"Out of the day and night
A joy has taken flight."
"Life, I know not what thou art."
"You two," cries Miss Maliphant pleasantly, in her loud, good-natured
voice. She addresses them as though it has been borne in upon her by
constant reminding that Joyce and Dysart are for the best of all reasons
generally to be found together. There is something not only genial, but
sympathetic in her tones, something that embarrasses Dysart, and angers
Joyce to the last degree. "Well, I'm glad to have met you for one moment
out of the hurly-burly," goes on the massive heiress to Joyce, with the
friendliest of smiles. "I'm off at cock-crow, you know, and so mightn't
have had the opportunity of saying good-bye to you, but for this
fortunate meeting."
"To-morrow?" says Joyce, more with the manner of one who feels she must
say something than from any desire to say it.
"Yes, and so early that I shall not have it in my power to bid farewell
to any one. Unless, indeed," with a glance at Beauclerk, meant, perhaps,
to be coquettish, but so elephantine in its proportions as to be almost
anything in the world but that, "some of my friends may wish to see the
sun rise."
"We shall miss you," says Joyce, gracefully, though with an effort.
"Just what I've been saying," breaks in Beauclerk at this juncture, who
hitherto has been looking on, with an altogether delightful smile upon
his handsome face. "We shall all miss Miss Maliphant. It is not often
that one meets with an entirely genial companion. My sister is to be
congratulated on securing such an acquisition, if only for a short
time."
Joyce, lifting her eyes, stares straight at him. "For a short time!"
What does that mean? If Miss Maliphant is to be Lady Baltimore's
sister-in-law, she will undoubtedly secure her for a lifetime!
"Oh, you are too good," says Miss Maliphant, giving him a playful flick
with her fan.
"Well, what would you have me say?" persists Beauclerk still lightly,
with wonderful lightness, in fact, considering the weight of that
playful tap upon his bent knuckles. "That we shall not be sorry? Would
you have me lie, then? Fie, fie, Miss Maliphant! The truth, the truth,
and nothing but the truth! At all risks and hazards!" here he almost
imperceptibly sends flying a shaft from his eyes at Joyce, who receives
it with a blank stare. "We shall, I assure you, be desolated when you
go, specially Isabel."
This last pretty little speech strikes Dysart as being specially neat:
This putting the onus of the regret on to Isabel's shoulders. All
through, Beauclerk has been careful to express himself as one who is an
appreciative friend of Miss Maliphant, but nothing more; yet so guarded
are these expressions, and the looks that accompany them, that Miss
Maliphant might be pardoned if she should read a warmer feeling in them.
A sensation of disgust darkens his brow.
"I must say you are all very nice to me," says the heiress complacently.
Poor soul! No doubt, she believes in every bit of it, and a large course
of kow-towing from the world has taught her the value of her pile.
"However," with true Manchester grace, "there's no need for howling over
it. We'll all meet again, I dare say, some time or other. For one thing,
Lady Baltimore has asked me to come here again after Christmas;
February, I dare say."
"So glad!" murmurs Joyce rather vaguely.
"So you see," said Miss Maliphant with ponderous gayety, "that we are
all bound to put in a second good time together; you're coming, I know,
Mr. Dysart, and Miss Kavanagh is always here, and Mr. Beauclerk "--with
a languishing glance at that charming person, who returns it in the most
open manner--"has promised me that he will be here to meet me."
"Well, if I can, you know," says he, now beaming at her.
"How's that?" says the heiress, turning promptly upon him. It is strange
how undesirable the very richest heiress can be at times. "Why, it's
only just this instant that you told me nothing would keep you away from
the Court next spring. What d'ye mean?"
She brings him to book in a most uncompromising fashion; a fashion that
betrays unmistakably her plebeian origin. Dysart, listening, admires her
for it. Her rough and ready honesty seems to him preferable to the best
bred shuffling in the world.
"Did I say all that?" says Beauclerk lightly, coloring a little,
nevertheless, as he marks the fine smile that is curling Joyce's lips.
"Why, then," gayly, "if I said it, I meant it. If I hesitated about
indorsing my intentions publicly, it is because one is never sure of
happiness beforehand; believe me, Miss Maliphant," with a little bow-to
her, but with a direct glance at Joyce, "every desire I have is centered
in the hope that next spring may see me here again."
"Well, I expect we all have the same wish," says Miss Maliphant
cheerfully, who has not caught that swift glance at Joyce. "I'm sure I
hope that nothing will interfere with my coming here in February."
