Ignorant of the little scene that had passed in the Collingwoods' drawing-room, Trevor Chute felt only something very nearly amounting to transports of rage when he thought of all that had occurred overnight at Sir Carnaby's club. The callous remarks of the frivolous old man stung him to the heart. So Clare as well as her father had blotted him out of their selfish world, and Desmond was the man who took his place!
Love, doubt, indignation, and jealousy tormented him by turns, or all together at once: love for Clare—the dear old love that had never died within him, and that, seeing her again and hearing her voice, had roused in all its former strength and tenderness; doubt whether she were worthy of it, and whether he had a place yet in her heart; indignation at the underbred indifference of her father to whatever he might think or feel, and jealousy of the influence of Desmond with them both.
Nor were the visions of hope and revenge absent. He pondered that if she loved him—if she still loved him—why leave it unknown? why should he trifle with himself and her? Why tamper with fate? Why not marry her in spite of her father and Desmond, too? In mere revenge he might make Clare his own, after all!
Then second, and perhaps better, thoughts came anon; for Trevor Chute, though to his friends apparently but an ordinary good fellow in most respects, a mere captain of the line, and so forth, was in spirit as genuine a soldier and a knight as chivalrous as any that ever rode at Hastings with the bastard Conqueror, or at Bannockburn; and thus, on reflection, his heart recoiled from making any advances to his old love—to the girl that had been torn from him, unless he obtained that which he considered hopeless—the permission of her father.
In India, why was it, when so many perished of jungle-fever and other pests, that he escaped with scarcely the illness of a day?—when among Nagas, Bhotanese, and Thibetians, matchlock balls and poisoned arrows whistled past him, and keen-edged swords crossed his, no missile or weapon had found a passage to his heart?
Amid these stirring scenes and episodes he had striven to forget everything—more than all, those days of his Guards' life in England; and now—now a lovely face—'only the face of a woman—only a woman's face, nothing more,' as the song has it, and a woman's voice, with all its subtle music, had summoned again all the half-buried memories of the past!
From day-dreams, tormenting thoughts, and weary speculative fancies, which were in some respects alien to his natural temperament, Chute was roused by his valet, Tom Travers, presenting him with a note on the inevitable silver salver.
If, as we have related, he was startled before by seeing an envelope with the Collingwood crest thereon still more was he startled now on receiving another addressed in the well-remembered handwriting of Clare! How long, long it seemed since last he had looked upon it!
While his heart and hands trembled with surprise, he opened Clare's note, which stated briefly that she had heard from Mr. Vane of their intention of going abroad, and begged that he would not forget his promise of once more visiting Ida, by whose request she now wrote.
'The pallor of her complexion and the lowness of her spirits alarm me greatly,' continued Clare. 'I can but hope that when the season is over, and we go to Carnaby Court, the quietness there and the pleasant shady groves in autumn may restore her to health; only papa always likes to have the house full of lively friends from town, as you know of old.'