True, as time passed they had waxed fainter, with longer intervals of doubt, until the day in which had occurred the unexpected incident of their meeting upon the Jumbé Rock.
Then they had become revived, and since then they had lived with more or less intermission until that fatal night—the night of the Smythje ball—when they were doomed to utter extinction.
All night long he had come but once near her—only that once by the mere chance of changing positions. And that bow—that single salutation, friendly as it might have been deemed, she could only remember as being cold—almost cynical!
She did not think how cold and distant had been her own—at least, how much so it must have appeared to him. Though her eyes had often sought him in the crowd, and often found him, she did not know that his were equally following her, and equally as often fixed upon her. Both were ignorant of this mutual espionage: for each had studiously declined responding to the glance of the other.
Never more that night had he come near—never again had he shown a desire or made an attempt to address her; though opportunities there were—many—when no paternal eye was upon her to prevent an interview.
All night long had his attentions been occupied by another—apparently engrossed—and that other, a bold, beautiful woman—just such an one as Herbert might love.
“He loves her! I am sure he loves her!” was the reflection that passed often and painfully through the thoughts of Kate Vaughan, as she swept her eye across that crowded ball-room.
And then came the climax—that half-whispered gossip that reached her ear, falling upon it like a knell of death. They were to be married: they were already betrothed!
It needed no more. In that moment the hopes of the young creole were crushed—so cruelly, so completely, that, in the dark future before her, no gleam of light arose to resuscitate them.
No wonder the morning sun shone upon a pale cheek—no wonder that an air of deep dejection sate upon the countenance of Kate Vaughan.