It was not easy to find Mrs. Crayford in the crowd. Searching here, and
searching there, Frank became conscious of a stranger, who appeared
to be looking for somebody, on his side. He was a dark, heavy-browed,
strongly-built man, dressed in a shabby old naval officer’s uniform.
His manner--strikingly resolute and self-contained--was unmistakably
the manner of a gentleman. He wound his way slowly through the crowd;
stopping to look at every lady whom he passed, and then looking
away again with a frown. Little by little he approached the
conservatory--entered it, after a moment’s reflection--detected the
glimmer of a white dress in the distance, through the shrubs and
flowers--advanced to get a nearer view of the lady--and burst into
Clara’s presence with a cry of delight.
She sprang to her feet. She stood before him speechless, motionless,
struck to stone. All her life was in her eyes--the eyes which told her
she was looking at Richard Wardour.
He was the first to speak.
“I am sorry I startled you, my darling. I forgot everything but the
happiness of seeing you again. We only reached our moorings two hours
since. I was some time inquiring after you, and some time getting my
ticket when they told me you were at the ball. Wish me joy, Clara! I am
promoted. I have come back to make you my wife.”
A momentary change passed over the blank terror of her face. Her color
rose faintly, her lips moved. She abruptly put a question to him.
“Did you get my letter?”
He started. “A letter from you? I never received it.”
The momentary animation died out of her face again. She drew back from
him and dropped into a chair. He advanced toward her, astonished and
alarmed. She shrank in the chair--shrank, as if she was frightened of
him.
“Clara, you have not even shaken hands with me! What does it mean?”
He paused; waiting and watching her. She made no reply. A flash of the
quick temper in him leaped up in his eyes. He repeated his last words in
louder and sterner tones:
“What does it mean?”
She replied this time. His tone had hurt her--his tone had roused her
sinking courage.
“It means, Mr. Wardour, that you have been mistaken from the first.”
“How have I been mistaken?”
“You have been under a wrong impression, and you have given me no
opportunity of setting you right.”
“In what way have I been wrong?”
“You have been too hasty and too confident about yourself and about me.
You have entirely misunderstood me. I am grieved to distress you,
but for your sake I must speak plainly. I am your friend always, Mr.
Wardour. I can never be your wife.”
He mechanically repeated the last words. He seemed to doubt whether he
had heard her aright.
“You can never be my wife?”
“Never!”
“Why?”
There was no answer. She was incapable of telling him a falsehood. She
was ashamed to tell him the truth.
He stooped over her, and suddenly possessed himself of her hand. Holding
her hand firmly, he stooped a little lower; searching for the signs
which might answer him in her face. His own face darkened slowly while
he looked. He was beginning to suspect her; and he acknowledged it in
his next words.
“Something has changed you toward me, Clara. Somebody has influenced you
against me. Is it--you force me to ask the question--is it some other
man?”
“You have no right to ask me that.”
He went on without noticing what she had said to him.
“Has that other man come between you and me? I speak plainly on my side.
Speak plainly on yours.”
“I _have_ spoken. I have nothing more to say.”
There was a pause. She saw the warning light which told of the fire
within him, growing brighter and brighter in his eyes. She felt his
grasp strengthening on her hand. He appealed to her for the last time.
“Reflect,” he said, “reflect before it is too late. Your silence will
not serve you. If you persist in not answering me, I shall take your
silence as a confession. Do you hear me?”
“I hear you.”
“Clara Burnham! I am not to be trifled with. Clara Burnham! I insist on
the truth. Are you false to me?”
She resented that searching question with a woman’s keen sense of the
insult that is implied in doubting her to her face.
“Mr. Wardour! you forget yourself when you call me to account in that
way. I never encouraged you. I never gave you promise or pledge--”
He passionately interrupted her before she could say more.
“You have engaged yourself in my absence. Your words own it; your looks
own it! You have engaged yourself to another man!”
“If I _have_ engaged myself, what right have you to complain of it?” she
answered firmly. “What right have you to control my actions--?”
The next words died away on her lips. He suddenly dropped her hand. A
marked change appeared in the expression of his eyes--a change which
told her of the terrible passions that she had let loose in him. She
read, dimly read, something in his face which made her tremble--not for
herself, but for Frank.
Little by little the dark color faded out of his face. His deep voice
dropped suddenly to a low and quiet tone as he spoke the parting words.
“Say no more, Miss Burnham--you have said enough. I am answered; I am
dismissed.” He paused, and, stepping close up to her, laid his hand on
her arm.
“The time may come,” he said, “when I shall forgive you. But the man who
has robbed me of you shall rue the day when you and he first met.”
He turned and left her.
A few minutes later, Mrs. Crayford, entering the conservatory, was met
by one of the attendants at the ball. The man stopped as if he wished to
speak to her.
“What do you want?” she asked.
“I beg your pardon, ma’am. Do you happen to have a smelling-bottle about
you? There is a young lady in the conservatory who is taken faint.”
Between the Scenes--The Landing Stage