Presently she let them fall slowly and looked vacantly with her brows
drawn--as if waiting for the return of some sharp pain--in the direction
of Shorne Mills. The lights had gone out; so also had died the light of
her young life.
She tried to realize what this was that had happened to her; but it was
so difficult--so difficult! Only a little while ago she had been happy
in the possession of Drake's love. He had been hers--was her sweetheart,
her very own; he was to have been her husband; she was to have been his
wife.
And now--what had happened? Was she dead--had she done some evil thing
which had turned his love for her to hate and driven him from her?
Slowly the numbed sensation, the feeling of stupor passed, and the
truth, as she thought of it, came upon her with a rush and made her
press her hand to her heart as if a knife had stabbed it.
Drake loved her no longer. He had never loved her. The woman he had
loved was the most beautiful of God's creatures, and Drake had only
turned to her--Nell--in a moment of pique. And this woman with the
perfect face, and soft, lingering voice; this woman whose every movement
was grace itself, who carried herself like an empress--an empress in the
first flush of her beauty and power--had changed her mind and called him
back to her. And he had gone.
The fact caused such intense misery as to leave no room for resentment.
At that moment there was not one spark of anger, one drop of bitterness
in Nell's emotion; only misery so acute, so agonizing, as to be like a
physical pain.
It seemed to her so natural, so reasonable, that he should desert her
when this siren with the melting eyes, the caressing laugh, should
beckon him; for who could have resisted her? Not any man who had once
loved her.
Nell's head moved slowly from side to side, like that of an animal
stricken to death. Her throat had grown tight, her eyes were hot and
burning, the sound, as of the plash of waves, sang in her ears; but she
could not cry. It seemed to her that she would never be able to cry
again. She looked vaguely at the other women as they walked at the far
end of the terrace, and she shivered as if with bodily fear. There was
something terrible, Circe-like, to her in the face, the movements, the
very voice of this woman who had taken Drake from her.
Presently the two exquisitely dressed figures passed into the house, and
Nell rose, steadying herself by the pedestal. As she did so, she looked
up. A streak of light shot right across the statue, and the cruel face
with its leering eyes seemed to smile down upon her mockingly,
jeeringly, and she actually shrank, as if she dreaded to hear the satyr
lips shoot some evil gibe at her.
And all the while the music, a waltz of Waldteufel's, soft and ravishing
and seductive, floated out to her, and mocked her with the memory of the
happiness that had been hers but an hour--half an hour ago. She
staggered to the edge of the terrace and leaned her head on her hands,
and, closing her eyes, tried hard to persuade herself that it was only a
dream; just a dream, from which she should wake shuddering at the unreal
misery one moment, then laughing at its unreality the next.
But it was true. The dream had been the happiness of the last few weeks,
and this was the awakening.
Before her mental vision passed, like a panorama, the days which the
gods had given her--that they might punish her all the more cruelly for
daring to be so happy.
Yes; how often had she asked herself what right she, Nell of Shorne
Mills, had to so much joy? What had she done to deserve it?
She remembered now how, sometimes, she had been terrified by the
intensity of her joy. That day Drake had told her that he loved her; the
morning he had taken her in his arms and kissed her; the night he had
looked down into her eyes and sworn that no man in all the world loved
any woman as he loved her. She had not deserved it, had no right to it,
and God had punished her for her presumption in daring to be so happy.
But now what was she to do?
She asked the question with a kind of despair.
It never for one moment occurred to her that she should accuse Drake of
his faithlessness, much less that she should upbraid him. Indeed, what
would be the use? Could she--she, an ignorant, half-taught girl, just
Nell of Shorne Mills--contend against such a woman as this Lady Luce?
Luce! Luce! She remembered--for the first time that night, strangely
enough--how he had murmured the name in his delirium. She had forgotten
that, she had not thought of it, and had not asked who the woman was
whose visage haunted him in his fever.
If she had only done so! He would have told her--yes, for Drake was
honest; he would have told her--and she would not have allowed herself
to fall in love with him. Even as it was, she had fought against it; but
her struggle had been of no avail. She had loved him almost from the
first moment.
And now she had lost him forever!
"Drake, Drake, Drake!" her heart called to him, though her lips were
mute.
What should she do?
