Part 25 (1/2)
He detained me gently.
How specious he was--how blind was I! He had ”been studying me for weeks;” from the first moment we met, he ”had been deeply interested in me. He had perceived the shade that an early sorrow had cast round me, and had come to ask Lady Amabel if there was no hope for _him_; he would not press the question on me now, it would be unkind.”
I believed that he felt for me from his soul; that he _would_ have ”given worlds for a _look_ which would bid him not quite despair; but this was not the time to a.s.sail me. He knew I had pride; it was blinded now, but the mist would clear away, the scales would fall from my eyes.
I should do him justice; he grieved that the world should have dared to tamper with my name--.” He quite frightened me as he said this. I was oppressed with a sense of bitterness and wrong, against which I was powerless; but here was one who seemed disposed to do me justice. I wished to do right. Lady Amabel would have been all kindness had I unburdened my full heart to her, but she would not have understood me; she would have proposed a ride or a drive, or a fete, or might have sent for Clarence, to scold him. Ah me! I had not a friend at hand who could give me good advice; and here sat this clever experienced, silver-tongued man, offering me his sympathy, and teaching me to believe he was the only one near me who could feel for me--who had, in fact, any real regard for me; and this regard was offered so humbly that I had not a word to say against the expression of it. On the one hand was Clarence Fairfax, reckless of my affection, ignoring it indeed, and, as Lyle remarked, with indignation he protested he could not suppress, ”insulting me publicly, by doing homage before my face to a shameless woman, whose triumph was the greater in that she had drawn this infatuated young man from one so lovely and pure-hearted as myself.”
My tears rained down upon the work-table on which he leaned, contemplating me with an expression of compa.s.sion new to me, yet not unpleasing.
I began to think I had found a friend.
More company on that evening! I longed to return to the quiet of home; but unavoidable delays kept me back. We were to leave Newlands for Cape Town next day. An irresistible impulse seized me--I stole out at dusk, to take a last look at the Grove. I walked swiftly through the avenues, ascended the mound, and went to our old accustomed seat under the plane-tree.
The darkness and the silence that prevailed were in accordance with the gloom that hung over my soul.
At last I bade adieu for ever to this spot, so painfully dear to me. I descended to the avenue. A tall figure approached me--it was Lyle's--”I thought,” said he, ”that I should find you here; but be not alarmed, I shall not return with you. I recognised your figure leaving the house, and came to prepare you for meeting with Mrs Rashleigh to-night; she is to be among the guests. Lady Amabel's position with regard to this woman is most difficult--but a crisis is at hand; Fairfax is completely in her toils--an _esclandre_ must take place soon. I beseech you do not add to this bad woman's triumph to-night by that heart-broken demeanour which you have lately worn. Ah! Miss Daveney, I shall look for your _entree_ with an anxious eye and beating heart. Pardon my presumption in thus intruding on you, but my interest in your happiness must be my excuse.”
He took my hand in his, but dropped it immediately, with a sigh; and, lifting his hat, disappeared in an avenue.
I went to Lady Amabel's dressing-room. I had not the courage to enter the saloons alone. I need not have been afraid. Clarence was not there when I joined the circle; but I felt as if all the guests were looking at me. I condemned myself for the next few hours to wear ”That falsest of false things, a mask of smiles.”
Lyle's eye met mine--it seemed to haunt me.
It was an _alfresco_ fete. The heat of the season was over, but the nights were soft and mild. One of the long arcades was enclosed, and lit with variegated lamps; a brilliant moon illuminated the lime-groves; every arrangement was made to conduce to the splendour and pleasure of the scene.
I could not stand up to dance. My knees trembled, my teeth chattered, and I felt my lips turn pale as Clarence Fairfax drew near with Mrs Rashleigh. I could not look at her; she was laughing and talking in her usual bold strain, and answering for Clarence questions that were addressed to himself. He saw me not, though he cast himself beside me on the couch--his sash streamed over my dress, his sword rested against my hand, his spur touched my foot. I withdrew it quickly, and moved aside; he begged my pardon for incommoding me. I turned to him to bow, and the crimson tide flushed that fine face. He started up nervously.
Mrs Rashleigh rose, too, took his arm, and led him off. She named me to him in my hearing. I heard him say, ”Hus.h.!.+ Anna, for mercy's sake; don't remind me of my misdeed.”
”Anna!”--they were indeed on very familiar terms.
She was robed imperially that evening, and looked wonderfully youthful.
Whispers pa.s.sed from lip to lip, as she and Clarence pa.s.sed up the apartment, and went out into the lime-grove. Others were following them. I sat, trying to talk to Lyle, and smiling vacantly at the polite recognitions of some of the guests.
Lady Amabel came up to me. ”My dear child,” said she, ”you look quite ill--come into the air. Mr Lyle, give Miss Daveney your arm.”
But I begged to withdraw for a little while, and Lady Amabel excused me.
The library was the only room unoccupied on this festal night. A single lamp stood on the table. The windows of this room opened to that dark walk overshadowed by the mountain. Here there were no illuminations--no crowd of dancers. I extinguished the lamp, and sat down by the open window.
Two figures were walking slowly up and down the avenue. They stepped a few paces beyond the shadow of the mountain, into the moonlit path. It was Mrs Rashleigh and Clarence Fairfax. She was talking vehemently; he was entreating her to be calm.
I sat, transfixed; had a voice from the grave summoned me, I could not have obeyed.
She was reproaching him for some imagined neglect. He told her that she fancied it. Now her tones were those of pa.s.sion, vehement and imperious; he implored her, for her own sake, to restrain her wrath.
It is impossible to relate to you all I saw and heard, as, statue-like, I leaned against the window--bitter imprecations were heaped on my own head. Clarence would have burst from her at this, but she cast herself upon his bosom, and clung there, pouring forth the most pa.s.sionate expressions of love and regret. ”Would he desert her? She should die!