Fair goes the dancing when the sitar's tuned;
Tune us the sitar neither low nor high,
And we will dance away the hearts of men.
The string o'erstretched breaks, and music flies;
The string o'erslack is dumb, and music dies;
Tune us the sitar neither low nor high.
_Nautch girls' song.--The Light of Asia._ ARNOLD.
Mr. Lindon did not remain long with his family on the trip which Mrs.
Lindon thought was only to last a month or two. On arriving in England,
he transacted his business in a short time, and then proposed a run on
the Continent. By degrees he took the family on to Rome, where they made
friends at the hotel and seemed contented to remain for a while. He then
pretended to have received a cablegram, and came home by the quickest
route, having got them fairly installed in a foreign country without
letting them suspect any coercion in the matter. Afterward he wrote to
say he wished Nina to see something of England and Scotland, and, the
proposal being agreeable to Mrs. Lindon, they accepted invitations from
people they had met to pay visits in different places, so that, together
with an art course in Paris and a musical course at Leipsic, they
wandered about until nearly two years had elapsed, when they suddenly
suspected that Mr. Lindon preferred that they should be away, upon which
they returned at once.
Whether Nina came back "in love" with Jack was a question as to which he
made many endeavors to satisfy himself. The ability to live up to the
verb "to love" in all its moods and tenses is so varied, and the outward
results of the inward grace are often so ephemeral that it would be
hazardous to say what particular person is sufficiently unselfish to
experience more than a gleam of a phase that calls for all the most
beautiful possibilities. It is not merely a jingle of words to say that
one who is not minded to be single should be single-minded.
Let us pass over the difficult point and take the young lady's statement
for what it was worth. She said, of herself, that she _was_ in love with
Jack. He had extracted this from her with much insistence, while she
aggravatingly asserted at the same time, that she only made the
admission "for a quiet life," leaving Jack far from any certainty of
possession that could lead to either indifference or comfort.
Two or three proposals of marriage which she had while away had
evidently not captured her, even if they had turned her head a little.
She had seen no person she liked better than Jack or else she would not,
perhaps, have come back in the way she did. The proposals, however, if
they ever had been made, served to turn Jack's daily existence into
alternations of hot and cold shower-baths. One day she would talk about
a Russian she had met in Paris. Then she solemnly gave the history of
her walks and talks with a naval officer in Rome, till Jack's brow was
damp with a cold exudation. But when it came to the delightful
appearance of Colonel Vere, and the devotion he showed when he took her
hand and asked her to share his estates, Jack said, with his teeth
clinched, that he had had enough of the whole business--and departed. He
then spent two days of very complete misery, barometer at 28 deg., until she
met him and laid her hand on his arm and said she was sorry; would he
stop being a cross boy? that she had only been teasing him, and all the
rest of it; while she looked out of her soft dark eyes in a way that
left no doubt in Jack's mind that he had behaved like a brute.
In this way the first week of her return had been consumed, and as yet
he had not felt that he could afford to divide her society with anybody.
What with the rich Russian, the naval officer, and Colonel Vere--what
with getting into agonies and getting out of them--it took him pretty
nearly all his time to try to straighten matters out. So Geoffrey's
introduction had not been mentioned further by him, except to Nina, who
was becoming curious to see Jack's particular friend and Admirable
Crichton. The opportunity for this meeting seemed about to offer itself
in the shape of an entertainment where all those who remained in Toronto
during the summer would collect--one of those warm gatherings where the
oft-tried case of _pleasure vs. perspiration_ results so frequently in
an undoubted verdict for the defendant.
The Dusenalls were among those wise enough to know that in summer they
could be cooler in Toronto, at their own residence, with every comfort
about them, than they could possibly be while stewing in an American
hotel or broiling on the sands of an American seaport. They objected to
spending large sums yearly in beautifying their grounds, merely to leave
the shady walks, cool arbors, and tinkling fountains for the enjoyment
of the gardeners' wives and children. In the thickness of their mansion
walls there was a power to resist the sun which no thin wooden hotel can
possess; therefore, in spite of a fashion which is somewhat dying out,
they remained in Toronto during the hot months, and amused themselves a
good deal on young Dusenall's yacht.
