While Herbert Vaughan was making these reflections, the light began to
re-dawn--gradually, as it were, raising the veil from the face of his
cousin. He could not resist turning to gaze upon it. During the
interval of the obscurity, a change had passed over the countenance of
the young girl, both in its hue and expression. Herbert noticed the
change. It even startled him. Before, and during the unhappy dialogue,
he had looked upon a flushed cheek, a fiery eye, an air proud and
haughty, with all the indices of defiant indifference.
All were gone: Kate's eye still sparkled, but with a milder light; a
uniform pallor overspread her cheeks, as if the eclipse had robbed them
of their roses; and the proud expression had entirely disappeared,
replaced by one of sadness, or rather of pain.
Withal, the face was lovely as ever--lovelier, thought Herbert.
Why that sudden transformation? What had caused it? Whence sprang that
painful thought, that was betraying itself in the pale cheek and lips
compressed and quivering? Was it the happiness of another that was
making that misery? Smythje seemed happy--very happy, to judge from his
oft-repeated "Haw! haw!"
Was this the cause of that expression of extreme sadness that displayed
itself on the countenance of his cousin?
So did Herbert interpret it.
Making a fresh effort to subdue within himself the same spirit which he
believed to be actuating her, he remained silent--though unable to
withdraw his glance from that lorn but lovely face.
While still gazing upon it, a sigh escaped him. It could scarce have
been heard by her who stood nearest; nor hers by him: for she had also
sighed, and at the same instant of time! Perhaps both were moved by
some secret sympathetic instinct?
Herbert had succeeded in obtaining another momentary triumph over his
emotions: and was once more on the eve of uttering words of friendship,
when the young girl looked up and reciprocated his gaze. It was the
first time during the interview their eyes had met: for up to that
moment Kate had only regarded her cousin with furtive glances.
For some seconds they stood face to face--each gazing into the eyes of
the other, as if both were the victims of some irresistible fascination.
Not a word passed between them--their very breathing was stilled. Both
seemed to consider the time too important for speech: for they were
seeking in one another's eyes--those faithful mirrors of the soul--those
truest interpreters of the heart--the solution of that, the most
interesting enigma of their existence.
This silent interrogation was instinctive as mutual--uncorrupted by a
shadow of coquetry. It was bold and reckless as innocence itself--
unregarding outward observation. What cared they for the eclipse? What
for the sun or the moon, or the waning stars? What for the universe
itself? Less--far less for those human forms that chanced to be so near
them!
Drew they gratification from that mutual gaze? They must--else why did
they continue it?
Not for long: not for long were they allowed. An eye was upon them--the
eye of that beautiful demon.
Ah! fair Judith, thy flirtation has proved a failure! The _ruse_ has
recoiled upon thyself!
The golden sunlight once more fell upon the Jumbe Rock, revealing the
forms of four individuals--all youthful--all in love, though two only
were beloved!
The returning light brought no joy to Judith Jessuron.
It revealed to her that glance of mutual fascination, which, with a
quick, sharp cry, she had interrupted.
A bitter embarrassment seemed all at once to have seized upon her proud
spirit, and dragged it into the dust.
Skilled in the silent language of the eyes, she had read in those of
Herbert Vaughan, as he bent them upon his cousin, an expression that
stung her, even to the utterance of a scream!
From that moment the flirtation with Smythje ceased; and the Cockney
exquisite was forsaken in the most unceremonious manner left to continue
his telescopic observations alone.
The conversation was no longer _dos y dos_, but at once changed to a
_trio_; and finally restored to its original _quartette_ form--soon,
however, to be broken up by an abrupt separation of the parties.
The Jewess was the first to propose departure--the first to make it.
She descended from the Jumbe Rock in a less lively mood than that in
which she had climbed up to it; inwardly anathematising the eclipse, and
the fortune that had guided her to the choice of such an ill-starred
observatory.
Perhaps, had the interview been prolonged, the cousins might have
separated with a better understanding of each other than was expressed
in that cold, ceremonious adieu with which they parted.
Smythje and Kate Vaughan were once more alone upon the summit of the
rock; and the supercilious lover was now free to continue the
declaration.
One might suppose that he would have instantly dropped back upon his
knees, and finished the performance so vexatiously interrupted.
Not so, however. The spirit of Smythje's dream seemed equally to have
undergone a change; as if he, too, _had seen something_.
His air of high confidence had departed, as also the climax on which he
had counted: for the sun's disc was now quite clear of the eclipse, and
the pretty speeches, intended for an anterior time, would now have been
pointless and inappropriate.
Whether it was this that influenced him, or a presentiment that the
offer of his heart and hand might just then stand some chance of a
rejection, can never be known: since Smythje, who alone could divulge
it, has left no record of the reason.
Certain it is, however, that the proposal did not take place on the
Jumbe Rock on the day of the eclipse; but was postponed, _sine die_, to
some future occasion.
Volume Two, Chapter XVI.