"What sudden anger's this? How have I reaped it?
He parted frowning from me, as if ruin leaped from
his eyes."--SHAKESPEARE.
The night wears on. By this time everybody is either pleased or
disappointed with the evening. For the most part, of course, they looked
pleased, because frowns are unbecoming; but, then, looks go for so
little.
Julia, who has impounded a middle-aged baronet, is radiant. The
middle-aged baronet is not! He evidently regards Julia as a sort of
modern albatross, that hangs heavily to his neck, and withers beneath
her touch. She has been telling him all about her early life in India,
and her troubles, and the way she suffered with her servants, and
various other private matters; and the poor baronet doesn't seem to see
it, and is very fatigued indeed. But Julia has him fast, and so there is
little hope for him.
Dulce and Roger have been at open war ever since the second dance. From
their eyes, when directed at each other, have darted forked lightning
since that fatal dance.
"If they could only have been kept apart for 'this night only,'" says
Sir Mark, in despair, "all might have been well; but the gods ordained
otherwise."
Perhaps the careless gods had Stephen Gower's case in consideration; at
all events, that calm young man, profiting by the dispute between the
betrothed pair, has been making decided, if smothered, love to Dulce,
all the evening.
By this time, indeed, the whole room has noticed his infatuation, and
covert remarks about the probability of her carrying on to a successful
finish her first engagement are whispered here and there.
Sir Christopher is looking grave and anxious. Some kind friend has been
making him as uncomfortable about Dulce's future as circumstances will
permit.
Meanwhile, Dulce herself, with a bright flush upon her cheeks and a
light born of defiance in her blue-green eyes, is dancing gaily with
Stephen, and is looking charming enough to draw all eyes upon her.
Dicky Browne, of course, is in his element. He is dancing with
everybody, talking to everybody, flirting with everybody, and is, as he
himself declares, "as jolly as a sand boy." He is making love
indiscriminately all round--with old maids and young--married and
single--with the most touching impartiality.
"Dicky is like the bee amongst the flowerets. By Jove, if he improves
the shining hours, he ought to make a good match yet," says Dicky's
papa, who has condescended to forsake his club for one night, and grace
Dulce's ball with his somewhat attenuated charms.
As the above speech will prove, Mr. Browne senior's knowledge of Watts
and Tommy Moore is limited and decidedly mixed.
Among all the fair women assembled at the Hall to-night, to Portia,
beyond dispute, must the golden apple be awarded. She is still pale, but
exceedingly beautiful. The wistful, tired expression that darkens her
eyes only serves to heighten her loveliness, and throw out the delicate
tinting of her fair skin. Dulce, noticing her extreme pallor, goes up to
her, and whispers gently:
"You are tired, darling. Do not dance any more, unless you wish it."
"I am not sure, I _don't_ wish it; I don't exactly know what it is I
_do_ wish," says Portia, with a rather broken smile. "I daresay, like
most other things in this life, I shall find out all about it when it is
too late. But finish your waltz, dearest, and don't puzzle your brain
about me."
All the windows are thrown wide open. Outside the heavens are alight
with stars. The air is heavy with the breath of dying flowers, and the
music--faint and low at times, and again wild and sweet--rises and
swells as the director waves to and fro his magic wand.
Inside, in the conservatories, the lamps are burning low; the tender
blossoms are hanging down their heads. Between the dark green branches
of the shrubs, lights blue and red and yellow gleam softly. In the
distance may be heard the plaintive drip-drip of many fountains.
Roger, passing through one of the halls, and seeing Dulce and Mr. Gower
standing before a huge Chelsea bowl of flowers, stops short, hesitates,
and then, _bon gre mal gre_, goes up to them and makes some trivial
remark that neither deserves an answer nor gets one.
Dulce is apparently wrapped up in the contemplation of a flower she has
taken from the old bowl--that looks something like an indoor Marguerite;
she is plucking it slowly to pieces, and as she so mutilates it,
whispers softly the incantation that will help to declare her fortune:
"Il m'aime--un peu--beaucoup--passionement--pas du tout. Il m'aime--un
peu--"
The petals are all gone; nothing remains but the very heart of the poor
flower, which now, as she breaks it mercilessly in two, flutters sadly
to her feet, and dies there.
