"The swift Rhone cleaves his way between Heights which appear as lovers who have parted In hate, whose mining depths so intervene That they can meet no more, though broken-hearted; Though in their souls, which thus each other thwarted, Love was the very root of the fond rage Which blighted their life's bloom, and then departed-- Itself expired, leaving them an age Of years, all winters--war within themselves to wage." Was it to be thus with Eustace Trevor and Vaga Powell? Verily, it seemed so on that night; and never more than at that moment, when he, with her cousin--Indian queen in counterfeit--strolled off arm in arm along the lamplit walks. A sight to tear her heart. And it tore it; might have altogether rent and ruined it had the mutual misunderstanding continued. Ay, "blighted the life's bloom" of both, "leaving them an age of years, all winters." But kind fate decreed it otherwise; before another night shadowed Avon's banks, whatever of confidence had hitherto been between them was reestablished, and true love triumphed over jealousy. Partly by accident was the happy result brought about; though it might have come without that. For on the side of each was a watchful monitor, who understood the situation better than either of themselves. The guardian angels were Sir Richard Walwyn and Sabrina Powell; his friendship, and her sisterly solicitude standing the younger lovers in stead. "Why has your sister not danced with Captain Trevor--I mean my Captain Trevor?" queried the soldier knight of his betrothed. "I haven't seen him near her all the night. Has there come a coolness between them, think you?" "Something of the sort, I fear." "But from what cause? Have you any idea?" "Oh! the cause is clear enough! though she hasn't made me her _confidante_." "The Creole cousin?" "Just so." "But Vaga has nothing to fear from her; nor need being jealous, in the least." "Why do you say so, Richard?" "Because Trevor don't care a straw for Mademoiselle Lalande." "Then what means the way he's been carrying on with her?" "Rather, say, the way she's carrying on with him. It don't--signify, however. Let her practise all her arts; she'll have her pains for nothing. I know he's madly in love with your sister; has been ever since first setting eyes upon her at Hollymead. That much he has confided to me." "He may have changed. Clarisse is very beautiful--very attractive?" "True, she is. But not the style to attract him. Nor is he of the fickle sort. At Whitehall he bore the reputation of having a heart of adamant; with no end of sighing damsels doing their endeavour to soften it. Indeed, scandal spoke of its very obduracy being the cause of his dismissal from Court; a certain Royal lady having assailed it unsuccessfully, and for that reason turned against him. Such a man once in love, as I know he is with your sister, is not likely to veer about so suddenly."