CHAPTER XVII.

"It is the hydra of calamities,
The sevenfold death: the jealous are the
Damn'd."
--YOUNG.

HAVING watched her until the last fold of her gown has disappeared, Branscombe turns abruptly away, and, passing through a glass door that leads into the gardens outside, paces slowly up and clown the winding paths beneath the subdued light of countless Chinese lanterns, that, hanging amidst the foliage, contrast oddly with the cold white brilliancy of the stars overhead, that

Cold as the night air is, not a breath of wind comes to disturb the strange calm that hangs over land and sea. Far down in the bay the ocean lies at rest. From the distance a faint sound of music from the band comes softly, seductively to the ear, but beyond and above it comes the song of the nightingale that, resting in yonder thicket, pours forth its heart in tender hurried melody, as though fearful the night will be

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The notes rise and fall, and tremble on the air. No other sound comes from the breast of nature to mar the richness of its tone. No earthly thing seems living but itself. For it the night appears created, and draws its "sable curtain stained with gold" over the sleeping world. This nightingale, of all the feathered tribes, is wakeful, and chants its hymn of praise at midnight, whilst all its brethren rest in peaceful slumber.

The intense and solemn stillness of all around renders more enchanting the trills and tender trembles that shake its tiny throat. There is

Yet this one sweet bird refuses rest, and, as though one of those "small foules" that "slepen alle night with open eye," sings on courageously amidst the gloom.

Dorian, strolling absently through the walks, and into the shrubberies beyond, listens, and feels some sense of comfort (that has yet with it a touch of pain) creep through him as the nightingale's sweet song smites upon his ear.

Yet this is not the only sound that disturbs the quiet of the night. Sadly, mournfully, a half-suppressed sob falls upon the air.

Branscombe starts, and looks round suddenly, but can see nothing. No footsteps make themselves heard. The shrubs are sufficiently thick to conceal the presence of any one, yet it seems to him as if the thought of that sob was born of fancy, and that the earthly owner of it is unborn.

Then some ray from the brilliant moon opens his eyes, and he sees a woman's figure standing in a somewhat disconsolate attitude, with her back against a tall elm, and her eyes fixed wistfully upon the distant windows, through which the lights are streaming, and the passing to and fro of the dancing crowd may be distinctly seen.

Dorian, recognizing her, goes quickly up to her and lays his hand upon her shoulder. It is Ruth Annersley!

She stifles a low cry, and, turning to him, grows even a shade paler than she was a moment since.

"Ruth," says Dorian, "what on earth brings you here at this hour?"

For a moment she makes him no answer. She raises | | 133 her hand to brush away the tears that still lie heavily upon her cheeks, and then moves a little away from him, so as to elude his touch.

"I came to see them dancing," she says, at length, with difficulty; "I thought it would be a pretty sight; and--it is--I have been so--so pleased."

The words seem to choke her. With a movement that is terribly pathetic she lays her hand upon her heart; and then Dorian, following the direction her eyes have taken, sees what they see.

In an open window, directly opposite to where they are standing, two figures can be seen in very close proximity to each other. Beyond are the forms of the dancers; the faint sweet strains of the band float out to meet the mid-night air; but the two in the window seem lost to all but the fact of their own existence, and that they are together. At least, so it seems to the onlookers in the shrubberies.

See, now he takes her hand,--the kindly curtain hiding the act from those within; he stoops towards her; the girl leans a little forward; and then Dorian knows them; the man is Horace, and the girl Clarissa Peyton!

Instinctively he glances from them to Ruth. She, too, is leaning forward, her whole attention concentrated upon the picture before her. Her eyes are wide and miserable, her cheeks pale and haggard.

"You have seen enough of this ball, Ruth," says Branscombe, very gently. "Go home now."

"Yes; enough,--too much," says the girl, starting into life again. She draws her breath quickly, painfully: her brow contracts. As though unable to resist the movement, she again lays her hand upon her heart, and holds it there, as though in anguish.

"What is it?" asks Dorian. "Are you in pain? How white you are!"

"I am tired. I have a pain here," pressing her hand still more closely against her side. "This morning I felt well and strong--and now----. My mother died of heart-disease; perhaps I shall die of it too. I think so; I hope so!"

"You are talking very great nonsense," says Dorian, roughly, though in his soul shocked to the last degree by the girl's manner, which is full of reckless misery. "No- | | 134 body sees any amusement in dying. Come, let me see you home."

"Oh, no! Please do not come, Mr. Branscombe," entreats she, so earnestly that he feels she has a meaning in her words. "I have the key of the small gate, and can run home in five minutes once I pass that."

"Then at least I shall see you safely as far as the gate," says Branscombe, who is tender and gentle in his manner to all women.

Silently they walk through the damp night grass, neither speaking, until, coming to a curve in the way, she breaks silence.

"How beautiful Miss Peyton looks to-night," she says, in a tone impossible to translate.

"Very," says Dorian, unkindly, yet with very kindly intent. "But then she is always one of the most beautiful women I know."

"Is she--very much admired?"--this rather timidly.

"One can understand that at once," says Dorian, quietly. "Both her face and figure are perfect." As he says this, quite calmly, his heart bleeds for the girl beside him.

"Who has she been dancing most with?" Eagerly, almost painfully, this question is put. The utter simplicity of it touches Dorian to his heart's core.

"With my brother, of course. She--she would not care to dance very much with any one else now, on account of her engagement."

