HE LOVES ME, TRULY!
To Audley's mind there was a freshness and innocence about Sybil,
that made her image dwell in his heart prominently, and more vividly
than the dashing and showy Mabel and Rose Trecarrel could have
conceived to be possible. Moreover, there was, to him, something
glorious in the conviction that for the sake of this lovely young
girl he had confronted a manifest peril; that by doing so he had
saved her and established--as he hoped--a tie of no ordinary strength
and peculiarity between them, linking, in the future, their histories
if not their lives together; for to him she owned now, most probably,
the fact that she existed at all.
Such were the kind of thoughts to which Trevelyan, hitherto a
heedless and pleasure-loving young subaltern of Hussars, indulged in
many a dreamy hour, even when half flirting or "chaffing" with the
Trecarrels, riding or driving abroad with them, turning the leaves at
the piano while Rose displayed the perfection of her white shoulders
and taper arms after dinner, and dawdled languidly over the airs of
Verdi and Balfe; and to which he fully abandoned himself, when he
strolled forth alone, to enjoy a cigar in the lawn or in some
secluded lane.
Sybil on her part deemed it equally delightful, to think that she
owed her life to him; for had not Audley and others said (and she
felt the truth of it) that, ere the ebb of the tide should have left
the lower end of the cavern open and free, she must have perished of
cold or terror, or both.
She had read the contents of many a box from "Mudie's," but no
episode in any of the three volumes octavo therein seemed exactly to
resemble hers in the Pixies' Hole. It was very romantic and strange,
no doubt; but to Constance it appeared that the still concealed part
of their relationship was the most strange and romantic feature in
the affair.
Like most, if not all, young girls, she had read all about love in
novels and romances; she had talked about love to school-companions,
some of them enthusiastic Italian girls at Como, by the Arno, and
elsewhere; and now a lover had actually come, one who on three
successive days had left cards, with earnest inquiries concerning her
health and that of her mamma.
She remembered the endearment of his manner when he saved her, but
feared, at times, that such might only have been caused by the
peculiarity of their situation; and then she would blush with
annoyance at herself, as she recalled the somewhat too pointed way in
which she questioned him about Rose Trecarrel, to whom she was still
a stranger, and of whom she had thus evinced a jealousy--actually a
jealousy, as if thereby assuming a right to question his actions!
But had he not called her Sybil, and said that he loved her, and her
only?
The afternoon of the fourth day saw Audley Trevelyan--always careful
of his costume, on this occasion unusually so--passing slowly down
the willow avenue towards the villa; and as he approached the latter,
the beating of his heart quickened on perceiving the light figure of
Sybil pass from the pillared portico into a conservatory that
adjoined the house. So she was convalescent--had recovered at last;
and now he would speak with her alone, and might resume perhaps the
thread of that hurried but delightful topic, which was so suddenly
cut short on the evening he saved her, by the voice of the impatient
General.
He approached the glass door of the conservatory, which she had left
invitingly open, his footsteps being completely muffled by the soft
and close-clipped turf of the little lawn.
The conservatory was handsome, lofty, and spacious, floored with
brilliantly coloured encaustic tiles, and constructed of iron, like a
kiosk; its shelves were laden with delicate ferns, with cacti and
gorgeous exotics in full bloom, though the season was in the last
days of autumn, and over all drooped, almost from the roof to the
ground, the far-stretching and slender green sprays of a graceful
acacia. Under this stood Sybil, clad in a simple white dress,
decorated by trimmings of rose-coloured satin ribbon, and having a
dainty little lace collar round her slender neck; and Trevelyan
watched her in silence and with admiration for half a minute ere he
entered.
It was the freshness and girlish purity of Sybil that charmed him
quite as much as the delicacy of her beauty. During his few years of
military life, in London, at Bath, Brighton, and Canterbury, even at
Calcutta, he had met many such girls as the Trecarrels--brilliant in
flirtation and knowing in all manner of arts and graces; but none
that resembled Sybil.
She had plucked a dwarf rose, and was about to place it in the breast
of her dress. Suddenly she seemed to pause and change her intention;
for a bright and fond smile spread over her soft little face, and
while speaking to herself, leaf by leaf, she began to pluck the
flower slowly to pieces.
She spoke aloud, but her voice was so low that it failed to reach the
ears of Trevelyan, till after a time, when, as the leaves lessened in
number, she began to raise her tones, and her occupation became plain
to him. She was acting to herself--repeating the little part of
Goethe's Marguerite in the garden, but in a fashion of her own.
"He loves me a little--tenderly--truly--he loves me not!"
