"It is the hydra of calamities,
The sevenfold death: the jealous are the
Damn'd."--YOUNG.
Having watched her until the last fold of her gown has disappeared,
Branscombe turns abruptly away, and, passing through a glass door that
leads into the gardens outside, paces slowly up and down the winding
paths beneath the subdued light of countless Chinese lanterns, that,
hanging amidst the foliage, contrast oddly with the cold white
brilliancy of the stars overhead, that
"Rush forth in myriads, as to wage
War with the lines of darkness."
Cold as the night air is, not a breath of wind comes to disturb the
strange calm that hangs over land and sea. Far down in the bay the
ocean lies at rest. From the distance a faint sound of music from the
band comes softly, seductively to the ear, but beyond and above it
comes the song of the nightingale that, resting in yonder thicket,
pours forth its heart in tender hurried melody, as though fearful the
night will be
"Too short for him to utter forth his love-chant,
And disburthen his full soul of all its music."
The notes rise and fall, and tremble on the air. No other sound comes
from the breast of nature to mar the richness of its tone. No earthly
thing seems living but itself. For it the night appears created, and
draws its "sable curtain stained with gold" over the sleeping world.
This nightingale, of all the feathered tribes, is wakeful, and chants
its hymn of praise at midnight, whilst all its brethren rest in
peaceful slumber.
The intense and solemn stillness of all around renders more enchanting
the trills and tender trembles that shake its tiny throat. There is
"No whispering but of leaves, on which the breath
Of heaven plays music to the birds that slumber."
Yet this one sweet bird refuses rest, and, as though one of those
"small foules" that "slepen alle night with open eye," sings on
courageously amidst the gloom.
Dorian, strolling absently through the walks, and into the shrubberies
beyond, listens, and feels some sense of comfort (that has yet with it
a touch of pain) creep through him as the nightingale's sweet song
smites upon his ear.
Yet this is not the only sound that disturbs the quiet of the night.
Sadly, mournfully, a half-suppressed sob falls upon the air.
Branscombe starts, and looks round suddenly, but can see nothing. No
footsteps make themselves heard. The shrubs are sufficiently thick to
conceal the presence of any one, yet it seems to him as if the thought
of that sob was born of fancy, and that the earthly owner of it is
unborn.
Then some ray from the brilliant moon opens his eyes, and he sees a
woman's figure standing in a somewhat disconsolate attitude, with her
back against a tall elm, and her eyes fixed wistfully upon the distant
windows, through which the lights are streaming, and the passing to
and fro of the dancing crowd may be distinctly seen.
Dorian, recognizing her, goes quickly up to her and lays his hand upon
her shoulder. It is Ruth Annersley!
She stifles a low cry, and, turning to him, grows even a shade paler
than she was a moment since.
"Ruth," says Dorian, "what on earth brings you here at this hour?"
For a moment she makes him no answer. She raises her hand to brush
away the tears that still lie heavily upon her cheeks, and then moves
a little away from him, so as to elude his touch.
"I came to see them dancing," she says, at length, with difficulty; "I
thought it would be a pretty sight; and--it is--I have been so--so
pleased."
The words seem to choke her. With a movement that is terribly pathetic
she lays her hand upon her heart; and then Dorian, following the
direction her eyes have taken, sees what they see.
In an open window, directly opposite to where they are standing, two
figures can be seen in very close proximity to each other. Beyond are
the forms of the dancers; the faint sweet strains of the band float
out to meet the midnight air; but the two in the window seem lost to
all but the fact of their own existence, and that they are together.
At least, so it seems to the onlookers in the shrubberies.
See, now he takes her hand,--the kindly curtain hiding the act from
those within; he stoops towards her; the girl leans a little forward;
and then Dorian knows them; the man is Horace, and the girl Clarissa
Peyton!
Instinctively he glances from them to Ruth. She, too, is leaning
forward, her whole attention concentrated upon the picture before her.
Her eyes are wide and miserable, her cheeks pale and haggard.
"You have seen enough of this ball, Ruth," says Branscombe, very
gently. "Go home now."
"Yes; enough,--too much," says the girl, starting into life again. She
draws her breath quickly, painfully: her brow contracts. As though
unable to resist the movement, she again lays her hand upon her heart,
and holds it there, as though in anguish.
"What is it?" asks Dorian. "Are you in pain? How white you are!"
"I am tired. I have a pain here," pressing her hand still more closely
against her side. "This morning I felt well and strong--and now----.
My mother died of heart-disease; perhaps I shall die of it too. I
think so; I hope so!"
"You are talking very great nonsense," says Dorian, roughly, though in
his soul shocked to the last degree by the girl's manner, which is
full of reckless misery. "Nobody sees any amusement in dying. Come,
let me see you home."
"Oh, no! Please do not come, Mr. Branscombe," entreats she, so
earnestly that he feels she has a meaning in her words. "I have the
key of the small gate, and can run home in five minutes once I pass
that."
"Then at least I shall see you safely as far as the gate," says
Branscombe, who is tender and gentle in his manner to all women.
Silently they walk through the damp night grass, neither speaking,
until, coming to a curve in the way, she breaks silence.
"How beautiful Miss Peyton looks to-night," she says, in a tone
impossible to translate.
"Very," says Dorian, unkindly, yet with very kindly intent. "But then
she is always one of the most beautiful women I know."
"Is she--very much admired?"--this rather timidly.
"One can understand that at once," says Dorian, quietly. "Both her
face and figure are perfect." As he says this, quite calmly, his heart
bleeds for the girl beside him.
"Who has she been dancing most with?" Eagerly, almost painfully, this
question is put. The utter simplicity of it touches Dorian to his
heart's core.
