JEALOUS AS A TIGER.
It is a little after two a.m., and the ball is breaking up. Not a very
late hour, as many of the people live at a distance, and have a long
drive homeward, over hilly roads.
By the fashion prevailing a _galop_ brings the dancing to a close. The
musicians, slipping their instruments into cases and baize bags, retire
from the room; soon after deserted by all, save a spare servant or two,
who make the rounds to look to extinguishing the lamps, with a sharp eye
for waifs in the shape of dropped ribbons or _bijouterie_.
Gentlemen guests stay longer in the dining-room over claret and
champagne "cup," or the more time-honoured B. and S.; while in the
hallway there is a crush, and on the stairs a stream of ladies,
descending cloaked and hooded.
Soon the crowd waxes thinner, relieved by carriages called up, quickly
filling, and whirled off.
That of Squire Powell is among them; and Captain Ryecroft, not without
comment from certain officious observers, accompanies the young lady he
has been so often dancing with to the door.
Having seen her off with the usual ceremonies of leave-taking, he
returns into the porch, and there for a while remains. It is a large
portico, with Corinthian columns, by one of which he takes stand, in
shadow. But there is a deeper shadow on his own brow, and a darkness in
his heart, such as he has never in his life experienced. He feels how he
has committed himself, but not with any remorse or repentance. Instead,
the jealous anger is still within his breast, ripe and ruthless as ever.
Nor is it so unnatural. Here is a woman--not Miss Powell, but Gwen
Wynn--to whom he has given his heart--acknowledged the surrender, and in
return had acknowledgment of hers--not only this, but offered his hand
in marriage--placed the pledge upon her finger, she assenting and
accepting--and now, in the face of all, openly, and before his face,
engaged in flirtation!
It is not the first occasion for him to have observed familiarities
between her and the son of Sir George Shenstone; trifling, it is true,
but which gave him uneasiness. But to-night things have been more
serious, and the pain caused him all-imbuing and bitter.
He does not reflect how he has been himself behaving. For to none more
than the jealous lover is the big beam unobservable, while the little
mote is sharply descried. He only thinks of her ill-behaviour, ignoring
his own. If she has been but dissembling, coquetting with him, even that
were reprehensible. Heartless, he deems it--sinister--something more, an
indiscretion. Flirting while engaged--what might she do when married?
He does not wrong her by such direct self-interrogation. The suspicion
were unworthy of himself, as of her; and as yet he has not given way to
it. Still her conduct seems inexcusable, as inexplicable; and to get
explanation of it he now tarries, while others are hastening away.
Not resolutely. Besides the half-sad, half-indignant expression upon his
countenance, there is also one of indecision. He is debating within
himself what course to pursue, and whether he will go off without
bidding her good-bye. He is almost mad enough to be ill-mannered; and
possibly, were it only a question of politeness, he would not stand
upon, or be stayed by, it. But there is more. The very same spiteful
rage hinders him from going. He thinks himself aggrieved, and,
therefore, justifiable in demanding to know the reason--to use a slang,
but familiar phrase "having it out."
Just as he has reached this determination, an opportunity is offered
him. Having taken leave of Miss Linton, he has returned to the door,
where he stands hat in hand, his overcoat already on. Miss Wynn is now
also there, bidding good-night to some guests--intimate friends--who
have remained till the last. As they move off, he approaches her; she,
as if unconsciously, and by the merest chance, lingering near the
entrance. It is all pretence on her part, that she has not seen him
dallying about; for she has several times, while giving _conge_ to
others of the company. Equally feigned her surprise, as she returns his
salute, saying,--
"Why, Captain Ryecroft! I supposed you were gone long ago!"
"I am sorry, Miss Wynn, you should think me capable of such rudeness."
"Captain Ryecroft" and "Miss Wynn," instead of "Vivian" and "Gwen"! It
is a bad beginning, ominous of a worse ending.
The rejoinder, almost a rebuke, places her at a disadvantage, and she
says rather confusedly--
"Oh! certainly not, sir. But where there are so many people, of course
one does not look for the formalities of leave-taking."
"True; and, availing myself of that, I might have been gone long since,
as you supposed, but for----"
"For what?"