Their residence was well adapted for such a party as they were now
giving, and the guests were made to understand that in the afternoon
there would be a sort of garden-party, with lawn-tennis chiefly in view,
and at dark a substantial high tea--to wind up with dancing as long as
human nature could stand the strain; and if any had got too old or too
corpulent or too dignified to play tennis, they could hardly get too
much so to look on; or, if this lacked interest, they could walk about
the lawns and gardens and converse, or, if possible, make love; or
listen to a good military band while enjoying a harmless cigarette; and
if they liked none of these things they could never have been known by
the people of whom this account is given, and thus, perhaps, might as
well never have been born.
The men, of course, played in their flannels, which a few of them
afterward changed in Charley Dusenall's rooms when there was a
suspension of hostilities for toilets. Most of them went home to dinner
and appeared later on for the dancing. People came in afternoon-dress
and remained for tea and through the evening in that attire, or else
they dropped in at the usual time in evening-dress. It did not matter.
It was all a sort of "go-as-you-please." Some girls danced in their
light tennis dresses, and others had their maids come with ball dresses.
Of course the majority came late--especially the chaperons, the heavy
fathers, starchy bank-managers, and such learned counsel as scorned not
to view the giddy whirl nor to sample the cellars of the Dusenalls.
Mrs. Lindon arrived with her daughter late in the evening, when
everything was whirling. Jack had his name down for a couple of dances,
and a few more were bestowed upon eager aspirants, and then she had no
more to give away--so sorry!--card quite filled! She told dancing fibs
in a charming manner that seemed to take away half the pang of
disappointment. This was a field-day, and the discarded ones could
receive more notice on some other, smaller occasion.
To see Jack and Nina dancing together was to see two people completely
satisfied with themselves. As a dancer, Jack "fancied himself." He had
an eye for calculating distances and he had the courage of his opinions
when he proposed to dance through a small space. As for Nina, she was
the incarnation of a waltz. Her small feet seemed as quick as the pat of
a cat's paw. In watching her the idea of exertion never seemed to
present itself. There is a pleasure in the rhythmic pulsations of the
feet and in yielding to the sensuous strains of the music (which alone
seems to be the propelling power) that is more distinctly animal than a
good many of our other pleasures; and Nina was born to dance.
At the end of Jack's first dance with her, Geoffrey came idling through
the conservatory, and entered the ball-room close beside the place where
Mrs. Lindon was seated with several other mothers. As the last bars of
the waltz were expiring, Jack brought up at what he called "the
moorings" with all the easy swing and grace of a dancer who loves his
dance. The act of stopping seemed to divide the unity in trinity
existing between his partner, himself and the music, and it was
therefore to be regretted, and not to be done harshly, but lingeringly,
if it _must_ be done, while Nina, as he released her, came forward
toward her mother with her sleeveless arms still partly hanging in the
air, and with a pretty little trip and slide on the floor, as if she
could not get the "time" out of her feet. Her head was slightly thrown
back, the eyelids were drooped, and the lips were parted with a smile of
recognition for Mrs. Lindon, while her attitude showed the curves of her
small waist to advantage; so that the first glimpse of Nina that
Geoffrey received was not an unpleasant one. She seemed to be moving
naturally and carelessly. She was only endeavoring to make the other
mothers envious, when they compared her with their own daughters. Such
wiles were part of her nature. When feeling particularly vigorous,
almost every attitude of some people is a challenge--males with their
bravery, females with their graces--and, whatever changes the future may
develop in the predilections of woman, there may for a long time be some
left to acknowledge that for them a likable man is one who is able to
assert, in a refined way, sufficient primitive force to make submission
seem like conquest rather than choice.
