"Miss Murray?" I suggested.
Mr. Armstrong made one of his low, old-fashioned bows. This, I doubt
not, was out of deference to the bride-to-be.
"Does Miss Murray wear white to-night?"
"Yes," muttered Sinclair, coming hastily forward.
"Then it may have been she, for as I lay there deciding whether or not
to yield to the agreeable somnolence I felt creeping over me, I caught a
glimpse of her skirt as she passed out of the room. And that skirt was
white--white silk, I suppose you call it. It looked very pretty in the
firelight."
Sinclair, turning on his heel, stalked in a dazed way toward the door.
To cover this show of abruptness which was quite unusual on his part, I
made the effort of my life, and, remarking lightly, "She must have been
here looking for the pin her friend has lost," I launched forth into an
impromptu dissertation on one of the subjects I knew to be dear to the
heart of the bookworm before me, and kept it up, too, till I saw by his
brightening eye and suddenly freed manner that he had forgotten the
insignificant episode of a minute ago, never in all probability to
recall it again. Then I made another effort and released myself with
something like deftness from the long-drawn-out argument I saw
impending, and, making for the door in my turn, glanced about for
Sinclair. So far as I was concerned the question as to who had taken the
box from the library was settled.
It was now half-past eight. I made my way from room to room and from
group to group, looking for Sinclair. At last I returned to my old post
near the library door, and was instantly rewarded by the sight of his
figure approaching from a small side passage in company with the butler,
Dutton. His face, as he stepped into the full light of the open hall,
showed discomposure, but not the extreme distress I had anticipated.
Somehow, at sight of it, I found myself seeking the shadow just as he
had done a short time before, and it was in one of the recesses made by
a row of bay trees that we came face to face.
He gave me one look, then his eyes dropped.
"Miss Camerden has lost a pin from her hair," he impressively explained
to me. Then turning to Dutton he nonchalantly remarked. "It must be
somewhere in this hall; perhaps you will be good enough to look for it."
"Certainly," replied the man. "I thought she had lost something when I
saw her come out of the library a little while ago holding her hand to
her hair."
My heart gave a leap, then sank cold and almost pulseless in my breast.
In the hum to which all sounds had sunk, I heard Sinclair's voice rise
again in the question with which my own mind was full.
"When was that? After Mr. Armstrong went into the room, or before?"
"Oh, after he fell asleep. I had just come from putting out the gas when
I saw Miss Camerden slip in and almost immediately come out again. I
will search for the pin very carefully, sir."
So Mr. Armstrong had made a mistake! It was Dorothy and not Gilbertine
whom he had seen leaving the room. I braced myself up and met Sinclair's
eye.
"Dorothy's dress is gray to-night; but Mr. Armstrong's eye may not be
very good for colors."
"It is possible that both were in the room," was Sinclair's reply. But I
could see that he advanced this theory solely out of consideration for
me; that he did not really believe it. "At all events," he went on, "we
can not prove anything this way; we must revert to our original idea. I
wonder if Gilbertine will give me the chance to speak to her."
"You will have an easier task than I," was my half-sullen retort. "If
Dorothy perceives that I wish to approach her she has but to lift her
eyes to any of the half-dozen fellows here, and the thing becomes
impossible."
"There is to be a rehearsal of the ceremony at half-past ten. I might
get a word in then; only, this matter must be settled first. I could
never go through the farce of standing up before you all at Gilbertine's
side, with such a doubt as this in my mind."
"You will see her before then. Insist on a moment's talk. If she
refuses--"
"Hush!" he here put in. "We part now to meet in this same place again
at ten. Do I look fit to enter among the dancers? I see a whole group of
them coming for me."
"You will in another moment. Approaching matrimony has made you sober,
that's all."
It was some time before I had the opportunity, even if I had the
courage, to look Dorothy in the face. When the moment came she was
flushed with dancing and looked beautiful. Ordinarily she was a little
pale, but not even Gilbertine, with her sumptuous coloring, showed a
warmer cheek than she, as, resting from the waltz, she leaned against
the rose-tinted wall and let her eyes for the first time rise slowly to
where I stood talking mechanically to my partner.
Gentle eyes they were, made for appeal, and eloquent with a subdued
heart language. But they were held in check by an infinite discretion.
Never have I caught them quite off their guard, and to-night they were
wholly unreadable. Yet she was trembling with something more than the
fervor of the dance, and the little hand which had touched mine in
lingering pressure a few hours before was not quiet for a moment. I
could not see it fluttering in and out of the folds of her smoke-colored
dress without a sickening wonder if the little purple box which was the
cause of my horror lay somewhere concealed amid the airy puffs and
ruffles that rose and fell so rapidly over her heaving breast. Could her
eye rest on mine, even in this cold and perfunctory manner, if the drop
which could separate us for ever lay concealed over her heart? She knew
that I loved her. From the first hour we met in her aunt's forbidding
parlor in Thirty-sixth Street, she had recognized my passion, however
perfectly I had succeeded in concealing it from others. Inexperienced as
she was in those days, she had noted as quickly as any society belle the
effect produced upon me by her chill prettiness and her air of meek
reserve under which one felt the heart-break; and though she would never
openly acknowledge my homage and frowned down every attempt on my part
at lover-like speech or attention, I was as sure that she rated my
feelings at their real value, as that she was the dearest, yet most
incomprehensible, mortal my narrow world contained. When, therefore, I
encountered her eyes at the end of the dance I said to myself:
"She may not love me, but she knows that I love her, and, being a woman
of sympathetic instincts, would never meet my eyes with so calm a look
if she were meditating an act which must infallibly plunge me into
misery." Yet I was not satisfied to go away without a word. So, taking
the bull by the horns, I excused myself to my partner, and crossed to
Dorothy's side.
"Will you dance the next waltz with me?" I asked.
Her eyes fell from mine directly and she drew back in a way that
suggested flight.
"I shall dance no more to-night," said she, her hand rising in its
nervous fashion to her hair.
I made no appeal. I just watched that hand, whereupon she flushed
vividly and seemed more than ever anxious to escape. At which I spoke
again.
"Give me a chance, Dorothy. If you will not dance come out on the
veranda and look at the ocean. It is glorious to-night. I will not keep
you long. The lights here trouble my eyes; besides, I am most anxious to
ask you--"
"No, no," she vehemently objected, very much as if frightened. "I can
not leave the drawing-room--do not ask me--seek some other partner--do,
to-night."
"You wish it?"
"Very much."
She was panting, eager. I felt my heart sink and dreaded lest I should
betray my feelings.
"You do not honor me then with your regard," I retorted, bowing
ceremoniously as I became assured that we were attracting more attention
than I considered desirable.
She was silent. Her hand went again to her hair.
I changed my tone. Quietly, but with an emphasis which moved her in
spite of herself, I whispered: "If I leave you now will you tell me
to-morrow why you are so peremptory with me to-night?"
With an eagerness which was anything but encouraging, she answered with
suddenly recovered gaiety:
"Yes, yes, after all this excitement is over." And, slipping her hand
into that of a friend who was passing, she was soon in the whirl again
and dancing--she who had just assured me that she did not mean to dance
again that night.