Talbot Bulstrode went out on to the balcony, and the earth stood still for ten minutes or so, and every steel-blue star in the sky glared watchfully down upon the young man in this the supreme crisis of his life.
Aurora was leaning against a slender iron pilaster, looking aslant into the town and across the town to the sea. She was wrapped in an opera cloak; no stiff, embroidered, young-ladyfied garment; but a voluminous drapery of soft scarlet woollen stuff, such as Semiramide herself might have worn. “She looks like Semiramide,” Talbot thought. “How did this Scotch banker and his Lancashire wife come to have an Assyrian for their daughter?”
He began brilliantly, this young man, as lovers generally do.
“I am afraid you must have fatigued yourself this evening, Miss Floyd,” he remarked.
Aurora stifled a yawn as she answered him. “I am rather tired,” she said.
It wasn’t very encouraging. How was he to begin an eloquent speech, when she might fall asleep in the middle of it? But he did; he dashed at once into the heart of his subject, and he told her how he loved her; how he had done battle with this passion, which had been too strong for him; how he loved her as he never thought to love any creature upon this earth; and how he cast himself before her in all humility to take his sentence of life or death from her dear lips.
She was silent for some moments, her profile sharply distinct to him in the moonlight, and those dear lips trembling visibly. Then, with a half-averted face, and in words that seemed to come slowly and painfully from a stifled throat, she gave him his answer.
That answer was a rejection!
Not a young lady’s No, which means Yes tomorrow; or which means perhaps that you have not been on your knees in a passion of despair, like Lord Edward Fitz-Morkysh in Miss Oderose’s last novel. Nothing of this kind; but a calm negative, carefully and tersely worded, as if she feared to mislead him by so much as one syllable that could leave a loophole through which hope might creep into his heart. He was rejected. For a moment it was quite as much as he could do to believe it. He was inclined to imagine that the signification of certain words had suddenly changed, or that he had been in the habit of mistaking them all his life, rather than that those words meant this hard fact; namely, that he, Talbot Raleigh Bulstrode, of Bulstrode Castle, and of Saxon extraction, had been rejected by the daughter of a Lombard-Street banker.
He paused—for an hour and a half or so, as it seemed to him—in order to collect himself before he spoke again.
“May I—venture to inquire,” he said—how horribly commonplace the phrase seemed! he could have used no worse had he been inquiring for furnished lodgings—“may I ask if any prior attachment—to one more worthy—”
“Oh, no, no, no!”
The answer came upon him so suddenly, that it almost startled him as much as her rejection.
“And yet your decision is irrevocable?”
“Quite irrevocable.”
“Forgive me if I am intrusive; but—but Mr. Floyd may perhaps have formed some higher views—”
He was interrupted by a stifled sob as she clasped her hands over her averted face.
“Higher views!” she said; “poor dear old man! no, no, indeed.”
“It is scarcely strange that I bore you with these questions. It is so hard to think that, meeting you with your affections disengaged, I have yet been utterly unable to win one shadow of regard upon which I might build a hope for the future.”
Poor Talbot! Talbot, the splitter of metaphysical straws and chopper of logic, talking of building hopes on shadows, with a lover’s delirious stupidity.
“It is so hard to resign every thought of your ever coming to alter your decision of tonight, Aurora,”—he lingered on her name for a moment, first because it was so sweet to say it, and secondly, in the hope that she would speak—“it is so hard to remember the fabric of happiness I had dared to build, and to lay it down here tonight forever.”
Talbot quite forgot that, up to the time of the arrival of John Mellish, he had been perpetually arguing against his passion, and had declared to himself over and over again that he would be a consummate fool if he was ever beguiled into making Aurora his wife. He reversed the parable of the fox; for he had been inclined to make faces at the grapes while he fancied them within his reach, and now that they were removed from his grasp, he thought that such delicious fruit had never grown to tempt mankind.
“If—if,” he said, “my fate had been happier, I know how proud my father, poor old Sir John, would have been of his eldest son’s choice.”
How ashamed he felt of the meanness of this speech! The artful sentence had been constructed in order to remind Aurora whom she was refusing. He was trying to bribe her with the baronetcy which was to be his in due time. But she made no answer to the pitiful appeal. Talbot was almost choked with mortification. “I see—I see,” he said, “that it is hopeless. Good night, Miss Floyd.”
She did not even turn to look at him as he left the balcony; but with her red drapery wrapped tightly round her, stood shivering in the moonlight, with the silent tears slowly stealing down her cheeks.
“Higher views!” she cried bitterly, repeating a phrase that Talbot used—“higher views! God help him!”
“I must wish you good night and goodbye at the same time,” Captain Bulstrode said, as he shook hands with Lucy.
“Goodbye?”
“Yes; I leave Brighton early tomorrow.”
“So suddenly?”
“Why, not exactly suddenly. I