No; she would not upbraid him. There should be no "scene." She knew
instinctively how much he would loathe a scene. She would just tell
him--what? That--that--it had all been a mistake; that--she did not love
him, and--and ask him to give her back her freedom.
That was all. Not one word of Lady Luce would she say. He would go--go
without a word; she knew that.
And now she must go back to the ballroom, and try and look and behave as
if nothing had happened.
Was she very white? she wondered dully. She felt as if she had died, and
was buried out of reach of any pain, beyond all possibility of further
joy. Her life was indeed at an end. That kiss of Drake's--to her it had
appeared as if indeed it had been his, and not Luce's only, stolen from
him unawares--that kiss had killed her.
Let Ibsen be a great poet and dramatist, or a literary fraud, there are
one or two things which he says which strike men with the force of a
revelation; and when he speaks of the love-life which is given to every
man and woman, and calls him and her a murderer who kills it, he speaks
truly, and as one inspired.
Nell's love-life lay dead at her feet, and Drake, though all
unconsciously, had slain it.
She wiped her lips, though they were dry and parched, and with trembling
hands smoothed her hair--the lips and the hair Drake had kissed so
often, with such rapture--and slowly, fighting for strength and
self-possession, passed into the ballroom.
The brilliant light, the music, the dancers, acted upon her
overstrained nerves as a dash of cold water upon a swooning man. For the
first time since the blow had fallen pride awoke in her. She had lost
Drake forever; but she would make no moan; other women before her had
lost their lovers and their husbands by death, and they had to bear
their bereavements; she must learn to bear hers.
A young fellow hurried up to her with a mingled expression of relief and
complaint.
"Oh, Miss Lorton; this is ours!" he said. "I have been looking for you
everywhere, everywhere, on my honor, and I was nearly distracted!"
Nell moistened her lips and forced a smile.
"I have been out on the terrace; it--it was hot."
"And--you didn't feel faint? You look rather pale now!" he said
apprehensively. "Would you rather not dance?"
"No, no; I would rather dance!" she replied, with a kind of feverish
impatience. "I--I think I am cold." She shivered a little. "I shall be
all the better for a dance!"
She went round like one moving in a dream; her eyes looking straight
before her in a fixed gaze, her lips curved with a forced smile. After a
moment or two she grew warmer; the blood began to circulate, a hectic
flush started out on her cheeks.
Any one seeing her would have thought she was enjoying herself
amazingly; would not have suspected that her heart was racked by agony;
that the music was beating upon her brain, inflicting pain with every
stroke; that she longed, with an aching longing, to be in the dark, in
her own room, alone with her unspeakable misery.
One talks glibly enough of women's sufferings; but not one of us ever
comes near gauging them, for the gods who have denied them some things
have granted to the least of them the great power of enduring in
silence, of smiling while they suffer, of murmuring commonplaces while
the iron is cutting deeper and deeper into their souls. The nobler the
woman the greater this power of hers; and there was much that was noble
in poor Nell. And as she danced, those who looked at her were full of
admiration or envy. She was so young; her loveliness was so untainted by
the world; the delicate droop of the pure lips was so childlike, while
it hinted of the deeper nature of the woman, that many who regarded her
and then glanced at the professional beauty, mentally accorded Nell the
palm.
And among them was Drake. He had gone straight to the smoking room, had
lit a cigarette, and, pacing up and down, had, with stern lips and
frowning brows, revolved the problem which fate had set him.
He swore under his breath, after the manner of men, as he went over the
scene with Luce. What devil of ill chance had sent her down there? And
why--why had she changed her mind? Was it really true that she--cared
for, him still? He could scarcely believe it; and yet the caress of her
hand, the look in her eyes, the--the--kiss----He flung the cigarette
away--for he had bitten it in two--and fumed mentally. And what did she
mean, think? Was it possible that she thought he could go back to her?
He laughed grimly, in mockery of the idea. Why, even if there had been
no Nell, he could not have gone back to Luce. And there was Nell! Yes,
thank God! there was Nell, his dear, sweet, beautiful Nell! His girl
love, the girl who was like a pure star shining in God's heaven compared
with a flame from--yes, from the nethermost pit. Love! He, who now knew
what love meant, laughed scornfully at the idea in connection with Lady
Luce. Passion it might be--but love! And she had left him with a kiss,
as if she were convinced that she had recovered him! Oh, it was
damnable, damnable!
