by Duchess
CHAPTER IV.
It is the evening of the theatricals; and in one of the largerdrawing-rooms at the castle, where the stage has been erected, and alsoin another room behind connected with it by folding-doors, everybody ofnote in the county is already assembled. Fans are fluttering--so aremany hearts behind the scenes--and a low buzz of conversation is beingcarried on among the company.
Then the curtain rises; the fans stop rustling, the conversation ceases,and all faces turn curiously to the small but perfect stage that theLondon workmen have erected.
Every one is very anxious to see what his or her neighbor is going to dowhen brought before a critical audience. Nobody, of course, hopes openlyfor a break-down, but secretly there are a few who would be glad to seesuch-and-such a one's pride lowered.
No mischance, however, occurs. The insipid Tony speaks his linesperfectly, if he fails to grasp the idea that a little acting thrown inwould be an improvement; a very charming Cousin Con is made out of MissVilliers; a rather stilted but strictly correct old lady out of LadyGertrude Vining. But Florence Delmaine, as Kate Hardcastle, leavesnothing to be desired, and many are the complimentary speeches utteredfrom time to time by the audience. Arthur Dynecourt too had notoverpraised his own powers. It is palpable to every one that he hasoften trod the boards, and the pathos he throws into his performanceastonishes the audience. Is it only acting in the final scene when hemakes love to Miss Hardcastle, or is there some real sentiment in it?
This question arises in many breasts. They note how his color changes ashe takes her hand, how his voice trembles; they notice too how she growscold, in spite of her desire to carry out her part to the end, as hegrows warmer, and how instinctively she shrinks from his touch. Then itis all over, and the curtain falls amidst loud applause. Florence comesbefore the curtain in response to frequent calls, gracefully, halfreluctantly, with a soft warm blush upon her cheeks and a light in hereyes that renders her remarkable loveliness only more apparent. SirAdrian, watching her with a heart faint and cold with grief anddisappointment, acknowledges sadly to himself that never has he seen herlook so beautiful. She advances and bows to the audience, and only losesher self-possession a very little when a bouquet directed at her feet byan enthusiastic young man alights upon her shoulder instead.
Arthur Dynecourt, who has accompanied her to the footlights, and whojoins in her triumph, picks up the bouquet and presents it to her.
As he does so the audience again become aware that she receives it fromhim in a spirit that suggests detestation of the one that hands it, andthat her smile withers as she does so, and her great eyes lose theirhappy light of a moment before.
Sir Adrian sees all this too, but persuades himself that she is nowacting another part--the part shown him by Mrs. Talbot. His eyes areblinded by jealousy; he can not see the purity and truth reflected inhers; he misconstrues the pained expression that of late has saddenedher face.
For the last few days, ever since her momentous interview with ArthurDynecourt in the gallery, she has been timid and reserved with SirAdrian, and has endeavored to avoid his society. She is oppressed withthe thought that he has read her secret love for him, and seeks, by anassumed coldness of demeanor and a studied avoidance of him, to inducehim to believe himself mistaken.
But Sir Adrian is only rendered more miserable by this avoidance, in thethought that probably Mrs. Talbot has told Florence of his discovery ofher attachment to Arthur, and that she dreads his taxing her with herduplicity, and so makes strenuous efforts to keep herself apart fromhim. They have already drifted so far apart that to-night, when the playhas come to an end, and Florence has retired from the dressing-room, SirAdrian does not dream of approaching her to offer the congratulations onher success that he would have showered upon her in a happier hour.
Florence, feeling lonely and depressed, having listlessly submittedto her maid's guidance and changed her stage gown for a pale blueball-dress of satin and pearls--as dancing is to succeed the earlieramusement of the evening--goes silently down-stairs, but, instead ofpursuing her way to the ball-room, where dancing has already commenced,she turns aside, and, entering a small, dimly lighted antechamber, sinkswearily upon a satin-covered lounge.
