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 can remember when you were as full of frolic as myself, or Hector here. Yet, for the last two years you’ve been as melancholy as a love-sick monkey. True, there’s been a little brightening up in you of late—no doubt due to that letter. Ha—ha—ha!”
Sabrina laughed too, despite the unmerciful way she was being bantered. The allusion to “that letter” was not unpleasant. Its contents, very gratifying, had restored her heart’s gladness and confidence. Not that she had ever doubted her lover’s fealty, but only had fears for his life. She said nothing, however, leaving the other to rattle on.
“And now, Miss Prim-and-Prudery, I want your reason for prying into my secrets, after being so chary of your own; I demand it.”
“Dear Vaga! you shall have it and welcome. After what you say, there need be no shyness in my telling you now. I was anxious about you on father’s account, and my own, too, as your sister.”
“Anxious about me! For what?”
“Your relations with yonder individual.”
She nodded towards the horseman with the red feather in his hat.
“Very good of father and you to be so concerned about me; but don’t you think I can take care of myself? I’m getting old enough to do that.”
She was only a little over seventeen, but believed herself quite as much a woman as Sabrina, who was three years her senior. She had the proud, independent spirit of one, and brooked no control by her older sister; on the contrary, rather exercised it herself. She was her father’s favourite; a circumstance that would appear strange to those acquainted with his character. Hence, in part, her assumption of superiority.
“Of course you can,” returned Sabrina, assentingly. “And I’m glad of it.”
“I suppose, then, it’s owing to your and father’s united solicitude on my behalf that Master Rej Trevor hasn’t shown his face at Hollymead for the last couple of weeks.”
“I’ve had nothing to do with it, Vaga.”
“Which seems to say that somebody has, then. I suspected as much, by your having said nothing about it. As you seem to know something, Sab, you may as well tell it me.”
“I will—all I know. Which is, that father has forbidden his visits to Hollymead. I only learnt it from our maid Gwenthian. It appears, that the last time Mr Trevor was at the house, she overheard a conversation between father and him; father telling him as much as that he would be no more welcome there.”
“And what answer did the fine gentleman make? I suppose the eavesdropping Gwenthian heard that, too.”
There was such evident absence of all emotion on the part of her who interrogated, she could not well be making believe. The other, seeing she was not, responded with confidence,—
“Nothing, or nothing much, except in mutterings, which the girl failed to catch the meaning of. But the nature may be imagined from the way he went off—all scowling and angry, she says.”
“Gwenthian has never mentioned the circumstance to me; which I take it is a little strange on her part.”
She thought it so, for of the two she was more a favourite with the waiting maid than her sister, and knew it. Between her and Gwenthian—a Forest girl of quick wit and subtle intelligence—many confidences had been exchanged. Therefore her wonder at this having been withheld.
“Not at all,” rejoined Sabrina, entering upon a defence of Gwenthian’s reticence. “There was nothing strange in her keeping it from you. She supposed it might vex you—told me so.”
“Ha—ha—ha! How thoughtful of her! But it don’t vex me—luckily, no—not the least bit; and Gwenthian should have known that, as you know now, Sab. Don’t you?”
“I do,” answered Sabrina, in full conviction. For Vaga’s laugh was so utterly devoid of all regret at what had been revealed to her, no one could suppose or suspect there was within her breast a thought of Reginald Trevor, beyond looking on him in the light of a mere acquaintance. To prove this it needed neither her rejoinder, nor the emphasis she gave it, saying,—
“I don’t care that for him!” the that being a snap of her fingers.
“I