Why--why, she might even behave in the ballroom as if--as if she had a
right to claim him! She might even tell the Chesneys that--that----
He strode out of the smoking room in time to see the Chesney party
taking their departure. As Lady Luce shook hands with the hostess and
murmured her thanks for "a delightful evening"--and for once they were
genuine and no idle formula--he saw her glance round the room as if in
search of some one; but he drew back out of sight.
Then, when they had gone, he reentered the ballroom and his eyes sought
Nell. She met them, and he smiled, but rather anxiously, with a feeling
of disquietude; for there was----Was there something strange in the
expression of her face? But as she smiled back--can one imagine what
that smile cost Nell?--he drew a breath of relief, found a partner, and
joined in the dance.
By this time the party had reached the after-supper stage, and the
waltzes had grown faster. A set of lancers had been danced with so much
spirit and enjoyment that it had been encored. Some of the men were
talking and laughing just a little loudly, and the women's faces were
flushed with the one glass of champagne which is generally all they
permit themselves, the spell of the music, and the excitement of rapid
and rhythmical movement. Couples found their way into the anterooms and
recesses, or sat very close together in corners of the great, broad
staircase.
Some of the men had boldly deserted the ballroom and retreated to the
smoking room, where they could play whist and drink and smoke: "Must
wait for my womenfolk, you know."
Dick, at this, his first dance, was enjoying himself amazingly. He had
gone steadily through the program, and as steadily through most of the
dishes at supper, and he was now flirting, with all a boy's ardor, with
a plump little girl, the niece of Lady Maltby.
She was "just out," and Dick had danced three dances in succession with
her before she remembered that she was committing a breach of etiquette.
"Dance again with you? Oh, I couldn't!" she said, when Dick, with inward
tremors but an outward boldness, begged for the fourth. "I mustn't--I
really mustn't!"
"Why not?" demanded Dick innocently.
"If you weren't such a boy you wouldn't ask," she retorted severely, but
with a smile lurking in her bright young eyes.
"I bet I'm as old as you are," he said.
"Are you? I don't think you are. You look as if you'd just come from
school. I'm----No, I won't tell you. It was just a trick to learn my
age. But if you must know why I won't dance again with you, it is
because no lady ought to dance three times in succession with a man."
"But I'm only a boy, which makes all the difference, don't you see?"
said Dick naively. "Nobody cares what a boy does, you know. Come along."
She pretended to eye him severely.
"No; I won't 'come along.' And I think it's very rude of you not to take
an answer."
"All right," he said cheerfully. "Then will you come and have some
supper?"
"Why, it isn't half an hour ago since we had some."
"Then come and see me eat some more," he suggested.
"Thank you; but I am never very fond of seeing animals fed, even at the
Zoo!"
"That was rather good," he said, with a grin. "My sister, Nell couldn't
have put that one in more neatly."
"Your sister Nell? That's the girl over there, dancing with Captain
White? How pretty she is!"
"Think so? Yes, she is, now you mention it. We are considered very much
alike."
The girlish laughter, which he had been waiting for, rang out, and,
taking advantage of it, Dick coaxed her into a corner on the stairs,
where they could flirt to their hearts' content.
"I wonder whether you'd be offended if I told you that you were the
jolliest--I mean nicest--girl I've met?" said the young vagabond, with
an assumption of innocence and humility which robbed the remark of any
offense--at any rate, for his hearer, whose eyes sparkled.
"Not at all. And I wonder whether you'd mind if I told you that I think
you are the rudest and most--most audacious boy I ever met?"
"Not the least in the world, because it's no news--I mean that I'm--what
was it--the rudest and most audacious? I have a sister, you know, and
she deals in candor, candor in solid blocks. But what a mission my
condition opens up before you, Miss Angel!"
"A mission?" she asked reluctantly, young enough to know that she was
going to be caught somehow.
"Yes," he said, with demure gravity. "The mission of my reformation. If
you think me so bad to-night, I don't know, I really don't, what you
would have thought of me yesterday, before I had had the advantage of
your elevating society. Now, Miss Angel, here is a chance for you--the
great chance of your life! Continue your elevating influence. Your
cousin has asked me to a rabbit shoot to-morrow."
