"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 arm
in arm along the lamplit walks. A sight to tear her heart. And it tore
it; might have altogether rent and ruined it had the mutual
misunderstanding 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's
banks, whatever of confidence had hitherto been between them was
reestablished, and true love triumphed over jealousy.
Partly by accident was the happy result brought about; though it might
have 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; his
friendship, and her sisterly solicitude standing the younger lovers in
stead.
"Why has your sister not danced with Captain Trevor--I mean my Captain
Trevor?" queried the soldier knight of his betrothed. "I haven't seen
him 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 the
least."
"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 for
nothing. I know he's madly in love with your sister; has been ever
since first setting eyes upon her at Hollymead. That much he has
confided 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 the
fickle sort. At Whitehall he bore the reputation of having a heart of
adamant; with no end of sighing damsels doing their endeavour to soften
it. Indeed, scandal spoke of its very obduracy being the cause of his
dismissal from Court; a certain Royal lady having assailed it
unsuccessfully, and for that reason turned against him. Such a man once
in love, as I know he is with your sister, is not likely to veer about
so suddenly."
"But, you remember with what suddenness he changed sides, politically?"
"Ah! that's different, and to his credit. It was not of his own
choosing that he was on the wrong one. And, soon as finding it so, he
espoused the right one. All the more likely his standing firm, and
proving true in an affair of the heart. But are you sure the fault is
not on Vaga's side? I've observed her a good deal in the company of the
other 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 your
sister. 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. Hence
their interest in the two who were in danger of going astray was of a
protecting character. Sabrina, especially anxious about the upshot on
the 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 hours
ago, and from his own lips. On the way hither--we came together you may
know--he spoke of a heaviness at his heart, and that he had never
started to go to a ball with less anticipation of pleasure. On my
asking for explanation, he said it was on account of your sister. It
was weeks since he had seen her; and something seemed to whisper she
would not be the same to him as she had been. Trying to laugh away his
fancies, 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 know
her. When he returned the other day, and he learnt that Reginald was in
Bristol--had been for some time--he took it for granted he would also be
often here in this house. That, of course, considering the Cavalier
inclinings of your aunt and cousin. No doubt the thought, or fancy, of
Master 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 he
never had. As for Vag--"
She broke off abruptly at the sound of voices and footsteps. Two
persons in conversation were coming along the gravelled walk. The place
was a pavilion, trellised all round, the trellis supporting a thick
growth of climbers that formed a curtain to it. There was a lamp
suspended inside, but its light had gone out, either through neglect or
because the day would soon be dawning. The dialogue given above took
place within the pavilion; that to follow occurring just outside by the
entrance.
It was between two of the four, about whom they inside had been
conversing--Clarisse and Eustace. She was still upon his arm, as he had
conducted her off the dancing ground; she now rather conducting him
towards that quiet spot, whither she had no idea of any one having
preceded 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 plebeian
Puritans and Roundheads; unlike them in every way."
"Not every way, I hope, and would be sorry to think I was. Rather would
I resemble them in their ways of truth and right--their aspirations for
liberty, and the self-sacrificing courage they have shown to achieve
it."
"But the Cavaliers show courage too; as much, and more than they."
"Neither more, nor as much. Pardon me, Mademoiselle, for contradicting
you. Hitherto they've been better horsed, by robbing the poor farmers,
emptying every stable they came across. That's given them the advantage
of us. But there'll be a turn to it soon, and we shall pay the score
back to Rupert and his plunderers."
"Oh, Captain Trevor! To speak so of the gallant Prince--calling him a
plunderer. For shame!"
"He's all that, and more--a ruthless murderer. Nor is the King himself
much less, after his doings of the other day with the wretched captives
of Cirencester."
"You naughty, naughty rebel!" she rejoined, with a laugh telling how
little the misfortunes of the Cirencestrians affected her, adding--"And
I feel inclined to call you renegade as well."
"Call me that, and welcome. 'Tis no disgrace for a man to turn coat
when he discovers he has been wearing it wrong side out; not put on so
by himself but by others. For what I've done, Mademoiselle Lalande, I
feel neither shame nor repentance; instead, glory in it."
"What a grand, noble fellow!" thought Sir Richard, as also the other
listener inside the pavilion; the latter with added reflection how
worthy he was to mate with her sister.
It was less his reasoning, than the defiance flung to her in tone so
independent, that caused the Creole to shrink back from what she had
said. Fearing it might have given offence, she hastened to heal the
wound by the salve of self-humiliation.
"O sir! I but spoke jestingly; and please don't think I meant
reproaching you. As you know, we women have but little understanding of
things political; of English politics I less than any, from being a
stranger to the country--almost a foreigner. In truth, I know not
clearly 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 of
her than he had hitherto entertained. "After all," thought he, "she has
a woman's heart true, but led astray by sinister surroundings." So
reflecting, he returned kindly,--"There's nothing either to be pardoned
or forgotten, _chere Mademoiselle_. And if there was, how could I
refuse 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 the
moment, 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? Or
do 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 which
should be taken. The glove was still in his hand, as he had picked it
up. To retain it would imply something more than he was in the mind
for; while returning it implied something else, equally against his
inclinations. It might give offence--be even regarded as a rudeness.
A happy thought struck him--a compromise which promised to release him
from his dilemma. The glove was a costly thing, embroidered with thread
of 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.