Part 27 (2/2)
”How beautiful Miss Peyton looks to-night,” she says, in a tone impossible to translate.
”Very,” says Dorian, unkindly, yet with very kindly intent. ”But then she is always one of the most beautiful women I know.”
”Is she--very much admired?”--this rather timidly.
”One can understand that at once,” says Dorian, quietly. ”Both her face and figure are perfect.” As he says this, quite calmly, his heart bleeds for the girl beside him.
”Who has she been dancing most with?” Eagerly, almost painfully, this question is put. The utter simplicity of it touches Dorian to his heart's core.
”With my brother, of course. She--she would not care to dance very much with any one else now, on account of her engagement.”
”Her engagement?”
”Yes. She is to be married to my brother some time next year.”
He hates himself bitterly as he says this: but something within him compels him to the cruel deed, if only through pity for the girl who walks beside him.
They are now within the shade of trees, and he cannot see her face; though in very truth, if he could have seen it at this moment, he would not have looked at it. No word escapes her; she walks on steadily, as though actually made strong by the receiving of the blow.
Dorian would gladly believe that her silence means indifference; but to-night has forced a truth upon him that for months he has determinedly put behind him. Her tears, her agitation, the agony that shone in her eyes as she fixed them upon Horace's form in the window, have betrayed only too surely the secret she would so gladly hide.
She makes no further attempt at conversation, and, when they come to the little iron gate that leads on to the road, would have pa.s.sed through, and gone on her homeward way mechanically, without bidding him even good-night, as if (which is indeed the case) she has forgotten the very fact of his near presence.
But he cannot let her go without a word.
”Good-night,” he says, very kindly, his tone warmer because of his pity for her. ”Take care of yourself. Are you sure you do not fear going alone?”
”Yes.” Her voice is low, and sounds strange, even in her own ears.
”Wrap your shawl more closely round you. The night is cold. Is the pain in your side better?”
”Yes,”--almost regretfully.
”That is right. Well, good-by. I shall stand here until I see you have safely turned the corner; then I shall know you are out of all danger.” He has been holding her hand somewhat anxiously all this time, not quite liking the strained expression in her face. Now he presses it, and then drops it gently.
”Good-night,” returns she, slowly, and then turns away from him, never remembering to thank him for his kindness,--hardly, indeed, conscious of having spoken the farewell word.
Her brain seems on fire; her body cold as death. Oh, to be in her own room, free from all watching eyes, where she can fling herself upon the ground, and moan and cry aloud against her fate, with only the friendly darkness to overhear her! She hurries rapidly onward, and soon the corner hides her from sight.
Dorian, when she has safely pa.s.sed the spot agreed upon, goes back once more in the direction of the house. He has hardly, however, gone two hundred yards, when the voice of his uncle, Lord Sartoris, calling to him through the gloom, stays his steps, and rouses him from the painful revery into which he is fast falling.
”Who were you parting with at the gate?” asks Lord Sartoris, in so unusual a tone that Dorian looks at him in some surprise. He is a little sorry, for reasons that do not touch himself, that the question should have been asked at all.
”Ruth Annersley,” he answers, without hesitation, feeling that any prevarication at this moment will only make matters worse for the unhappy girl. May not Arthur have seen and known her?
”Ruth Annersley?”
”Yes. You will, of course, say nothing about it. She was foolish enough to wish to see a few people dancing, so came here, and, standing among the shrubs, obtained her wish,--which, no doubt, proved as satisfactory as most of our desires, when gained.”
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