WE WILL RETURN TO OUR SECLUSION.
"I am mad," said Bertram to himself. "Mad, as ever was the proverbial
March hare. That girl who passed us in the darkness was Josephine Hart.
Yes, that girl was Nina, and I must, I will, see her again."
His heart was beating tumultuously; he felt the great passion of his
love tingling through all his veins. Money was nothing to him in this
hour, debts were forgotten, disgrace and dishonor were nowhere. Nina and
love were all in all. He _would_ see her, he would kiss her, he
would hold her in his arms, he would, he must. The very elements helped
him as he ran back to the place where he knew she had paused to watch
him. Why had she come back! She knew her power only too well. Why had
she come to exercise it? It was mad of her, wicked of her, it meant his
ruin, and yet he was glad, yet he rejoiced.
The moments seemed endless until he could reach her. Beatrice was as
absolutely forgotten by him at this moment as if she had never existed.
At last he gained the spot where Josephine had brushed past him in the
darkness. He knew it, he knew the sudden curve of the road, the bend in
the path where it began to dip downwards. He stood still, and strained
his eyes to look through the darkness. No one was there. Beatrice had
seen the slender figure leaning against the hedge, but all now was
emptiness and solitude. Not a soul was in sight. On this lonely road not
a being but himself breathed.
He stood motionless, he listened hard. Once even he called aloud:
"I am here, Nina! Here, Nina! waiting for you here!"
But no one responded. He was alone; the vision, the delicious,
heart-stirring vision, had vanished.
Captain Bertram wandered about, restless and miserable, for an hour or
two. Then he went home and retired straight to his room.
That night he did not attempt to keep the secret chamber of his heart in
which Josephine dwelt, locked and barred. No, he opened the doors wide,
and bade her come out, and talked to her. Passionate and wild and loving
words he used, and Beatrice was nothing to him. He did not go to bed
that night. In the morning his face showed symptoms of the vigil he had
passed through. His mother noticed the haggard lines round his eyes, and
she gave vent to a sigh--scarcely audible, it is true, and quickly
smothered.
Mrs. Bertram was happy, but still she lived on thorns. She felt that the
fairy palace she had built over that sepulchre of the past might crumble
at any moment. The lines of care on Bertram's brow gave her a sensation
of fear. Was anything the matter? Was the courage of the bride-elect
failing? At the eleventh hour could anything possibly injure the
arrangements so nearly completed?
Catherine and Mabel were in good spirits. Their bride's-maids' dresses
had arrived from town the previous night. They were of gauzy white over
silk slips; the girls had never possessed such luxurious costumes
before.
"You'd like to see us in them, wouldn't you, Loftie?" said Mabel.
"Catherine looks splendid in hers, and those big hats with Marguerites
are so becoming. Shall we put our dresses on, Loftie, for you to see
before you run away to Beatrice? Shall we?"
Loftus raised his dark eyes, and looked full at his young sister. There
were heavy shadows round his eyes; their depths looked gloomy and
troubled.
"What did you say?" he asked, in a morose voice.
"What did I say? Well, really, Loftie, you are too bad. I do think you
are the most selfish person I know. At one time I thought Bee was
improving you, but you are worse than ever this morning. You never,
never, take a bit of interest in things that don't immediately concern
yourself. I thought our bride's-maids' dresses would have been
sufficiently important to rouse a passing interest even in--now, what's
the matter, Catherine? I _will_ speak out."
"Forgive me, Mab, I have a headache and feel stupid," interrupted
Loftus, rising to his feet. "I'm going out for a stroll; the air will do
me good."
He went up to the end of the table where his mother sat, kissed her
almost tenderly, and left the room.
Catherine began to reprove Mabel.
"It is you who are selfish," she said. "You know Loftie must have a
great deal on his mind just now."
"Oh, well, I don't care. Every little pleasure is somehow or other
dashed to the ground. _I was_ pleased when I thought Bee was to be
my sister, and she was so sweet about the dresses, choosing just what
we'd look best in. Loftus was nice, too, until this morning. Now I don't
feel as if I cared about anything."
Mabel never reflected on the possibility of her own words causing
annoyance. She ate her breakfast without observing that both her mother
and Catherine looked depressed. Presently, like the thoughtless child
she was, she looked up with laughing eyes:
"Won't the Bells look funny in those grand robes. Do you know, Kate, I
heard such a ridiculous thing yesterday. It was Mrs. Gorman Stanley who
told me. She said Matty Bell was over head and ears in love with Loftie,
and that Mrs. Bell had quite made up her mind that Loftie was to marry
Mattie. She told such a funny story of the way Mrs. Butler broke the
news of Beatrice's engagement to the Bells. Now, what's up? Have I said
anything wrong again?"
"You have, Mabel," said her mother. "You have been guilty of repeating
common and vulgar gossip. You ought never to have listened to it. I had
hoped that a daughter of mine, a Bertram, too, would have inspired too
much respect to have any such rubbish spoken of in her presence."
"Oh, really, mother, I don't think people much care whether we are
Bertrams or not."
"Hush, my dear, that is sufficient. I always feared the effect of the
low society of this place on you both, and in especial on you, Mabel. My
fears have been justified by the results. As soon as Loftus's wedding is
over we will return to our seclusion, my dears."