"Mademoiselle's game is up. You see, Sabrina, I was right, and he's
loyal to his love--true to the _guage_ of the egret's plume."
"Indeed, yes! What a tale for Vaga! And I shall tell it her soon."
"'Twill gladden her, you think?"
"I'm quite sure of it. Though I haven't evidence of her heart's
inclinings in speech plain as that we've just--Hish! Another couple
coming this way! Really, Richard, we ought not to stay here; 'tis bad
as being eaves-droppers."
"Never mind about the eavesdropping. It will sit light on my
conscience, after leading to such good results. Who may be the pair
approaching now, I wonder?"
They listened. To hear music, with the hum of many voices afar off; but
two near, and drawing nearer.
"My sister!" said Sabrina, almost instantly recognising one of them;
then, after another brief interval of silence, adding, "and Reginald
Trevor!"
Continuing to advance, the two were soon up to the pavilion; and made
stop, on the same spot where but five minutes before stood their
respective cousins.
Now, however, it was the gentleman who spoke first--after their coming
to a stand--and as if changing the subject of the dialogue already in
progress.
"My cousin Eust seems beside himself with Mademoiselle Lalande. I never
saw man so madly in love with a woman. I wonder if she reciprocates
it?"
He was pouring gall into Vaga Powell's heart, and apparently without
being conscious of it. For, by this, he had reached full confidence
that his own love was reciprocated by her with whom he was conversing.
"Like enough," was the response, in tones so despairingly sad, that, but
for his being a fool in his own conceit, he might have drawn deductions
from it to make him suspect his folly. More, could he have but seen the
expression upon her features at that moment--pain, almost agony. The
pantomimic dance--just over, all its acts, incidents, and gestures were
still fresh before her mind--the latest the most vivid--the dropping of
the glove; its being taken up, as she supposed, with eager alacrity;
then, the man she loved throwing wide open his arms to receive into them
the woman she hated! All this was in her thoughts, a very tumult of
trouble--in her heart as a flaming fire.
The darkness favoured her, or Reginald Trevor could not have failed
perceiving it on her face. But, indeed, she would have little cared if
he had. Dissembling with him all the night, she meant doing so no more.
Though the play was not with him, the game had gone against her; she
had lost the stakes, as she supposed, irretrievably; and now would
retire into the shadow and bitterness of solitude.
Little dreamt he of how she was suffering, or the cause. Knowing it, he
might have sprung away from her side, quickly and angrily as had
Clarisse from that of Eustace.