It was a _contredanse_; 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 the _piece de
resistance_ of 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 the _elite_ of 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 flashing _cocuyos_.
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 the _ci-devant_ gentleman-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 this _quartette_ of 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 with _my_ dancing 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 retaining _him_--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.