Chapter XIII: An Enigma

Despite the silent vow he had made, Captain Dalton could not keep away from Laura Trelawney, the only woman the world seemed to hold for him, and yet whom he had no hope of winning.

His was no lovesick boy's fancy, yet it made him sallow, pale, and worn-looking, restless in solitude, and taciturn in society, always seeking for action, not for any tangible result that action gave, but as a means of present distraction.

The baffled Jerry Wilmot was not slow, at mess and elsewhere, to note the change in the generally quiet and even tenor of his brother officer's general mood, and drew his own conclusions therefrom, and these were that he was not progressing favourably in his suit with the brilliant young widow.

'If a widow she really is,' said Jerry one day after evening parade, when Dalton's groom brought his horse round to the mess hut, and he was about to ride over to Chilcote Grange.

'How--what the devil do you mean, Jerry?' asked Dalton, greatly ruffled.

'Only that a rumour is abroad that has in it a deuced unpleasant sound.'

'To what effect?'

'That her husband is not dead--that she is not a widow at all--that he ran away from her, or something of that kind. Have you not remarked how she sneers at matrimony? Egad, I hope she is not _divorcée_!'

'Nonsense, Jerry; how dare you let your tongue run on thus!'

'Little birds sing strange songs sometimes.'

'Sour grapes, Jerry, that is all,' replied Dalton, laughing, but only from the teeth outwards, as he rode off to what Wilmot said was 'his doom.'

The rumour--real or alleged--so casually mentioned by Jerry, rankled deeply in Dalton's mind for a time, but it passed away when he found himself in the presence of Mrs. Trelawney, and he saw again her soft hazel eyes, so delicately lidded, their long lashes and eyebrows darker than her rich chestnut hair; her dress that hung in clinging folds around her and showed her beautiful form, grandly outlined as that of a classical statue; and when Antoinette--or Netty, as he called her now--stole her hand, white as a snowflake and tiny as a fairy's, into his, and, looking at him with eyes blue as forget-me-nots, said, 'I love you!' he stroked the shower of golden tresses that were held back from the child's brow by a blue silk riband, and replied, while he kissed her.

'And I love you, Netty, so much!'

Her tiny mouth was all a-tremble with fun and pleasure as she asked--

'And don't you love mamma too?'

He made no answer, but Mrs. Trelawney, whose eyes had been suffused with tender pleasure at his kind manner with Netty, now laughed and said--

'What do you mean, you _enfant terrible_?'

'I heard you and Alison Cheyne talking of Captain Dalton the other day and I thought I should so like him for a papa.'

'Why?' asked Mrs. Trelawney.

'Because I never had one.'

'Never had one?' she repeated, laughing.

'No; I am the only little girl that never had.'

'You don't remember him then?' said Dalton, recalling the remarks of Jerry.

'How can one remember what one never, never had?' said little Netty, sententiously.

'Go to your nurse, Netty,' said her mamma, 'I hear her calling for you.'

So Netty was summarily dismissed, and not a moment too soon, as both her listeners thought, and an awkward pause was about to ensue, when Mrs. Trelawney said, suddenly,

'Your friend Goring seems desperately smitten with my sweet little friend Alison Cheyne.'

'If so, I wish him all success,' replied Dalton. 'Goring is the king of good fellows, and the girl is quite beautiful.'

'The French have a curious saying that it is not necessary to be beautiful in order to be a beauty; but Alison Cheyne is indeed lovely, and has, in a high degree, a lady-like dignity about her; and, with it, is so charmingly simple and _piquante_. I hope Goring is rich; her father, I am pretty sure, looks forward to a wealthy alliance for her.'

'Then, in that case, I fear poor Bevil will be out of the running,' said Dalton; 'he has some expectations, I know, but they are very remote, I fear. We cannot, however, control our hearts, nor, when in love, do we care about calculating eventualities,' he added, very pointedly, while taking Mrs. Trelawney's delicate and shapely little hand between his two, but she withdrew it, and, while discharging a whole volley of expression by one flashing _œillade_ of her hazel eyes, she exclaimed, laughingly,

'Take care, Captain Dalton, or I shall be led to infer that you are falling in love with me.'

