Herbert was all unconscious that he had been observed leaving the cottage near the Moorish Castle; still more that he had been overheard addressing Mrs. Larkins, as of old, by the affectionate title of mother. Had he heard what passed between Edith and Captain Mountcharles upon that occasion it might have modified his plans very considerably. For now at length, after much hesitation and delay, he had made up his mind to speak to Edith on the first opportunity, and tell her of his love. Matters had long continued in this most unsatisfactory state with him. He had suffered tortures; he had been continually in suspense, for ever torn by hopes and fears. One day he was in the seventh heaven, the next in the very depths of despair. He could do no work. Edith seemed to come between him and his duty. He thought of her always, everywhere. He was for ever sketching her face upon the official blotting pad in the orderly-room; he was all but giving Edith as the countersign when challenged by the sentries; he very nearly mixed up her name with the words of command upon parade.

Latterly, however, he had been in much better heart. She did not encourage him, perhaps, as much as he would have liked, but she favoured him more, he thought, than any of his fellows. Therefore it was that he had brought himself up to the terrible ordeal of staking his fate upon the throw; and it was with this intention that he approached Miss Prioleau the very next time they met.

It was at a ball at the Convent, at the well known palace or residence of the Governor of the Rock. Edith was seated upon a fauteuil in the patio, or central courtyard, between the dances. Her companion was Captain Mountcharles.

‘May I have the pleasure of a dance, Miss Prioleau?’ Herbert asked.

‘I’m afraid I have none left.’

‘You promised me the second valse—quite a week ago.’

‘Miss Prioleau is engaged for that to me,’ put in Captain Mountcharles, rather rudely.

‘The next, then?’ went on Herbert to Edith, without taking any notice of the A.D.C.

‘And for that too,’ said Mountcharles, in much the same tone as before.

‘Pardon me, I was speaking to Miss Prioleau, and I trust she will give me the answer herself.’

‘It’s quite—’ true she was going to say, as the easiest way out of the thing. But she was far too honest to tell a lie, even about a dance, and besides there was a mute appealing look in Herbert’s face which went to her heart. ‘I mean that you are rather late in the day, Mr. Larkins.’

She had promised not to dance with him, that was the fact. There had been a scene at the general’s about this Mr. Larkins, as Mrs. Prioleau called him. Edith had been taken rather sharply to task for encouraging him, and both father and mother had begged her to be careful. The man wasn’t half good enough for her, they said. They had no absurd scruples about birth and position, and all that, still she ought to do much better than take a soldier of fortune, about whom and his belongings nothing whatever was known. Edith, remembering the Moorish Castle adventure, thought she could have enlightened her parents as to Herbert’s belongings, but she had no wish to injure him or to blacken him in their eyes. She only hotly repudiated the charge of favouring him, and agreed readily to do anything they wished. She would cut him if they liked. Not necessary? Well, snub him then? Not necessary either. What then? General and Mrs. Prioleau declared they would be satisfied if she would promise not to dance with the objectionable pretender at the Governor’s ball, and Edith gave her word to that effect.

This was why she had received Herbert so coldly. The other adventure had weighed, perhaps, with her, but not much.

As for Herbert, he was utterly taken aback. What could be the matter with Edith? Why this extraordinary change? Was the girl capricious, a mere flirt, a garrison belle, to whom admiration was everything, and admirers or their feelings simply nothing at all? Herbert did not like to think so hardly of her all at once, and resolved to make another attempt.

‘Is it quite hopeless, Miss Prioleau? May I not have one dance, only one?’ again he pleaded, with such earnest eyes that Edith Prioleau was touched and on the point of giving way.

‘Why did you cut me the other day, Mr. Larkins?’ suddenly asked Captain Mountcharles, with the idea of creating some diversion.

‘I never cut you’—although I probably shall, and the sooner the better—Herbert was disposed to add. ‘When and where was it?’

‘Near the Moorish Cottage; you were coming out of some soldiers’ quarters.’

‘Oh yes, Sergeant Larkins.’

‘Relations, perhaps,’ the other observed impertinently.

‘Very near and very dear,’ Herbert replied promptly. This was not an occasion on which he would deny his old friends.

‘At any rate you are honest, Mr. Larkins,’ Edith said, with a frank smile, but Herbert knew from the speech that Edith had been also present, and he seemed to understand now why she was so different to him.

‘Honesty is not the exclusive property of high birth, Miss Prioleau, and I can claim at least to have as much as my neighbours.’

‘Come, Edith, the music is playing,’ cried Captain Mountcharles, springing up; ‘we are losing half the dance.’

‘I’m not going to dance this,’ she replied coolly, adding, as he stared at her with indignant surprise, ‘I don’t care whether you’re cross or not. Go and find some other partners; there are plenty upstairs. I mean to stay here. Mr. Larkins will take care of me, I daresay.’

A quick flush of pleasure sprung to Herbert’s cheek. She was relenting; she did not mean to quarrel with him altogether. Perhaps after all she had been only trying him, and was ready to yield if he only took heart of grace to speak up and out to her like a man.

Mountcharles, with a sulky snort and a very savage look, had risen from his seat and walked off, leaving Herbert considerably elated, master of the field.

Our hero would have been less joyous, perhaps, had he known Edith’s reason for thus appearing to favour him. With the native quick wittedness of a daughter of Eve, she had guessed already what was the matter with Herbert. A man who seeks to disguise his feelings in the presence of the woman he loves may flatter himself that he plays his part to perfection, but it is generally the flimsiest attempt even to ordinary feminine eyes, most of all to those of the beloved object. Edith had seen through him from the first. She knew that he was on the brink of a declaration, that he needed but the slightest encouragement to fall, metaphorically, even practically, at her feet. It was better that he and she should come to an understanding; that he should realise, even at some pain to himself, as well as to her, that they could only be friends to each other, nothing more.