With each pause in this floral formula, the old German mode of
divination in love affairs, a pink leaf floated away or fell on her
white dress; and when but seven remained round the calyx, she paused
for a moment; her face brightened as the charm seemed to work
satisfactorily; she resumed her plucking, and as the seventh or last
leaf was twitched from the stem, she clasped her hands and exclaimed
with joy--
"Truly--Audley loves me _truly_!"
Her colour deepened, and there was almost a divine expression about
her eyes and lips; but she became covered with intense confusion when
Trevelyan approached her suddenly, and said with a tender and
pleasantly modulated voice--
"Your floral spell has worked to admiration, for Audley does love you
truly and fondly, dearest Sybil!"
"Oh, Mr. Trevelyan--and you have overheard my folly!" was all she
could falter out, as he captured her hands in his own, and she
stooped her face aside.
"_Mr._ Trevelyan? Why, a moment ago you called me plain Audley, and
it did sound so delightful! Pray do not let us go back in our
relations. And you have quite recovered, I hope, from the effects of
that frightful affair?" he added, while smiling with fondness into
the clear bright eyes that drooped beneath his gaze.
"It seems as nothing, now--save when I dream; you make too much of
it--indeed you do," blundered Sybil.
"Can I do so of aught in which you have a part?"
"Poor mamma is still in a weak and nervous state; so, I am sorry to
say, she will be unable to see you."
As it was not "mamma" he had come exactly to visit, Audley could only
murmur some well-bred expression of regret.
"How very remarkable that you should have been there to save me!"
said Sybil, after a pause.
"The coldly treated stranger by the moorland tarn, eh?"
"You forget that we had not been introduced, or how came it all to
pass?" she asked, with growing confusion.
"As all things in this life do, dearest Sybil."
"But how?"
"It was fate--destiny."
"What--are you a fatalist?"
"I hope not; and yet it were sweet to think that--that----"
"What?" murmured Sybil, her long lashes drooping beneath the ardour
of his glance, while his clasp seemed to tighten on her slender
fingers.
Much more passed that has been said, over and over again, under the
same circumstances, by every pair of lovers since roses grew in Eden
(and, unluckily, apples too); and there were long pauses, that were
only pauses of the tongue, and which beatings of the heart filled up,
with many a sigh "the deeper for suppression." There grew between
these two a sudden sense of great trust which increased the
tenderness of their sentiments, while deep gratitude was mingled now
with Sybil's former budding love. It did seem to her, as if Fate had
deliberately cast each in the path of the other; and doubtless it was
so, for "out of these chance-affinities grow sometimes the passion of
a life, and sometimes the disappointments that embitter existence."
"Oh, Audley, without mamma's consent, dare I accept so lovely a
ring?" said Sybil, in a low voice, as she lingered at the
conservatory door and contemplated a jewel which Trevelyan had just
slipped upon her engaged finger.
"You will surely wear it for my sake, till--till--" he paused, and
scarcely knew what to say, for he now began to reflect that he was
only a subaltern, and had been "going the pace," in his love-making,
with a vengeance! To fall in love and engage oneself were easy
enough; but, as yet, he did not quite see the end of the affair.
Sybil was, moreover, the daughter of an officer whose temper,
perhaps, might not brook trifling.
"Oh, it is an exquisite diamond!" resumed the girl, the pause
unnoticed, and its cause, to her, unknown.
"It formed one of the eyes of Vishnu, a Hindoo idol, in a temple near
Agra. One of the Cornish Light Infantry--old Mike Treherne, the
miner's son--poked out both with his bayonet. Jack Delamere bought
one; I the other, and had it set thus in a ring by a Parsee jeweller
in the Chandney Choke, at a time when I little thought of having in
mine so dear a hand to place it on. Has not our acquaintance ripened
with wonderful rapidity, darling??
"Under such terrible circumstances, I don't wonder at it," said she,
smiling tenderly as she toyed with the ring, which was now enhanced
in value--priceless in her eyes, for it was a love-token.
A love-token! and what might be its future history, and what their
fate? "Customs alter, and fashions change," says a writer; "but
love-gifts never grow old-fashioned or out of date,--they are always
fresh from the golden age. Old people die, and desks and drawers are
ransacked by their heirs. Oh, take up tenderly the withered petals,
the lock of hair, the quaint ring hidden away in some secret recess;
for hearts have once thrilled and eyes moistened at their touch.
Precious gems and rare objects there may be in casket and cabinet;
but none preserved with such jealous care as _these_, for they were
the gifts of love."
Sybil was a thoughtful girl, and even in that happy hour a sadness
stole through her heart, as some such ideas occurred to her; but the
young officer thought only of the present time, of its joy and of her
beauty.
He pressed her to name a day when she and her mamma, as by courtesy
bound, would return the visit of the Trecarrels; but, ere that could
be accomplished, there came to pass that "greater sorrow" which the
heart of Constance had foreboded, and which must be duly recorded in
its place; so the hoped-for visit was never paid.
