Part 24 (2/2)

In they thronged--young men and maidens--a gay procession through the lawns and quadrangles, feeling the world born anew for them, and for them only, as their fathers and mothers had felt before them.

Falloden and Meyrick, with half a dozen other chosen spirits, met Constance at the entrance and while Mrs. Hooper and Alice followed, pleased against their will by the reflected fame which had fallen upon them also, the young men formed a body-guard round Constance, and escorted her like a queen to the hall.

Sorell, eagerly waiting, watched her entrance into the beautiful and s.p.a.cious room, with its throng of dancers. She came in, radiant, with that aureole of popular favour floating round her, which has so much to do with the loveliness of the young. All the world smiled on her; she smiled in return; and that sarcastic self behind the smile, which Nora's quick sense was so often conscious of, seemed to have vanished. She carried, Sorell saw, a glorious bunch of pale roses. Were they Falloden's gift?

That Douglas Falloden danced with her repeatedly, that they sat out together through most of the supper-dances, that there was a sheltered corner in the illuminated quad, beside the Graeco-Roman fountain which an archaeological warden had given to the college, where, involuntarily, his troubled eyes discovered them more than once:--this at least Sorell knew, and could not help knowing. He saw that she danced twice with Radowitz, and that Falloden stood meanwhile in the doorway of the hall, twisting his black moustache, and chaffing Meyrick, yet all the time with an eye on the ballroom. And during one long disappearance, he found himself guessing that Falloden had taken her to the library for greater seclusion. Only a very few people seemed to know that the fine old room was open.

”Where is Connie?” said poor Mrs. Hooper fretfully--when three o'clock had long struck. ”I can't keep awake!”

And now a midsummer sun was rising over Oxford. The last carriage had rumbled through the streets; the last merry group of black-coated men, and girls in thin shoes and opera-cloaks had vanished. The summer dawn held the whole beautiful and silenced city in its peace.

Constance, in her dressing-gown, sat at the open window, looking out over the dewy garden, and vaguely conscious of its scents as one final touch of sweetness in a whole of pleasure which was still sending its thrill through all her pulses.

At last, she found pen and paper on her writing-table, and wrote an instruction for Annette upon it.

”Please send early for the horses. They should be here at a quarter to nine. Call me at eight. Tell Aunt Ellen that I have gone for a ride, and shall be back by eleven. It was quite a nice ball.”

Then, with a silent laugh at the last words, she took the sheet of paper, stole noiselessly out of her room, and up the stairs to Annette's room, where she pushed the message under the door. Annette had not been well the day before, and Connie had peremptorily forbidden her to sit up.

CHAPTER IX

The day was still young in Lathom Woods. A wood-cutter engaged in cutting coppice on the wood's eastern skirts, hearing deep m.u.f.fled sounds from ”Tom” clock-tower, borne to him from Oxford on the light easterly breeze, stopped to count the strokes.

Ten o'clock.

He straightened himself, wiped the sweat from his brow, and was immediately aware of certain other sounds approaching from the wood itself. Horses--at a walk. No doubt the same gentleman and lady who had pa.s.sed him an hour earlier, going in a contrary direction.

He watched them as they pa.s.sed him again, repeating his reflection that they were a ”fine-lookin' couple”--no doubt sweethearts. What else should bring a young man and a young woman riding in Lathom Woods at that time in the morning? ”Never seed 'em doin' it before, anyways.”

Connie threw the old man a gracious ”Good morning!”--to which he guardedly responded, looking full at her, as he stood leaning on his axe.

”I wonder what the old fellow is thinking about us!” she said lightly, when they had moved forward. Then she flushed, conscious that the remark had been ill-advised.

Falloden, who was sitting erect and rather sombre, his reins lying loosely on his horse's neck, said slowly--

”He is probably thinking all sorts of foolish things, which aren't true.

I wish they were.”

Connie's eyes were s.h.i.+ning with a suppressed excitement.

”He supposes at any rate we have had a good time, and in fact--we haven't. Is that what you mean?”

<script>