Jack at once introduced Geoffrey--his face beaming while he did so. He
was so proud of Nina. He was so proud of Geoffrey. Nina was blushing at
having Hampstead witness her little by-play with her mother at the
conclusion of the dance--but not displeased withal. Jack thought he had
never seen her look so beautiful. And Geoffrey was such a strapper. Jack
surveyed them both with unbounded satisfaction. He slapped Hampstead on
the arm, and tightened the sleeve of his coat over his biceps, patting
the hard limb, and saying warmly: "Here's where the secret lies, Nina!
This is what takes the prizes."
"So you are Jonathan's David, are you?" said Nina, smiling, as they
talked together.
"Well, he patronizes me a good deal," said Geoffrey. "But don't you
think he looks as if he wished to find his next partner? Suppose we give
him a chance to do so; let us go off and discuss his moral character."
He went away with Nina on his arm, leaving Jack quite radiant to see
them both so friendly.
When they arrived in the long conservatory adjoining, Geoffrey held out
his hand for her card. He did not ask for it, except perhaps by a look.
Having possessed himself of it, he found five successive dances
vacant--evidently kept for some one, and he was bold enough suddenly to
conclude they had been kept for him. He looked at the card amused, and
as he scratched a long mark across all five, he drawled, "May I have the
pleasure of--some dances?" And then he mused aloud as he examined the
card, "Don't seem to be more than five. Humph! Too bad! But perhaps we
can manage a few more, Miss Lindon?"
Nina was accustomed to distribute her favors with a reluctant hand and
with a condescension peculiarly her own, and to hear suppliant voices
around her. She would be capricious, and loved her power. Even Jack did
not count upon continued sunshine, and took what he could get with some
thanksgivings. She was a presumptive heiress, and had not escaped the
inflation of the purse-proud. But, on the other hand, since her return
she had heard a good deal about the various perfections of his friend,
and how well he did everything; and from what her girl friends said, she
had gleaned that Geoffrey was more in demand than would be confessed. He
was not very desirable financially, perhaps, but hugely so because he
was sought after. This much would have been sufficient to have made her
amused rather than annoyed at his cool way of assuming that she would
devote herself to him for an unlimited time, but there was something
more about Geoffrey than mere fashion to account for his popularity, and
that was the peculiar influence of his presence upon those with whom he
conversed.
Thus Nina, if she came to the Dusenalls with the intention of having a
flirtation with Geoffrey, which the condition of her card and her
acquiescence to his demands confessed, had hit upon a person who was far
more than her match, for Hampstead's acquaintanceships were not much
governed by rule. As long as a girl diverted him and wished to amuse
herself he had no particular creed as to consequences, but merely made
it understood--verbally, at least--that there was nothing lasting about
the matter, and that it was merely for "the temporary mutual benefit and
improvement of both parties." This was a remnant of a code of
justification by which he endeavored to patch up his self-respect; but
nobody knew better than he that such phrases mean nothing to women who
are falling in love and intend to continue in love.
Underneath the careless tones with which he spoke to Nina there was an
earnestness and concentration that influenced her. As he gravely handed
back her card and caught and held her glance with an intensity in his
gray eyes and will-power in his face, she felt, for the first time with
any man, that she was not completely at her ease. When obeying the
warning impulses that formerly fulfilled the offices of thought women do
not often make a mistake. By these intuitions, sufficient at first for
self-protection, she knew there was willfulness and mastery in him, and
that if she would be true to Jack she should return to him. If change of
masters be hurtful to women, this was the time for her to remember about
the woman who hesitates. Geoffrey said, "Let us go in and have a dance,
Miss Lindon," and she rose with a nervous smile and glanced across to
the place where her mother was sitting. But Mrs. Lindon had never been a
tower of strength to her, or she might have gone to her. She had a
distinct feeling that this new acquaintance was more powerful in some
way than she had anticipated, and that everything was not all right with
Jack's interests, and she was at one of those moments when a woman's
ability to decide is so peculiarly the essence of her character,
circumstances, and teaching as fairly to indicate her general moral
level. Goethe tells us "to first understand"; but if we can not know the
extent of Geoffrey's influence, or how far her unknown French lineage
assisted temptation, we would better leave judgment alone. Geoffrey said
something in her ear about the music being delicious. She listened for a
moment and longed for a dance with him. Rubbish! only a dance, after
all! And the next moment she was circling through the ball-room with his
arm around her.