From a distance the sweet strains of a German waltz come softly to herears. There is deep sadness and melancholy in the music that attunesitself to her own sorrowful reflections. Presently the tears steal downher cheeks. She feels lonely and neglected, and, burying her head in thecushions of the lounge, sobs aloud.
She does not hear the hasty approach of footsteps until they stop closebeside her, and a voice that makes her pulses throb madly says, in deepagitation--
"Florence--Miss Delmaine--what has happened? What has occurred todistress you?"
Sir Adrian is bending over her, evidently in deep distress himself. Asshe starts, he places his arm round her and raises her to a sittingposture; this he does so gently that, as she remembers all she hasheard, and his cousin's assurance that he has almost pledged himselfto another, her tears flow afresh. By a supreme effort, however, shecontrols herself, and says, in a faint voice--
"I am very foolish; it was the heat, I suppose, or the nervousness ofacting before so many strangers, that has upset me. It is over now. Ibeg you will not remember it, Sir Adrian, or speak of it to any one."
All this time she has not allowed herself to glance even in hisdirection, so fearful is she of further betraying the mental agonyshe is enduring.
"Is it likely I should speak of it!" returns Sir Adrian reproachfully."No; anything connected with you shall be sacred to me. But--pardonme--I still think you are in grief, and, believe me, in spite ofeverything, I would deem it a privilege to be allowed to befriend youin any way."
"It is impossible," murmurs Florence, in a stifled tone.
"You mean you will not accept my help"--sadly. "So be it then. I have noright, I know, to establish myself as your champion. There are others,no doubt, whose happiness lies in the fact that they may render you aservice when it is in their power. I do not complain, however. Nay, Iwould even ask you to look upon me at least as a friend."
"I shall always regard you as a friend," Florence responds in a lowvoice. "It would be impossible to me to look upon you in any otherlight."
"Thank you for that," says Adrian quickly. "Though our lives must ofnecessity be much apart, it will still be a comfort to me to know thatat least, wherever you may be, you will think of me as a friend."
"Ah," thinks Florence, with a bitter pang, "he is now trying to let meknow how absurd was my former idea that he might perhaps learn to loveme!" This thought is almost insupportable. Her pride rising in arms, shesubdues all remaining traces of her late emotion, and, turning suddenly,confronts him. Her face is quite colorless, but she can not altogetherhide from him the sadness that still desolates her eyes.
"You are right," she agrees. "In the future our lives will indeedbe far distant from each other, so far apart that the very tie offriendship will readily be forgotten by us both."
"Florence, do not say that!" he entreats, believing in his turn that shealludes to her coming marriage with his cousin. "And--and--do not beangry with me; but I would ask you to consider long and earnestly beforetaking the step you have in view. Remember it is a bond that once sealedcan never be canceled."
"A bond! I do not follow you," exclaims Florence, bewildered.
"Ah, you will not trust me; you will not confide in me!"
"I have nothing to confide," persists Florence, still deeply puzzled.
"Well, let it rest so," returns Adrian, now greatly wounded at herdetermined reserve, as he deems it. He calls to mind all Mrs. Talbot hadsaid about her slyness, and feels disheartened. At least he has notdeserved distrust at her hands. "Promise me," he entreats at last,"that, if ever you are in danger, you will accept my help."
"I promise," she replies faintly. Then, trying to rally her droopingspirits, she continues, with an attempt at a smile, "Tell me that youtoo will accept mine should you be in any
danger. Remember, the mouseonce rescued the lion!"--and she smiles again, and glances at him witha touch of her old archness.
"It is a bargain. And now, will you rest here awhile until you feelquite restored to calmness?"
"But you must not remain with me," Florence urges hurriedly. "Yourguests are awaiting you. Probably"--with a faint smile--"your partnerfor this waltz is impatiently wondering what has become of you."
