It is a little after two a.m., and the ball is breaking up. Not a very
late hour, as many of the people live at a distance, and have a long
drive homeward, over hilly roads.
By the fashion prevailing a _galop_ brings the dancing to a close. The
musicians, slipping their instruments into cases and baize bags, retire
from the room; soon after deserted by all, save a spare servant or two,
who make the rounds to look to extinguishing the lamps, with a sharp eye
for waifs in the shape of dropped ribbons or _bijouterie_.
Gentlemen guests stay longer in the dining-room over claret and
champagne "cup," or the more time-honoured B and S; while in the hallway
there is a crush, and on the stairs a stream of ladies, descending
cloaked and hooded.
Soon the crowd waxes thinner, relieved by carriages called up, quickly
filling, and whirled off.
That of Squire Powell is among them; and Captain Ryecroft, not without
comment from certain officious observers, accompanies the young lady, he
has been so often dancing with, to the door.
Having seen her off with the usual ceremonies of leave-taking, he
returns into the porch, and there for a while remains. It is a large
portico, with Corinthian columns, by one of which he takes stand, in
shadow. But there is a deeper shadow on his own brow, and a darkness in
his heart, such as he has never in his life experienced. He feels how
he has committed himself, but not with any remorse or repentance.
Instead, the jealous anger is still within his breast, ripe and ruthless
as ever. Nor is it so unnatural. Here is a woman--not Miss Powell, but
Gwen Wynn--to whom he has given his heart--acknowledged the surrender,
and in return had acknowledgment of hers--not only this, but offered his
hand in marriage--placed the pledge upon her finger, she assenting and
accepting--and now, in the face of all, openly, and before his face,
engaged in flirtation!
It is not the first occasion for him to have observed familiarities
between her and the son of Sir George Shenstone; trifling, it is true,
but which gave him uneasiness. But to-night things have been more
serious, and the pain caused him all-imbuing and bitter.
He does not reflect how he has been himself behaving. For to none more
than the jealous lover is the big beam unobservable, while the little
mote is sharply descried. He only thinks of her ill-behaviour, ignoring
his own. If she has been but dissembling, coquetting with him, even
that were reprehensible. Heartless, he deems it--sinister--something
more, an indiscretion. Flirting while engaged--what might she do when
married?
He does not wrong her by such direct self-interrogation. The suspicion
were unworthy of himself, as of her; and as yet he has not given way to
it. Still her conduct seems inexcusable, as inexplicable; and to get
explanation of it he now tarries, while others are hastening away.
Not resolutely. Besides the half sad, half indignant expression upon
his countenance, there is also one of indecision. He is debating within
himself what course to pursue, and whether he will go off without
bidding her good-bye. He is almost mad enough to be ill-mannered; and
possibly, were it only a question of politeness, he would not stand
upon, or be stayed by it. But there is more. The very same spiteful
rage hinders him from going. He thinks himself aggrieved, and,
therefore, justifiable in demanding to know the reason--to use a slang,
but familiar phrase, "having it out."
Just as has reached this determination, an opportunity is offered him.
Having taken leave of Miss Linton, he has returned to the door, where he
stands hat in hand, his overcoat already on. Miss Wynn is now also
there, bidding good night to some guests--intimate friends--who have
remained till the last. As they move off, he approaches her; she, as if
unconsciously, and by the merest chance, lingering near the entrance.
It is all pretence on her part, that she has not seen him dallying
about; for she has several times, while giving _conge_ to others of the
company. Equally feigned her surprise, as she returns his salute,
saying--
"Why, Captain Ryecroft! I supposed you were gone long ago!"
"I am sorry, Miss Wynn, you should think me capable of such rudeness."
"Captain Ryecroft" and "Miss Wynn," instead of "Vivian" and "Gwen!" It
is a bad beginning, ominous of a worse ending.
The rejoinder, almost a rebuke, places her at a disadvantage, and she
says rather confusedly--
"O! certainly not, sir. But where there are so many people, of course,
one does not look for the formalities of leave-taking."
"True; and, availing myself of that, I might have been gone long since,
as you supposed, but for--"
"For what?"
"A word I wish to speak with you--alone. Can I?"
"Oh, certainly."
"Not here?" he asks suggestingly.
She glances around. There are servants hurrying about through the hall,
crossing and recrossing, with the musicians coming forth from the
dining-room, where they have been making a clearance of the cold fowl,
ham, and heel-taps.
With quick intelligence comprehending, but without further speech she
walks out into the portico, he preceding. Not to remain there, where
eyes would still be on them, and ears within hearing. She has an Indian
shawl upon her arm--throughout the night carried while promenading--and
again throwing it over her shoulders, she steps down upon the gravelled
sweep, and on into the grounds.
Side by side they proceed in the direction of the summer-house, as many
times before, though never in the same mood as now. And never, as now,
so constrained and silent; for not a word passes between them till they
reach the pavilion.
There is light in it. But a few hundred yards from the house, it came
in for part of the illumination, and its lamps are not yet
extinguished--only burning feebly.