Nell sat still--very, very still. The vast room seemed to rise and sway
before her like a ship in a heavy sea; the lights danced in a mad whirl;
the music roared a chaos of sound in her ears, and a deathly feeling
crept over her.
"I will not faint--I will not faint!" she said to herself, clenching her
teeth hard, and gripping her dress with her cold hands. "It is a
mistake--a mistake. It is not Drake. I thought I saw him the other
night; it is thinking, always thinking of him, that makes me fancy any
one like him must be he! Yes; it is a mistake."
She closed her eyes for a moment, and when she opened them and found
that the room had ceased rocking, and the lights were still, she leaned
forward, calling all her courage to her aid, and looked again.
A waltz was in progress, and the rich dresses, the flashing jewels
whirled like the colored pieces of a kaleidoscope, and for a moment or
two she could not distinguish the members of the glittering crowd; but
presently she saw the tall figure again. He was dancing with Lady Luce;
they came down toward the gallery end of the room, floating with the
exquisite grace of a couple whose steps are in perfect harmony, and Nell
saw that she had made no mistake--that it was Drake indeed.
She drew a long breath, and sank back; Mrs. Hawksley leaned toward her.
"Do you feel faint, Miss Lorton? It's very hot up here. Would you like
to go down----"
"No, no!" said Nell quickly, almost anxiously. She did not want to go.
It was agony to see him dancing with this beautiful woman, whose hair
shone like gold, whose grace of form and movement were conspicuous even
among so many graceful and beautiful women; but a kind of fascination
made Nell feel as if she could not go, as if she must drain her cup of
misery to the dregs. "No, no; I am not faint--not now. It is hot, but I
am--all right."
She gazed with set face and panic-stricken eyes at the couple, as they
floated down the room again. It was Drake, but--how changed! He looked
many years older--and his face was stern and grave--sterner and graver
and sadder even than when she had first seen it that day the horse had
flung him at her feet. It had grown brighter and happier while he had
stayed at Shorne Mills--it had been transformed, indeed, for the few
short weeks he had been her lover; but the look of content, of joy in
life which it wore in her remembrance, had gone again. Had he been ill?
she wondered. Where had he been; what had he been doing?
But it did not matter, could not matter to her. He was back in England,
and dancing with the woman he loved--with the beautiful Lady Luce, whom
he had kissed on the terrace.
"And what do you think of his lordship?" Mrs. Hawksley asked, as if the
Right Honorable the Earl of Angleford were her special property. "I
wasn't far wrong, was I, Miss Lorton, when I said that he would be the
finest, handsomest man in the room?"
"No," said Nell, scarcely knowing what she answered. "That is----" She
put her hand to her lips. Even now she had not realized that her Drake
and the earl were one and the same man. "Oh, yes; he is handsome,
and----" she finished, as the old lady eyed her half indignantly. "But
I--I have made a mistake. I mean----What was Lord Angleford called
before he succeeded to the title?"
Mrs. Hawksley looked at her rather curiously.
"Why, Lord Selbie, of course," she said. "He ought, being one of the
Anglefords, to have been Lord Vernon, Drake Vernon; but his father was a
famous statesman, a governor of New South Wales and they made him a
viscount. Do you understand?" she asked, proud of her own knowledge of
these intricacies of the earl's names and titles.
Poor Nell looked confused. But it did not matter. She had learned
enough. Drake Vernon, who had made her love him, and had asked her to be
his wife, had been Lord Selbie. Why had he concealed his rank? Why had
he deceived her? He had seemed so honest and true, that she would have
trusted him with her life as freely as she had given him her love; and
all the while----Oh, why had he done it? Was it worth while to
masquerade as a mere nobody, to pretend that he was poor? Had he, even
from the very first, not intended to marry her? Was he only--amusing
himself?
Her face was dyed, with the shame of the thought, for a moment, then the
hot flush went and left her pale and wan.
Drake was the Earl of Angleford, and she--she the girl whose heart he
had broken, was in his house, looking on at him among his guests! The
thought was almost unendurable, and she slowly rose from her chair; then
she sat down again, for she was trembling and quite incapable of leaving
the gallery.
How long she sat in this state she did not know. The ball went on. She
saw Drake--no, the earl--would she never realize it?--dancing
frequently. Sometimes he joined the group of dowagers and chaperons on
the dais at the other end of the room, or leaned against the wall and
talked with the nondancing men; and wherever he went she saw that he was
received with that subtle empressement with which the children of Vanity
Fair indicate their respect for high rank and wealth.
