"At last!" said John Dillwyn. "You have not given it away? You
have remembered?"
"The dance?"
"Yes. You know you said you would give me the first on your
arrival."
"But this! I am so late! I could not have expected you to
wait---"
"I have waited, however. And it is mine?"
He was now looking at her anxiously. What did her manner, her
hesitation, mean?
"Yes, of course, but have you no partner?"
"I have, indeed"--laughing. "One I would not readily change. I
have you."
"But," looking up at him a little shyly after this plain speech,
"how did you arrange it?"
"Very simply. This will be _my_ first waltz as well a yours."
"Oh, that is too bad of you," said the girl, colouring softly.
She meant to be angry with him, perhaps; but if so, the effort
was a dead failure. The corners of her lips were smiling, and a
happy light had crept into her eyes. "To wait so long, and---"
"It was long. I admit that," interrupted he, smiling. "I thought
you would never come."
"It was all Mrs. Poynter's fault," said Agatha. "And really, but
for me I am sure she would not be here even now."
"Well, come on, now; let us get even a turn or two," said
Dillwyn. "By the bye, the next--is that free?"
"Yes," said Agatha. She felt a little frightened. She hoped he
would not know she had kept it free purposely. Four or five men
had asked her for dances whilst she stood near the door on her
arrival with Mrs. Poynter, and when giving them a dance here and
there she had steadily refused to part with the next one.
She did not tell herself why at the moment, but she knew all the
same.
"May I have it?" asked Dillwyn, with such a delightful anxiety
that all at once her mind was set at rest.
He suspected nothing, thought of nothing but his fear that the
dance might have been given away before he could ask her for it.
Oh, how dear he was! Was there ever any one so good, so perfect?
He passed his arm round her waist, and together they joined the
dancers.
Agatha waltzed delightfully. Her lovely _svelte_ figure swayed
and sympathised with the music, just as though it had caught her
and was moving with her. Dillwyn waltzed well too.
The dance was too soon at an end.
"The night is lovely," said he, "will you come out?" He felt that
he wanted to be more alone with her; the presence of the people
round checked him, destroyed the keenness of the joy he always
knew when with her.
"I should like it," said she.
They went towards the conservatory, from which there were steps
to the garden outside. The door of the conservatory opened off
the dancing-room, and was close to where Agatha had been standing
on her entrance. Darkham was still there.
He had not stirred since Agatha had floated away with Dillwyn's
arm around her. He had watched her persistently. He watched her
now as she went through the conservatory door down to the
gardens, that glad, sweet light upon her face. Were his wife's
words true then, after all? Was there something between her and
that fellow--that interloper, who had come from no one knew
where, to dispute his right in all the parish ailments? His eyes
followed them as though they could not tear themselves away, as
Dillwyn and Agatha, happy, laughing, went out of the door beyond
into the mild and starlit night.
A laugh roused him; it was his wife's. A terrible vision in
scarlet satin, trimmed with black velvet bows, met his gaze as he
turned. Mrs. Darkham was distinctly _en fête_ to-night.
"Well, what d'ye think now? That's her young man. What did I say?
Don't you wish you were young, eh? Why, she looks upon you as a
Methusaler!"
Darkham drew his breath sharply. He looked quickly round him. Had
any one heard? The woman's hideous vulgarity made him sick. Try
as he would, how could he raise himself with this incubus hanging
round his neck?
He moved away, tired at heart, half mad with misery.
Agatha and Dillwyn had reached the garden by this time--a
garden lit by heaven's own lamps, and sweet with the breath of
sleeping flowers.
A few other couples were strolling up and down the paths--but
over there was a garden-chair untenanted. They moved towards it
in a leisurely fashion. Whether they stood or walked or sat, they
were together--that was the principal thing.
"The next is mine, too," said he, in a glad voice, as if
dwelling on some joy that nothing could spoil.
"Yes. We must take care not to lose it."
"And yet it is so lovely out here. Are you sure you are warm
enough? And, at all events, it is a good thing to know we need
not hurry--that there is no other partner waiting for either of
us."
He seemed to dwell upon the "we" and "us" as if they conveyed
great sweetness to him. His heart seemed full. All at once it
seemed to him as though he _must_ speak to her--must tell her
of the love that filled his heart. The hour, the loneliness, the
silence, all tempted him, and yet he feared!
She had known him so short a time--and what was there in her
manner to him that should give him courage? Could he dare to put
it to the touch to win--or _lose_ it all? To lose! That was
what held him back.
Agatha was speaking.
"I am so sorry you waited for me," said she, lying unconsciously.
Had not her heart beaten with delight because he had waited? "And
you, too, who are so fond of dancing."
"Ah! fond! That is a strong expression. I am not a slave to it,
you know."
"No." She paused. She seemed to study him for a moment. His face,
young, strong, with a sort of defiance in it, as though he could
and would conquer his world, fascinated her. It had always
fascinated her from the first moment she saw it, now three months
ago. It was not so much the kindliness of it as its strength that
attracted her. She, too, could be strong. She felt in harmony
with him from the very first. He was, as has been said, not
strictly handsome, but his eyes were dark and expressive, and his
mouth firm. The pose of his head was charming and his figure
well-built and athletic. He was always in splendid spirits, and
the milk of human kindness ran swiftly within his veins. Already
the poor in his district began to adore him, for kind were his
words and encouraging his smiles, and these counted with the
sickly ones even more than the shillings that so often came out
of a pocket where but few shilling lay. He had begun his fight
with life unaided, save by the influence of old Reginald
Greatorex, who had property in Rickton, and had got him appointed
there, but he felt no fears. A natural buoyancy upheld him.
"Well," said he, smiling at her. He was wondering at the depth of
her regard.
"I was thinking," said she, starting slightly, "that you could
never be a slave to anything."
Dillwyn looked at her now.
"There you wrong me," said he. "I could be--I am--a slave!"
"It is difficult to believe," said she calmly.
"Why should it be difficult?"
"I don't know. But you don't lend yourself readily to the idea.
You look as if you could never be easily swayed or governed."
"Not easily, perhaps. But---" He put out his hand as if to clasp
hers.
At this moment a sudden movement in the bushes behind her struck
upon Agatha's ears. She sprang to her feet.