HOW WILL IT END?
If Jerry Vane was not very contented in mind, his rooms, the windows
of which overlooked a fashionable square, bore evidence that he was
surrounded by every luxury, that he was behind the young fellows of
his set in nothing; while the velvet and silk cases for cigars or
vestas that littered the table and mantelpiece, even the slippers and
smoking-cap he wore, all the work of feminine fingers, seemed to hint
of the many fair ones who were ready to console him.
Possessed of means ample enough to indulge in every whim and fancy,
the mantelpiece and the tables about him were littered by the
'hundred and one' objects with which a young man like Jerry is apt to
surround himself.
There were pipes of all kinds, whips, spurs, fencing-foils,
revolvers, Derringer pistols, Bohemian glass, and gold-mounted
bottles full of essences, statuettes pell-mell with soiled kid
gloves, soda-water bottles, pink notes, faded bouquets, and French
novels in their yellow covers.
The hangings and furniture were elegant and luxurious, on the walls
were some crayons of very fair girls in rather _décolleté_ dress,
while on a marble console lay a gun-case, hunting-flasks, and many
other things that were quite out of place in a drawing-room, and a
Skye terrier and an enormous St. Bernard mastiff were gambolling
together on a couple of great tiger-skins, the spoil of Trevor
Chute's gun in some far Indian jungle.
The day was far advanced, yet Jerry had not long breakfasted, and
lay, not fully dressed, in a luxurious dressing-robe, tasselled and
braided, on the softest of sofas, enjoying the inevitable cigar, when
Chute was ushered in, and he sprang up to receive him.
It may easily be supposed that Vane was most impatient to hear all
the details of his friend's remarkable visit to the
Collingwoods--remarkable, at least, under all circumstances--but he
could not fail to listen with emotions of a somewhat mingled cast to
the account of Ida's undoubted grief for his supplanter--an account
which he certainly, with that love of self-torment peculiar to some
men, wrung from Trevor Chute by dint of much industrious
cross-questioning.
Could he blame her for it?
'This sadness, of which all are cognizant,' said Chute, 'is not
unaccountable, you know, Jerry.'
'I suppose so.'
'It is natural grief for Jack Beverley.'
'Pleasant fact to thrust on me!' said Vane, grimly.
'Pardon me, old fellow, I did not thrust it on you. But take heart;
a girl with such capacity for love and tenderness is worth the
winning.'
'I won her, man alive!' said Jerry, savagely.
'Well, such a fortune is worth winning again.'
'This is barrack slang, Trevor.'
'Not at all,' said Chute, laughing at his friend's petulance. 'Be
assured that she must love something; and your turn will deservedly
come in due time.'
'If a cat or a monkey don't take my place.'
'Cynical again.'
'I can't help being so, Trevor, as well as being a simpleton.'
'Nay, don't say so, Jerry,' said the soldier, kindly; 'I think this
unchanging love you have for a girl who used you so does honour to
your heart, especially in this age of ours, when we are much more
addicted to pence than to poetry; and, as some one says, the _sauce
piquante_ of life is its glorious uncertainty.'
'And Clare--what were your thoughts and conclusions about _her_?
'My thoughts you know; my conclusions--I have none,' replied Chute,
who, since he had again seen and talked with Clare Collingwood, had
felt his heart too full of her to confide, even to his friend, as
yet, what hope or fear he had.
'And you saw Violet, too?' asked Vane, to fill up a pause.
'Oh, yes,' replied Chute, with animation; 'Violet, whilom the pretty
little girl--the child with a wealth of golden hair flowing below her
waist, and no end of mischief and fun in her bright blue eyes; she
seems the same now as then. She actually spoke of Desmond being an
admirer of Clare.'
'Surely that was bad form in the girl, to _you_ especially.'
'She did so through pure inadvertence, Jerry; but I must own that,
when coupled with your remarks, the circumstance stung me more than a
week ago I could have anticipated. But I suppose such trials as
those of ours,' he continued, helping himself to a bumper of sherry
without waiting to be asked, 'are part and parcel of the ills that
manhood has to encounter--"Manhood, with all its chances and changes,
its wild revels and its dark regrets--its sparkling champagne-cup and
its bitter aconite lying at the dregs."'
'Times there are when I blush at my own want of proper pride of heart
in continuing to mourn after a girl who has quietly let me drop into
the place of a mere friend.'
'Nay, depend upon it, Jerry, you must be much more than any mere
friend can be to Ida Beverley; and now, as far as her grief goes, my
visit to-day will prove, I think, the turning point.'
'And so Violet actually blundered out with some remark about Desmond.'
'Yes, and that which galled me more was to see him come lounging into
the house to visit Clare just as I took my departure, so there _must_
be some truth in what the clubs say.'