"It is agreed, then," says Beauclerk, with a delightfully comprehensive
smile that seems to take in every one, even the plants and the dripping
fountain and the little marble god in the corner, who is evidently
listening with all his might. "We all meet here again early next year if
the fates be propitious. You, Dysart, you pledge yourself to join our
circle then?"
"I pledge myself," says Dysart, fixing a cold gaze on him. It is so
cold, so distinctly hostile, that Beauclerk grows uncomfortable beneath
it. When uncomfortable his natural bias leads him towards a display of
bonhomie.
"Here we have before us a prospect to cheer the soul of any man,"
declares he, shifting his eyes from Dysart to Miss Maliphant.
"It cheers me certainly," responds that heavy maiden with alacrity. "I
like to think we shall all meet again."
"Like the witches in Macbeth," says Joyce, indifferently.
"But not so malignantly, I hope," says the heiress brilliantly, who,
like most worthy people, can never see beyond her own nose. "For my part
I like old friends much better than new." She looks round for the
appreciation that should attend this sound remark, and is gratified to
find Dysart is smiling at her. Perhaps the core of that smile might not
have been altogether to her taste--most cores are difficult of
digestion. To her, to whom all things are new, where does the flavor of
the old come in?
Beauclerk is looking at Joyce.
"I hope the prospect cheers you too," says he a little sharply, as if
nettled by her determined silence and bent on making her declare
herself. "You, I trust, will be here next February."
"Sure to be!" says she with an enigmatical smile. "Not a jot or tittle
of your enjoyments will be lost to you in the coming year. Both your
friends--Miss Maliphant and I--will be here to welcome you when you
return."
Something in her manner, in the half-defiant light in her eyes, puzzles
Beauclerk. What has happened to her since they last were together? Not
more than an hour ago she had seemed--er--well. Inwardly he smiles
complacently. But now. Could she? Is it possible? Was there a chance
that----
"Miss Kavanagh," begins he, moving toward her. But she makes short work
of his advance.
"I repent," says she, turning a lovely, smiling face on Dysart. "A while
ago I said I was too tired to dance. I did myself injustice. That
waltz--listen to it"--lifting up an eager finger--"would it not wake an
anchorite from his ascetic dreams? Come. There is time.".
She has sprung to her feet--life is in every movement. She slips her arm
into Dysart's. Not understanding--yet half understanding, moves with
her--his heart on fire for her, his puzzlement rendering him miserable.
Beauclerk, with that doubt of what she really knows full upon him, is
wiser. Without hesitation he offers his arm to Miss Maliphant; and, so
swift is his desire to quit the scene, he passes Dysart and Joyce, the
latter having paused for a moment to recover her fan.
"You see!" says Beauclerk, bending over the heiress, when a turn in the
conservatory has hidden him from the view of those behind. "I told you!"
He says nothing more. It is the veriest whisper, spoken with an
assumption of merriment very well achieved. Yet, if she would have
looked at him, she could have seen that his very lips are white. But as
I have said, Miss Maliphant's mind has not been trained to the higher
courses.
"Yes. One can see!" laughs she happily. "And it is charming, isn't it?
To find two people thoroughly in love with each other now-a-days, is to
believe in that mad old world of romance of which we read. They're very
nice too, both of them. I do like Joyce. She's one in a thousand, and
Mr. Dysart is just suited to her. They are both thorough! There's no
nonsense about them. Now that you have pointed it out to me, I think I
never saw two people so much in love with each other as they."
Providentially, she is looking away from him to where a quadrille is
forming in the ballroom, so that the deadly look of hatred that adorns
his handsome face is unknown to her.
* * * * *
Meantime, Joyce, with that convenient fan recovered, is looking with sad
eyes at Dysart.
"Come; the music will soon cease," says she.
"Why do you speak to me like that?" cries he vehemently. "If you don't
want to dance, why not say so to me? Why not trust me? Good heavens! if
I were your bitterest enemy you could not treat me more distantly. And
yet--I would die to make you happy."
"Don't!" says she in a little choking sort of way, turning her face from
him. She struggles with herself for a moment, and then, still with her
face averted, says meekly: "Thank you, then. If you don't mind, I should
rather not dance any more to-night."
"Why didn't you say that at first?" says he, with a last remnant of
reproach. "No; there shall be no more dancing to-night for either you or
me. A word, Joyce!" turning eagerly toward her, "you won't forget your
promise about that walk to-morrow?"