"You can see how high his lordship stands not only in the county, but
everywhere," said Mrs. Hawksley proudly. "They treat him almost as if he
were a prince of the blood; and he is the principal gentleman here,
though there's some high and mighty ones down there, Miss Lorton, I
assure you. That's the Duchess of Cleavemere in that big chair on the
dais; and that's her eldest daughter--she'll be as big as the duchess,
mark my words--seated beside her; and that's the Marquis of Downfield,
that tall gentleman with the white hair. He's a great man, but he can't
hold a candle, in appearance, to our earl; and he's a poor man compared
with his lordship. And that's Lord Turfleigh, that old gentleman with
the very black hair and mustache; dyed, of course, my dear. The 'wicked
Lord Turfleigh' they call him--and no wonder. He's the father of Lady
Luce. Ah! his lordship's going to dance with her again! Look how pleased
her father looks. See, he's nodding and smiling at her; I'll be bound I
know what he's thinking of! And I shouldn't be surprised if it came off.
Lord Selbie and she used to be engaged, but it was broken off when his
lordship's uncle married. The Turfleighs are too poor to risk a marriage
without money. But his lordship's the earl now, and, of course----"
Nell understood. It was because the woman he loved had jilted him that
Drake had hidden himself from the world at Shorne Mills. That was why he
had looked so sad and cast down the day she had first seen him.
"It's a pity your brother doesn't come up," said Mrs. Hawksley, who was
standing behind Nell, and could not see the white, strained face. "He'd
enjoy the sight, I'm sure. I'm half inclined to send a word to him."
Nell caught her arm. Dick must not come up here and recognize Drake,
must not see her white face and trembling lips. If possible, she must
leave Anglemere in the morning; must induce Dick to go before he could
learn that Drake and Lord Angleford were one and the same.
"My brother would not come," she said. "Please do not send for him.
He--the lights----"
Mrs. Hawksley nodded.
"As you think best, my dear," she said. "But it's a pity. Here's the
interval now. What is going on in the orchestra?"
Nell looked toward the band, which had ceased playing; but Falconer was
softly tuning his violin. About half the dancers had left the room, and
those that remained were pacing up and down, talking and laughing, or
seated in couples in the alcoves and recesses.
Falconer finished tuning, glanced toward Nell--the gallery was too dimly
lit for him to see the pallor of her face--then began to play a solo.
Coming after the dance music, the sonata he had chosen was like a breath
of pure, heather-scented air floating in upon the gas-laden atmosphere
of the heated room; and at the first strains of the delicious melody the
people below stopped talking, and turned their eyes up to the front of
the gallery, where the tall, thin form in its worn velvet jacket stood,
for that moment, at least, the supreme figure.
Nell, as she listened, felt as if a cool, pitying hand had fallen upon
her aching heart; as if a voice of thrilling sweetness were whispering
tender consolation. Never loud, but with an insistent force which held
the listeners in thrall, sometimes so low that it was but a murmur, the
exquisite music stole over the senses of all, awakening tender memories,
reviving scattered hopes, softening, for the short space it held its
sway, world-hardened hearts.
The tears gathered in Nell's eyes, bringing her infinite relief; but she
could see through her tears that the great hall was filling with the
hasty return of those who had been within hearing of the music, and when
it ceased there rose a burst of applause, led by the earl himself.
"How very beautiful!" exclaimed the duchess, who was on his arm. "The
man must be a genius. Where did you find him, Lord Angleford?"
Drake did not reply for a moment, as if he had not heard her. The music
had moved him more deeply, perhaps, than it had moved any other. His
face was set, his brows knit, and his head drooped as if weighed down by
some memory. He had been so occupied by his duties as host that he had
forgotten the past for that hour or two, at any rate; but at the first
strains of the music Nell came back to him. It was the swell of the tide
against the _Annie Laurie_; it was Nell's voice itself which he heard
through the melody of the famous sonata. He listened with an aching
longing for those past weeks of pure and perfect love, with a loathing
for the empty, desolate present. "Nell! Nell!" his heart seemed to cry.
"I beg your pardon," he said. "I did not find him. He is here by
chance."
"He must be a very great musician," said the duchess enthusiastically.
"What is his name?"
"Falconer," replied Drake. "He's staying at one of the lodges."
"He played superbly. Do you think I could persuade him to come on to the
court for the ninth? I wish you'd ask him. But surely he is going to
play again?" she added eagerly.
"I will ask him," said Drake.
"Yes, do, Drake," murmured Lady Luce, who had reentered the room and
glided near him. The divine music had not touched her in the least;
indeed, she had thought the solo rather out of place at a dance--quite
too sad and depressing; but as she seconded the duchess' request, her
blue eyes seemed dim with tears, and her lips tremulous. "It was so very
beautiful! I am half crying!" and the perfectly shaped lips pouted
piteously.
