean my CaptainTrevor?" queried the soldier knight of his betrothed. "I haven't seenhim 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 her_confidante_."
"The Creole cousin?"
"Just so."
"But Vaga has nothing to fear from her; nor need being jealous, in theleast."
"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 fornothing. I know he's madly in love with your sister; has been eversince first setting eyes upon her at Hollymead. That much he hasconfided 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 thefickle sort. At Whitehall he bore the reputation of having a heart ofadamant; with no end of sighing damsels doing their endeavour to softenit. Indeed, scandal spoke of its very obduracy being the cause of hisdismissal from Court; a certain Royal lady having assailed itunsuccessfully, and for that reason turned against him. Such a man oncein love, as I know he is with your sister, is not likely to veer aboutso suddenly."
"But, you remember with what suddenness he changed sides, politically?"
"Ah! that's different, and to his credit. It was not of his ownchoosing that he was on the wrong one. And, soon as finding it so, heespoused the right one. All the more likely his standing firm, andproving true in an affair of the heart. But are you sure the fault isnot on Vaga's side? I've observed her a good deal in the company of theother 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 yoursister. 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. Hencetheir interest in the two who were in danger of going astray was of aprotecting character. Sabrina, especially anxious about the upshot onthe 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 hoursago, and from his own lips. On the way hither--we came together you mayknow--he spoke of a heaviness at his heart, and that he had neverstarted to go to a ball with less anticipation of pleasure. On myasking for explanation, he said it was on account of your sister. Itwas weeks since he had seen her; and something seemed to whisper shewould not be the same to him as she had been. Trying to laugh away hisfancies, 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 knowher. When he returned the other day, and he learnt that Reginald was inBristol--had been for some time--he took it for granted he would also beoften here in this house. That, of course, considering the Cavalierinclinings of your aunt and cousin. No doubt the thought, or fancy, ofMaster 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 henever had. As for Vag--"
She broke off abruptly at the sound of voices and footsteps. Twopersons in conversation were coming along the gravelled walk. The placewas a pavilion, trellised all round, the trellis supporting a thickgrowth of climbers that formed a curtain to it. There was a lampsuspended inside, but its light had gone out, either through neglect orbecause the day would soon be dawning. The dialogue given above tookplace within the pavilion; that to follow occurring just outside by theentrance.
It was between two of the four, about whom they inside had beenconversing--Clarisse and Eustace. She was still upon his arm, as he hadconducted her off the dancing ground; she now rather conducting himtowards that quiet spot, whither she had no idea of any one havingpreceded 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 plebeianPuritans and Roundheads; unlike them in every way."
"Not every way, I hope, and would be sorry to think I was. Rather wouldI resemble them in their ways of truth and right--their aspirations forliberty, and the self-sacrificing courage they have shown to achieveit."
"But the Cavaliers show courage too; as much, and more than they."
"Neither more, nor as much. Pardon me, Mademoiselle, for contradictingyou. Hitherto they've been better horsed, by robbing the poor farmers,emptying every stable they came across. That's given them the advantageof us. But there'll be a turn to it soon, and we shall pay the scoreback to Rupert and his plunderers."
"Oh, Captain Trevor! To speak so of the gallant Prince--calling him aplunderer. For shame!"
"He's all that, and more--a ruthless murderer. Nor is the King himselfmuch less, after his doings of the other day with the wretched captivesof Cirencester."
"You naughty, naughty rebel!" she rejoined, with a laugh telling howlittle the misfortunes of the Cirencestrians affected her, adding--"AndI feel inclined to call you renegade as well."
"Call me that, and welcome. 'Tis no disgrace for a man to turn coatwhen he discovers he has been wearing it wrong side out; not put on soby himself but by others. For what I've done, Mademoiselle Lalande, Ifeel neither shame nor repentance; instead, glory in it."
"What a grand, noble fellow!" thought Sir Richard, as also the otherlistener inside the pavilion; the latter with added reflection howworthy he was to mate with her sister.
It was less his reasoning, than the defiance flung to her in tone soindependent, that caused the Creole to shrink back from what she hadsaid. Fearing it might have given offence, she hastened to heal thewound by the salve of self-humiliation.
"O sir! I but spoke jestingly; and please don't think I meantreproaching you. As you know, we women have but little understanding ofthings political; of Engli
sh politics I less than any, from being astranger to the country--almost a foreigner. In truth, I know notclearly 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?"
Her _naive_ admission and submission inclined him to a better opinion ofher than he had hitherto entertained. "After all," thought he, "she hasa woman's heart true, but led astray by sinister surroundings." Soreflecting, he returned kindly,--"There's nothing either to be pardonedor forgotten, _chere Mademoiselle_. And if there was, how could Irefuse a request made as you make it?"
He spoke more warmly than had been his wont with her; addressed her as"chere Mademoiselle"--that also unusual. It was all on the spur of themoment, 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? Ordo 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 whichshould be taken. The glove was still in his hand, as he had picked itup. To retain it would imply something more than he was in the mindfor; while returning it implied something else, equally against hisinclinations. It might give offence--be even regarded as a rudeness.
A happy thought struck him--a compromise which promised to release himfrom his dilemma. The glove was a costly thing, embroidered with threadof 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 itwill 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 thetoken he cared not for.
"Since you are so generous, Mademoiselle, I accept your gift withgratitude."
Even the cold formality of this speech failed to dispel the illusion shehad been all the night labouring under. Unused to discomfiture of anykind, 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 yourdue for rescuing me from the pursuing enemy. Ha-ha-ha!"
He was about to stow the favour under the breast of his doublet, when hesaw her glance go up to the crown of his hat, over which still waved thefeathers 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 meantletting it remain there, meant more--a symbol to show that the giver ofit was esteemed beyond all others. And that in her case would not betrue. Besides, what would _she_ say--what think--whose favour, notproffered but asked for, was already there? Despite all thecontrarieties of the night, Eustace Trevor was not prepared to breakwith Vaga Powell by offering her such a slight--an insult. With much tomake him sad and angry, he was neither sad nor angry enough forretaliation as that. Sure, moreover, to recoil upon himself--areflection 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 ofhis nature, and he resolved upon making a clean breast of it.
"Mademoiselle Lalande, however proud of the trophy you've been goodenough to bestow on me, there's a reason why I cannot wear it as yousuggest?"
"A reason, indeed!" the voice in a tone half vexed, half surprise. "MayI 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 soundof footsteps passing away; first light ones in rapid repetition; thenothers heavier and slower; after which silence profound.