Complete Works of E W Hornung

by E. W. Hornung

  Fanny noted it with delight. The one bar to her complete happiness for the rest of the evening was now removed. The best of dancers herself, she was sought out by the best. To her a ball was a thing of intrinsic delight, in no way connected with sentiment or nonsense.

  Mrs. Parish also saw it, but from a very different point of view. She bustled over to Mr. Miles, who was standing near the piano, and asked him confidentially if he had not secured some dances with Alice? He showed her his card, and the old schemer returned triumphant to her niche among the dowagers.

  He followed her, and wrote his name on her empty card opposite the first square dance; a subtle man, this Mr. Miles.

  At the end of the waltz Miss Bristo thanked her partner coldly, observed below her breath that she should not trouble him again, bowed — and left him.

  Dick was done with dancing; he had not wished to dance at all; but this one waltz was more than enough for him — being with her. Love is responsible for strange paradoxes.

  He found two men to talk to: men who gloried in dancing, without greater aptitude for the art (for it is one) than elephants shod with lead. Being notorious, these men never got partners, save occasional ladies from remote districts, spending seasons with suburban relatives. These men now greeted Dick more than civilly, though they were accustomed to cut his brother, the bank-clerk, every morning of their lives. They remembered him from his infancy; they heard he had done awfully well abroad, and congratulated him floridly. They were anxious to hear all about Australia. Dick corrected one or two notions entertained by them respecting that country. He assured them that the natives were frequently as white as they were. He informed them, in reply to a question, that lions and tigers did not prowl around people’s premises in the majority of Australian towns; nor, indeed, were those animals to be found in the Colonies, except in cages. He set them right on the usual points of elementary geography. He explained the comprehensive meaning of the term, “the bush.”

  As Dick could at a pinch be fluent — when Australia was the subject — and as his mood to-night was sufficiently bitter, his intelligent questioners shortly sheered off. They left him at least better-informed men. Thereupon Dick returned to the ballroom with some slight access of briskness, and buried himself in a little knot of wall-flowers of both sexes.

  A dance had just begun — scarcely necessary to add, a waltz. Every man blessed with a partner hastened to fling his unit and hers into the whirling throng. After a round or two, half the couples would pause, and probably look on for the rest of the time; but it seems to be a point of honour to begin with the music. As Dick stood watching, his sister passed quite close to him; she happened to be dancing with Maurice, her very creditable pupil, but neither of them saw Dick. Close behind them came a pair of even better dancers, who threaded the moving maze without a pause or a jar or a single false step; they steered so faultlessly that a little path seemed always to open before them; human teetotums, obstacles to every one else, seemed mysteriously to melt at the graceful approach of these two. But, in fact, it was impossible to follow any other pair at the same time, so great were the ease, and beauty, and harmony of this pair. They seemed to need no rest; they seemed to yield themselves completely — no, not to each other — but to the sweet influence of the dreamy waltz.

  Dick watched the pair whose exquisite dancing attracted so much attention; his face was blank, but the iron was in his soul. The other wallflowers also watched them, and commented in whispers. Dick overheard part of a conversation between a young lady whose hair was red (but elaborately arranged), and a still younger lady with hair (of the same warm tint) hanging in a plait, who was presumably a sister, not yet thoroughly “out.” Here is as much of it as he listened to:

  “Oh, how beautifully they dance!”

  “Nonsense, child! No better than many others.”

  “Well, of course, I don’t know much about it. But I thought they danced better than anyone in the room. Who are they?”

  “Don’t speak so loud. You know very well that is Miss Bristo herself; the man is — must be — Mr. Edmonstone.”

  “Are they engaged?”

  “Well, I believe they used to be. He went out to Australia because he couldn’t afford to marry (his family were left as poor as mice!), but now he has come back with a fortune, and of course it will be on again now. I used to know him — to bow to — when they lived on the river; I never saw anyone so much altered, but still, that must be he.”

