Томас Майн Рид - Лучшие романы Томаса Майна Рида / The Best of Thomas Mayne Reid

From what she had heard that morning, she presumed that the time had arrived when she must either submit to the wishes of her father, and resign herself to an unhappy fate; or, by disobedience, brave his anger, and perhaps – she knew not what.

She only knew that she did not like Mr Smythje, and never could. She did not hate the man – she did not detest him. Her feeling towards him was that of indifference, slightly tinctured with contempt. Harmless she deemed him; and, no doubt, a harmless husband he would make; but that was not the sort to suit the taste of the young Creole. Far different was the hero of her heart.

Neither the lover nor his prospective father-in-law could have chosen a time more opportune for making their approaches. Although at that time Kate Vaughan felt towards Smythje more indifference – perhaps more contempt – than she had ever done, at that very hour was she wavering in the intention, hitherto cherished, of refusing him.

Though both lover and father had erroneously interpreted her air of dejection, it was nevertheless in their favour. It was not love for Smythje under which she was suffering; but despair of this passion for another; and in that despair lay the hope – the only hope – of the lord of Montagu Castle.

It was a despair not unmingled with pique – with anger; that proud rage, which painfully wringing the heart, prompts it to desperate resolves: even to the utter annihilation of all future hope – as if happiness could be obtained by destroying the happiness of the one only being who could give it!

Yes, the heart of Kate Vaughan had reached, or almost reached, that fearful phase of our moral nature, when love, convinced of its unrequital, seeks solace in revenge!

The Smythje ball, which had crowned the hopes of him to whom the compliment was given, had been fatal to those of Kate Vaughan.

Certain it was that she had conceived hopes that pointed to Herbert Vaughan. Love could scarce have been kindled without them. They were founded upon those fond words spoken at their first parting. Slight as was the foundation, up to that night had they endured: for she had treasured and cherished them in spite of absence, and calumny, and false report.

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.

In this melancholy mood did the father find his daughter on entering the kiosk.

She made no attempt to conceal it – not even with a counterfeit of a smile. Rather with a frown did she receive him; and in her eyes might have been detected the slightest scintillation of anger, whether or not he was its object.

It is possible that just then the thought was passing through her mind that but for him her destiny might have been different; but for him, Herbert Vaughan, not Montagu Smythje, might have been on the eve of offering for her hand, which would then have gone with her heart. Now, in the contingency of her consenting to the proposal she expected, would she and Herbert be separated, and for ever!

Never more was she to experience that supreme happiness – the supremest known upon earth, and perhaps, equalling the joys of heaven itself – never more could she indulge in that sweet delicious dream – a virgin’s love – with the hope of its being returned. Her love might remain like a flower that had lost its perfume, only to shed it on the solitary air; no more a sweet passion, but a barren, bitter thought, without hope to cheer it till the end of time.

Ah, Custos Vaughan! proud, foolish parent! Could you have known how you were aiding to destroy the happiness of your child – how you were contributing to crush that young heart – you would have approached less cheerfully to complete the ceremony of its sacrifice!

“Catherine!” gravely began the father, on stepping inside the kiosk.

“Father!”

The parental appellative was pronounced in a low murmur, the speaker not uplifting her eyes from the object upon which she had been gazing.

That object was a small silken purse that lay upon the table. Stringless it was, though the broken strands of a blue ribbon attached to it showed that it had not always been so.

Loftus Vaughan knew not the history of that purse, neither why it lay there, what had stripped it of its string, or why his daughter was so sadly gazing upon it. This last circumstance he noticed on entering the kiosk.

“Ah, your pretty purse!” said he, taking it up, and examining it more minutely.

“Some one has torn the string from it – a pity! who can have done it?”

Little did he care for an answer. As little did he suspect that the rape of that bit of ribbon had aught to do with his daughter’s dejection, which he had observed throughout the morning. The surprise he had expressed, and the question put, were only intended to initiate the more serious conversation he was about to introduce.

“Oh, papa! it don’t signify,” said Kate, avoiding a direct answer; “’tis but a bit of ribbon. I can easily replace it by another.”

Ah, Kate! you may easily replace the ribbon upon the purse, but not so easily that peace of mind which parted from your bosom at the same time. When that string was torn, torn, too, were the strings of your heart!

Some such reflection must have passed through her mind as she made the reply; for the shadow visibly deepened over her countenance.

Mr Vaughan pursued the subject of the purse no further, but looking through the lattice-work and perceiving Smythje in chase of the butterflies, endeavoured to draw his daughter’s attention to that sportive gentleman.

This was the more easily done as Mr Smythje was at the moment humming a tune, and could be heard as well as seen.

+++“‘I’d be a butterfly,’ – ”