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<h3 class="chapter">Chapter Thirty Four.</h3> <h4 class="event">Guardian Angels.</h4> <blockquote> “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.” </blockquote> 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 naïve 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, chère 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 “chère 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. But she refused to take it, saying with a laugh,— “Very considerate of you, sir; and thanks! But I’m not so poor, that it will be impossible for me to replace it by one of like value.” Foiled, he drew back his hand; now with no alternative but to keep the token he cared not for. “Since you are so generous, Mademoiselle, I accept your gift with gratitude.” Even the cold formality of this speech failed to dispel the illusion she had been all the night labouring under. Unused to discomfiture of any kind, she thought not of defeat in the game of passion she was playing. “Oh! it’s nothing to be grateful for,” she lightly rejoined. “Only your due for rescuing me from the pursuing enemy. Ha-ha-ha!” He was about to stow the favour under the breast of his doublet, when he saw her glance go up to the crown of his hat, over which still waved the feathers of the egret, plucked by the base of Ruardean hill. “Perhaps you wouldn’t care to carry it there?” she said, half jestingly. “It might spoil the look of that pretty plume.” He was doubly perplexed now. To place the glove in his hat meant letting it remain there, meant more—a symbol to show that the giver of it was esteemed beyond all others. And that in her case would not be true. Besides, what would she say—what think—whose favour, not proffered but asked for, was already there? Despite all the contrarieties of the night, Eustace Trevor was not prepared to break with Vaga Powell by offering her such a slight—an insult. With much to make him sad and angry, he was neither sad nor angry enough for retaliation as that. Sure, moreover, to recoil upon himself—a reflection which needed no other to determine him. But the challenge had been thrown out, and called for instant response—a yes or a no. Subterfuge was no longer possible, even had it been of his nature, and he resolved upon making a clean breast of it. “Mademoiselle Lalande, however proud of the trophy you’ve been good enough to bestow on me, there’s a reason why I cannot wear it as you suggest?” “A reason, indeed!” the voice in a tone half vexed, half surprise. “May I know it?” Then, as if repenting the question, she quickly added, “Oh, never mind! Give me back my glove, sir. Good-night!” They, listening inside the pavilion, heard no more words, only the sound of footsteps passing away; first light ones in rapid repetition; then others heavier and slower; after which silence profound. <hr /></div> <div class="page-break"></div> <div class="bodytext"> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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