"No. No, indeed."
"Thank you!"
They are sitting very close together, and almost insensibly his hand
seeks and finds hers. It was lying idle on her lap, and lifting it, he
would have raised it to his lips, but with a sharp, violent action she
wrests it from him, and, as a child might, hides it behind her.
"If you would have me believe in you----No, no, not that," says she, a
little incoherently, her voice rendering her meaning with difficulty.
Dysart, astonished, stands back from her, waiting for something more;
but nothing comes, except two large tears, that steal heavily,
painfully, down her cheeks.
She brushes them impatiently away.
"Forgive me," she says, somewhat brokenly. "To you, who are so good to
me, I am unkind, while to those who are unkind to me I----" She is
trying to rally. "It was a mere whim, believe me. I have always hated
demonstrations of any sort, and why should you want to kiss my hand?"
"I shouldn't," says he. "If----" His eyes have fallen from her eyes to
her lips.
"Never mind," says she; "I didn't understand, perhaps. But why can't you
be content with things as they are?"
"Are you content with them?"
"I think so. I have been examining myself, and honestly I think so,"
says she a little feverishly.
"Well, I'm not," returns he with decision. "You must give me credit for
a great private store of amiability, if you imagine that I am satisfied
to take things as they now exist--between you and me!"
"You have your faults, you see, as well as another," says she with a
frown. "You are persistent! And the worst of it is that you are
generally right." She frowns again, but even while frowning glances
sideways from under her long lashes with an expression hardly uncivil.
"That is the worst crime in the calendar. Be wrong sometimes, an' you
love me, it will gain you a world of friends."
"If it could gain me your love in return, I might risk it," says he
boldly. "But that is hopeless I'm afraid," shaking his head. "I am too
often in the wrong not to know that neither my many frailties nor my few
virtues can ever purchase for me the only good thing on which my soul is
set."
"I have told you of one fault, now hear another," says she capriciously.
"You are too earnest! What," turning upon him passionately, as if a
little ashamed of her treatment of him, "is the use of being earnest?
Who cares? Who looks on, who gives one moment to the guessing of the
meaning that lies beneath? To be in earnest in this life is merely to be
mad. Pretend, laugh, jest, do anything, but be what you really are, and
you will probably get through the world in a manner, if not satisfactory
to yourself, at all events to '_les autres_.'"
"You preach a crusade against yourself," says he gently. "You preach
against your own conscience. You are the least deceptive person I know.
Were you to follow in the track you lay out for others, the cruelty of
it would kill you.
"To your own self be true,
And----"
"Yes, yes; I know it all," says she, interrupting him with some
irritation. "I wish you knew how--how unpleasant you can be. As I tell
you, you are always right. That last dance--it is true--I didn't want to
have anything to do with it; but for all that I didn't wish to be told
so. I merely suggested it as a means of getting rid of----"
"Miss Maliphant," says Dysart, who is feeling a little sore. The
disingenuousness of this remark is patent to her.
"No; Mr. Beauclerk," corrects she, coldly.
"Forgive me," says Dysart quickly, "I shouldn't have said that. Well,"
drawing a long breath, "we have got rid of them, and may I give you a
word of advice? It is disinterested because it is to my own
disadvantage. Go to your room--to your bed. You are tired, exhausted.
Why wait to be more so. Say you will do as I suggest."
"You want to get rid of me," says she with a little weary smile.
"That is unworthy of an answer," gravely; "but if a 'yes' to it will
help you to follow my advice, why, I will say it. Come," rising, "let
me take you to the hall."
"You shall have your way," says she, rising too, and following him.
A side door leading to the anteroom on their left, and thus skirting the
ballroom without entering it, brings them to the foot of the central
staircase.
"Good-night," says Dysart in a low tone, retaining her hand for a
moment. All round them is a crowd separated into twos and threes, so
that it is impossible to say more than the mere commonplace.
"Good night," returns she in a soft tone. She has turned away from him,
but something in the intense longing and melancholy of his eyes compels
her to look back again. "Oh, you have been kind! I am not ungrateful,"
says she with sharp contrition.
"Joyce, Joyce! Let me be the grateful one," returns he. His voice is a
mere whisper, but so fraught is it with passionate appeal that it rings
in her brain for long hours afterward.
Her eyes fall beneath his. She moves silently away. What can she say to
him?
It is with a sense of almost violent relief that she closes the door of
her own room behind her, and knows herself to be at last alone.