  “Oh, it must! See how sweet they — —”

  “Hush, child! You will be heard. But you are quite right; didn’t you see how — —”

  That was as much as Dick could stand. He walked away with a pale face and twitching fingers. He escaped into the conservatory, and found a solitary chair in the darkest corner. In three minutes the waltz ended, and the move to the conservatory was so general that for some minutes the double doors were all too narrow. Before Dick could get away, a yellow-haired youth with a pretty partner, less young than himself, invaded the dark corner, and by their pretty arrangement of two chairs effectually blocked Dick’s egress. They were somewhat breathless, having evidently outstripped competitors for this nook only after considerable exertion. The yellow-haired youth proceeded to enter into a desperate flirtation — according to his lights — with the pretty girl his senior: that is to say, he breathed hard, sought and received permission to manipulate the lady’s fan, wielded it execrably, and uttered commonplaces in tones of ingenuous pathos. The conservatory, the plashing fountain, and the Chinese lantern are indeed the accepted concomitants of this kind of business, to judge by that class of modern drawing-room songs which is its expositor. At length, on being snubbed by the lady (he had hinted that she should cut her remaining partners in his favour), the young gentleman relapsed with many sighs into personal history, which may have been cunningly intended as an attack on her sympathy, but more probably arose from the egotism of eighteen. He inveighed against the barbarous system of superannuation that had removed him from his public school; inquired repeatedly, Wasn’t it awfully hard lines? but finally extolled the freedom of his present asylum, a neighbouring Army crammer’s, where (he declared) a fellow was treated like a gentleman, not like a baby. He was plainly in the confidential stage.

  All this mildly amused Dick, if anything; but presently the victim of an evil system abruptly asked his partner if she knew Miss Bristo very well.

  “Not so very well,” was the reply; “but why do you ask?”

  “Because — between you and me, you know — I don’t like her. She doesn’t treat a fellow half civilly. You ask for a waltz, and she gives you a square. Now I know she’d waltzes to spare, ‘cause I heard her give one — —”

  “Oh, so she snubbed you, eh?”

  “Well, I suppose it does almost amount to that. By the bye, is she engaged to that long chap who’s been dancing with her all the evening?”

  “I believe she is; but — —”

  It was a promising “but;” a “but” that would become entre nous with very little pressing.

  “But what?”

  “It is a strange affair.”

  “How?”

  “Oh, I ought not to say; but of course you would never repeat — —”

  “Rather not; surely you can trust a fel — —”

  “Well, then, she used to be engaged — or perhaps it wasn’t an absolute engagement — to someone else: he went out to Australia, and made money, and now that he has come back she’s thrown him over for this Mr. Miles, who also comes from Australia. I know it for a fact, because Mrs. Parish told mamma as much.”

  “Poor chap! Who is he?”

  “Mr. Edmonstone; one of the Edmonstones who lived in that big house across the river — surely you remember?”

  “Oh, ah!”

  “I believe he is here to-night — moping somewhere, I suppose.”

  “Poor chap! Hallo, there’s the music! By Jove! I say, this is awful; we shall have to part!”

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sp; They went; and Dick rose up with a bitter smile. He would have given much, very much, for the privilege of wringing that young whippersnapper’s neck. Yet it was not the boy’s fault; some fate pursued him: there was no place for him — no peace for him — but in the open air.

  A soft midsummer’s night, and an evening breeze that cooled his heated temples with its first sweet breath. Oh, why had he not thought of coming out long ago! He walked up and down the drive, slowly at first, then at speed, as his misery grew upon him, and more times than he could count. The music stopped, began again, and again ceased; it came to him in gusts as he passed close to the front of the conservatory on his beat. At last, when near the house, he fancied he saw a dark motionless figure crouching in the shrubbery that edged the lawn at the eastern angle of the house.

  Dick stopped short in his walk until fancy became certainty; then he crept cautiously towards the figure.

