Volume Iii Part 24 (1/2)

”And yet I know for certain that she was a martyr to podagra all last summer, and could hardly hobble from the Rooms to her chair when she was at the Bath,” whispered Lady Bolingbroke to Mrs. Asterley.

They all trooped out into the great oak-panelled hall, and a country dance was arranged in a trice, Durnford and Irene leading, as married lovers, who might be forgiven if they were still silly enough to like dancing with each other. Lavendale and Judith sat in the chimney-corner and looked on. The tall eight-day clock was opposite to them, and he looked up now and then at the hands.

Twenty minutes past twelve.

”We've jockeyed the ghost, I think,” whispered Bolingbroke to Durnford, in a pause of the dance. ”See how much better and brighter Lavendale looks. He was ready to expire of his own sick fancy. To cure that was to cure him.”

Never had Lavendale felt happier. Yes, he told himself, he had been deceived by his own imagination. Remorse or unquiet love had conjured up the vision, had evoked the warning. 'Twas well if it had won him to repent the past, to think more seriously of the future. The solemn thoughts engendered of that strange experience had confirmed him in his desire to lead a better life. It was well, altogether well with him, as he sat by Judith's side in the ruddy fire-glow, and watched the moving figures in the dance, the long line of undulating forms, the lifted arms and bended necks, the graceful play of curving throats and slender waists, light talk and laughter blending with the music in _sotto voce_ accompaniment. Even Lady Polwhele looked to advantage in a country dance. She had been taught by a famous French master at a time when dancing was a fine art, and she had all the stately graces and graceful freedoms of the highest school.

Yes, it was a pretty sight, Lavendale thought, a prodigiously pleasant sight; but it all had a dream-like air, as everything seemed to have to-night. Even Judith's face as he gazed at it had the look of a face in a dream. There was an unreality about all things that he looked upon.

Indeed, nothing in his life had seemed real since that vision and that mystic voice in the winter dusk last night.

Suddenly those tripping figures reeled and rocked as he gazed at them, and then the perspective of the hall seemed to lengthen out into infinite distance, and then a veil of semi-darkness swept over all things, and he staggered to his feet.

”Air, air! I am choking!” he cried hoa.r.s.ely.

That hoa.r.s.e strange cry stopped the dance as by the stroke of an enchanter's wand. Bolingbroke ran to the hall-door, and threw it wide open. A rush of cold air streamed into the hall, and blew that darkening veil off the picture.

”Thank G.o.d,” said Lavendale, ”I can breathe again! Pray pardon me, ladies, and go on with your dance,” he added courteously; and then, half-leaning upon Bolingbroke, he walked slowly out to the terrace in front of the porch, Judith accompanying him.

Here he sat upon a stone bench, and the cool still night restored all his senses.

”I am well now, my dear friend,” he said to Bolingbroke; ”'twas only a pa.s.sing faintness. The fumes of the log fire stupefied me.”

”And here you will catch a consumption, if you sit in this cold air,”

returned his friend, while Judith hung over him with a white scared face, full of keenest anxiety.

”It is not cold, but if you are afraid of your gout--”

”I am, my dear Lavendale, so I will leave Lady Judith to take care of you for a few minutes--I urgently advise you to stay no longer than that. Are you sure you are quite recovered?”

”Quite recovered. Infinitely happy,” murmured Lavendale, in a dreamy voice, with his hand in Judith's, looking up at her as she stood by his side.

Bolingbroke left them discreetly. To the old intriguer it seemed the most natural thing in the world to leave those two alone together.

”How fond they are of each other!” he said to himself; ”'tis a pity poor Lavendale is so marked for death. And yet perhaps he may live long enough for them to get tired of each other; so short a time is sometimes long enough for satiety.”

”My beloved, a few minutes ago I thought I was dying,” said Lavendale, in a low voice. ”Had that deadly swooning come about an hour earlier, I should have said to myself, 'This is the stroke of death.'”

”Why, dearest love?”

”Because it has been prophesied to me that I should die at midnight.”

”Idle prophecy. Midnight is past, and we are here, you and I together, happy in each other's love,” said Judith.

”You are trembling in every limb!”