Part 48 (1/2)
”You have no right to ask me whom I mean to marry! I am not going to marry you, at least!”
”A clergyman. A man in petticoats! Well, I must say”--
She drew herself up to her full height, looking at him with anger and excitement in her heart so great that they seemed to choke her.
”Do you see this?” she asked, holding up the little mask dangling from her finger. ”I fastened this to his ca.s.sock to-night. I insulted him in the sight of everybody. Does that look as if”--
”Is that the same mask?” broke in Stanford. ”You begged it of me afterward!”
She could not command her voice to reply. Shame, grief, indignation, struggled in her heart; yet her strongest conscious feeling was a determination that the tears in her eyes should not fall. She slipped past him, and moved toward the ball-room. With a quick step he gained her side.
”I beg your pardon,” he said contritely. ”I didn't mean to hurt you.
You used to be nice to me, but lately”--
She mastered herself by a strong effort. She was fully aware that there were too many curious eyes about her to make any demonstration safe.
”Let me take your arm,” she answered. ”Folks are watching. We need not make a spectacle of ourselves. I haven't meant to treat you badly. A girl never knows how a man is going to take things, and I only meant to be pleasant. As soon as you began to show that you were in earnest”--
She was so conscious that her words were not entirely frank that she instinctively hesitated.
”I have always been in earnest,” interpolated he.
”But you will get over it,” murmured she, desperately.
They had come to a group of palms, where they paused to let a bevy of dancers pa.s.s.
”Do you really mean,” Stanford asked, in a hard voice, ”that there is really no hope for me?”
”There is no hope that I shall ever feel differently about this.”
”Then I shall certainly get over it,” returned he with a touch of anger in his voice. ”I don't propose to go through life wearing the willow for anybody.”
She raised to his her eyes s.h.i.+ning with shy but irresistible light.
”Ah,” she half whispered, ”that is the difference. I know he wouldn't get over it.”
”He!”
The monosyllable brought to her an overwhelming sense of the confession which her words had carried. She pressed the arm upon which her finger-tips rested.
”I have trusted you,” she whispered hurriedly. ”Be generous. Ah, Mr.
Van Sandt,” she went on aloud, ”I hope you didn't think I had deserted you. Mr. Stanford found me incapable of dancing, and had to revive me with bouillon.”
XXIX
WEIGHING DELIGHT AND DOLE Hamlet, i. 2.
Strangely enough the thought which most strongly impressed Maurice Wynne on the morning following the Mardi Gras ball was the simplicity of life. He had heard in the early dawn the bell for rising; he had started up, then upon his elbow realized that he had freed himself from its tyranny. He had slidden back into his warm place, smiling to himself, and fallen into a sleep as quiet as that of a child. About eight he was roused by a brother sent to see if he was ill, his absence from early ma.s.s having been noted. Maurice sent the messenger away with the explanation that having been out to the midnight service he had slept late; then, being left alone, he made his toilet with deliberation. He seemed to himself a new man. There appeared to be no longer any difficulty in life. He reflected that one had but to follow common sense, to live sincerely up to what commended itself to his reason, and existence became wonderfully simplified. He no longer experienced any of the confusing doubts and perplexities which had of late made him so thoroughly miserable.