‘Or who would make the most of it if they had,’ Edith retorted sharply, adding in a low voice, ‘Gaston, I quite hate you to-night: how disagreeable you can be.’
For the remainder of the evening she made him conscious of her high displeasure. Mountcharles and she had hitherto been the most excellent friends. An aide-de-camp may be, and Mountcharles certainly was, the very tamest of cats. He had other claims besides those of cousinship to be well received. With an only daughter, young, lively, and exceedingly attractive, both the general and Mrs. Prioleau had realised the inconvenience and possible danger of having a man continually about the house, unless he were in every way an eligible parti. Edith had plenty of time before her, no doubt, but at her age girls are impressionable and very apt to succumb to the first comer if he has many opportunities of being at her side. Mountcharles had been specially selected as A.D.C. by Mrs. Prioleau, who, in spite of her languid airs, was a shrewd, far-seeing woman, and she felt that if anything were to happen, at least they were safe with Gaston Mountcharles. His father was dead, and he had an excellent competence of his own. He was a man of good birth, thoroughly presentable in every way. Edith, if she could only like him, might do very much worse.
But this night it was clear Edith did not like him at all. Not that Mountcharles much cared. He had probably far too good an opinion of himself to be cast down by the snubbings of a girl still in her teens. Whether or no he took her treatment of him very much to heart does not, however, concern my readers so much as her behaviour to the hero of my story.
To Herbert Larkins that evening she was gracious and engaging in the extreme. She made him talk to her on subjects he would probably know best. She listened to him with that close attention which is in itself a subtle compliment, particularly when coming from an attractive girl, and she smiled her approval in that frank, straightforward way which might be interpreted one way, but which in her, perhaps, meant nothing at all.
The effect upon Herbert was marked and almost instantaneous. He was in truth little accustomed to the fascinations of the fair sex. He had never been brought up to flirt and philander, to roam from flower to flower, inhaling fragrance and passing gaily on, and he fell at once deeply and desperately in love. His heart went out at once to the general’s daughter, without for a moment considering whether his passion was likely to be returned.
It was not, perhaps, exactly wise. A man more versed in the ways of the world would have been a little more cautious and circumspect. Edith Prioleau counted her swains by the score. Young ladies with the great gift of beauty, of good birth, and not without brains, pleasant talkers, good dancers, forward riders, are not too common in English society on the Rock. Among the few belles of the place, Edith Prioleau easily carried off the palm, and she had always a crowd of admirers about her. She did not resent or reject their attentions; on the contrary, she honoured them all with her favour in turn, and enjoyed it amazingly, feeling, no doubt, that they meant nothing any more than she did, and that, therefore, she did no particular harm. Young soldiers are reputed susceptible; but it is also true that, if knocked over and quite hopeless one day, they are generally quite heart-whole the next.
Herbert Larkins was not a man of this sort. He was in sober serious earnest from the first. He was like a slave, grovelling at her feet. She might trample on him and spurn him if she pleased, but he was hers always, whether she would have him or no. The worst of it was that he could not hide his feelings. He was too honest—he had not enough of what the world calls savoir faire. What did he care who knew? He was not ashamed of his weakness. It was not a passing fancy, but a strong attachment; a deep-seated affection which would last as long as he lived. Everybody saw it: his brother-officers, like good comrades, realising how much his heart was in it, forebore to chaff him and take him to task; the garrison generally, and all smiled, or winked knowingly when he was observed dancing attendance on Edith, looking the picture of misery unless she threw him a word. Captain Mountcharles saw it, so at last did the general and his wife. Edith herself, least of all, could not be blind to devotion which had in it much of the unswerving unquestioning attachment of the dog that follows at one’s heels. In all probability she would have been overcome by it. Already that pity which is proverbially akin to a much warmer sentiment, had taken possession of her, and she was in a fair way to be won had Herbert pricked up courage to speak.
Edith’s parents were growing a trifle uneasy at Herbert’s attentions. The general did not take much notice, but—a woman is so much more worldly in these matters—Mrs. Prioleau did.
‘Do you see, Robert,’ she said at length, ‘what is going on right under our noses? Edith, I mean, and this Mr. Larkins?’