There was a certain amount of coquetry in her fresh young voice and of archness in her bright eyes as she looked up to him and said,

‘Well, Mr. Larkins?’

He had been standing in front of her for some minutes, seeming rather gauche and stupid, and without uttering a word; courage seemed to come to him at once from her voice and look.

‘I was wondering whether you would listen to me, Miss Prioleau, while I told you a story—a long story—’

‘That depends. Is it interesting? Is it founded on fact? What is it about?’

‘It will be as interesting as I can make it. It is undoubtedly true, and it is all about myself.’

‘Your own history?’

‘Yes, so far as I know it.’

She made no answer, but just moved her skirts a little, with the gesture that implied she wished him to sit by her side.

There were other couples in the patio, patrolling or resting between the dances; there might be many interruptions; there certainly could be no privacy in this place, and Herbert did not wish his confidences published to all the world.

‘Shall we take a turn in the garden?’ Herbert asked, rather diffidently. ‘I shall be able to speak more unreservedly there.’

She nodded her head, and, getting up, took his arm without a word.

They passed out from the patio to the Convent garden—a perfect paradise that night for lovers. The moon was at its full—a southern moon—and flooded every place with warm white light; above was the deep purple sky, and high into it rose the steep crags of the great Rock. The soft and mellow air was loaded with fragrance; a wealth of southern flowers, all now in their full bloom, filled the beds about, and among them were great bushes like trees of syringa, and of the dama de noche, which only give forth their full perfume at night. The sweet strains of an excellent band, playing for the dancers in the great ball-room up-stairs, rose and fell like a distant echo, and added greatly to the enchantment of the scene.

Walking here with the girl of his heart, Herbert spoke eloquently and well. He told everything that had happened to him from his earliest days. The poor home in Triggertown barracks; the sudden appearance of the great lady who had charged herself with his education; the fine prospects which seemed to open before him on approaching manhood, and how they had been suddenly ruined. He spoke feelingly of the treatment he had received at the hands of Sir Rupert Farrington.

‘Which you so nobly repaid,’ interjected Edith.

He narrated the circumstances of his birth and parentage, and expatiated upon the affectionate devotion of old Mrs. Larkins, who had been a second mother to him; he touched lightly upon the chances which were still his of obtaining a title to a large estate and a good old name. He finished, and waited to hear what she would say.

But she was silent, and for so long that he feared she was annoyed.

‘You are not vexed? I have not bored you, I hope?’ he said.

‘Oh, no, no; I was only thinking—thinking how hardly you had been used—how some of us, too, had misjudged you.’

She spoke in a low soft voice, which thrilled through him.

‘You were not one of those, surely? You, whose good opinion I value above all earthly things? Oh, Miss Prioleau, there is so much I have still to say to you that I hardly know how to begin. Can you not guess why I have told you my life? I wished only to interest you in myself, to explain why as yet I appear to be other than I really am. I felt it necessary, because I feared you despised me for my lowly birth—’

‘No, no, indeed, I never did that.’

‘I knew it, I knew it, but I wished to be perfectly sure. You are too good, Edith, too honest to be swayed by mere class distinctions—’

He was suddenly and rather rudely interrupted by the abrupt tones of General Prioleau’s voice—

‘But I am not, Mr. Larkins, and the sooner you know that the better. You probably despise them, as you do those conventional rules of propriety by which any one of the gentleman class would be bound.’

The general spoke with great warmth. There was no abatement in the angriness of his tone as he turned to his daughter and said,

‘Edith, your mother and I have been looking for you for some time past. I hardly thought to find you here and to see that you have not kept your promise.’

‘I gave no promise; I never said I would not speak to Mr. Larkins again,’ Edith said stoutly, although her eyes were brimming over with tears.

‘Gaston, give Edith your arm, and take her back to her mother. I have a word or two to say to this—gentleman.’

Herbert, however, had by this time found his voice. He was brave enough too and spoke up to the general, in spite of their disparity in rank, as one man would to another.

‘I am truly sorry, sir, to have acted in a manner which is distasteful to you, but I cannot admit that I deserve your harsh words. I have done nothing wrong, sir—’

‘Nothing wrong!’ repeated the general, bitterly, ‘not in seeking to entrap the affections of an inexperienced young girl? Nothing wrong in inveigling her to compromise herself with you by this long and solitary tÊte-À-tÊte? Nothing wrong!’

‘I am deeply and sincerely attached to your daughter, sir, and I wished to ask her to become my wife.’

‘Was there ever such matchless effrontery? You? You to aspire to my daughter’s hand? What position could you give her? what would you live upon?’

‘I am not utterly penniless; I have good expectations; I have hopes indeed of succeeding to a title—’

‘That of chevalier d’industrie, I presume. But this is sheer waste of time. I know all about you—all I wish to hear—and I want nothing further. Our acquaintance must cease; I forbid you to enter my house, or ever again to address my daughter. I decline distinctly to hold any further communications with you. If your own good taste does not prompt you to accede to my wishes, I must try to protect myself and my family by other means.’

‘I will win her in spite of you, general,’ said Herbert, firmly and very coolly, although his blood was up. ‘It is due to myself to say that neither by word or deed have I knowingly sought to entangle Miss Prioleau in any engagement. She is under no promise to me; I am not certain whether she cares for me, even as a friend. But if God but grants me strength and health to fight my way, she shall one day be my wife, and that in spite of you all.’

And he walked away, leaving General Prioleau aghast at his impudence.