  XII

  “TO-MORROW, AND TO-MORROW, AND TO-MORROW”

  Mr. Miles had written his name no fewer than six times on Alice’s card. On finding this out Alice had resolved to recognise perhaps half these engagements — in any case, no more than should suit her convenience. After her dance with Dick she found it would suit her admirably to recognise them all.

  For Dick had no word of apology or regret; in fact, he did not speak at all. He did not even look sorry; but only hard and cold and bitter. It was not in the power of woman to treat such a man too harshly.

  Alice therefore threw herself into these dances with Miles with a zest which brought about one good result: the mere physical effort gradually allayed the fever of her spirit; with the even, rhythmical motion sufficient peace stole into the heart of the girl to subdue the passionate tumult of many hours. To this tranquillity there presently succeeded the animation inseparable from ardent exercise.

  While the music lasted Alice could scarcely bring herself to pause; she seemed never to tire. Between the dances she spoke little to her partner, but filled her lungs with new breath, and waited impatiently for the striking of a new note; and when the new note sounded she turned to that partner with eyes that may have meant to fill with gratitude, yet seemed to him to glow with something else.

  Once, when he led her from the heated room, she fancied many eyes were upon her. She heard whispers; a murmur scarcely audible; a hum of wonder, of admiration, perhaps of envy. Well, was she not to be admired and envied? Could she not at least compare with the fairest there in looks? Was there one with a foot more light and nimble? And was not this, her partner, the manliest yet most godlike man that ever stooped to grace a ballroom? — and the best dancer into the bargain? — and the most admirable altogether? These questions were asked and answered in one proud upward glance as she swept on his arm through the throng.

  “She never looked so well before,” exclaimed Mrs. Parish, in an ecstatic aside to Colonel Bristo; “so brilliant, so animated, so happy!”

  “I don’t agree with you,” the Colonel answered shortly; and he added, with strange insight in one usually so unobservant: “Alice is not herself to-night.”

  That seemed absurd on the face of it. Who that watched her dancing could have admitted it for a moment? Well, last of all, probably her partner.

  The music burst forth again. The dancers flocked back to the room, Alice and Mr. Miles among them. It was the sixth dance, and their third together.

  Again they were dancing together, the glassy floor seeming to pass beneath their feet without effort of theirs, the music beating like a pulse in the brain. As for Alice, she forgot her partner, she forgot Dick, she forgot the faces that fled before her eyes as she glided, and turned, and skimmed, and circled; she only knew that she was whirling, whirling, and that for awhile her heart was at rest.

  Before the dance was fairly over, Miles led his partner into the conservatory, but said to her: “We will go right through into the open air; it will be so much pleasanter.” And he did not wait her consent either — which was characteristic.

  The smooth lawn leading down to the river was illuminated, and now that it was quite dark it had a very effective appearance, and was a charming resort between the dances. The lawn was bounded on the right by the little inlet which has been mentioned. A rustic bridge crossed this inlet, leading into a meadow, where seven tall poplars, in rigid rank, fronted the river. Without a protest from the girl, Miles led her over the bridge, and across the meadow, and down to the river’s brim, under the shadow of the stately poplars. Most likely she did not heed where they were going; at any rate, they had been there often enough together before — in daylight.

  It was a heavenly night; the pale blue stars were reflected in the black still mirror of the Thames, the endless song of the weir was the only sound that broke the absolute stillness of the meadow. No voices reached them from the house, no strains of music. As though influenced by the night, the two were silent for some minutes; then Alice said lightly:

  “I am glad you brought me out; I was beginning to stifle. What a lovely night! But I thought there would be a moon. When is there a moon, Mr. Miles?”

  No answer but a deep breath, that was half a groan Alice thought. Perhaps she was mistaken. She could not see his face, unless she moved away from him, he was so tall. She repeated the question:

  “I want to know when there will be a moon. It would be so delicious now, if it shot up right over there, to be reflected right down there — but why don’t you speak, Mr. Miles?”