Drake nodded, led the duchess to a chair, and went slowly up the room
toward the gallery stairs.
Nell, who had been watching him in a dull, vacant way, lost him for a
moment or two; then she heard his voice near her, and saw him dimly
standing in the gallery doorway.
She stifled a cry, and shrank back behind Mrs. Hawksley, so that the
stout form of the old lady completely hid her.
"Mr. Falconer?" she heard the deep voice say gravely.
Falconer bowed, his violin under his arm, his pale, thin face perfectly
composed. His music was still ringing in his ears, vibrating in his
soul, too great to be stirred by the applause which had again broken
out.
"I have come to thank you for the sonata, Mr. Falconer, and to ask you
to be so kind as to play again," said Drake, in the simple, impassive
manner of the Englishman.
"I shall be very pleased, my lord," said Falconer quietly; and he placed
his violin in position.
Drake looked absently round the gallery. It was only dimly lit by the
candles in the music stands, and the servants had respectfully drawn
back, so that Nell was still hidden; but she trembled with the fear that
those in front of her might move, and that he might see her; for she
knew how keen those eyes of his could be.
Drake felt that the dim light was a pleasant contrast to the brilliance
of the room below, and he lingered, leaning against the wall, his arms
folded, his head drooped. He was so near Nell that she could almost have
touched him--so near that she almost dreaded that he must hear the wild
throbbings of her heart. Once, as the violin wailed out a passionate,
despairing, yet exquisitely sweet passage of the Raff cavatina Falconer
was playing, she heard Drake sigh.
The cavatina came to an end, the last notes--those wonderful
notes!--floating lingeringly like a human voice, and yet more exquisite
than any human voice. Falconer lowered his violin, the applause broke
out again as vehemently and enthusiastically as if the crowd below were
at an ordinary concert, and Drake made his way to the player. As he did
so, he stumbled over a violin case, the servants with a little cry--for
the stumble of an Earl of Angleford is a matter of importance--moved
apart, and Drake, putting out his hand as he recovered himself, touched
Mrs. Hawksley's arm.
"I beg your pardon," he said. "Ah! is it you, Mrs. Hawksley? You are so
pleasantly dark up here."
His eyes wandered from her face to that of the girl who had been
shrinking behind her, and he paused, as if smitten by some sudden
thought or memory. But Nell rose quickly and hid herself in the group,
and Drake went on to Falconer.
"Thank you again," he said. "I have never heard the cavatina--it was it,
wasn't it?--better played. I am the bearer of a message from the Duchess
of Cleavemere, Mr. Falconer. If you are not engaged, the duchess would
be very glad if you could play for her at Cleavemere Court on the ninth
of next month. I ask you at once and so unceremoniously, because her
grace is anxious to know. The ninth."
Falconer bowed.
"May I consider, my lord?" he began hesitatingly.
"Why, certainly," said Drake, in the frank, pleasant fashion which Nell
knew so well. "Will you send me word? Thanks. That is a fine violin you
have."
"It was my father's," said Falconer simply, and unconsciously pressing
the instrument closer to him, as if it were a living thing, a
well-beloved child.
He had often sold, pawned his belongings for bread, and as often had
forgotten his cold and hunger because his precious violin had remained
in his possession; that he had never pawned.
Drake nodded, as if he understood; then he looked round.
"Isn't there some supper going, Mrs. Hawksley?" he said pleasantly.
The old lady curtsied in stately fashion.
"Yes, my lord."
"Then it's high time Mr. Falconer--and the rest of us--were at it," he
said; and, with a smile and a nod, he left the gallery.
He would have taken Falconer with him to the supper in the banquet room
below, but he knew that, though none of the men or women there would
have remarked, or cared about, the old velvet jacket, the musician would
be conscious of it, and be embarrassed by it.
While Drake had been absent, Lady Luce had stood, apparently listening
with profound attention and sympathy, but the movement of her fan almost
gave her away, for it grew rapid now and again, and when Lord Turfleigh
came up beside her, his hawklike eyes glancing sharply, like those of a
bird of prey, from their fat rims, she shot an angry and unfilial glance
at him.
"Where's Drake?" he asked, lowering his thick voice.
"Up there in that gallery somewhere; gone to pay compliments to that
fiddler fellow who is playing now."
"Gad!" said his lordship, with a stare of contempt at the rapt audience.
"What the devil does he want with the 'Dead March in Saul,' or whatever
it is, in the middle of a dance. Always thought he was mad! Has he
spoken, said anything?"
He lowered his voice still more, and eyed her eagerly.
She shook her head slightly by way of answer, and the coarse face
reddened.
