The sun has gone down upon Gwen Wynn's natal day--its twenty-first
anniversary--and Llangorren Court is in a blaze of light. For a grand
entertainment is there being given--a ball.
The night is a dark one; but its darkness does not interfere with the
festivities; instead, heightens their splendour, by giving effect to the
illuminations. For although autumn, the weather is still warm, and the
grounds are illuminated. Parti-coloured lamps are placed at intervals
along the walks, and suspended in festoonery from the trees, while the
casement windows of the house stand open, people passing in and out of
them as if they were doors. The drawing-room is this night devoted to
dancing; its carpet taken up, the floor made as slippery as a skating
rink with beeswax--abominable custom! Though a large apartment, it does
not afford space for half the company to dance in; and to remedy this,
supplementary quadrilles are arranged on the smooth turf outside--a
string and wind band from the neighbouring town making music loud enough
for all.
Besides, all do not care for the delightful exercise. A sumptuous
spread in the dining-room, with wines at discretion, attracts a
proportion of the guests; while there are others who have a fancy to go
strolling about the lawn, even beyond the coruscation of the lamps; some
who do not think it too dark anywhere, but the darker the better.
The _elite_ of at least half the shire is present, and Miss Linton, who
is still the hostess, reigns supreme in fine exuberance of spirits.
Being the last entertainment at Llangorren over which she is officially
to preside, one might imagine she would take things in a different way.
But as she is to remain resident at the Court, with privileges but
slightly, if at all, curtailed, she has no gloomy forecast of the
future. Instead, on this night present she lives as in the past; almost
fancies herself back at Cheltenham in its days of splendour, and dancing
with the "first gentleman in Europe" redivivus. If her star be going
down, it is going in glory, as the song of the swan is sweetest in its
dying hour.
Strange, that on such a festive occasion, with its circumstances
attendant, the old spinster, hitherto mistress of the mansion, should be
happier than the younger one, hereafter to be! But in truth, so is it.
Notwithstanding her great beauty and grand wealth--the latter no longer
in prospective, but in actual possession--despite the gaiety and
grandeur surrounding her, the friendly greetings and warm
congratulations received on all sides--Gwen Wynn is herself anything but
gay. Instead, sad, almost to wretchedness!
And from the most trifling of causes, though not as by her estimated;
little suspecting she has but herself to blame. It has arisen out of an
episode, in love's history of common and very frequent occurrence--the
game of piques. She and Captain Ryecroft are playing it, with all the
power and skill they can command. Not much of the last, for jealousy is
but a clumsy fencer. Though accounted keen, it is often blind as love
itself; and were not both under its influence they would not fail to see
through the flimsy deceptions they are mutually practising on one
another. In love with each other almost to distraction, they are this
night behaving as though they were the bitterest enemies, or at all
events as friends sorely estranged.
She began it; blamelessly, even with praiseworthy motive; which, known
to him, no trouble could have come up between them. But when, touched
with compassion for George Shenstone, she consented to dance with him
several times consecutively, and in the intervals remained conversing--
too familiarly, as Captain Ryecroft imagined--all this with an
"engagement ring" on her finger, by himself placed upon it--not strange
in him, thus _fiance_, feeling a little jealous; no more that he should
endeavour to make her the same. Strategy, old as hills, or hearts
themselves.
In his attempt he is, unfortunately, too successful; finding the means
near by--an assistant willing and ready to his hand. This in the person
of Miss Powell; she also went to church on the Sunday before in Jack
Wingate's boat--a young lady so attractive as to make it a nice point
whether she or Gwen Wynn be the attraction of the evening.
Though only just introduced, the Hussar officer is not unknown to her by
name, with some repute of his heroism besides. His appearance speaks
for itself, making such impression upon the lady as to set her pencil at
work inscribing his name on her card for several dances, round and
square, in rapid succession.
And so between him and Gwen Wynn the jealous feeling, at first but
slightly entertained, is nursed and fanned into a burning flame--the
green-eyed monster growing bigger as the night gets later.
On both sides it reaches its maximum, when Miss Wynn, after a waltz,
leaning on George Shenstone's arm, walks out into the grounds, and stops
to talk with him in a retired, shadowy spot.
Not far off is Captain Ryecroft observing them, but too far to hear the
words passing between. Were he near enough for this, it would terminate
the strife raging in his breast, as the sham flirtation he is carrying
on with Miss Powell--put at end to _her_ new sprung aspirations, if she
has any.
It does as much for the hopes of George Shenstone--long in abeyance, but
this night rekindled and revived. Beguiled, first by his partner's
amiability in so oft dancing with, then afterwards using him as a foil,
he little dreams that he is but being made a catspaw. Instead, drawing
courage from the deception, emboldened as never before, he does what he
never dared before--make Gwen Wynn a proposal of marriage. He makes it
without circumlocution, at a single bound, as he would take a hedge upon
his hunter.
"Gwen! you know how I love you--would give my life for you! Will you
be--" Only now he hesitates, as if his horse baulked.
"Be what?" she asks, with no intention to help him over, but
mechanically, her thoughts being elsewhere.
"My wife?"
She starts at the words, touched by his manly way, yet pained by their
appealing earnestness, and the thought she must give denying response.
And how is she to give it, with least pain to him? Perhaps the bluntest
way will be the best. So thinking, she says:--
"George, it can never be. Look at that!"
She holds out her left hand, sparkling with jewels.
"At what?" he asks, not comprehending.
"That ring." She indicates a cluster of brilliants, on the fourth
finger, by itself, adding the word "Engaged."
"O God!" he exclaims, almost in a groan. "Is that so?"
"It is."
For a time there is silence; her answer less maddening than making him
sad.