'You know that I have done so--that I have loved you since the first moment we met.'

She was laughing excessively now, and Dalton felt that a lover laughed at had little hope of success, so he said, gravely,

'I hope you are not playing fast and loose with me and my friend Wilmot.'

'Have you no better opinion of me, Captain Dalton?'

'He gave me to understand that you declined his addresses.'

'Whatever they may be--yes,' replied the smiling widow, 'but I would not have mentioned the matter, as he seems to have done--poor Jerry!'

'Why mock my earnestness?' asked Dalton, in a pointed tone of voice.

'Because you cannot love me as I would wish to be loved.'

'You do not know me, Mrs. Trelawney.'

'I know you better than you know yourself!' she exclaimed, looking him full in the face with a peculiar expression that puzzled him, while her smiles vanished.

'Perhaps you do,' said he, 'but I think that, if you once loved a man, that love would end only with your life.'

She regarded him for a moment with an almost disdainful smile, and said,

'And you, Captain Dalton--if you loved a woman, how long would your love last? Only while it suited your fancy or convenience.'

'You are very severe with me,' he observed, with some surprise at her taunting manner.

'Not more than you know you deserve.'

At these words Dalton visibly changed colour, and became confused. To what secret of his past life was she referring, he thought; to what long-buried thoughts was she finding a clue?

'You have become very silent,' said she.

He sighed deeply, and rose as if to depart.

'Pardon me, if my words pain you, Captain Dalton,' said she, all her spirit of raillery gone; 'but you have grown pale, as if the shadow of death were on you.'

'It is not that,' said he, with a sickly smile.

'What then?'

'The shadow of a life rather.'

'Whose?' she asked, lightly touching his hand.

'My own!'

'He _has_ a secret that shall one day be mine!' thought Mrs. Trelawney, while at the same moment Dalton was thinking of the rumour mentioned by Jerry Wilmot, and marvelled if her occasional peculiarity of manner arose from that rumour being founded on truth!

But Dalton felt his heart too much involved, and himself too deeply committed to let the matter end here.

'Your treatment of me is most strange, Mrs. Trelawney, even cruel, I think, Laura--permit me to call you so--even for once,' he said. 'My society has always seemed to give you pleasure, and you have always seemed glad when I caressed your little daughter and gave her little presents; and, truth to tell, dearest Laura, my heart has somehow gone out to that child as if she were my own.'

'Your own--yours!' exclaimed Mrs. Trelawney, as she pressed a hand upon her heart, and lowered her eyelids, as if to hide the expression of joy, exultation, and, odd to say, irritation that mingled in her face.

He trembled violently, as if struggling with his love of her, and something mental seemed for a minute to load or fetter his tongue till he said, in a low voice,

'If I can prove that I have the right to ask you, will you marry me--will you be my wife, Laura?'

'Do not ask me,' she replied, trembling in turn.

'Why--why?' he asked, impetuously.

'Are you aware how strangely you prelude your proposal by referring to some eventuality, Captain Dalton?' said she, with some hauteur; 'but be assured that I can never be more to you than I am now, were I to live a hundred years.'

'And so you are but a cruel coquette after all,' said Dalton, recovering himself; 'one who has fooled me--a man of the world, as I deemed myself--to the top of my bent, only to throw me over at last. Well, perhaps I am rightly served,' he added, bitterly.

'You _are_ rightly served, Captain Dalton,' said she, laughing once more.

'What do you know--what do you mean?'

'What your own heart tells you; but here is a visitor, Bella Chevenix; let us at least part friends.'

'Mere friends we can never be,' said he, sadly.

'As you please, Captain Dalton; but be assured we have not seen the last of each other yet,' she replied, with one of her most brilliant and coquettish smiles, as he bowed himself out; and so ended an interview which both felt had included the most singular bit of love-making they had ever been involved in.

'By Jove, she is an enigma,' muttered Dalton; but she had no such thought of _him_.