tries—very feebly—to dismiss him.
“Don’t let me keep you from dancing, Mr. Aldersley.”
He seats himself by her side, and feasts his eyes on the lovely downcast face that dares not turn toward him. He whispers to her:
“Call me Frank.”
She longs to call him Frank—she loves him with all her heart. But Mrs. Crayford’s warning words are still in her mind. She never opens her lips. Her lover moves a little closer, and asks another favor. Men are all alike on these occasions. Silence invariably encourages them to try again.
“Clara! have you forgotten what I said at the concert yesterday? May I say it again?”
“No!”
“We sail to-morrow for the Arctic seas. I may not return for years. Don’t send me away without hope! Think of the long, lonely time in the dark North! Make it a happy time for
Though he speaks with the fervor of a man, he is little more than a lad: he is only twenty years old, and he is going to risk his young life on the frozen deep! Clara pities him as she never pitied any human creature before. He gently takes her hand. She tries to release it.
“What! not even that little favor on the last night?”
Her faithful heart takes his part, in spite of her. Her hand remains in his, and feels its soft persuasive pressure. She is a lost woman. It is only a question of time now!
“Clara! do you love me?”
There is a pause. She shrinks from looking at him—she trembles with strange contradictory sensations of pleasure and pain. His arm steals round her; he repeats his question in a whisper; his lips almost touch her little rosy ear as he says it again:
“Do you love me?”
She closes her eyes faintly—she hears nothing but those words—feels nothing but his arm round her —forgets Mrs. Crayford’s warning—forgets Richard Wardour himself—turns suddenly, with a loving woman’s desperate disregard of everything but her love—nestles her head on his bosom, and answers him in that way, at last!
He lifts the beautiful drooping head—their lips meet in their first kiss—they are both in heaven: it is Clara who brings them back to earth again with a start—it is Clara who says, “Oh! what have I done?”—as usual, when it is too late.
Frank answers the question.
“You have made me happy, my angel. Now, when I come back, I come back to make you my wife.”
She shudders. She remembers Richard Wardour again at those words.
“Mind!” she says, “nobody is to know we are engaged till I permit you to mention it. Remember that!”
He promises to remember it. His arm tries to wind round her once more. No! She is mistress of herself; she can positively dismiss him now—after she has let him kiss her!
“Go!” she says. “I want to see Mrs. Crayford. Find her! Say I am here, waiting to speak to her. Go at once, Frank—for my sake!”
There is no alternative but to obey her. His eyes drink a last draught of her beauty. He hurries away on his errand—the happiest man in the room. Five minutes since she was only his partner in the dance. He has spoken— and she has pledged herself to be his partner for life!
Chapter 4.
It was not easy to find Mrs. Crayford in the crowd. Searching here, and searching there, Frank became conscious of a stranger, who appeared to be looking for somebody, on his side. He was a dark, heavy-browed, strongly-built man, dressed in a shabby old naval officer’s uniform. His manner—strikingly resolute and self-contained—was unmistakably the manner of a gentleman. He wound his way slowly through the crowd; stopping to look at every lady whom he passed, and then looking away again with a frown. Little by little he approached the conservatory— entered it, after a moment’s reflection—detected the glimmer of a white dress in the distance, through the shrubs and flowers—advanced to get a nearer view of the lady—and burst into Clara’s presence with a cry of delight.
She sprang to her feet. She stood before him speechless, motionless, struck to stone. All her life was in her eyes—the eyes which told her she was looking at Richard Wardour.
He was the first to speak.
“I am sorry I startled you, my darling. I forgot everything but the happiness of seeing you again. We only reached our moorings two hours since. I was some time inquiring after you, and some time getting my ticket when they told me you were at the ball. Wish me joy, Clara! I am promoted. I have come back to make you my wife.”
A momentary change passed over the blank terror of her face. Her color rose faintly, her lips moved. She abruptly put a question to him.
“Did you get my letter?”
He started. “A letter from you? I never received it.”
The momentary animation died out of her face again. She drew back from him and dropped into a chair. He advanced toward her, astonished and alarmed. She shrank in the chair—shrank, as if she was frightened of him.
“Clara, you have not even shaken hands with me! What does it mean?”
He paused; waiting and watching her. She made no reply. A flash of the quick temper in him leaped up in his eyes. He repeated his last words in louder and sterner tones:
“What does it mean?”
She replied this time. His tone had hurt her—his tone had roused her sinking courage.
