He turned, between the pillars, and saw her. 'A word with you, if you please,' she said. Her tone was icy, her manner freezing.
Sir George bowed. 'This way, if you please,' she continued imperiously; and preceded him across the hall and through the opposite door and down the steps to the gardens, that had once been Lady Hertford's delight. Nor did she pause or look at him until they were halfway across the lawn; then she turned, and with a perfect change of face and manner, smiling divinely in the sunlight,
'Easy her motion seemed, serene her air,'
she held out her hand.
'You have come--to beg my pardon, I hope?' she said.
The smile she bestowed on him was an April smile, the brighter for the tears that lurked behind it; but Soane did not know that, nor, had he known it, would it have availed him. He was utterly dazzled, conquered, subjugated by her beauty. 'Willingly,' he said. 'But for what?'
'Oh, for--everything!' she answered with supreme assurance.
'I ask your divinity's pardon for everything,' he said obediently.
'It is granted,' she answered. 'And--I shall see you to-morrow, Sir George?'
'To-morrow?' he said. 'Alas, no; I shall be away to-morrow.'
He had eyes; and the startling fashion in which the light died out of her face, and left it grey and colourless, was not lost on him. But her voice remained steady, almost indifferent. 'Oh!' she said, 'you are going?' And she raised her eyebrows.
'Yes,' he answered; 'I have to go to Estcombe.'
She tried to force a laugh, but failed. 'And you do not return? We shall not see you again?' she said.
'It lies with you,' he answered slowly. 'I am returning to-morrow evening by the Bath road. Will you come and meet me, Julia--say, as far as the Manton turning? It's on your favourite road. I know you stroll there every evening. I shall be there a little after five. If you come to-morrow, I shall know that, notwithstanding your hard words, you will take in hand the reforming of a rake--and a ruined rake, Julia. If you do not come--'
He hesitated. She had to turn away her head that he might not see the light that had returned to her eyes. 'Well, what then?' she said softly.
'I do not know.'
'But Lady Carlisle was his wife,' she whispered, with a swift sidelong shot from eyes instantly averted. 'And--you remember what you said to me--at Oxford? That if I were a lady, you would make me your wife. I am not a lady, Sir George.'
'I did not say that,' Sir George answered quickly.
'No! What then?'
'You know very well,' he retorted with malice.
All of her cheek and neck that he could see turned scarlet. 'Well, at any rate,' she said, 'let us be sure now that you are talking not to Clarissa but to Pamela?'
'I am talking to neither,' he answered manfully. And he stood erect, his hat in his hand; they were almost of a height. 'I am talking to the most beautiful woman in the world,' he said, 'whom I also believe to be the most virtuous--and whom I hope to make my wife. Shall it be so, Julia?'
She was trembling excessively; she used her fan that he might not see how her hand shook. 'I--I will tell you to-morrow,' she murmured breathlessly. 'At Manton Corner.'
'Now! Now!' he said.
But she cried 'No, to-morrow,' and fled from him into the house, deaf, as she passed through the hall, to the clatter of dishes and the cries of the waiters and the rattle of orders; for she had the singing of larks in her ears, and her heart rose on the throb of the song, rose until she felt that she must either cry or die--of very happiness.
CHAPTER XVI
THE BLACK FAN
I believe that Sir George, riding soberly to Estcombe in the morning, was not guiltless of looking back in spirit. Probably there are few men who, when the binding word has been said and the final step taken, do not feel a revulsion of mind, and for a moment question the wisdom of their choice. A more beautiful wife he could not wish; she was fair of face and faultless in shape, as beautiful as a Churchill or a Gunning. And in all honesty, and in spite of the undoubted advances she had made to him, he believed her to be good and virtuous. But her birth, her quality, or rather her lack of quality, her connections, these were things to cry him pause, to bid him reflect; until the thought--mean and unworthy, but not unnatural--that he was ruined, and what did it matter whom he wedded? came to him, and he touched his horse with the spur and cantered on by upland, down and clump, by Avebury, and Yatesbury, and Compton Bassett, until he came to his home.
Returning in the afternoon, sad at starting, but less sad with every added mile that separated him from the house to which he had bidden farewell in his heart--and which, much as he prized it now, he had not visited twice a year while it was his--it was another matter. He thought little of the future; of the past not at all. The present was sufficient for him. In an hour, in half an hour, in ten minutes, he would see her, would hold her hands in his, would hear her say that she loved him, would look unreproved into the depths of her proud eyes, would see them sink before his. Not a regret now for White's! Or the gaming table! Or Mrs. Cornelys' and Betty's! Gone the _blas_ insouciance of St. James's. The whole man was set on his mistress. Ruined, he had naught but her to look forward to, and he hungered for her. He cantered through Avebury, six miles short of Marlborough, and saw not one house. Through West Kennet, where his shadow went long and thin before him; through Fyfield, where he well-nigh ran into a post-chaise, which seemed to be in as great a hurry to go west as he was to go east; under the Devil's Den, and by Clatford cross-lanes, nor drew rein until--as the sun sank finally behind him, leaving the downs cold and grey--he came in sight of Manton Corner.
Then, that no look of shy happiness, no downward quiver of the maiden eyelids might be lost--for the morsel, now it was within his grasp, was one to linger over and dwell on--Sir George, his own eyes shining with eagerness, walked his horse forward, his gaze greedily seeking the flutter of her kerchief or the welcome of her hand. Would she be at the meeting of the roads--shrinking aside behind the bend, her eyes laughing to greet him? No, he saw as he drew nearer that she was not there. Then he knew where she would be; she would be waiting for him on the foot-bridge in the lane, fifty yards from the high-road, yet within sight of it. She would have her lover come so far--to win her. The subtlety was like her, and pleased him.
But she was not there, nor was she to be seen elsewhere in the lane; for this descended a gentle slope until it plunged, still under his eyes, among the thatched roofs and quaint cottages of the village, whence the smoke of the evening meal rose blue among the trees. Soane's eyes returned to the main road; he expected to hear her laugh, and see her emerge at his elbow. But the length of the highway lay empty before, and empty behind; and all was silent. He began to look blank. A solitary house, which had been an inn, but was now unoccupied, stood in the angle formed by Manton Lane and the road; he scrutinised it. The big doors leading to the stable-yard were ajar; but he looked in and she was not there, though he noted that horses had stood there lately. For the rest, the house was closed and shuttered, as he had seen it that morning, and every day for days past.
Was