Gwen Wynn Part 31

It is not the first occasion for him to have observed familiarities between her and the son of Sir George Shenstone; trifling, it is true, but which gave him uneasiness. But to-night things have been more serious, and the pain caused him all-imbuing and bitter.

He does not reflect how he has been himself behaving. For to none more than the jealous lover is the big beam un.o.bservable, while the little mote is sharply descried. He only thinks of her ill-behaviour, ignoring his own. If she has been but dissembling, coquetting with him, even that were reprehensible. Heartless, he deems it--sinister--something more, an indiscretion. Flirting while engaged--what might she do when married?

He does not wrong her by such direct self-interrogation. The suspicion were unworthy of himself, as of her; and as yet he has not given way to it. Still her conduct seems inexcusable, as inexplicable; and to get explanation of it he now tarries, while others are hastening away.

Not resolutely. Besides the half-sad, half-indignant expression upon his countenance, there is also one of indecision. He is debating within himself what course to pursue, and whether he will go off without bidding her good-bye. He is almost mad enough to be ill-mannered; and possibly, were it only a question of politeness, he would not stand upon, or be stayed by, it. But there is more. The very same spiteful rage hinders him from going. He thinks himself aggrieved, and, therefore, justifiable in demanding to know the reason--to use a slang, but familiar phrase "having it out."

Just as he has reached this determination, an opportunity is offered him. Having taken leave of Miss Linton, he has returned to the door, where he stands hat in hand, his overcoat already on. Miss Wynn is now also there, bidding good-night to some guests--intimate friends--who have remained till the last. As they move off, he approaches her; she, as if unconsciously, and by the merest chance, lingering near the entrance. It is all pretence on her part, that she has not seen him dallying about; for she has several times, while giving _conge_ to others of the company. Equally feigned her surprise, as she returns his salute, saying,--

"Why, Captain Ryecroft! I supposed you were gone long ago!"

"I am sorry, Miss Wynn, you should think me capable of such rudeness."

"Captain Ryecroft" and "Miss Wynn," instead of "Vivian" and "Gwen"! It is a bad beginning, ominous of a worse ending.

The rejoinder, almost a rebuke, places her at a disadvantage, and she says rather confusedly--

"Oh! certainly not, sir. But where there are so many people, of course one does not look for the formalities of leave-taking."

"True; and, availing myself of that, I might have been gone long since, as you supposed, but for----"

"For what?"

"A word I wish to speak with you--alone. Can I?"

"Oh, certainly."

"Not here?" he asks suggestingly.

She glances around. There are servants hurrying about through the hall, crossing and recrossing, with the musicians coming forth from the dining-room, where they have been making a clearance of the cold fowl, ham, and heel-taps.

With quick intelligence comprehending, but without further speech, she walks out into the portico, he preceding. Not to remain there, where eyes would still be on them, and ears within hearing. She has an Indian shawl upon her arm--throughout the night carried while promenading--and again throwing it over her shoulders, she steps down upon the gravelled sweep, and on into the grounds.

Side by side they proceed in the direction of the summer-house, as many times before, though never in the same mood as now; and never, as now, so constrained and silent--for not a word pa.s.ses between them till they reach the pavilion.

There is light in it. But a few hundred yards from the house, it came in for part of the illumination, and its lamps are not yet extinguished--only burning feebly.

She is the first to enter--he to resume speech, saying,--

"There was a day, Miss Wynn, when, standing on this spot, I thought myself the happiest man in Herefordshire. Now I know it was but a fancy--a sorry hallucination."

"I do not understand you, Captain Ryecroft!"

"Oh, yes, you do. Pardon my contradicting you; you've given me reason."

"Indeed! In what way? I beg, nay, demand, explanation."

"You shall have it; though superfluous, I should think, after what has been pa.s.sing--this night especially."

"Oh! this night especially! I supposed you so much engaged with Miss Powell as not to have noticed anything or anybody else. What was it, pray?"

"You understand, I take it, without need of my entering into particulars."

"Indeed, I don't--unless you refer to my dancing with George Shenstone."

"More than dancing with him--keeping his company all through!"

"Not strange that, seeing I was left so free to keep it! Besides, as I suppose you know, his father was my father's oldest and most intimate friend."

She makes this avowal condescendingly, observing he is really vexed, and thinking the game of contraries has gone far enough. He has given her a sight of his cards, and with the quick, subtle instinct of woman, she sees that among them Miss Powell is no longer chief trump. Were his perception as keen as hers, their jealous conflict would now come to a close, and between them confidence and friendship, stronger than ever, be restored.

Unfortunately it is not to be. Still miscomprehending, yet unyielding, he rejoins sneeringly,--

"And I suppose your father's daughter is determined to continue that intimacy with his father's son, which might not be so very pleasant to him who should be your husband! Had I thought of that when I placed a ring upon your finger----"

Before he can finish, she has plucked it off, and, drawing herself up to full height, says in bitter retort,--

"You insult me, sir! Take it back!"

With the words, the gemmed circlet is flung upon the little rustic table, from which it rolls off.

He has not been prepared for such abrupt issue, though his rude speech tempted it. Somewhat sorry, but still too exasperated to confess or show it, he rejoins defiantly,--

"If you wish it to end so, let it!"

"Yes; let it!"

They part without further speech. He, being nearest the door, goes out first, taking no heed of the diamond cl.u.s.ter which lies sparkling upon the floor.

Neither does she touch, or think of it. Were it the Koh-i-noor, she would not care for it now. A jewel more precious--the one love of her life--is lost, cruelly crushed--and, with heart all but breaking, she sinks down upon the bench, draws the shawl over her face, and weeps till its rich silken tissue is saturated with her tears.

The wild spasm pa.s.sed, she rises to her feet, and stands leaning upon the bal.u.s.ter rail, looking out and listening. Still dark, she sees nothing, but hears the stroke of a boat's oars in measured and regular repet.i.tion--listens on till the sound becomes indistinct, blending with the sough of the river, the sighing of the breeze, and the natural voices of the night.

She may never hear _his_ voice, never look on his face again!

At the thought she exclaims, in anguished accent, "This the ending! It is too----"

What she designed saying is not said. Her interrupted words are continued into a shriek--one wild cry--then her lips are sealed, suddenly, as if stricken dumb, or dead!

Not by the visitation of G.o.d. Before losing consciousness, she felt the embrace of brawny arms--knew herself the victim of man's violence.

CHAPTER x.x.x.

STUNNED AND SILENT.