"You'll shoot somebody. They really ought not to allow boys to carry
guns----"
"Who's rude now?" he asked, with a grin. "I was going to say, when you
interrupted me, that if you came out with the luncheon party, I should
have the opportunity of a lesson in--in deportment and manners. See?"
"I shouldn't think of coming," she declared promptly.
"Oh, yes, you will," he said teasingly, and with an air of conviction.
"Women always do what they wouldn't think of doing."
"Really!" she retorted, with mock indignation. "There is only one thing
I can do, and it is my duty. I shall tell your sister----Oh, look!" she
broke off suddenly, and with something like dismay in her voice, as she
pointed downward.
Dick leaned over, and saw Nell, sitting on an old oak bench just below
them. She was leaning back; her eyes were closed, and her face white.
"Oh, go to her; she is not well. I am so sorry! Go to her at once!"
Dick ran down the stairs, and the girl followed a step or two, then
stood watching them timidly.
"Hallo, Nell! What's the matter?" asked Dick.
She opened her eyes and rose instantly, struggling with all a woman's
courage beating in her heart to renew the fight, to play her part to the
end of that never--never-ending night.
"Nothing, nothing. I am just a little tired, I think."
At this moment Drake came up.
"This is my dance, Nell," he said. His face, his voice were grave, for
his soul was still disquieted within him. "I have been looking for
you----"
He stopped suddenly and put out his hand, for her face had grown white
again. She had raised her eyes to his for a moment with the look of a
dumb animal in pain; but she lowered them instantly and bent aside to
take up her dress.
"I am tired," she said, forcing a smile. "The heat--could we not go
home? I--I mean, Dick and I--there is no need for you----"
"Yes, yes; at once; this instant!" he said. "Wait while I get you some
water--wait----"
He went off quickly, and Nell turned to Dick.
"Will you order the fly, Dick?" she said, in a tone that was quite new
to him.
It was, though the boy did not know it, the voice of the woman who has
just parted with her girlhood.
"Don't wait, please. I shall be all right."
Dick left her, and Miss Angel came down to her timidly.
"Is there anything I can do--I know what it is. You feel faint----"
Nell smiled.
"God grant you may never know what it is," she thought, looking up at
the girl's face, and feeling years and years older than she.
"Perhaps it is," she said. "But I shall be all right the moment I get
into the air."
Miss Angel whipped off her shawl, which Dick had insisted upon her
wearing.
"Come with me--you can wait just outside the hall. I know what it is;
you want to get outside at once--at once!"
Nell went out with her, and as she felt the cool, fresh air, she drew a
breath of relief; then she turned to the girl.
"I am all right now; you must not wait. I have your wrap----"
Dick came up with the fly, and Drake appeared with her cloak and a glass
of wine. He had got his hat and coat as he came along. She drank some of
the wine, and turned to hold out her hand to the girl and wish her good
night and thank her.
"I am quite, quite right now!" Drake heard her say; and his fears--for
to a man a woman's fainting fit is a terrible thing--were somewhat
dispelled.
They got into the fly, and it drove off. Nell, instead of sinking into
the corner, sat bolt upright and forced a smile.
"What a jolly evening!" said Dick, with a deep sigh. "Don't wonder you
girls are so fond of parties."
"Yes," she said, with a brightness which deceived both of them, "it has
been very jolly. What a pretty girl that is with whom you were sitting
out, Dick!"
"I always thought you had great taste," he said approvingly. "She was
the nicest girl there--as I ventured to tell her."
Nell laughed--surely the hollowness of the laugh must strike them, she
thought--but neither of the two noticed its insincerity, and Dick
rattled on, suspecting nothing.
Drake sat almost silent. To be near her, to have her so close to him,
was all the sweeter after the hateful scene with Luce. Heaven! how
different was this love of his to that other woman from whom he had
escaped! It was a terrible word, but it was the only fitting one to his
mind.
He would tell Nell in the morning. Yes, he would tell Nell who he was,
and--and--of his engagement to Luce. It would be an unpleasant, hateful
story, but he would tell it. There had been too much concealment, too
much deceit; he had been a fool to yield to the temptation to hide his
identity; he would make a clean breast of it to-morrow. Once he
stretched out his hand in the direction of hers, but Nell, though her
eyes were not turned in his direction, saw the movement, and quickly
removed her hand beyond his reach.
