No Quarter!

“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.

Chapter Thirty Five

A Complete Eclaircissement

“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.

Continuing the conversation, he said, insinuatingly, —

“On second thoughts, I’m wrong, Mistress Vaga. I have known a man as much in love with a woman as my cousin is with yours – know one now?”

“Indeed?”

The exclamatory rejoinder was purely mechanical, she who made it not having enough interest in what had been said to inquire who was the individual he alluded to. Yet this was the very question he courted. He had to angle for it further, saying, —

“May I tell you who it is?”

“Oh, certainly; if you desire to do so.”

Even this icy response failed to check him. He either did not perceive its coldness, or mistook it for reticence due to the occasion. Several times, since his first abortive attempt, he had been on the eve of making fuller declaration to her – in short, a proposal of marriage. But she had been dancing with others besides himself, and no good opportunity had as yet offered. That seemed to have come now. So, taking advantage of it, and her permission, he said, in an impressive way, —