"I think not," says Adrian, returning her smile. "Fortunately I haveno one's name on my card for this waltz. I say fortunately, because Ithink"--glancing at her tenderly--"I have been able to bring back thesmiles to your face sooner than would have been the case had you beenleft here alone to brood over your trouble, whatever it may be."
"There is no trouble," declares Florence, in a somewhat distressedfashion, turning her head restlessly to one side. "I wish you woulddispossess yourself of that idea. And, do not stay here, they--everyone, will accuse you of discourtesy if you absent yourself from theball-room any longer."
"Then, come with me," says Adrian. "See, this waltz is only justbeginning: give it to me."
Carried away by his manner, she lays her hand upon his arm, and goeswith him to the ball-room. There he passes his arm round her waist, andpresently they are lost among the throng of whirling dancers, and bothgive themselves up for the time being to the mere delight of knowingthat they are together.
Two people, seeing them enter thus together, on apparently friendlyterms, regard them with hostile glances. Dora Talbot, who is coquettingsweetly with a gaunt man of middle age, who is evidently overpowered byher attentions, letting her eyes rest upon Florence as she waltzes pasther with Sir Adrian, colors warmly, and, biting her lip, forgets thehoneyed speech she was about to bestow upon her companion, who is theowner of a considerable property, and lapses into silence, for which thegaunt man is devoutly grateful, as it gives him a moment in which toreflect on the safest means of getting rid of her without delay.
Dora's fair brow grows darker and darker as she watches Florence, andnotes the smile that lights her beautiful face as she makes some answerto one of Sir Adrian's sallies. Where is Dynecourt, that he has not beenon the spot to prevent this dance, she wonders. She grows angry, andwould have stamped her little foot with impatient wrath at this moment,but for the fear of displaying her vexation.
As she is inwardly anathematizing Arthur, he emerges from the throng,and, the dance being at an end, reminds Miss Delmaine that the next ishis.
Florence unwillingly removes her hand from Sir Adrian's arm, and lays itupon Arthur's. Most disdainfully she moves away with him, and suffershim to lead her to another part of the room. And when she dances withhim it is with evident reluctance, as he knows by the fact that shevisibly shrinks from him when he encircles her waist with his arm.
Sir Adrian, who has noticed none of these symptoms, going up to Dora,solicits her hand for this dance.
"You are not engaged, I hope?" he says anxiously. It is a kind ofwretched comfort to him to be near Florence's true friend. If not therose, she has at least some connection with it.
"I am afraid I am," Dora responds, raising her limpid eyes to his."Naughty man, why did you not come sooner? I thought you had forgottenme altogether, and so got tired of keeping barren spots upon my card foryou."
"I couldn't help it--I was engaged. A man in his own house has alwaysa bad time of it looking after the impossible people," says Adrianevasively.
"Poor Florence! Is she so very impossible?" asks Dora, laughing, butpretending to reproach him.
"I was not speaking of Miss Delmaine," says Adrian, flushing hotly. "Sheis the least impossible person I ever met. It is a privilege to passone's time with her."
"Yet it is with her you have passed the last hour that you hint hasbeen devoted to bores," returns Dora quietly. This is a mere feeler,but she throws it out with such an air of certainty that Sir Adrian iscompletely deceived, and believes her acquainted with his _tete-a-tete_with Florence in the dimly lit anteroom.
"Well," he admits, coloring again, "your cousin was rather upset by theacting, I think, and I just stayed with her until she felt equal tojoining us all again."
"Ah!" exclaims Dora, who now knows all she had wanted to know.
"But you must not tell me you have no dances left for me," says Adriangayly. "Come, let me see your card." He looks at it, and finds it indeedfull. "I am an unfortunate," he adds.
"I think," says Dora, with the prettiest hesitation, "if you aresure it would not be an unkind thing to do, I could scratch out thisname"--pointing to her partner's for the coming dance.
"I am not sure at all," responds Sir Adrian, laughing. "I am positive itwill be awfully unkind of you to deprive any fellow of your society; butbe unkind, and scratch him out for my sake."
