CHAPTER X.
AT LADY GAYNOR’S BALL.
A month had passed, and the world was beginning to forget that such a person as Sir Harold Annesley had ever existed.
His man of business had closed the park, and dismissed half the servants, and it was the general belief that the eccentric young baronet was masquerading abroad. His actions had been strongly condemned; and many leaders of fashion decided to close their doors to him when he did return home again.
“This wearing of the willow must end,” the Earl of Seabright said to his daughter one morning. “Where is your pride, Elaine? Do you not see that you are an object of pity among the servants and one of contempt among your equals?”
“I do not care for either pity or contempt, papa,” she replied, listlessly.
“But I do!” was the angry retort.
“I do not see how it can affect you, papa.”
“You do not see!” he cried, in surprise. “Great Heavens, are you bereft of common sense? What man will care to marry a woman who is fretting after a lover who shamelessly jilted her?”
“My lover will come back to me,” replied Elaine. “I can marry no other man.”
“Where is your self-respect?” he demanded, furiously. “Your lover will never come back to you! Can you not see through his shallow trick? At least, you must appear in society. I will not have this moping away in dark rooms. Here is an invitation to Lady Gaynor’s ball. Youmust be there, if only to end the silly gossip about broken hearts. Pshaw, I have no sympathy with such nonsense!”
“If it is your desire, papa, I will accept the invitation,” Lady Elaine said, calmly; “but I shall find no pleasure at Lady Gaynor’s ball.”
The earl was satisfied that he had gained his point so far.
“She will soon forget the fellow in the excitement of pleasure. If necessary, I will take her abroad,” he thought.
Two days later Miss Nugent came and kissed Lady Elaine with a great show of affection.
The one subject was the ball and the dresses they were to wear. Lady Elaine treated the whole thing in a listless, apathetic manner.
“I have no special choice,” she said; “I shall leave the selection to my maid. I have no one to please.”
“My dear Elaine, how ridiculous you are,” exclaimed Margaret Nugent. “You know that the viscount adores you.”
“Silence!” the earl’s daughter said, sternly. “How can you speak in that way—you, who know all?”
“It is that very knowledge that makes me speak,” Miss Nugent replied, steadily. “It is that very knowledge that makes me speak, Lady Elaine. You are wasting your life for a man who never cared for you. He confessed to me that it was merely the infatuation of a moment. I dared not tell you so before. These creatures of poetic fancy are never to be trusted wholly. Sir Harold has ever been eccentric and quixotic; he has ever been afflicted with some new craze at which hard-hearted, sober-minded men have smiled. I believe that for a little while he worshiped you as the perfect embodiment of some cherished ideal; but the instant he realized that you were only human, his so-called love changed to actual dislike.”
Lady Elaine had become deadly pale.
“And do you expect me to listen to you, Margaret Nugent—to believe you?” she asked.
“Before Heaven, I swear that I am telling you simple truth, Lady Elaine! My cousin never really loved you as men are supposed to love women, and soon regretted the tangle he had woven about himself. To escape it, he stooped to trickery and dishonor. I alone am in his confidence. I alone know where he is wandering again. I have had a letter from him this very day. Even if you hate me for it, it is my duty to tell you the truth.”
“Heaven help me!” moaned Elaine. “I have given him my love—the love of my life—and I can never change! I worship the king of my dreams, not the wretched creature of clay that he has proved himself to be! And, now that I know the worst, I will school myself to wear a smile, though my heart is broken!”
It never occurred to her to doubt Miss Nugent’s words. Margaret had always been her friend, and there was no earthly reason why she should deceive her. Besides, everything pointed to the truth of the statement, and the mystery about Sir Harold was partly cleared away.
At Lady Gaynor’s ball she appeared to be one of the gayest of the gay, and my lord of Seabright was delighted.
“She has sense and pride, after all,” he thought. “Being a Seabright, it could not well be otherwise.”
She danced with several eligible men, but Viscount Rivington was the most favored of all, and his eyes burnt with triumph.
“The earl has told me to go in for rapid conquest,” he thought. “Hearts are easily caught in the rebound.”
He led Lady Elaine from the heated ballroom, and, seated in a conservatory, they listened to the singing of one of the lady guests:
“No, not more welcome the fairy numbersOf music fall on the sleeper’s earWhen, half awake from fearful slumbers,He thinks the full choir of heaven is near—Then came that voice, when, all forsaken,This heart long had sleeping lain,Nor thought its cold pulse would ever wakenTo such benign, blessed sounds again!“Sweet voice of comfort! ’Twas like the stealingOf summer wind thro’ some wreathed shell—Each secret winding, each inmost feelingOf my soul echoed to its spell!’Twas whispered balm! ’Twas sunshine spoken!I’d live years of grief and painTo have my long sleep of sorrow brokenBy such benign, blessed sounds again!”