"Yes--just so," she says, with a little hostile glance at Roger,
distinctly seen by Gower--"and such a very little, that it need hardly
count!"
"What an unsatisfactory lover," says Roger, rather satirically,
returning her glance with interest. "Of whom were you thinking?"
"My dear Roger, you forget," says Miss Blount, with admirable
promptitude; "how could I think of any one in that light! I have never
had a lover in my life. I have only had--_you_!" She says this slowly,
and lets her lids fall half over her eyes, that are now gleaming with
undue brilliancy.
"True!" replies Dare, with maddening concurrence, stroking his mustache
softly.
"_Isn't_ Roger charming," says Dulce (her own manner deeply aggravating
in its turn), tapping Gower's arm lightly and confidentially with her
fan; "_so_ honest and withal _so_ gracious."
"A compliment from you is, indeed, worth having," says Roger, who is in
a dreadful temper; "but a truce to them now. By-the-by, were you really
thinking of me just now when you plucked that unoffending flower to
pieces? I can hardly bring myself to believe it."
"If not of you, of whom should I be thinking?" retorts she, calmly but
defiantly.
"Well--Gower, for example," says Roger, with a sneering laugh, and
unpardonable bad taste. "_He_ looks as though he could do a lover's part
at a moment's notice, and without the slightest effort."
As he makes this objectionable little speech, he turns on his heel and
leaves them.
Dulce, crimson, and with her breath coming somewhat quickly, still lets
her eyes meet Gower's bravely.
"I must ask you to excuse my cousin," she says, quietly. "How warm the
rooms are; is there no air anywhere, I wonder?"
"On the balcony there is," says Gower, gently. "Shall we go there for a
minute or two?"
She lays her hand upon his arm, and goes with him through the lighted,
heavily-perfumed rooms on to the balcony, where the cool air is blowing,
and where the fresh scent from the waving pines makes itself felt.
The moon is sailing in all its grandeur overhead. Below, the world is
white with its glory. The music of many rivulets, as they rush
sleepless to the river, sounds sweeter far than even the strains of the
band within.
It is past midnight. The stars are growing pale. Already the "world's
heart" begins to throb,
"And a wind blows,
With unknown freshness over lands and seas."
Something in the silence and majesty of the hour, and something,
perhaps, within her own heart, brings the unbidden tears to Dulce's
eyes.
"What can be the matter with Roger?" asks Stephen, presently, in a low
tone. "We used to be such good friends, long ago. I never saw anyone so
changed. He _used_ to be a genial sort of fellow." The emphasis is very
expressive.
"Used he?" says Dulce, in a somewhat expressionless tone.
"Yes; a right down good sort."
"Is he so very bad now?" says Dulce, deliberately and dishonestly
ignorant.
"To you--yes."
There is a pause.
"I think I hardly understand you," she says, in a tone that should have
warned him to be silent.
"Have you forgotten the scene of a moment since?" he asks her, eagerly.
"His voice, his glance, his whole manner were unbearable; you bore it
like an angel--but--why should you bear _anything_? Why should you
trouble yourself about him at all? Why not show that you care as little
for him as he cares for--"
"Go on," says Dulce, imperiously.
"As he cares for _you_, then," says Stephen, recklessly.
"You have been studying us to some purpose, evidently," exclaims Dulce,
turning to him with extreme bitterness. "I suppose, indeed, you are not
alone in your judgment. I daresay it is apparent to the whole world that
I am a matter of perfect indifference to--to--my cousin!"
"'Who runs may read,'" says Stephen with quiet determination. "Why
should I lie to you? He must be blind and deaf, I think--it is not to be
accounted for in any other way. Why, that other morning in the garden,
you remember how he then--"
"I remember nothing," interrupts she, haughtily, turning away from him,
deep offence in her eyes.
But he follows her.
"Now you are angry with me," he says, miserably, trying to look into her
averted face.
"Why should I be angry?" she says, petulantly. "Is it because you tell
me Roger does not care for me? Do you think I did not know that before?
It is, indeed, a question with me whether I am or am not an object of
aversion to the man I have promised to marry."
"You speak very hardly," he says.
"I speak what is in my heart," says Dulce, tremulously.