The band that played at the Dusenalls' was one that could be listened to
with pleasure. It was composed of bottle-nosed Germans who worked at
trades during the day and who played together generally for their own
amusement. In all they played they brought out the soul of the movement.
It was to one of the dreamiest of waltzes that Nina danced with
Geoffrey--one of those pieces where from softer cadences the air swells
into rapturous triumph, or sinks into despair, and wooes the dancer into
the most unintellectual and pleasant frame of mind--if the weather be
not too warm.
A cool night breeze was passing through the room, bringing with it the
fragrance of the dewey flowers outside, and carrying off the odor of
those nauseating tube-roses (which people _will_ wear), and replacing it
with a perfume more acceptable to gods and men--especially men.
If Jack "fancied himself" as a dancer, Geoffrey had a better right to do
so. His stature aided him also, and men with retreating chins were
rather inclined to give him the road. He had a set look about the lower
part of his face which in crowds was an advantage to him. It suggested
some _vis major_--perhaps a locomotive, which no one cares to encounter.
In two minutes after they had embarked on this hazardous voyage Nina had
but one idea, or rather she was conscious of a pervading sense of
pleasure, that ran away with her calmer self. No thought of anything
definite was with her, only a vague consciousness of turning and
floating, of being admired, of being impelled by music and by Geoffrey.
As the dance went on it seemed like some master power that led through
the mazes delightfully and resistlessly.
When the music ended, for they had never stopped, she sighed with
sorrow. It had been too short. She had yielded herself so completely to
its fascination that she seemed like one awakening from a dream. And
then her conscience smote her when she thought of Jack, and how in some
way she had enjoyed herself too much, and did not seem to be quite the
same girl that she had been half an hour before; but these thoughts left
her as they walked about and spoke a few words together. While circling
the long room she noticed Geoffrey bowing to a tall young lady whose
long white silk train swept behind her majestically. There was a respect
and gravity in his bow which Nina, with her quick observation, noticed.
"Who is that you are bowing to?" she asked.
"That is Miss Margaret Mackintosh."
"Oh, I think she is perfectly lovely," said Nina, as she looked back
admiringly.
"So do I," said Geoffrey.
Nina turned about now with curiosity, in order to meet her again. Miss
Mackintosh came down the room once more with a partner who was one of
the very young persons who now are the dancing men in Toronto--called
the "infants" by a lady (still unwon) who remembers when there were
marriageable men to be found dancing at parties. This detrimental with
Miss Mackintosh was having an enjoyable time of it. What with the beauty
of his partner, her stately figure, gracious manner, and the rapidity
with which she talked to him, the little man did not quite know where he
was, and he could do little else than turn occasionally and murmur
complete acquiescence in what she was saying, while he sometimes glanced
at her active face for a moment. In doing this, though, he would lose
the thread of her discourse, in consequence of his unfeigned admiration,
and, as he was straining every nerve to follow her quick ideas, this was
a risky thing to do. Once or twice, seeing him turn toward her so
attentively, she turned also and said, "Don't you think so?" and then
the little man would endeavor to mentally pull himself together, and
with some appearance of deep thought would again acquiesce with unction.
Certainly he thought he did think so--every time.
The close scrutiny of Hampstead and Nina did not seem to affect her as
she passed them with her face unlifted and earnest. She did not seem to
have any side eyes open to see who were regarding her. When the handsome
dress that had made such a cavern in her allowance money was trodden on,
she gathered it up with an active movement--not seeming to notice the
unpleasantness, nor for a moment abating the earnestness of her
conversation. Her idea seemed to be to prevent the dress from
interrupting her rather than to save it. One could see that, once on,
the dress was perhaps not thought of again, that it was not the main
part of her pleasure, but was lost in her endeavor to make herself
agreeable, and in this way to enjoy herself.
