Part 27 (1/2)

”No whispering but of leaves, on which the breath Of heaven plays music to the birds that slumber.”

Yet this one sweet bird refuses rest, and, as though one of those ”small foules” that ”slepen alle night with open eye,” sings on courageously amidst the gloom.

Dorian, strolling absently through the walks, and into the shrubberies beyond, listens, and feels some sense of comfort (that has yet with it a touch of pain) creep through him as the nightingale's sweet song smites upon his ear.

Yet this is not the only sound that disturbs the quiet of the night.

Sadly, mournfully, a half-suppressed sob falls upon the air.

Brans...o...b.. starts, and looks round suddenly, but can see nothing. No footsteps make themselves heard. The shrubs are sufficiently thick to conceal the presence of any one, yet it seems to him as if the thought of that sob was born of fancy, and that the earthly owner of it is unborn.

Then some ray from the brilliant moon opens his eyes, and he sees a woman's figure standing in a somewhat disconsolate att.i.tude, with her back against a tall elm, and her eyes fixed wistfully upon the distant windows, through which the lights are streaming, and the pa.s.sing to and fro of the dancing crowd may be distinctly seen.

Dorian, recognizing her, goes quickly up to her and lays his hand upon her shoulder. It is Ruth Annersley!

She stifles a low cry, and, turning to him, grows even a shade paler than she was a moment since.

”Ruth,” says Dorian, ”what on earth brings you here at this hour?”

For a moment she makes him no answer. She raises her hand to brush away the tears that still lie heavily upon her cheeks, and then moves a little away from him, so as to elude his touch.

”I came to see them dancing,” she says, at length, with difficulty; ”I thought it would be a pretty sight; and--it is--I have been so--so pleased.”

The words seem to choke her. With a movement that is terribly pathetic she lays her hand upon her heart; and then Dorian, following the direction her eyes have taken, sees what they see.

In an open window, directly opposite to where they are standing, two figures can be seen in very close proximity to each other. Beyond are the forms of the dancers; the faint sweet strains of the band float out to meet the midnight air; but the two in the window seem lost to all but the fact of their own existence, and that they are together.

At least, so it seems to the onlookers in the shrubberies.

See, now he takes her hand,--the kindly curtain hiding the act from those within; he stoops towards her; the girl leans a little forward; and then Dorian knows them; the man is Horace, and the girl Clarissa Peyton!

Instinctively he glances from them to Ruth. She, too, is leaning forward, her whole attention concentrated upon the picture before her.

Her eyes are wide and miserable, her cheeks pale and haggard.

”You have seen enough of this ball, Ruth,” says Brans...o...b.., very gently. ”Go home now.”

”Yes; enough,--too much,” says the girl, starting into life again. She draws her breath quickly, painfully: her brow contracts. As though unable to resist the movement, she again lays her hand upon her heart, and holds it there, as though in anguish.

”What is it?” asks Dorian. ”Are you in pain? How white you are!”

”I am tired. I have a pain here,” pressing her hand still more closely against her side. ”This morning I felt well and strong--and now----.

My mother died of heart-disease; perhaps I shall die of it too. I think so; I hope so!”

”You are talking very great nonsense,” says Dorian, roughly, though in his soul shocked to the last degree by the girl's manner, which is full of reckless misery. ”n.o.body sees any amus.e.m.e.nt in dying. Come, let me see you home.”

”Oh, no! Please do not come, Mr. Brans...o...b..,” entreats she, so earnestly that he feels she has a meaning in her words. ”I have the key of the small gate, and can run home in five minutes once I pa.s.s that.”

”Then at least I shall see you safely as far as the gate,” says Brans...o...b.., who is tender and gentle in his manner to all women.

Silently they walk through the damp night gra.s.s, neither speaking, until, coming to a curve in the way, she breaks silence.