The two old comrades of the Napoleonic wars talked on and on, while Ande wandered from them, earnestly scanning the features of those he met, but none did he recognise. The violins, sweeping into the melody of the Floraday, announced that the dance was on, but he did not engage in it. He gazed here and there, vainly endeavouring to behold a face he loved. He was becoming wearied with his search, when, across the hall, he noticed an aged, veiled lady and near her another, much younger. It was the young lady that held him spellbound for a moment. His eyes were riveted upon her countenance that was in profile. There was a shooting thrill through his whole system and his blood seemed to be mounting in great billows to his head. He caught a fuller glimpse of her features, and then his heart gave one mad leap and apparently stood still for a moment. Could he ever forget that countenance, pale and yet beautiful as on the eve, in the long ago, when she had called him her knight. With a half cry he was up and pushing through the crowd, but, before he reached the other side, he saw them both pass out of the crowded ballroom. With a few, rapid steps and bounds he passed down the stairway, almost knocking over the porter at the door.
In the street without he missed the familiar figure, then his heart beat joyfully once more, for he caught a glimpse of her entering the Bowling Green. The aged, veiled lady was not with her. He hastened down the crowded street and entered the comparatively deserted Bowling Green. He swept a rapid glance around, but she had disappeared and his heart sank once more. Then he saw a flutter of lace amidst the leaves of a retired garden seat. She was standing when he reached her, but perhaps the record of his diary is better descriptive of the scene that followed.
DIARY OF ANDREW TREMBATH, Gent.
May 8th, 1829; Afternoon.
I saw my lady in the garden seat arbour, my lady Alice, the love of my childhood, the ideal of my waking hours, the vision of my wanderings, and the dream of my slumbers. She whose features were engraven on my heart by the memory of other years, and around whom clustered the fondest recollections of youth, was standing gazing at the setting sun that, as it sank in golden and roseate hues, painting the sea and sky with the glories of heaven, seemed likewise to retouch, with its refulgent beams, her curling raven locks and beauteous eyes with additional splendour. There was a faint flush on her cheeks in the midst of their pallor, like an early wild-rose nestling by a belated snowdrift. It seemed to me that she was much taller than formerly. So tall and majestic indeed was she that I was awed, notwithstanding my love that had been slumbering for years. I heard her murmur, meditatively:
"Ah, if he would only come,—my life, my hope!"
My heart smote me with despair and an icy coldness seized me; a lump arose in my throat that seemed to choke my breath ing. My hopes seemed dashed to the ground, my idol shattered and a mass of chaotic ruin. I tried to withdraw, but had advanced too far, for she saw me and there was a slight additional flush on her countenance, and gentle recognition in her eyes. I advanced to the shadow of the arbour and bowed low, humbled with my previous thought, yet persistent and determined to know the truth once and for all.
"Mistress Alice Vivian,—Mistress Alice, I am Andrew Trembath, who has loved you all these years. You called me your knight once and gave me reason to hope that you were not indifferent to my feelings for you. But there was a bar, sinister and heavy, between us,—the stain of treason against our name. Now all bars have been removed; our name is honourable; no wealth is a hindrance. You have been my dream throughout my boyhood days and the star of my wanderings in more mature years, and I lay my hand and heart at your feet."
She answered not, and I feared to lift my eyes lest I should read what I half suspected from that brief, murmured exclamation I had heard, that there was another. Despair seized me at her continued silence.
"You were expecting some one?"
"Yes," she said, meditatively.
"And you love him,—him?" How bold was that question! I know not now whether I feared more her rebuke or the proof of my agonizing doubt.
"Yes," she said gently, and I thought pityingly.
I arose, staggered, and would have fallen but for the friendly support of a tree. Better to have perished with brave Dick in the floods of the Rough Water than to have my love thus wrenched from my heart and my cherished longing prove a vain delusion. I recollect the substance of my rambling, half incoherent apology for disturbing her. Oh! How empty heart, earth, life appeared then! The sun had gone down, and with it the sun of happiness for me! I turned to go.
"Ande,—Mr. Trembath."
There was something commanding in that tone that I could not resist. I paused and waited for her to continue.
"Is it not unseemly for old friends to part thus. Here, seat yourself with me in this arbour." I moodily did so. "I cannot say how glad I am to greet once more a friend of my childhood days. You have been a true friend to me." What a bitter mockery those words seemed to me. I was silent and she continued: "You have been a true friend and I cannot choose but to speak plainly. But tell me of your life and wanderings."
Little by little I told my story, but I could not refrain from my love for her, for one was so involved with the other that they could not be sundered. I told all with the exception of my fortune in the Brazilian mines. She seemed interested with the interest of a friend. I gazed at her after my tale was finished, and with the melancholy thought of what I had aspired to and what I had lost. She smiled, and I thought she was laughing at my presumption in laying my poor affections at her feet. It enraged me, and I arose to go.
"One moment," she said; "I have news for you; your mother is found and your father is with her, but I have other matters to mention."
This was the solitary joy that now filled me and life seemed brighter.
"I was expecting some one this evening."
"Yes," I said, the clouds again coming over my soul; "yes, I know."
"No, you do not know; I was expecting some one, and, as you rightly surmised, I love him."
"Aye," I murmured, for she seemed cruel, "and you could not love another?"
"No, no, I could not love another. You would not desire to see me unhappy and poor?"
"No," I said, doggedly, digging with my heel in the turf.
"Suppose I had the opportunity to marry," she said, mischievously, and with a merry light scintillating in her eyes, "to marry one who would give me wealth, happiness, love, and my old home, who took me on a long ride of twenty miles and told me of these things, would you say, 'No.'"
"No," I said, sadly, "marry where your heart directs you."
"But suppose he was Mr. Richard Lanyan?"
I bounded to my feet as if shot. Oh, what a demoniacal thing is hatred! Humbled and sad at the loss of her, the thought of one of that accursed race possessing her seemed like turning my blood from freezing coldness to boiling heat. My countenance must have been frightful; it terrified her. I could not speak. She trembled and drew away from me and hastily said, "But suppose I did not love him?" I was dumbfounded, and she continued, earnestly, while her eyes beamed with a new light.
"Suppose I did not love him? I was expecting him whom I loved—yes, loved from girlhood; I mourned him as dead, yet loved him more and more, and after many years I saw him at a Floraday in the Angel Inn ballroom. I saw him push through the crowd and I came here expecting him. I love him and could not love another,—and—and—and—Oh—Ande,—can't you see?"
Change darkness into sunlight and my feelings can be expressed. The full light of all seemed to burst upon my vision and dazed me; then as I saw more clearly, I recollect her stretching her arms toward me, and my leaping forward to clasp that wavering form.
Here the incident in the diary closes, and it remained for others to relate what happened afterward. They sat down again in the arbour and her head was on his shoulder.
"And you did love me, after all," said Ande, and the old, happy, boyish smile illuminated his features.
"I have always loved you from that moment at the gate of the Primrose Cottage, so many years ago. Forgive me for the doubt I put you in, but you looked so doleful at my first words that I could not resist the old mischievous spirit."
He leaned down and kissed her lips, and there was a long silence, unbroken save by the chirping birds and rustling leaves. A short time afterward thither came the veiled, elderly lady, accompanied by the Major.
"Alice, child, art here? I have found him, Major Trembath, my husband."
"Mother!" joyfully cried the young man, as he flung himself into her arms.
"How tall you are, son Ande," said his mother, after their first affectionate greeting; "yes, as tall as your father, and"—here she turned her gaze upon Alice—"you have found a sister along with myself."