"I am sure she must have a very kind heart," said Nina, smiling.
"Why?" asked Geoffrey.
"Because she takes so much trouble over such a poor specimen of a man."
"Perhaps, as Douglas Jerrold said, she belongs to the Royal Humane
Society," added Geoffrey.
As Nina could not remember being acquainted with any Mr. Jerrold, the
remark lost some of its weight. The true inwardness of the old wit that
comes down to us in books is our knowledge of the reputation of the
joker.
"And does she dance well?" asked Nina.
"No," said Geoffrey, as he still looked after Miss Mackintosh with grave
and thoughtful eyes. "I don't think she has in her enough of what
Goethe calls the 'daemonic element' of our nature to dance well."
"Not very complimentary, to those who can dance well," said Nina, archly
pointing to herself.
Geoffrey shrugged his shoulders, as he looked at his partner. "Some
people prefer the daemonic element," said he. But he turned again from
the rose to the tall, white lily, who was once more approaching them,
with something of a melancholy idea in his mind that men like him ought
to confine themselves entirely to the rose, and not aspire above their
moral level. Margaret Mackintosh was the one person he revered. She was
the symbol to him of all that was good and pure. He had almost forgotten
what these words meant, but the presence of Margaret always
re-interpreted the lost language.
"And do you admire her very much?" Nina inquired.
"I admire her more than any person I ever saw."
Sooner or later, it would have gone hard with Geoffrey for making this
speech, if he had been any one else. But it occurred to Nina that he did
not care whether she took offense or not. He was leaning against the
wall, apparently oblivious, for the moment, to any of her ideas, charms,
or graces, but looking, withal, exceedingly handsome, and a thought came
to her which should not come to an engaged young lady. She made up her
mind that she would make him care for her a great deal and then would
snub him and marry Jack.
The music commenced again.
"Come now," said Nina, gayly, "and try a little more of the daemonic
element."
Geoffrey turned to her quickly, and his face flushed as, to quote
Shakespeare's sonnet, "his bad angel fired his good one out." He saw in
her face her intention to subjugate him, and knew that he had
accidentally paved the way for this new foolish notion of hers by his
candid admiration of Miss Mackintosh.
"Have you any of it to spare?" said he, as his arm encircled her for the
dance.
No verbal answer was given, but they floated away among the dancers.
Here she forgot her slight feelings of resentment and retained only the
desire to attract him, without further wish to punish him afterward. A
few turns around the room, and she was in as much of a whirl as she had
been before. They danced throughout the music--almost without ceasing;
and when it ended she unconsciously leaned, upon his arm, as they
strolled off together, almost as if she were tired. The thought of how
she was acting came to her, only it came now as an intruder. A usurper
reigned with sovereign sway, and Right was quickly ousted on his
approach. A little while ago, and the power to decide, for Jack or
against him, was more evenly balanced; but now, how different! She was
wandering on with no other impulse than the indefinite wish to please
Geoffrey. If she had been a man, sophisms and excuses might have
occurred to her. But it was not her habit to analyze self much, and even
sophisms require _some_ thought.
They passed through the conservatory and out to the broad walk of
pressed gravel, where several couples were promenading. Here they walked
up and down once or twice in the cool breeze that seemed delicious after
the invisible dust of the ball-room. Nina was saying nothing, but
leaning on his arm, and it seemed to her that his low, deep tones
vibrated through her--as a sympathetic note sometimes makes glass
ring--as if in echo.
Geoffrey was pondering where all the pride and self-assertion had gone
to in this girl who now seemed so trustful and docile. Even her answers
seemed mechanical and vague, as if she were in some way bewildered.
Jack, in the mean time, was elbowing his way through a crowd, trying to
get one of his partners something to eat. He was the only person likely
to notice her absence, and this he did not do, and, as Geoffrey was down
for five dances, he knew no others would be looking for her. So he
walked on past the end of the terrace, and, descending some steps,
proceeded farther till they came to more steps leading down into a path
dark with overhanging trees. Nina hesitated, and said she was always
afraid to go among dark trees, but Geoffrey said, "Oh, I'll take care of
you." Then she thought it was pleasant to have an athlete for a
protector, and she glanced at his strong face and frame with confidence.