Jerry Vane did not reply, and his silence seemed to give a marked
assent to the surmise, as he had been in London, for some time past,
and must, as Chute thought bitterly, know all the _on dits_ of the
fashionable world, and he sat also silent, watching the ice in the
sherry cobbler melt slowly away.
Though Trevor Chute had, with emotions of doubt, regret, and envy,
seen Desmond lounging into the house of the Collingwoods on the
eventful day of his visit thereto, it did not follow, he thought on
reflection, that he visited there daily.
Nor was it so.
It was the height of a crowded and brilliant London season, and the
Brigade had to undergo what that branch of the service deem 'hard
work.'
There were guards of honour for Royal drawing-rooms; escort duty;
heavy morning drills at Wormwood Scrubs; the daily ride in the Lady's
Mile; polo at Lillie Bridge; perhaps a match with the Coldstreams at
Lord's; a Bacchanalian water party and a nine o'clock dinner at
Richmond with some of the pets of the Opera; midnight receptions and
later waltzes; at homes, and so forth: thus the time of Desmond was
pretty well filled up; and yet at many of these places he had ample
opportunities for meeting Clare, and being somewhat of a privileged
dangler, without committing himself so far as a special visit might
imply.
All was over between Clare Collingwood and Trevor Chute; yet the
interest of the latter in her and her future was irrepressible.
Two days passed, and he remained in great doubt what to do: whether
to accept Ida's piteous and pressing invitation to call on _her_,
heedless, of course, though not forgetting it, of Violet's proposal
that he should escort her in the Park when Clare rode with Desmond.
And now he began to think that to remain in London, where there would
be daily chances of seeing Clare, would be but to trifle with his own
happiness and that peace of mind which he had been gradually
attaining in India, and that he and Jerry Vane should betake
themselves to Paris or Brussels, and kill thought as best they could;
to this conclusion they came as they sat far into the hours of a
sultry summer night over cigars and iced drinks, and resolved that
the morrow should see them leave 'the silver streak' behind them.
And at that very time, when they were forming their plans, what was
Clare about?
Could Trevor have seen her then, and known her secret thoughts,
perhaps he might have been less decided in his views of foreign
travel.
Returning wearily and long before the usual time from a brilliant
rout, greatly to the surprise of Violet, and not a little to the
vexation of that young lady, Clare was seated alone in her own room,
lost in thought and unwilling to consult poor sad Ida, who was now
fast asleep.
It was long past midnight; the throng of foot passengers was gone,
but the rattle of carriages was incessant as if the time were mid-day.
She had unclasped her ornaments as if they oppressed her, and
forgetful of her maid, who yawned fitfully and impatiently in an
adjoining room, she sat with her rounded chin placed in the palm of a
white hand, with her dark eyes fixed on vacancy.
The soft air of the summer night--or morning, rather--came gently
through the lace curtains of an open window, bringing with it the
delicious perfume of flowers from the jardinière in the balcony; and
perhaps the fragrance of these blossoms, and the half-hushed hum of
the streets without, 'stole through the portals of the senses,' and
lured her into waking dreams of the past and of the future.
At the ball she had quitted so early, her father, who had been making
himself appear somewhat absurd by his senile attentions to Desmond's
rather _passée_ sister, Evelyn, had actually _spoken_ to her of
Trevor Chute, and in unwonted friendly terms; and the flood of
thought this episode had called up within her, conflicting with the
half-decided addresses of Desmond, partly drew her home, to think and
ponder over her future, if a future she had that was worth
considering now.
So far as monetary matters were concerned, the same barriers existed
still between her and poor Trevor Chute as when Sir Carnaby broke off
the engagement as cruelly as he would have 'scratched' a horse; and
then the settlements which the great, languid guardsman could make
were known to be unexceptional.
These did not weigh much with gentle, yet proud, and unambitious
Clare; but she knew that they had vast weight with her worldly-minded
father, so why torment herself by thinking of Trevor Chute at all?
But thoughts came thick and fast in spite of reason and cool
reflection, and the girl sank into a reverie that was far from being
a pleasant one.
But what if Trevor Chute had learned to love another!
She bit her lovely nether lip, which was like a scarlet camellia bud,
for an instant; her dark eyes flashed, then drooped, and she smiled
softly, confidently, and perhaps triumphantly, as she said, half
audibly:
'Ah, no--he loves me still; poor Trevor! I saw it in his eyes--I
heard it in the cadence of his voice, and I never was mistaken! He
loves me still--but to what purpose, _to what end_?'
Tears started to her eyes; but she crushed her emotion, and, with a
quick, impatient little hand, rang for her waiting-maid.