"Curse me, if I can understand it--or you," he said, his hand tugging
at his dyed mustache. "You told me, God knows how long ago, that he was
'on' again; then he bolts--disappears."
"Do you want all these people to hear you?" she asked, her eyes hidden
by her slowly moving fan.
Her father had been several times to the refreshment buffet, and had
"lowered"--as he would have put it--the best part of a bottle of
champagne, and was a little off the guard which he usually maintained so
carefully.
"They can't hear. I'm not shouting. And you always evade me. You're not
behaving well, Luce. Dash it all! I've reason to be anxious! This match
means a good deal to me in the present state of our finances!"
"Hush!" she whispered warningly. "I can't explain now. I don't
understand it myself; but I've seen enough to know that I should only
lose him altogether if I tried to force him. You know him, or ought to
do so! Did you ever get anything from Drake by driving him? He had no
opportunity of speaking, of explaining."
"By gad! I don't understand it!" he muttered. "Either you're engaged to
him or you're not. You led me to believe that the match was on
again----"
The fan closed with a snap, and her blue eyes flashed at him with bitter
scorn.
"Hadn't you better leave me to play the game?" she asked. "Or perhaps
you think you can play it better than I can? If so----The man has
stopped; Drake will be down again. I don't want him to see us talking.
Go--and get some more champagne."
Lord Turfleigh swore behind the hand that still fumbled at his mustache,
and walked away with the jerky, jaunty gait of the old man who still
affects youth, and Lady Luce composed her lovely face into a look of
emotional ecstacy.
"Oh, how beautiful, Drake!" she said. "Do you know that I have been very
nearly crying? And yet it was so sweet, so--so soothing! Who is he? And
what are we going to do now?" she asked, without waiting for an answer
to her first question, about which she was more than indifferent.
Drake looked round for the duchess.
"I must take the duchess in to supper," he said apologetically. "I will
find some one for you--or perhaps you will wait until I will come for
you?"
"I will wait, of course," she said, with a tender emphasis on the "of
course."
Those who had been listening followed Drake and the duchess to the
supper room, talking of the wonderful violin playing as they went; and
Lady Luce seated herself in a recess and waited. Several men came to her
and offered to take her to supper, but she made some excuse for
refusing, and presently Drake returned.
She rose and took his arm, and glanced up at him, not for the first time
that evening, curiously. The easy-going, indolent Drake of old seemed to
have disappeared, and left in his place this grave and almost
stern-mannered man. She had always been just a little afraid of him,
with the fear which is always felt by the false and shifty in the
presence of the true and strong; and to-night she was painfully
conscious of that vague and wholesome dread.
He found a place for her at a small table, and a footman brought them
things to eat and drink; but though she affected a blythe and joyous
mood, tapping her satin-clad foot to the music which had begun again,
she was too excited, too anxious, to enjoy the costly delicacies before
her.
"I have so much to tell you, Drake!" she said, in a low voice, after one
or two remarks about the ball and its success. "It seems years, ages,
since I saw you! Why--why did you go away for so long, Drake? And why
did you not write to me?"
He looked at her with his grave eyes, and her own fell.
"I wrote to no one; I was never much of a hand at letter writing," he
said.
"But to me, Drake!" she whispered, with a pout. "I wanted to hear from
you so badly! Just a line that would have given me an excuse for writing
to you and telling you--explaining----"
He did not smile. He was not the man to remind a woman of her falseness,
but something in his eyes made her falter and lower her own.
"I went away because I was tired of England," he said. "I came back
because--well, because I was obliged."
"But you won't go away again?" she said, with genuine dismay in her
voice and face. "I--I feel as if, as if it were my fault; as if--ah,
Drake, have you not really forgiven me?"
Her eyes filled with tears, as genuine as her dismay--for think of the
greatness of the prize for which she was playing--and Drake's heart was
touched with a pity which was not wholly free from contempt.
"There shall be no such word as forgiveness between us, Luce," he said
gravely. She caught at this, though it was but a straw, and her hand,
from which she had taken her glove, stole over to his, and her eyes
sought his appealingly.
But before he could take her hand--if he had intended doing so--Lady
Angleford came up to them.
"Drake, they want you to lead the cotillon," she said.
He rose, but stood beside Luce.
"Directly Lady Luce has finished her supper, countess. Please don't
hurry."
But Lady Luce sprang up at once.
"I have finished long ago; I was not hungry."
"Come, then," he said, and he offered her his arm, "Will you dance it
with me?"
Her heart leaped.
"Yes. It will not be for the first time--Drake!" and as she entered the
room with him, her heart thrilled with hope, and her blue eyes sparkled
with a triumph which none could fail to notice.