On this evening, Audley lingered long with Sybil. Each had so much
to say to the other, and so many questions to ask, and so many fond
plans for the future, that parting was a difficult task, even with
the knowledge that they were to meet again on the morrow.
It came; and noon saw him again at the villa, where he was received
in the drawing-room by Constance alone; and to her he began to speak
of Sybil after a time, and to express his admiration and regard for
her.
This Constance had fully foreseen and expected; but she was
outwardly, to all appearance, collected and calm, till the secret
that oppressed her became too much for her nervous system. Thus, the
tenor of her bearing, which before had been all kindness and
gratitude, suddenly changed. She became cold and constrained,
perplexed and even awkward; so that a chill fell upon the heart of
Audley, whose nature, all unlike that of his father, was frank and
generous to a fault. She curtly but gently told him, that until the
return of her husband she could afford no permission for her daughter
to receive addresses; and soon after, full of deep mortification, and
dreading he knew not what, Audley Trevelyan took his leave; and
Constance, as she watched his figure pass out of the avenue, burst
into tears.
Sybil, as her youngest-born, she had ever looked upon as a species of
child--called "_the_ baby," when long past babyhood; and now Sybil
had a lover! Awakened to the reality of this, the poor lonely mother
regarded this new phase of her daughter's existence with a species of
alarm that bordered on terror.
"Would that Richard were home!" was her first thought; "even Denzil's
advice would be something to me now, poor boy!"
Audley had barely entered the Trecarrels' drawing-room, when Rose,
who was reclining on a fauteuil, with her rich brown hair beautifully
dressed by the hands of her Ayah, and who fancied herself immersed in
a novel, tossed it aside, for her clear hazel eyes speedily detected
the disturbed expression of his face, and proceeded forthwith to quiz
him as usual about "the Devereaux girl," and his intentions in that
quarter; while Mabel, who was seated at the piano, sang laughingly a
verse of "Wanted, a Wife," then a popular song, altering certain
words "to suit the occasion," as Rose said--
"As to fortune--of course, I have but my pay,
A sub with seven-and-sixpence a day,
And a pension beside--rather small, 'tis confest,
For a leg shot away in the action 'off Brest;'
For the loss of three fingers in fighting a chase,
And a terrible cut from a sword in my face.
But with all these defects, my nerves I must string,
To propose for Miss Devereaux--delicate thing!"
Audley felt almost inclined to quarrel with his fair friends.
"Don't tease a fellow so, Rose," said he, wearily; "I have no
money--at least, little beyond my pay; and have as much idea of
marrying as--as----"
"I have, perhaps."
"I cannot say that."
"You could ask this Sybil Devereaux?"
"Of course--it would be easy as cribbage."
"And what would she say, think you?"
"As a sensible girl such as she seems to be--'wait.'"
"Which means, that she would take you in time to come?"
"Perhaps."
"Unless something better turned up."
"Don't judge of her by yourself, Rose," he retorted, laughing, to
conceal his annoyance, which was greatly increased when the General's
butler, just as Audley was ascending to his own room to dress for
dinner, handed him a letter on a silver salver.
It was from his father; written in his usual clear and precise hand.
Audley for a time left it on the toilette table; then he tore it
open, with an air of irritation, as these paternal missives were
rarely pleasant ones, being always filled with advice, varied by
reprehension.
"Fathers have flinty hearts--and, by Jove, here is one!" muttered
Audley, while his brows contracted.
"I have seen in the public prints," ran the letter, "all about your
adventure with the daughter of those strange people who live at
Porthellick. The woman Devereaux is, as her name imports, too
probably some designing French adventuress. Mabel Trecarrel has
written to your sister Gartha, that you are quite smitten with the
daughter; but I give you my distinct advice and notice to take heed
of what you are about, and to join us in London without delay. You
left the Hussars, even in India, because of the expense of the corps,
neither tentage nor loot" (loot! the governor means batta) "being
sufficient to maintain you. Disobey me in the matter of this girl
Devereaux, and _I shall cut off_ even the slender allowance I
promised you, for the Cornish Light Infantry."
Audley crushed up the letter in his hand, for it came, at that
particular moment, like a sentence of death.
And Downie Trevelyan could write thus of the loving and amiable
little family circle at the villa, knowing all he did, and suspecting
more!
To fear, or to find that his brother Richard, so long deemed an
eccentric bachelor, had a family ready made and at hand to succeed
him in the honours of Rhoscadzhel and Lamorna was bad enough. These
interlopers who came between his own family and the line of Trevelyan
might (perhaps) be set aside; but to find that his eldest son had
become entangled with one of those so-called Devereaux, proved too
much for the equanimity of the far-seeing lawyer.