She no longer went with him as she had danced, with her mind in a whirl,
but peacefully and calmly, with no other thought than to be with him. He
took her hand as they descended the stairs, and, though she shrank a
little from a proceeding new to her, it seemed natural enough, and gave
her a sense of protection in the dark paths. It did not occur to her
that she could have done without it. She did not notice their silence.
Geoffrey, too, thought it pleasant enough in the balmy air without
conversation. He was interested by her beauty and her sudden partiality
for him.
At length he stopped in one of the distant paths as they came to a seat
between the trunks of two large trees. Here they sat down at opposite
sides of the seat, and Geoffrey leaned back against the tree beside him.
The leaves on the overhanging boughs quivered in the light of the moon,
and the delicate perfume in the air spoke of flower-beds near by. He
thought it extremely pleasant here, and he laid his head back against
the tree beside him to listen to the tinkling of the fountain and to
enjoy the scent-laden night air. An idea was still with him that this
was the girl Jack was engaged to, and he thought it would be as well to
keep that idea before him. He said to himself that he liked Jack, and
thought he was very considerate, under the circumstances, for his friend
when he took out a little silver case and suggested that he would like a
cigarette.
Nina did not answer him. She was in some phase of thought in which
cigarettes had no place, and only looked toward him slowly, as if she
had merely heard the sound of his voice and not the words. He selected
from the case one of those innocuous tubes of rice-paper and
prairie-grass, and, as he did so, the absent look on her face seemed
peculiar. With a fuse in one hand and the cigarette in the other, he
paused before striking a light, and they looked at each other for a
moment as he thought of stories he had read of one person's influence
over another. Like many, he had a general curiosity about strange phases
of mankind, and it occurred to him that Nina would make an interesting
subject for experiment. Presently he said, in resonant tones, deep and
musical:
"Do you like to be here, Nina?"
She did not seem to notice that he called her by this familiar name, but
she stood up and remained silently gazing at the moon through a break in
the foliage. Her beauty was sublimated by the white light, and, as
Geoffrey took a step towards her, he forgot about his cigarette, and,
taking both her hands in his, he repeated his question two or three
times before she answered. Then she turned impetuously.
"Oh, why do you make me do everything that is wrong? I should not be
here. I should never have spoken to you. I was afraid of you from the
first moment I saw you."
Geoffrey led her by one hand back to the seat.
"Now answer me. Do you like to be here--with me, Nina?"
She looked at the moon and at the ground and all about, but remained
mute and apparently pondering.
He had forgotten Jack now as well as the cigarette, and was rapidly
losing the remembrance that this was to be merely a scientific
experiment.
"Your silence makes me all the more impatient. I will know now. Do you
like to be here, Nina?"
A new earnestness in his tone thrilled her and made her tremble. She
turned with a sudden impulse, as if something had made her reckless:
"You are forcing me to answer you," she said vehemently, as she looked
at him with a constrained, though affectionate expression in her eyes.
"But I will tell you if I die for it. Oh, I am so wicked to say so, but
I must. You make me. Oh, now let us go into the house."
Geoffrey's generous intention to act rightly by Jack departed from him,
and for a moment he drew her toward him, saying that she must not care
too much for being there, "because, you know," he said, "this is only a
little flirtation, and is quite too good to last."
She seemed not to be listening to him, but to be thinking; and after a
moment she said, in long drawn out, sorrowful accents:
"Oh--poor--Jack!"
Something in the slow, melancholy way she said this, and the thought of
the poor place that Jack certainly held at the present time in her
affections, struck Geoffrey as irresistibly amusing, and he laughed
aloud in an unsympathetic way, which presented him to her in a new
light, and she sprang from him at once. Her emotion turned to anger as
she thought that the laugh had been derisive, and her blood boiled to
think he could bring her here to laugh at her after he had succeeded in
winning her so completely.