“No, not more welcome the fairy numbersOf music fall on the sleeper’s earWhen, half awake from fearful slumbers,He thinks the full choir of heaven is near—Then came that voice, when, all forsaken,This heart long had sleeping lain,Nor thought its cold pulse would ever wakenTo such benign, blessed sounds again!“Sweet voice of comfort! ’Twas like the stealingOf summer wind thro’ some wreathed shell—Each secret winding, each inmost feelingOf my soul echoed to its spell!’Twas whispered balm! ’Twas sunshine spoken!I’d live years of grief and painTo have my long sleep of sorrow brokenBy such benign, blessed sounds again!”
“No, not more welcome the fairy numbersOf music fall on the sleeper’s earWhen, half awake from fearful slumbers,He thinks the full choir of heaven is near—Then came that voice, when, all forsaken,This heart long had sleeping lain,Nor thought its cold pulse would ever wakenTo such benign, blessed sounds again!
“No, not more welcome the fairy numbers
Of music fall on the sleeper’s ear
When, half awake from fearful slumbers,
He thinks the full choir of heaven is near—
Then came that voice, when, all forsaken,
This heart long had sleeping lain,
Nor thought its cold pulse would ever waken
To such benign, blessed sounds again!
“Sweet voice of comfort! ’Twas like the stealingOf summer wind thro’ some wreathed shell—Each secret winding, each inmost feelingOf my soul echoed to its spell!’Twas whispered balm! ’Twas sunshine spoken!I’d live years of grief and painTo have my long sleep of sorrow brokenBy such benign, blessed sounds again!”
“Sweet voice of comfort! ’Twas like the stealing
Of summer wind thro’ some wreathed shell—
Each secret winding, each inmost feeling
Of my soul echoed to its spell!
’Twas whispered balm! ’Twas sunshine spoken!
I’d live years of grief and pain
To have my long sleep of sorrow broken
By such benign, blessed sounds again!”
“Beautiful words,” Lady Elaine murmured, dreamily, “and beautifully rendered!”
Viscount Rivington only dimly comprehended her remark. His whole being was on fire with love.
He made no reply, but snatched her to him in a frenzy of passion.
For a moment Lady Elaine was so overcome with astonishment that she could make no resistance. His action had been so unexpected, so sudden, that she felt herself clasped in his arms before she realized what had happened. Brief as the scene was, it had not escaped the watchful eyes of Margaret Nugent, and she retired with the feelings of a victor.
She encountered the Earl of Seabright a dozen steps away, and he looked about him eagerly.
“Miss Nugent, have you seen Lady Elaine?” he asked.
“Yes, my lord,” she smiled. “I would not advise you to interrupt a very interestingtête-à-tête.”
He grasped one of her wrists and looked straight into her eyes.
“Is Viscount Rivington with my daughter?” he demanded.
“I have just seen Lady Elaine in the viscount’s arms,” replied Miss Nugent, with a light laugh. “Not very flattering to my absent cousin, but girls’ hearts are not made to break.”
The earl was delighted, and the two went away, Miss Nugent to impart the news to an aristocratic scandalmonger, who added to her income by writing sensational paragraphs for a certain unscrupulous society paper, and the earl to excuse Lady Elaine’s absence to Colonel Greyson, who had only recently arrived, and had made an inquiry for her.
“My dear colonel,” he said, “I am sorry to disappoint you, but I do not think that my daughter would welcome your presence just now.”
“I am of a different opinion,” Colonel Greyson said, stoutly. “You and I, my lord, will never agree upon one point. What that is you know only too well.”
“I have no desire to discuss the matter,” the earl replied, “and I do not thank you for interfering in what is purely a family matter. As I told you recently, I never wish to hear the name of Sir Harold Annesley again. My dear colonel, if Lady Gaynor knew that you had followed me here to-night, of all nights, for the express purpose of annoying me, you would incur her severe displeasure.”
“I have brought news for Lady Elaine,” the colonel said. “I have no wish to annoy you, Lord Seabright, or any of Lady Gaynor’s guests. I bring hope to a breaking heart, and I intend seeing your daughter before I leave to-night.”
The earl laughed harshly.
“You must see her, certainly, if you are determined to do so; but I warn you that Lady Elaine does not wish tosee you or hear from you again. In brief, she has this very day accepted Viscount Rivington for her future husband.”
The colonel’s face became fiery red, but further words were checked by the appearance of Margaret Nugent.
“Miss Nugent will verify my statement,” the earl said, carelessly. “As the affianced wife of Viscount Rivington, my daughter cannot wish to be bothered by news of a recreant lover. It is very bad taste upon your part, colonel, to make yourself a meddlesome busybody.”
He turned coldly and walked away.
“Is this true?” asked Colonel Greyson, turning to Miss Nugent.
“It is,” she replied, pale to the lips. “I myself witnessed the viscount’s declaration; I saw her ladyship in his arms.”
“Then my faith in woman’s constancy is forever shattered,” he said. “Good-by, Margaret. It is perhaps better that he should never know.”
“He? To whom do you refer?”
“To Sir Harold. My detective has found him. He is well in health, but for the present his mind is a wreck. I came here like a happy schoolboy, and go away the most miserable and disappointed of men. I would have staked my life on the constancy of Lady Elaine Seabright.”