"Nevertheless, I should not have said what I did," says Stephen,
remorsefully, "I know that. Whatever I might have thought, I should have
kept it to myself; but"--in a low tone--"it maddens me to see you give
yourself voluntarily to one incapable of appreciating the treasure that
has fallen to his share--a treasure beyond price--when there are others
who, for a word, a glance, a smile, would barter--"
He pauses. His voice is trembling. His eyes are bent upon the ground as
though he is half afraid to meet her glance. There is genuine feeling in
his tone.
Dulce, impressed by his open agitation, in spite of herself, leans over
the balcony, and lets her fingers wander nervously amongst the leaves of
the Virginian creeper that has intertwined itself in the ironwork, and
is now fluttering within her reach. It is gleaming blood-red beneath the
kiss of the fickle moonbeams, that dance hither and thither amidst its
crimson foliage.
Plucking two or three of the reddest leaves, she trifles with them
gently, and concentrating all her attention on them, gives herself an
excuse for avoiding Stephen's earnest gaze. Her hands are unsteady. She
is affected by the sincerity of his manner; and just now, too, she is
feeling hurt and wounded, and, perhaps, a little reckless. Her
self-pride (that dearest possession of a woman) has sustained a severe
shock; for the first time she has been awakened to the fact that the
whole country considers her as naught in the eyes of the man whose wife
she has promised to be.
To prove to the country that she is as indifferent to Roger as he (it
appears) is to her, becomes a settled desire within her heart; the more
she dwells upon this, the more sweet it seems to her that there should
be another man willing to be her slave; another in whose sight she is
all that a woman should be, and to whom each tone of her voice, each
glance of her soft eyes, is as a touch of heaven!
Her silence emboldening Gower, he bends over her, and lays his hand upon
the slender fingers that are still holding the scarlet leaves of the
Virginian creeper.
"Do you understand me?" he asks, nervously.
"Yes."
She feels almost constrained to answer him honestly, so compelling is
the extreme earnestness of his manner.
"It seems a paltry thing now to say that I love you," goes on Gower in
an impassioned tone that carries her away with it, now that she is sore
at heart; "You _know_ that. You have known it for weeks." He puts aside
with a gesture her feeble attempt at contradiction. "Every thought of my
heart is yours; I live only in the hope that I shall soon see you again.
Tell me now honestly, would it be possible to break off this engagement
with your cousin?"
At this she shrinks a little from him, and a distressed look comes into
her beautiful eyes.
"What are you saying?" she says, in a half-frightened way. "It has been
going on for so long, this engagement--_always_, as it seems to me. How
should I break it off? And then there is Uncle Christopher, he would be
unhappy; he would not forgive, and--besides--"
Her voice dies away. Memory vague but sharp, comes to her. If she should
now deliberately discard Roger, how will it be with her in the future?
And yet what if he should be glad of his freedom; should welcome it with
open arms? If, indeed, he should be only waiting for her to take the
initiative, and give him his release!
This reflection carries its sting; there is madness in it. She closes
her lips firmly, and her breath comes quickly and uncertainly.
"It will be better for you later on," breaks in Gower, tempting her,
surely but quietly. "When you are married--it is all very well for you
now, when escape at any moment is possible; but when you are irrevocably
bound to an unloving husband how will it be with you? Other women have
tried it, and how has it ended with them? Not as it will with you, I
know; you are far above the many; but still your life will drag with
you--there will be no joy! no sympathy! no--Dulce have pity on yourself
(I do not say on _me_), and save yourself while you can."
She makes a last faint protest.
"How do you _know_ he does not love me?" she asks, painfully. "How can
you be sure?--and at least"--wistfully--"we are accustomed to each
other, we have known each other all our lives, and we have quarrelled
_so_ hard already that we can scarcely do anything more--the worst with
us is over."
"It will be different then," says Gower--he is speaking from his heart
in all honesty. "Now you belong to him only in an improbable fashion;
then--"
"It is your belief that he does not love me at all?" interrupts she,
tapping her foot impatiently upon the ground.
"It is my belief," returns he slowly.
Almost as he speaks, some one steps from the lighted room beyond on the
balcony and approaches them. It is Roger.
"This is ours, I think," he says, addressing Dulce, and alluding to the
waltz just commencing.