"With my brother, of course. She--she would not care to dance very
much with any one else now, on account of her engagement."
"Her engagement?"
"Yes. She is to be married to my brother some time next year."
He hates himself bitterly as he says this: but something within him
compels him to the cruel deed, if only through pity for the girl who
walks beside him.
They are now within the shade of trees, and he cannot see her face;
though in very truth, if he could have seen it at this moment, he
would not have looked at it. No word escapes her; she walks on
steadily, as though actually made strong by the receiving of the blow.
Dorian would gladly believe that her silence means indifference; but
to-night has forced a truth upon him that for months he has
determinedly put behind him. Her tears, her agitation, the agony that
shone in her eyes as she fixed them upon Horace's form in the window,
have betrayed only too surely the secret she would so gladly hide.
She makes no further attempt at conversation, and, when they come to
the little iron gate that leads on to the road, would have passed
through, and gone on her homeward way mechanically, without bidding
him even good-night, as if (which is indeed the case) she has
forgotten the very fact of his near presence.
But he cannot let her go without a word.
"Good-night," he says, very kindly, his tone warmer because of his
pity for her. "Take care of yourself. Are you sure you do not fear
going alone?"
"Yes." Her voice is low, and sounds strange, even in her own ears.
"Wrap your shawl more closely round you. The night is cold. Is the
pain in your side better?"
"Yes,"--almost regretfully.
"That is right. Well, good-by. I shall stand here until I see you have
safely turned the corner; then I shall know you are out of all
danger." He has been holding her hand somewhat anxiously all this
time, not quite liking the strained expression in her face. Now he
presses it, and then drops it gently.
"Good-night," returns she, slowly, and then turns away from him, never
remembering to thank him for his kindness,--hardly, indeed, conscious
of having spoken the farewell word.
Her brain seems on fire; her body cold as death. Oh, to be in her own
room, free from all watching eyes, where she can fling herself upon
the ground, and moan and cry aloud against her fate, with only the
friendly darkness to overhear her! She hurries rapidly onward, and
soon the corner hides her from sight.
Dorian, when she has safely passed the spot agreed upon, goes back
once more in the direction of the house. He has hardly, however, gone
two hundred yards, when the voice of his uncle, Lord Sartoris, calling
to him through the gloom, stays his steps, and rouses him from the
painful revery into which he is fast falling.
"Who were you parting with at the gate?" asks Lord Sartoris, in so
unusual a tone that Dorian looks at him in some surprise. He is a
little sorry, for reasons that do not touch himself, that the question
should have been asked at all.
"Ruth Annersley," he answers, without hesitation, feeling that any
prevarication at this moment will only make matters worse for the
unhappy girl. May not Arthur have seen and known her?
"Ruth Annersley?"
"Yes. You will, of course, say nothing about it. She was foolish
enough to wish to see a few people dancing, so came here, and,
standing among the shrubs, obtained her wish,--which, no doubt, proved
as satisfactory as most of our desires, when gained."
"At this hour of the night to be here, alone!"
"Yes. Very imprudent of her, of course, and all that."
"There must have been some strong inducement to make a girl of her
gentle nature undertake so bold, so daring, a step. It was a strictly
improper action," says the old man, in his most stilted style.
"I dare say. Imprudent, however, was the word I used. I am rather glad
I was the one to meet her, as she knew me; and, as a rule, people talk
so much about nothing, and make such mountains out of mole-hills."
"It was fortunate, indeed, your meeting her. It might, in fact, almost
be termed a curious coincidence, your managing to be on this deserted
walk just at the required moment."
There is something so unpleasant, so sneering, about his tone that
Dorian colors hotly.
"I confess I hardly see it in the light you do," he says, easily
enough, but very coldly. "And I think I should term the coincidence
'lucky,' rather than curious. I see no difference between this walk
and half a dozen others. People don't seem to affect any of them
much."
"No," says Lord Sartoris.
"Any other fellow might have been here as well as me. You, for
example."
"Just so!" says Lord Sartoris.
"Then why bring in the word curious?"
"It merely occurred to me at the moment," says his lordship, drily.
"Been dancing much?"
"Yes,--no,--pretty well. Are you coming in?"
They are again in front of the house, and near the steps that lead to
the conservatory.
"Not just yet, I think."
"Then I fear I must leave you. I am engaged for this dance."
So, for the first time, these two part coldly. The old man goes
slowly, moodily, up and down the gravelled path beneath the brilliant
moon, that--
"From her clouded veil soft gliding,
Lifts her silvery lamp on high,"
and thinks of many things in a humor more sad than bitter; while the
young man, with angry brow and lips compressed, goes swiftly onward to
the house.
As he regains the ball-room, the remembrance of the little partner he
has come to claim rushes back upon him pleasantly, and serves to
dissipate the gloomy and somewhat indignant thoughts that have been
oppressing him. But where is she? He looks anxiously around; and,
after five minutes' fruitless search, lo! there are her eyes smiling
out at him from the arms of a gay and (doubtless) gallant plunger.
The next instant she is gone; but he follows her slight form with
eager glance, and at length crosses the room to where she is now
standing with her soldier. As he does so he flings from him all
tormenting thoughts, forgetting--as it is his nature to do--the
possible misery of the future in the certain happiness of the present.
"The next is ours, is it not?" he says; and she smiles at him,
and--can it be?--willingly transfers her hand from the heavy's arm to
his; and then they dance; and presently he takes her down to the
Peytons' carriage and puts her carefully into it, and presses her
hand, I think, ever so slightly, and then drives home, beneath the
silent stars, with an odd sensation at his heart--half pain, half
pleasure--he has never felt before.