He speaks lightly, but her heart beats high with hope.
"For your sake," she repeats softly drawing her pencil across the namewritten on her programme and substituting his.
"But you will give me more than this one dance?" queries Adrian. "Isthere nobody else you can condemn to misery out of all that list?"
"You are insatiable," she returns, blushing, and growing confused. "Butyou shall have it all your own way. Here"--giving him her card--"takewhat waltzes you will." She waltzes to perfection, and she knows it.
"Then this, and this, and this," says Adrian, striking out three nameson her card, after which they move away together and mingle with theother dancers.
In the meantime, Florence growing fatigued, or disinclined to dancelonger with Dynecourt, stops abruptly near the door of a conservatory,and, leaning against the framework, gazes with listless interest at thebusy scene around.
"You are tired. Will you rest for awhile?" asks Arthur politely; and,as she bends her head in cold consent, he leads her to a cushioned seatthat is placed almost opposite to the door-way, and from which theball-room and what is passing within it are distinctly visible.
Sinking down amongst the blue-satin cushions of the seat he has pointedout to her, Florence sighs softly, and lets her thoughts run, halfsadly, half gladly, upon her late interview with Sir Adrian. At least,if he has guessed her secret, she knows now that he does not despiseher. There was no trace of contempt in the gentleness, the tenderness ofhis manner. And how kindly he had told her of the intended change in hislife! "Their paths would lie far asunder for the future," he had said,or something tantamount to that. He spoke no doubt of his comingmarriage.
Then she begins to speculate dreamily upon the sort of woman who wouldbe happy enough to be his wife. She is still idly ruminating on thispoint when her companion's voice brings her back to the present. She hadso far forgotten his existence in her day-dreaming that his words cometo her like a whisper from some other world, and occasion her an actualshock.
"Your thoughtfulness renders me sad," he is saying impressively. "Itcarries you to regions where I can not follow you."
To this she makes no reply, regarding him only with a calm questioningglance that might well have daunted a better man. It only nerves himhowever to even bolder words.
"The journey your thoughts have taken--has it been a pleasant one?" heasks, smiling.
"I have come here for rest, not for conversation." There is undisguiseddislike in her tones. Still he is untouched by her scorn. He even growsmore defiant, as though determined to let her see that even her avowedhatred can not subdue him.
"If you only knew," he goes on, with slow meaning, regarding her as hespeaks with critical admiration, "how surpassingly beautiful you lookto-night, you would perhaps understand in a degree the power you possessover your fellow-creatures. In that altitude, with that slight touch ofscorn upon your lips, you seem a meet partner for a monarch."
She laughs a low contemptuous laugh, that even makes his blood run hotlyin his veins.
"And yet you have the boldness to offer yourself as an aspirant to myfavor?" she says. "In truth, sir, you value yourself highly!"
"Love will find the way!" he quotes quickly, th
ough plainly disconcertedby her merriment. "And in time I trust I shall have my reward."
"In time, I trust you will," she returns, in a tone impossible tomisconstrue.
At this point he deems it wise to change the subject; and, as he haltsrather lamely in his conversation, at a loss to find some topic that mayinterest her or advance his cause, Sir Adrian and Dora pass by the doorof the conservatory.
Sir Adrian is smiling gayly at some little speech of Dora's, and Dora islooking up at him with a bright expression in her blue eyes that tellsof the happiness she feels.
"Ah, I can not help thinking Adrian is doing very wisely," observesArthur Dynecourt, some evil genius at his elbow urging him to lie.
"Doing--what?" asks his companion, roused suddenly into full life andinterest.
"You pretend ignorance, no doubt"--smiling. "But one can see. Adrian'smarriage with Mrs. Talbot has been talked about for some time amongsthis intimates."
A clasp like ice seems to seize upon Miss Delmaine's heart as thesewords drop from his lips. She restrains her emotion bravely, but hislynx-eye reads her through and through.
