"There was a day, Miss Wynn, when, standing on this spot, I thought
myself the happiest man in Herefordshire. Now I know it was but a
fancy--a sorry hallucination."
"I do not understand you, Captain Ryecroft!"
"Oh yes, you do. Pardon my contradicting you; you've given me reason."
"Indeed! In what way? I beg, nay, demand, explanation."
"You shall have it; though superfluous, I should think, after what has
been passing--this night especially."
"Oh! this night especially! I supposed you so much engaged with Miss
Powell as not to have noticed anything or anybody else. What was it,
pray?"
"You understand, I take it, without need of my entering into
particulars."
"Indeed, I don't; unless you refer to my dancing with George Shenstone."
"More than dancing with him--keeping his company all through!"
"Not strange that; seeing I was left so free to keep it! Besides, as I
suppose you know, his father was my father's oldest and most intimate
friend."
She makes this avowal condescendingly, observing he is really vexed, and
thinking the game of contraries has gone far enough. He has given her a
sight of his cards, and with the quick subtle instinct of woman she sees
that among them Miss Powell is no longer chief trump. Were his
perception keen as hers, their jealous conflict would now come to a
close, and between them confidence and friendship, stronger than ever,
be restored.
Unfortunately it is not to be. Still miscomprehending, yet unyielding,
he rejoins, sneeringly--
"And I suppose your father's daughter is determined to continue that
intimacy with his fathers son; which might not be so very pleasant to
him who should be your husband! Had I thought of that when I placed a
ring upon your finger--"
Before he can finish she has plucked it off, and drawing herself up to
full height, says in bitter retort--
"You insult me, sir! Take it back!" With the words, the gemmed circlet
is flung upon the little rustic table, from which it rolls off.
He has not been prepared for such abrupt issue, though his rude speech
tempted it. Somewhat sorry, but still too exasperated to confess or
show it, he rejoins, defiantly:--
"If you wish it to end so, let it!"
"Yes; let it!"
They part without further speech. He, being nearest the door, goes out
first, taking no heed of the diamond cluster which lies sparkling upon
the floor.
Neither does she touch, or think of it. Were it the Koh-i-noor, she
would not care for it now. A jewel more precious--the one love of her
life is lost--cruelly crushed--and, with heart all but breaking, she
sinks down upon the bench, draws the shawl over her face, and weeps till
its rich silken tissue is saturated with her tears.
The wild spasm passed, she rises to her feet, and stands leaning upon
the baluster rail, looking out and listening. Still dark, she sees
nothing; but hears the stroke of a boat's oars in measured and regular
repetition--listens on till the sound becomes indistinct, blending with
the sough of the river, the sighing of the breeze, and the natural
voices of the night.
She may never hear _his_ voice, never look on his face again!
At the thought she exclaims, in anguished accent, "This the ending! It
is too--"
What she designed saying is not said. Her interrupted words are
continued into a shriek--one wild cry--then her lips are sealed,
suddenly, as if stricken dumb, or dead!
Not by the visitation of God. Before losing consciousness, she felt the
embrace of brawny arms--knew herself the victim of man's violence.
Volume Two, Chapter X.