Miss Nugent was painfully agitated. There was an unnatural fire in her eyes.
“So my cousin is back!” she whispered, her whole frame quivering with excitement. “You must come and see us to-morrow, colonel; my mother and I will be glad to see you. It is best for you not to remain here longer. I can understand the shock of your disappointment, but your pity for the earl’s daughter is wasted. I have always known this. You men cannot divine the depth ofour sex as a woman can. Lady Elaine is tender and loving, but her character lacks strength. Knowing Sir Harold as I do, the escape from this marriage is a most fortunate thing for him, for he would have found out, sooner or later, that his wife was little better than a doll. You wonder that I should speak so strongly? I cannot help it when I realize how quickly and easily my poor cousin has been forgotten by the woman who may have ruined his whole life. The earl’s daughter and I have had bitter words this very evening. I do not think that we can ever be friendly again. She told me calmly of her engagement to Viscount Rivington, and at the same time was wearing the ring that Sir Harold gave her. She spoke of him so lightly that I became angry, and both have uttered things that may never be forgotten.”
She accompanied him to the door, fearful lest anything might happen even now to turn the tide against her. She longed to ask him questions concerning her cousin, but dared not.
As they paused for a moment in the hall, he saw Lady Elaine and Viscount Rivington enter the ballroom from another doorway. What further proof did he require that all he had heard was indeed true?
“Good-by, Margaret,” he said. “You shall hear the whole pitiful story in a day or two. Sir Harold is in no danger, but his mind concerning the past is blank. He does not know even me. He does not remember Lady Elaine, and now I believe it is better so. I have been cherishing some pet schemes for trying to restore his memory, but now all is over.”
He went away, cursing at the frailty of women, and Miss Nugent thanked Heaven when he was gone.
“It is hard to believe,” she thought, “that Elaine would so soon succumb to the pleadings of the viscount, but didI not see her clasped to his bosom with my own eyes? I must find out what it all means.”
Had she waited one moment longer, when she was spying upon the viscount and Lady Elaine, how different would her feelings have been!
Recovering from her astonished bewilderment, Elaine had pushed her suitor indignantly aside, a flash of loathing and disgust in her eyes.
“How dare you?” she panted. “How dare you take advantage of me in so cowardly a manner? I hate and despise you for it!”
Rivington fell back aghast. He had not expected this. In his first flush of triumph he believed that she accepted his embraces willingly.
“Lady Elaine,” he said, “what harm have I done you? I offer you the fond love of an honest heart. I have never loved any woman but you, and fancied that the reward of my patience and hope was at hand. Forgive me if I have been mistaken.”
He spoke so penitently that she felt sorry for her harsh words.
“Viscount, I thought that it was a settled thing between us that I have no love to give any man now,” she said, sorrowfully. “I shall never marry, and this talk of love cuts me to the soul! If you value my friendship, you will never hint at love again. My heart is dead to all other but the love that is past.”
He knew not what to say to this, and paced the floor in angry disappointment.
“I cannot live without you, Lady Elaine!” he said, at last. “I have loved you for two years. I can wait for years longer if you will but give me one spark of hope.”
She shook her head mournfully.
“You will forget what is gone,” he went on, desperately. “Time will heal the wound——”
“You must not continue in this strain,” she interrupted, sadly but firmly, “if we are to be friends. I can give you no hope, Viscount Rivington. Even if I had never met my lover, who is dead, I could not have cared for you—only as a—a friend—as my father’s guest. I can never love again, and once more I warn you that if you do not put this vain and useless desire away from you I will not speak to you or recognize you any more.”
He bowed his head in silence. In his heart he was a raging demon. He told himself that he would never give her up.
They passed through the ballroom together, and my Lord of Seabright watched them with glances of approval.
Lady Elaine escaped to her apartments and retired for the night, while Viscount Rivington and Margaret Nugent conversed in the open air.
Two days later the following announcement appeared in a society paper:
We have pleasure in being able to inform our readers that the famous beauty, Lady Elaine Seabright, and Viscount Henry Rivington have become engaged. The match is suitable in every way, and gives unbounded satisfaction to both families. It will be remembered that the Earl of Seabright’s beautiful daughter was to have been married to Sir Harold Annesley, of Annesley Park, who recently disappeared in so mysterious a manner. Poor fellow! He is gone!N’importe!Off with the old love and on with the new. Such is life! We offer the happy couple our sincere congratulations.
We have pleasure in being able to inform our readers that the famous beauty, Lady Elaine Seabright, and Viscount Henry Rivington have become engaged. The match is suitable in every way, and gives unbounded satisfaction to both families. It will be remembered that the Earl of Seabright’s beautiful daughter was to have been married to Sir Harold Annesley, of Annesley Park, who recently disappeared in so mysterious a manner. Poor fellow! He is gone!N’importe!Off with the old love and on with the new. Such is life! We offer the happy couple our sincere congratulations.