"They seem to be more together to-night than is even usual with them,"goes on Arthur blandly. "Before you honored the room with your presence,he had danced twice with her, and now again. It is very marked, hisattention to-night."
As a matter of fact Adrian had not danced with Mrs. Talbot all theevening until now, but Florence, not having been present at the openingof the ball, is not in a position to refute this, as he well knows.
"If there were anything in her friendship with Sir Adrian, I feel sureDora would tell me of it," she says slowly, and with difficulty.
"And she hasn't?" asks Arthur, with so much surprise and incredulity inhis manner as goes far to convince her that there is some truth in hisstatement. "Well, well," he adds, "one can not blame her. She woulddoubtless be sure of his affection before speaking even to her dearestfriend."
Florence winces, and sinks back upon the seat as though unable tosustain an upright position any longer. Every word of his is as galland wormwood to her, each sentence a reminder--a reproach. Only theother day this man now beside her had accused her of making sure of SirAdrian's affection before she had any right so to do. Her proud spiritshrinks beneath the cruel taunt he hurls at her.
"You look unusually 'done up,'" he goes on, in a tone of assumedcommiseration. "This evening has been too much for you. Acting a partat any time is extremely trying and laborious."
She shrinks still further from him. Acting a part! Is not all her lifebecoming one dreary drama, in which she acts a part from morning untilnight? Is there to be no rest for her? Oh, to escape from this man atany price! She rises to her feet.
"Our dance is almost at an end," she says; "and the heat is terrible.I can remain here no longer."
"You are ill," he exclaims eagerly, going to her side. He would havesupported her, but by a gesture she repels him.
"If I am, it is you who have made me so," she retorts, with quickpassion, for which she despises herself an instant later.
"Nay, not I," he rejoins, "but what my words have unconsciously conveyedto you. Do not blame me. I thought you, as well as every one else here,knew of Adrian's sentiments with regard to Mrs. Talbot."
This is too much for her. Drawing herself up to her full height,Florence casts a glance of anger and defiance in his direction, and,sweeping past him in her most imperious fashion, appears no more thatnight.
It is an early party, all things considered, and Dora Talbot, going toher room about two o'clock, stops before Florence's door and knockssoftly thereon.
"Come in," calls Florence gently.
"I have just stopped for a moment to express the hope that you are notill, dearest," says smooth-tongued Dora, advancing toward her. "Howearly you left us! I shouldn't have known how early only that Mr.Dynecourt told me. Are you sure you are not ill?"
"Not in the least, only a little fatigued," replied Florence calmly.
"Ah, no wonder, with your exertions before the dancing commenced, andyour unqualified success! You reigned over everybody, darling. Nobodycould hope even to divide the honors of the evening with you. Youracting was simply superb."
"Thank you," says Florence, who is not in bed, but is sitting in a chairdrawn near the window, through which the moonbeams are flinging theirpale rays. She is clad in a clinging white dressing-gown that makes herbeauty saint-like, and has all her long hair falling loosely round hershoulders.
"What a charming evening it has been!" exclaims Dora ecstatically,clasping her hands, and leaning her arms on the back of a chair. "Ihardly know when I have felt so thoroughly happy." Florence shuddersvisibly. "You enjoyed yourself, of course?" continues Dora. "Everyoneraved about you. You made at least a dozen conquests; one or half aone--" with a careful hesitation in her manner intended to impress herlistener--"is as much as poor little insignificant me can expect."
Florence looks at her questioningly.
"I think one really honest lover is worth a dozen others," she says,her voice trembling. "Do you mean me to understand, Dora, that you havegained one to-night?"
Florence's whole soul seems to hang on her cousin's answer. Dorasimpers, and tries to blush, but in reality grows a shade paler. Sheis playing for a high stake, and fears to risk a throw lest it may beventured too soon.
