Disturbed as Laura evidently was by some powerful motive, it was not
long before her eye rested upon the occupants of the stalls immediately
below, but two or three tiers nearer the stage. It almost seemed as if,
as they sat side by side, she and Charley had seen them at the same
moment; for involuntarily they both leaned forward, but only to draw
back the next instant for eye to meet eye.
Surely enough, there was Max Bray seated between Mrs Marter and Ella
Bedford, who, with their backs to them, had not seen the occupants of
the private box. As for Mrs Bray, she had preferred a back seat, in
which she was followed by Sir Philip, who insisted upon Charley taking
the front, he caring very little now for the opera; while Mrs Bray
found much more gratification in the ladies' dresses than in what she
called, in private, "a parcel of squalling," and employed her lorgnette
accordingly.
Laura's next act was to glance round uneasily at Mamma Bray and Sir
Philip; but there was nothing to fear there: their attention was taken
up by the audience, and from their position it was impossible for them
to see where Max and his companions were seated.
The next moment Laura's eyes were directed towards Charley, as he sat
sternly, fiercely looking down again, and then, softly, tremulously, and
as if even the delicately-gloved hand deprecated what it was about to
attempt, she laid that hand upon his stalwart arm, and he turned once
more, frowning heavily, to encounter those great eyes, pitiful,
imploring, swimming in tenderness. It seemed to him that it was pity
for him, sorrow for the pain he was suffering; and as the frown passed
from his brow, he returned her gaze till her eyes sank shrinkingly
before his, and the great long dark lashes fell to curtain them from his
sight.
But her hand still rested upon his arm, pressing it more and more
tightly; and again her eyes were raised to his for him to read in them
once more the same expression.
Yes, it must be pity, sorrow for him; and he read them so, as, forgetful
of all--opera, the hundreds around, even those in the box with them--
Laura came nearer and nearer to him, till he felt her soft breath upon
his cheek as she whispered:
"Charley, I can bear this no longer. Will you take me home?"
They rose together, and Laura whispered a few words to Mrs Bray; the
next minute they were in the corridor, and then what followed seemed to
Charley like a dream--the coldness of air as they passed through swing--
doors, the fastening of cloak and adjustment of hood, the descent of
stairs, and the rattling of wheels; and then, with the recollection of
what he had last seen--Ella Bedford's face turned smilingly towards
Max--Charley Vining was seated in a street cab, rattling over the
stones, with Laura Bray still clinging to his arm, to utter his name
once in a hoarse whisper, as, in spite of all he could do to prevent it,
she flung herself on her knees in the rough straw, her rich evening
dress forgotten, as she clung to his hand and pressed it to her burning
forehead, kissed it, deluged it with her scalding tears, while, as he
bent over her, he could feel that her sobs shook her frame as they burst
from her labouring breast.
At length, partly by a few deeply-uttered words, partly by passing his
arms round and lifting her, Charley Vining had the passionate girl at
his side; but only for her to cling to him, sobbing fearfully, till they
neared the house.
It was barely half-past nine, and as he handed her out, he would have
parted from her; but she clung to his hand, and together they went up
into the drawing-room, where, once more alone, Laura threw herself at
his feet, clinging to him, sobbing hysterically, imploring him to
forgive her, to be lenient to her; it was all for love of him--the love
she had borne him so long without a tender word in return. She accused
herself of want of womanly feeling, of baseness, of treachery, lashing
herself with fierce words in her passion, till, moved by pity, maddened
by despair and disappointment, Charley Vining began to feel that he was
but weak--that he was but man, after all. The icy coldness gradually
melted away, and he whispered first a few words, then one arm was passed
round the kneeling form.
"Forgive me--forgive! It is all for the love of you!" sobbed Laura with
a fierceness of emotion that startled him.
"Forgive you?" he said; "I have nothing to forgive."
And then Ella, the past, all was forgotten, as his other arm drew her
nearer to him as she knelt, and the next moment, with a wild sigh,
Laura's arms were tightly clasping his neck, and her face was buried in
his breast. Then a click of the door-handle, a stream of light, and
Laura was upon her feet, tall, proud, and defiant.
"Did you ring for candles, ma'am?" said the voice of the butler.
"Set them down," was the reply; and the man withdrew.
Charley had risen too, and was standing by her side.
"Go, now," she said, in a choking voice; "I can bear no more to-night.
But tell me--O, tell me," she cried, throwing herself at his feet, and
clasping his knees--"tell me that you forgive me!"
"Forgive you, my poor girl?" said Charley softly, as he bent down to
her, once more to pass his arms round her lithe form, when, with a
bound, she was again nestling in his breast, but with her face turned
towards his, and for a moment their lips met.
The next, Laura had hurried from the room; while, with every pulse in
his frame beating furiously, Charley walked down to the hall, accepted
the footman's assistance with his coat, and then he made his way-out
into the great deserted street, to walk staggering along like one who
had drunk heavily of some potent liquor. But Charley Vining's was a
maddening sense. What had he done? He had not waited for the proof.
He had been weak and vile in his own sight; and as he staggered along,
he anathematised himself again and again, and, as if appealing to some
great power, he called upon Ella to save him from the degradation of his
heart.
"False!--false!--false to her! A coward--a scoundrel--a villain! Why
was I made with such a weak and empty heart?"
Then he walked on faster and faster for long enough, not heeding where
he went, but muttering still:
"Fate, fate, fate! And I have done all that mail can do. I must
submit, and I love her not. Do I not hate her--or has she conquered?"
"Hadn't you better take a cab, sir?" said a rough voice; and a
policeman's hand was laid upon his arm. "It's too bad, r'aly, sir; but
you gents will do it. Now, only think of coming into a place like this
here, reg'lar lushy, and with diamond studs and gold watches and chains
shining out in the light, and asking poor starving men to steal them!"
"I'm not drunk, my man," cried Charley, himself again in a moment.
"Thank you; get me a cab. Not a savoury locality!" and he glanced round
at the dark lane and the ill-looking figures about.
"This way, then, sir," said the man; and he led him into a wider
thoroughfare, where, a cab being called, and the policeman substantially
thanked, Charley Vining was driven to his hotel, his brain a very chaos
of doubt, despondency, and rage at what he called his baseness and
falseness to his vows.
End of Volume Two.
Volume 3, Chapter I.