The fly drew up at The Cottage, and Dick jumped out and opened the door
with his key, and purposely went straight into the house. As Drake
helped Nell out, she drew her hand away to gather up her dress, and went
quickly into the little hall, and he followed her.
Her heart beat fast and painfully. She felt as if she could not lift her
eyes; as if she were the guilty one. Would he--would he attempt to kiss
her? Oh, surely, surely not! He could not be so false. She held out her
hand.
"I am so sleepy," she said. "Good night!"
He looked at her as he held her hand, and at that moment the kiss which
Luce had taken burned like fire upon his lips. He shrank from touching
the pure lips of the girl he loved while the other woman's kiss still
lingered on his consciousness. It would be desecration.
"You are all right now--not faint?" he said; and there was a troubled
expression in his face and voice.
Nell thought she could read his mind, and knew the reason of his
hesitation. A few hours ago he would have lost no time in catching her
to his heart. But now--he loved her, no longer.
Her face went white, though she strove to keep the color in it.
"Yes, oh, yes!" she said. "I am only tired and--sleepy."
"Then I won't keep you," he said gravely. "Good night."
He had turned; but even as he turned, the longing in his heart grew too
fierce for restraint. He swung round suddenly and caught her to him, drew
her head upon his breast, and kissed her with passionate love--and
remorse.
Nell strove for strength to repulse him, to free herself from his arms;
but the strength would not come. For a moment she lay motionless, her
lips upturned to his, her eyes seeking his, with an expression in them
which haunted Drake for many a long year afterward.
"Nell," he said hoarsely, "I--I have something to tell you to-morrow.
I--I have to ask your forgiveness. I would tell you to-night, but--I
haven't courage. To-morrow!"
The words broke the spell. The flush of a hot, unbearable shame burned
in her veins and shone redly in her face. With an effort, she drew
herself from his arms and blindly escaped into the sitting room.
Drake raised his head and looked after her, biting his lip.
"Why not tell her to-night?" he asked himself. There was no guardian
angel to whisper, "The man who hesitates is lost!" and thinking, "Not
to-night; she is too tired--to-morrow!" he left the house.
Nell stood in the center of the room, her face white, her hands shaking;
and Dick, as he peeled off what remained of his gloves, surveyed her
critically.
"If I were you, young person, I'd have a stiff glass of grog before I
tumbled into my little bed. Look here, if you like to go up now, I'll
have a smoke, and bring you some up presently. You look--well, you look
as if you were going to have the measles, my child."
Nell laughed discordantly.
"Do I?" she said, pushing the hair from her forehead with both hands,
and staring before her vacantly. "Perhaps I am."
"Measles--or influenza," he said, with a pursing of the lips. "Get up to
bed, Nell."
"I'm going," she said.
She came round the table, and, leaning both hands on his shoulders, bent
her lovely head and kissed him.
"Dick, you--you care for me still?" she asked, in a strained voice.
He stared at her, as, brother like, he wiped the kiss from his lips.
"Care for you? What----Look here, Nell, you're behaving like a
second-class idiot. And your lips are like fire. I'm dashed if I don't
think you are going to have something."
She laughed and shook her head, and went upstairs. How long the few
stairs seemed! Or was it that her legs seemed to have become like lead?
As she passed Mrs. Lorton's room, that lady's voice called to her. Nell
opened the door, leaning against it.
"Is that you, Eleanor?" said Mrs. Lorton. "What a noise you made coming
in! Really, I think you might have shown some consideration. You know
how lightly I sleep. I've the news for you." There was a touch of
self-satisfaction in her voice. "A letter has come. Here it is. You had
better read it and think over it."
Nell crossed the room unsteadily in the dim flicker of the night light,
and took the letter held out to her--took it mechanically--wished Mrs.
Lorton good night, and went to her own room.
Before she had got there she had forgotten the letter, and it fell from
her hand as she dropped on her knees beside the bed, her arms flung wide
over the white counterpane, her whole frame shaking.
"Drake, Drake, Drake!" rose from her quivering lips. "Oh, God! pity
me--pity me! I cannot bear it--I cannot bear it!"