"Is it--what a pity; I had quite forgotten," she says, wilfully. "I am
afraid I have half promised it to Mr. Gower, and you know _he_ dances
charmingly."
The emphasis not to be mistaken. The remark, of course, is meant alone
for Roger, and he alone hears it. Gower has gone away from them a yard
or two and is buried in thought. As Roger dances divinely her remark is
most uncalled for and vexes him more than he would care to confess.
"Don't let me interfere with you and your new friend," he says, lifting
his brows. "If you want to dance all night with Gower, by all means do
it; there is really no earthly reason why you shouldn't."
Here, as his own name falls upon his ears, Gower turns and looks at
Roger expectantly.
"I absolve you willingly from your engagement to me," goes on Roger, his
eyes fixed upon his wilful cousin, his face cold and hard. The extreme
calmness of his tone misleads her. Her lips tighten. A light born of
passionate anger darkens her gray eyes.
"Do you?" she says, a peculiar meaning in her tone.
"From this engagement only," returns he, hastily.
"Thank you. Of your own free will, then, you resign me, and give me
permission to dance with whom I will."
The warm blood is flaming in her cheeks. He has thrown her over very
willingly. He is evidently glad to escape the impending waltz. How
shall she be avenged for this indignity?
"Mr. Gower," she says, turning prettily to Stephen, "will you get me out
of my difficulty? and will you dance this waltz with me? You see," with
a brave effort to suppress some emotion that is threatening to overpower
her, "I have to throw myself upon your mercy."
"You confer a very great honor upon me," says Gower, gently. The
courtesy of his manner is such a contrast to Roger's ill-temper, that
the latter loses the last grain of self-control he possesses. There is,
too, a little smile of conscious malice upon Gower's lips that grows
even stronger as his eyes rest upon the darkened countenance of his
whilom friend. His whilom friend, seeing it, lets wrath burn even
fiercer within his breast.
"You are not engaged to any one else?" says Dulce, sweetly, forgetting
how a moment since she had told Roger she had half promised Gower the
dance in question.
"Even if I was, I am at _your_ service now and always," says Gower.
"As my dancing displeases you so excessively," says Roger, slowly, "it
seems a shame to condemn you to keep the rest of your engagements with
me. I think I have my name down upon your card for two more waltzes.
Forget that, and give them to Gower, or any one else that suits you. For
my part I do not care to--" He checks himself too late.
"Go on," says Dulce, coldly, in an ominously calm fashion. "You had more
to say, surely; you do not care to dance them with _me_ you meant to
say. Isn't it?"
"You can think as you wish, of course."
"All the world is free to do that. Then I may blot your name from my
card for the rest of the evening?"
"Certainly."
"If those dances are free, Miss Blount, may I ask you for them?" says
Stephen, pleasantly.
"You can have them with pleasure," replies she, smiling kindly at him.
"Don't stay too long in the night air, Dulce," says Roger, with the
utmost unconcern, turning to go indoors again. This is the unkindest cut
of all. If he had gone away angry, silent, revengeful, she might perhaps
have forgiven him, but this careful remembrance of her, this calm and
utterly indifferent concern for her comfort fills her with vehement
anger.
The blood forsakes her lips, and her eyes grow bright with passionate
tears.
"Why do you take things so much to heart?" says Stephen, in a low voice.
"Do you care so greatly then about an unpleasant speech from him? I
should have thought you might have grown accustomed to his _brusquerie_
by this."
"He wasn't brusque just now," says Dulce. "He was very kind, was he not?
Careful about my catching cold, and that."
"_Very_," says Gower, significantly. "Yet there are tears in your eyes.
What a baby you are."
"No, I am not," says Dulce, mournfully. "A baby is an adorable thing,
and I am very far from being that."
"If babies are to be measured by their adorableness, I should say you
are the very biggest baby I ever saw," declares Mr. Gower, with such an
amount of settled conviction in his tone that Dulce, in spite of the
mortification that is still rankling in her breast, laughs aloud.
Delighted with his success, Gower laughs, too, and taking her hand draws
it within his arm.
"Come, do not let us forget Roger gave you to me for this dance," he
says. "If only for that act of grace, I forgive him all his misdeeds."
With a last lingering glance at the beauty of the night, together they
return to the ballroom.