Madame Lalande, _nee_ Powell, was the widow of a West Indian planter,
late deceased. Her husband, during life, had held commercial
intercourse with Bristol, then chief port of communication with all the
Transatlantic colonies. Though a Creole of French descent, the isle of
his nativity, in the Antilles, had come under British rule; and he
himself rather affected English tastes and habits, often visiting
England and making short sojourns in it. At a Bristol ball he had first
met Gwendoline Powell, Ambrose's sister; had married in Bristol, and
there designed spending the evening of his days in retirement from the
cares of business life. And when the time at length came for carrying
this design into execution, he sold off his West Indian plantation--an
extensive one, with its human chattels, some hundreds in number--and
invested the proceeds in Bristol property, part of it being a handsome
dwelling-house meant for his future home:
Into this he had entered about a year before the commencement of the
civil strife, which he lived not to see. The cold, moist climate of our
island, 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 was
buried there, having succumbed to an attack of pleurisy. Possibly fast
living may have had something to do with it. He was a man of social
inclinings and sumptuous habits, which his great wealth enabled him to
indulge without stint; and he had recklessly disregarded the care of his
health.
Fortunately for those who inherited his property, his life of
extravagance had not been long enough to dissipate it, and Madame
Lalande was still one of the wealthiest women in Bristol, with no one to
share her wealth, save an only daughter, a girl of some eighteen
summers, or, to speak more correctly, one summer of eighteen years in
length. For the occasional visits to England with her father and mother
had been made in this season, the rest of her life spent in a land where
winter is unknown. All summer her life in every sense; from her cradle
not a wish denied, or taste ungratified, but everything lavished upon
her which money could purchase or parental fondness bestow.
As a consequence, Clarisse Lalande had grown up a spoilt child; and now
that she was almost a woman, the fruits of such folly made themselves
manifest. Imperious and capricious, she had a temper which would not
brook restraint. For this it had never known, accustomed all her life
to the obeisance of black slaves, and the flattery of mulatto
hand-maidens.
Flattery from others she had received too--a very incense of it--which
her beauty, without thought of her prospective wealth, commanded. For a
beauty she was, of the true Creole type, with all its characteristics;
the golden brown tint of skin, the crimson flush of cheeks, the
brilliancy of dark eyes, with a luxuriance of hair that defied
confinement 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 had
not been pure Circassian, but with a slight admixture of Ethiopian. All
the more piquant were the charms it had transmitted to his daughter, as
the star-like fire in her brown-black eyes, and a figure of grandly
voluptuous outline. Some of her mental characteristics, too, may have
come from it--a certain sensuousness, with the impatience of control
already adverted to.
Such being Clarisse Lalande, it scarce needs saying that between her and
her cousins Powell there was little congeniality either of tastes or
sentiments. Though in person more resembling Sabrina, the two were
mental antipodes; while sunbright Vaga, who looked altogether unlike her
dark-skinned Creole cousin, had yet certain similar traits of temper;
the which made mutual antipathy, at first sight, as when alkali and acid
come into contact. It afterwards became heart-hatred, inspired and
nursed by the most powerful of influences.
Considering that Madame Lalande was Ambrose Powell's sister, and that
her late husband had been a Protestant of Huguenot ancestry--at least
four-fifths of him--one would naturally expect her to be on the
Parliamentary side--supposing her to take a side at all--with ardent
inclinings 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 her
frivolousness of character, had political leanings too, or more properly
caprices, the frivolity itself their cause. In the eyes of the
imperious young lady Roundheadism and Puritanism were things of
reproach, and the terms themselves often scornfully on her lips. Kingly
form of government was the only one fit for gentlepeople; and Cavaliers
alone worthy to associate with such as she--those curled darlings, "dear
delightful creatures," as, in her fond partiality, she was accustomed to
call them.
Wonderfully hospitable was Madame Lalande; that is, in a fashionable
way. She gave grand entertainments, which was indeed but continuing
what had been done before the death of her husband. Nor was it so long
after 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 to
share the demised wealth. There was keen competition for the favour of
her smiles. Knights and baronets were flitting about in plenty, with
here and there an earl; and as her ambitious mother aimed at having a
titled son-in-law, so spread she the banquet to allure them.
During the brief rule of the gay Essex, as a matter of course Madame
Lalande'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 the
dinner table or the joys of the dance. He was not a lord; but, as the
son of one, in all probability some day would be.
Alas! for any matrimonial designs Madame Lalande might have upon the
rollicking Colonel for her daughter, her chances of showing him further
hospitality were brought to an abrupt end, by his heels getting kicked
up in a different way, and himself carried off a prisoner to Berkeley
Castle.
Withal the festivities in the house of the planter's relict went on as
usual--nearly every night something of dinner party, and during the day
receptions. If there was suffering in other homes of Bristol through
the state of semi-siege in which the place was then held, nothing of
this affected the home of the rich West Indian widow. There all was
gaiety and splendour.
Yet it had inmates who took little delight in its joys, and one who
detested them--that one Ambrose Powell. A new style of life, with a
companionship altogether uncongenial, was it to him; and, but for its
being forced upon him by the necessity of circumstances, he would not
have continued it a single day--not an hour. It was many long years
since he had last met his sister; and, remembering her as a guileless
country girl--almost portionless too--seeing her now a sharp woman of
the world, wealthy and devoted to ideas of frivolity and fashion,--above
all, finding her changed from the political faith of their common father
and family, he was alike surprised and shocked--angry, moreover, to the
point of reproaching, even scolding her; and would have done so, but for
the question "_Cui bono_?" which had negative, though silent, answer in
all he saw around. His dear sister Gwen, who in earlier days would have
humbly listened to his counsels, and been controlled by them, would now
resent the meekest suggestion as to her way of life or the conduct of
her 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 in
Bristol now, he and his; and how to get out of it was not a mere
question of inconvenience, but a matter of great difficulty, attended
with danger. Though not so close to the door, after that 7th of March
night, the wolves were still without, on the roads--ravening everywhere.