  Still no answer. She drew back a step. He was standing like a monument, tall and rigid, with his hands clasped tightly in front of him and his face turned slightly upward. He seemed unconscious of her presence at his side. Something in his motionless attitude, and the ghastly pallor of his face in the starlight, sent a thrill of vague fear to the heart of Alice. She drew yet a little farther from him, and asked timidly if anything was the matter.

  Slowly he turned and faced her. His head drooped, his shoulders sank forward. She could see little beads glistening on his forehead. His hands loosed each other, and his arms were lifted towards her, only to be snatched back, and folded with a thud upon the breast. There they seemed to sink and fall like logs upon a swollen sea.

  “Matter?” he cried in a low, tremulous voice; then, pausing, “nothing is the matter!” Then in a whisper, “Nothing to tell you — now.”

  A strange coldness overcame Alice — the sense of an injury wrought in her carelessness on the man before her. She tried to speak to him, but could find no words. With a single glance of pity, she turned and fled to the house. He did not follow her.

  So Mrs. Parish had been right, after all; and she, Alice — a dozen names occurred to her which she had heard fastened upon women who sport with men’s hearts to while away an idle month.

  She reached the conservatory, but paused on the stone steps, with a hand lightly laid on the iron balustrade — for the floor-level was some feet above that of the garden-path. The music was in full swing once more, but Alice’s attention was directed to another sound — even, rapid, restless footsteps on the drive. She peered in that direction; for it was possible, from her position on these steps, to see both the river to the left and the lodge-gates far off on the right — in daylight. She had not long to wait. A figure crossed quickly before her, coming from the front of the house: a man — by his dress, one of the guests — and bare-headed. When he first appeared, his back was half-turned to her; as he followed the bend of the drive she saw nothing but his back! then she lost sight of him in the darkness and the shadows of the drive. Presently she heard his steps returning; he was perambulating a beat. Not to be seen by him as he neared the house, Alice softly opened the door and entered the conservatory. It was at that moment quite deserted. She moved noiselessly to the southern angle, hid herself among the plants, and peered through the glass. It was very dark in this corner, and the foliage so thick that there was small chance of her being seen from without. The solitary figure passed below her, on the other side of the glass; it w
as Dick: she had been sure of it.

  She watched him cross and recross twice — thrice; then she trembled violently, and the next time she could not see him distinctly, because tears — tears of pity — had started to her eyes. If a face — haggard, drawn, white as death, hopeless as the grave — if such a face is a sight for tears, then no wonder Alice wept. Was it possible that this was he who landed in England less than a month ago — so gay, so successful, so boyish? He looked years older. The eager light had gone out of his eyes. His step, so buoyant then, was heavy now, though swift with the fever of unrest. He bent forward as he walked, as though under a burden: a month ago he had borne no burden. Was this the man she had loved so wildly long ago — this wreck? Was this the result of trying to rule her heart by her head? Was this, then, her handiwork?

  Her cup to-night was to be filled to overflowing. Even now her heart had gone out in pity to another whom also she had wronged — in pity, but not in love. For here, at last — at this moment — she could see before her but one: the man who had loved her so long and so well; the man who had once held her perfect sun of love — Heaven help her, who held it still!

  A faintness overcame this frail girl. Her frame shook with sobs. She could not see. She leant heavily against the framework of the glass. She must have fallen, but a gentle hand at that moment was thrust under her arm.

  “Oh, fancy finding you here! Your father sent me—” the pleasant voice broke off suddenly, and Alice felt herself caught in strong and tender arms. She looked up and saw Dick’s sister. Her poor beating heart gave one bound, and then her head sank on Fanny’s shoulder.

  Presently she was able to whisper:

  “Take me up-stairs; I am ill. It has been a terrible day for me!”

  Mr. Miles still stood by the river, erect, motionless; his powerful hands joined in front of him in an iron knot, his fine head thrown slightly backward, as though in defiance. At first the thoughts in his mind were vague. Then, very slowly, they began to take shape. A little later his expression was soft and full of hope, and his lips kept repeating inaudibly one word: the word “to-morrow.”