"A word I wish to speak with you--alone. Can I?"
"Oh, certainly."
"Not here?" he asks suggestingly.
She glances around. There are servants hurrying about through the hall,
crossing and recrossing, with the musicians coming forth from the
dining-room, where they have been making a clearance of the cold fowl,
ham, and heel-taps.
With quick intelligence comprehending, but without further speech, she
walks out into the portico, he preceding. Not to remain there, where
eyes would still be on them, and ears within hearing. She has an Indian
shawl upon her arm--throughout the night carried while promenading--and
again throwing it over her shoulders, she steps down upon the gravelled
sweep, and on into the grounds.
Side by side they proceed in the direction of the summer-house, as many
times before, though never in the same mood as now; and never, as now,
so constrained and silent--for not a word passes between them till they
reach the pavilion.
There is light in it. But a few hundred yards from the house, it came in
for part of the illumination, and its lamps are not yet
extinguished--only burning feebly.
She is the first to enter--he to resume speech, saying,--
"There was a day, Miss Wynn, when, standing on this spot, I thought
myself the happiest man in Herefordshire. Now I know it was but a
fancy--a sorry hallucination."
"I do not understand you, Captain Ryecroft!"
"Oh, yes, you do. Pardon my contradicting you; you've given me reason."
"Indeed! In what way? I beg, nay, demand, explanation."
"You shall have it; though superfluous, I should think, after what has
been passing--this night especially."
"Oh! this night especially! I supposed you so much engaged with Miss
Powell as not to have noticed anything or anybody else. What was it,
pray?"
"You understand, I take it, without need of my entering into
particulars."
"Indeed, I don't--unless you refer to my dancing with George Shenstone."
"More than dancing with him--keeping his company all through!"
"Not strange that, seeing I was left so free to keep it! Besides, as I
suppose you know, his father was my father's oldest and most intimate
friend."
She makes this avowal condescendingly, observing he is really vexed, and
thinking the game of contraries has gone far enough. He has given her a
sight of his cards, and with the quick, subtle instinct of woman, she
sees that among them Miss Powell is no longer chief trump. Were his
perception as keen as hers, their jealous conflict would now come to a
close, and between them confidence and friendship, stronger than ever,
be restored.
Unfortunately it is not to be. Still miscomprehending, yet unyielding,
he rejoins sneeringly,--
"And I suppose your father's daughter is determined to continue that
intimacy with his father's son, which might not be so very pleasant to
him who should be your husband! Had I thought of that when I placed a
ring upon your finger----"
Before he can finish, she has plucked it off, and, drawing herself up to
full height, says in bitter retort,--
"You insult me, sir! Take it back!"
With the words, the gemmed circlet is flung upon the little rustic
table, from which it rolls off.
He has not been prepared for such abrupt issue, though his rude speech
tempted it. Somewhat sorry, but still too exasperated to confess or show
it, he rejoins defiantly,--
"If you wish it to end so, let it!"
"Yes; let it!"
They part without further speech. He, being nearest the door, goes out
first, taking no heed of the diamond cluster which lies sparkling upon
the floor.
Neither does she touch, or think of it. Were it the Koh-i-noor, she
would not care for it now. A jewel more precious--the one love of her
life--is lost, cruelly crushed--and, with heart all but breaking, she
sinks down upon the bench, draws the shawl over her face, and weeps till
its rich silken tissue is saturated with her tears.
The wild spasm passed, she rises to her feet, and stands leaning upon
the baluster rail, looking out and listening. Still dark, she sees
nothing, but hears the stroke of a boat's oars in measured and regular
repetition--listens on till the sound becomes indistinct, blending with
the sough of the river, the sighing of the breeze, and the natural
voices of the night.
She may never hear _his_ voice, never look on his face again!
At the thought she exclaims, in anguished accent, "This the ending! It
is too----"
What she designed saying is not said. Her interrupted words are
continued into a shriek--one wild cry--then her lips are sealed,
suddenly, as if stricken dumb, or dead!
Not by the visitation of God. Before losing consciousness, she felt the
embrace of brawny arms--knew herself the victim of man's violence.