"Come into the house at once," she cried. "I can't go in alone even if I
knew the way."
Geoffrey rose and begged her pardon, assuring her that nothing but the
peculiarity of her remark had caused his laugh.
"I will not stay here another instant. If you don't come at once I'll
find my way alone." And she stamped her foot upon the ground.
Hampstead did not like to be stamped at, and his face altered. As long
as she had been facile and pleasing, a sense of duty toward her and Jack
had made him considerate. It had seemed to him while sitting there that
this girl was his; and the sense of possession had made him kind, but
now that she seemed to vex him unnecessarily it appeared to him like a
denial of his influence. The idea of the experiment suddenly returned,
together with a sense of power and a desire to compel submission which
displaced his wish to be considerate. He sat down on the seat again
facing her and said:
"I want you to come here." He motioned to the seat beside him.
"I won't go near you. I hate you! I'll run in by myself."
"You can not run away--because I wish you to come here."
Hampstead said this in a measured way, and his brow seemed to knot into
cords as he concentrated his will-power. His face bore an unpleasant
expression. A quarter of a minute passed and she stood trembling and
fascinated; and before another half-minute had elapsed she came very
slowly forward, and approached him with the expression of her face
changed into one of enervation. Her eyes were dilated, and her hands
hung loosely at her sides. Hampstead saw, with some consternation, that
she had become like something else, that she looked very like a
mad-woman. A shock went through him as he looked at her--not knowing how
the matter might terminate. He saw that she was mesmerized--an automaton
moved by his will only. The combined flirtation and experiment had gone
further than he had intended, and the result was startling--especially
as the possibility that she might not recover flashed through his mind.
The power he had been wielding (which receives much cheap ridicule from
very learned men who would fain deny what they can not explain) suddenly
seemed to him to be a devilish one, and he felt that he had done
something wrong. He had not intended it. An idea had seized him, and he
was merely concentrating a power which he unconsciously used almost
every hour of his life. He considered what ought to be done to bring her
back to a normal state. Not knowing anything better to do, he walked her
about quickly, speaking to her, a little sharply, so as to rouse her.
Then, by telling her to wake up, and by asking her simple questions and
requiring an answer, he succeeded in bringing her back to something like
her usual condition. When she quite knew where she was, she thought she
must have fainted. All her anger was gone, and Geoffrey, to give the
devil his due, felt sorry for her. It had been an interesting
episode--something quite new to him in a scientific way--but uncanny.
She still looked to him as if for protection, and she would have wept
had he not warned her how she would appear in the ball-room. "Oh, Mr.
Hampstead, you have treated me cruelly," she said. Geoffrey felt that
this was true enough.
"It was all my own fault, though. I do not blame you. You have taught me
a great deal to-night. I seem to know, somehow, your best and your
worst, and what a man can be."
She leaned upon his arm, partly from weakness and partly because she
felt that, good or bad, he was master, and that she liked to lean upon
him. The movement touched Geoffrey with compassion. Having nothing to
offer in return, it distressed him to notice her affection, which he
knew would only bring her unhappiness. He tried, therefore, to say
something to remove the impressions that had come to her.
"You speak of good and bad in me," he said quickly. "Now I think you are
so much in my confidence that I can trust you in what I am going to say.
Don't believe that there is any good in me. I tell you the truth now
because I am sorry that we have been so foolish to-night. There is no
good in me. It is all--the other thing."
Nina shuddered--feeling as if he had spoken the truth but that it was
already too late for her to listen to it.
He took her back into the house, smiling and pleasant to those about
him, as if nothing had occurred, and left her with Mrs. Lindon.
But he did not go to find Margaret Mackintosh again. He went home
somewhat excited, and smoked four or five pipes of tobacco. At first he
was regretful, for he knew he had been doing harm. He said he was a
whimsical fool. But after a couple of "night-caps" he began to think how
picturesque she had looked in the moonlight, and he afterward dropped
off into as dreamless and undisturbed a sleep as the most virtuous may
enjoy.