"Her engagement?"

"Yes. She is to be married to my brother some time next year."

He hates himself bitterly as he says this: but something within him compels him to the cruel deed, if only through pity for the girl who walks beside him. They are now within the shade of trees, and he cannot see her face; though in very truth, if he could have seen it at this moment, he would not have looked at it. No word escapes her; she walks on steadily, as though actually made strong by the receiving of the blow.

Dorian would gladly believe that her silence means indifference; but to-night has forced a truth upon him that for months he has determinedly put behind him. Her | | 135 tears, her agitation, the agony that shone in her eyes as she fixed them upon Horace's form in the window, have betrayed only too surely the secret she would so gladly hide.

She makes no further attempt at conversation, and, when they come to the little iron gate that leads on to the road, would have passed through, and gone on her home--ward way mechanically, without bidding him even good-night, as if (which is indeed the case) she has forgotten the very fact of his near presence.

But he cannot let her go without a word.

"Good-night," he says, very kindly, his tone warmer because of his pity for her. "Take care of yourself. Are you sure you do riot fear going alone?"

"Yes." Her voice is low, and sounds strange, even in her own ears.

"Wrap your shawl more closely round you. The night is cold. Is the pain in your side better?"

"Yes,"--almost regretfully.

"That is right. Well, good-by. I shall stand here until I see you have safely turned the corner; then I shall know you are out of all danger." He has been holding her hand somewhat anxiously all this time, not quite liking the strained expression in her face. Now he presses it, and then drops it gently.

"Good-night," returns she, slowly, and then turns away from him, never remembering to thank him for his kindness,--hardly, indeed, conscious of having spoken the farewell word.

Her brain seems on fire; her body cold as death. Oh, to be in her own room, free from all watching eyes, where she can fling herself upon the ground, and moan and cry aloud against her fate, with only the friendly darkness to overhear her! She hurries rapidly onward, and soon the corner hides her from sight.

Dorian, when she has safely passed the spot agreed upon, goes back once more in the direction of the house. He has hardly, however, gone two hundred yards, when the voice of his uncle, Lord Sartoris, calling to him through the gloom, stays his steps, and rouses him from the painful revery into which he is fast falling.

"Who were you parting with at the gate?" asks Lord | | 136 Sartoris, in so unusual a tone that Dorian looks at him in some surprise. He is a little sorry, for reasons that do not touch himself, that the question should have been asked at all.

"Ruth Annersley," he answers, without hesitation, feeling that any prevarication at this moment will only make matters worse for the unhappy girl. May not Arthur have seen and known her?

"Ruth Annersley?"

"Yes. You will, of course, say nothing about it. She was foolish enough to wish to see a few people dancing, so came here, and, standing among the shrubs, obtained her wish,--which, no doubt, proved as satisfactory as most of our desires, when gained."

"At this hour of the night to be here, alone!"

"Yes. Very imprudent of her, of course, and all that."

"There must have been some strong inducement to make a girl of, her gentle nature undertake so bold, so daring, a step. It was a strictly improper action," says the old man, in his most stilted style.

"I dare say. Imprudent, however, was the word I used. I am rather glad I was the one to meet her, as she knew me; and, as a rule, people talk so much about nothing, and make such mountains out of mole-hills."

"It was fortunate, indeed, your meeting her. It might, in fact, almost be termed a curious coincidence, your man-aging to be on this deserted walk just at the required moment."

There is something so unpleasant, so sneering, about his tone that Dorian colors hotly.

"I confess I hardly see it in the light you do," he says, easily enough, but very coldly. "And I think I should term the coincidence `lucky,' rather than curious. I see no difference between this walk and half a dozen others. People don't seem to affect any of them much."

"No," says Lord Sartoris.

"Any other fellow might have been here as well as me. You, for example."

"Just so!" says Lord Sartoris.

"Then why bring in the word curious?"

"It merely occurred to me at the moment," says his lordship, drily. "Been dancing much?"

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"Yes,--no,--pretty well. Are you coming in?"

They are again in front of the house, and near the steps that lead to the conservatory.

"Not just yet, I think."

"Then I fear I must leave you. I am engaged for this dance."

So, for the first time, these two part coldly. The old man goes slowly, moodily, up and down the gravelled path beneath the brilliant moon, that--

and thinks of many things in a humor more sad than bitter; while the young man, with angry brow and lips corn-pressed, goes swiftly onward to the house.

As he regains the ball-room, the remembrance of the little partner he has come to claim rushes back upon him pleasantly, and serves to dissipate the gloomy and somewhat indignant thoughts that have been oppressing him. But where is she? He looks anxiously around; and, after five minutes' fruitless search, lo! there are her eyes smiling out at him from the arms of a gay and (doubtless) gallant plunger.

The next instant she is gone; but he follows her slight form with eager glance, and at length crosses the room to where she is now standing with her soldier. As he does so he flings from him all tormenting thoughts, forgetting--as it is his nature to do--the possible misery of the future in the certain happiness of the present.

"The next is ours, is it not?" he says; and she smiles at him, and--can it be?--willingly transfers her hand from the heavy's arm to his; and then they dance; and presently he takes her down to the Peytons' carriage and puts her carefully into it, and presses her hand, I think, ever so slightly, and then drives home, beneath the silent stars, with an odd sensation at his heart--half pain, half pleasure--he has never felt before.