No Quarter!. Reid Mayne
political, with some duties appertaining to the civil branch of administration. These had taken him all over the Forest of Dean, introducing him into many a house where he had hitherto been a stranger. But of all honoured by his visit, there was only one he cared ever returning to. It he could revisit again and again; had done so; and would have been glad to stay by it for the rest of his life. A lone house, too, though a mansion, standing remote from anything that could be called city, or even town; remote from other houses of its class. It may seem strange such a solitary habitation should have attractions for a man of his character; but not when its name is given – for it was Hollymead. This known, it needs no telling why Reginald Trevor was attracted thither; only to specify which of the two girls was the loadstone that drew him. Even this may be guessed – not likely Sabrina, but very likely Vaga. And Vaga it was. He had fallen in love with her, passionately, madly; and, stranger still, purely; for, in all likelihood, it was the first honest love of his life. Honest it was, however; and honestly he had been acting so far; his courtship respectful, and free from the bold rude advances which, as a rule, marked the conduct of the Cavaliers. For, despite all said to the contrary, their behaviour to women was more “gallantry” than gallant, and anything but chivalrous.
But, although behaving his best, Reginald Trevor had not prospered in his suit; on the contrary received a check which brought it to an abrupt ending for the time, and it might be for ever. This in the shape of a hint that his visits to Hollymead House were neither welcome nor desirable, rather the reverse. Not given him by the girl herself – she did not even know of it, – but conveyed by her father privately and quietly, yet firmly. Of course it was taken, and the visits discontinued.
That was but a fortnight ago, and yet Reginald Trevor was once more on his way to Hollymead! But very different the cause carrying him thither now to that which had oft taken him before; different his feelings, too, though not as regarded the young lady. For her they were the same – his passion hot as ever. And yet was it a flame burning blindly, without a word of encouragement to fan or keep it alive. Never once had she spoken to tell him his love was reciprocated; never given him smile or look that could be interpreted in that sense. For all this, he so interpreted some she had bestowed on him. Successes, conquests many, had made him vain, and he deemed himself irresistible – fancied he would conquer her, too.
Nevertheless, he felt less confident now. That rupture of relations had become a grievous obstacle. Nor was he on the way to Hollymead with any hope of being able to bind up the broken threads; instead, his errand thither had for object that which was sure further to sever them. It was not of his own seeking, and he had entered upon it with reluctance.
Dark and gloomy was the shadow on his face as he rode under that of the trees. At intervals it became a scowl, with resentment blazing up in his eyes, as he thought of that dismissal, so wounding to his self-esteem, so insulting. But he was armed with that which would give him a revanche; make the master of Hollymead humble if not hospitable – a document such as has humbled the master of many another house, angering them at the same time. For it was a letter of request for a loan, signed and stamped with the King’s seal.
Chapter Seven
A Young Lady not in Love
“I do believe it’s Reginald Trevor.”
Sabrina said this in rejoinder, now certain it was not the man she had climbed that hill in hopes of meeting.
“I’m sure of it,” affirmed Vaga, in confident tone as before. “If I couldn’t tell him, I can the horse – the light grey he always rides. And that’s his dress – the colour at least. I don’t think he has many changes, exquisite as he is, or we’d have seen some of them at Hollymead.”
She made this remark with a smile of peculiar significance.
“Oh! yes; ’tis he,” assented the sister, her eyes still upon him. “I’m sure now, myself. The horse – yes, the dress too. And, see! a red plume in his hat – that’s enough. I wonder where he’s bound for – surely not Hollymead!”
It was then the grave look already alluded to showed itself in her eyes. “Perhaps you can tell, sister?” she added, interrogatively.
“Sabrina! why do you say that? How should I be acquainted with Mr Trevor’s movements or intentions – any more than yourself?”
“Ha – ha! What an artful little minx you are, Vag! A very mistress of deception!”
“You’ll make me angry, Sab – I’m half that already.”
“Without cause, then, or reason.”
“Every reason.”
“Name one.”
“That you should suspect me of having a secret and keeping it from you.”
“Goodness gracious! How just you are in your reproaches – you, who but this very moment have been accusing me of that selfsame thing! I, all candour, all frankness!”
Vaga was now flung back, as a sailor would say, on her “beam ends.” For, in truth, she had made herself amenable to the charge.
“Oh! you innocent!” cried Sabrina, pressing her triumph. “Though you are three years younger than I, you’re quite as old about some things, and this is one of them.”
“This what?”
“This that; the thing, or man, if he may be so called, we see riding down yonder road.”
“You wrong me, sister; I’ve no secret concerning him. I never cared for Rej Trevor in the way you appear to be hinting at – not three straws.”
“Are you serious in what you say, Vag? Tell me the truth!”
There was an earnestness in the way the question was put – tone, air, everything – that bespoke more than a common interest about the answer.
It came, causing disappointment, with some slight vexation. For Vaga, thinking she had been badgered long enough, and, remembering, moreover, how very reticent the other had just shown herself, determined on having a revanche. It was altogether in consonance with her nature; though she had no idea of advantage beyond that of mere fun.
“Curiosity on the rack!” she triumphantly retorted. “What you’ve just been dooming me to! How does it feel, sister Sab!”
“Sister Sab” made no response; in turn being fairly conquered and cornered. But her silence and submissive look were more eloquent than any appeal she could have made. And, responding to them, her conqueror relentingly asked:
“Are you very, very desirous of knowing how the case stands between myself and Master Reginald Trevor?”
“I am, indeed. And when you’ve told me, I’ll give you the reason.”
“On that condition I’ll tell you. He is nothing to me more than any other man. And when I add that no other man is anything either, you’ll understand me.”
“But, sister dear, do you mean to say you love no one?”
“I mean to say that – flat.”
“And never have?”
“That’s a queer question to be asked; above all by you, you who so often preach the virtue of constancy, crying it into my ears! If I ever had loved man, I think I should love him still. But as it chances, I don’t quite comprehend what the sensation is; never having experienced it. And more, I don’t wish to; that is, if it were to affect me as it seems to do you.”
“What do you mean, Vaga?” asked the more sage sister, bristling up at the innuendo. “Love affect me! You’re only fancying! Nothing of the sort, I assure you.”
“Oh! yes; much of the sort; though you might not yourself perceive it. Everybody else does, at least I do – have for a very long time – ever since he went off to the wars.”
“What he?”
“Again counterfeiting. And vainly. Well, I won’t gratify you by giving his name this time. Enough to say that ever since you last saw him you haven’t been like you used to be. Why, Sab, I