"Oh, you must not ask too much!" she replies, shaking her blonde head."A lover--no! How can you be so absurd! And yet I think--I hope--"
"I see!" interrupts Florence sadly. "Well, I will be as discreet as youwish; but at least, if what I imagine be true, I can congratulate youwith all my heart, because I know--I know you will be happy."
Going over to Mrs. Talbot, she lays her arms round her neck and kissesher softly. As she does so, a tear falls from her eyes upon Dora'scheek. There is so much sweetness and abandonment of self in this actionthat Dora for the moment is touched by it. She puts up her hand, and,wiping away the tear from her cheek as though it burns her, sayslightly--
"But indeed, my dearest Flo, you must not imagine anything. All isvague. I myself hardly know what it is to which I am alluding. 'Trifleslight as air' float through my brain, and gladden me in spite of mycommon sense, which whispers that they may mean nothing. Do not buildcastles for me that may have their existence only _en Espagne_."
"They seem very bright castles," observes Florence wistfully.
"A bad omen. 'All that's bright must fade,' sings the poet. And now tospeak of yourself. You enjoyed yourself?"
"Of course--" mechanically.
"Ah, yes; I was glad to see you had made it up with poor ArthurDynecourt!"
"How?" demands Florence, turning upon her quickly.
"I saw you dancing with him, dearest; I was with Sir Adrian at the time,and from something he said, I think he would be rather pleased if youcould bring yourself to reward poor Arthur's long devotion."
"Sir Arthur said that? He discussed me with you?"
"Just in passing, you understand. He told me too that you were somewhatunhappy in the earlier part of the evening, and that he had to stay aconsiderable time with you to restore you to calmness. He is always sokind, dear Adrian!"
"He spoke of that?" demands Florence, in a tone of anguish. If he hadmade her emotion a subject of common talk with Mrs. Talbot, all indeedis at an end between them, even that sweet visionary offer of friendshiphe had made to her. No; she could not submit to be talked about by him,and the woman he loves! Oh, the bitter pang it costs her to say thesewords to herself! That he now loves Dora seems to her mind beyonddispute. Is she not his confidante, the one in whom he chooses to reposeall his secret thoughts and surmises?
Dora regards her cousin keenly. Florence's evident agitation makes herfear that there was more in that _tete-a-tete_ with Sir Adrian than shehad at first imagined.
"Yes; why should he not speak of it?" Dora goes on coldly. "I think byhis manner your want of self-control shocked him. You should have agreater command over yourself. It is not goo
d form to betray one'sfeelings to every chance passer-by. Yes; I think Sir Adrian was bothsurprised and astonished."
"There was nothing to cause him either surprise or astonishment," saysFlorence haughtily; "and I could well have wished him out of the way!"
"Perhaps I misunderstood him," rejoins Dora artfully. "But certainlyhe spoke to me of being unpleasantly delayed by--by impossiblepeople--those were his very words; and really altogether--I may bewrong--I believed he alluded to you. Of course, I would not follow thematter up, because, much as I like Sir Adrian, I could not listen to himspeaking lightly of you!"
"Of me--you forget yourself, Dora!" cries Florence, with pale lips, buthead erect. "Speaking lightly of me!" she repeats.
"Young men are often careless in their language," explains Dorahurriedly, feeling that she has gone too far. "He meant nothing unkind,you may be sure!"
"I am quite sure"--firmly.
"Then no harm is done"--smiling brightly. "And now, good-night, dearest;go to bed instead of sitting there looking like a ghost in thosemystical moonbeams."
"Good-night," says Florence icily.
There is something about her that causes Mrs. Talbot to feel almostafraid to approach and kiss her as usual.
"Want of rest will spoil your lovely eyes," adds the widow airily; "andyour complexion, faultless as it always is, will not be up to the markto-morrow. So sleep, foolish child, and gather roses from yourslumbers."
So saying, she kisses her hand gayly to the unresponsive Florence, andtrips lightly from the room.