Kitabı oku: «By Birth a Lady», sayfa 17
Volume Two – Chapter Twenty Five.
Coming Round
“From the Brays, Charley?” said Sir Philip, as they sat over their breakfast at Long’s about a month after the meeting in Branksome-street.
“Yes,” said Charley. “Mr Bray has taken a private box at Her Majesty’s for to-night, and will we have an early dinner with them and go?”
“My dear boy, I trust you will accept the invitation.”
“Do you wish me to, father?” said Charley.
“Yes, certainly,” cried Sir Philip; “but not in that dreadfully resigned spirit.”
“All right, sir!” said Charley, with a smile that he tried to make cheerful; and tossing the letter carelessly aside, he went on with his breakfast.
“You will write an answer, and send it by a commissionaire, of course?”
“No,” said Charley. “I’ll ride up there before lunch, and tell them. I want to see if my little maid Nelly has come back yet: she seems to make the Brays’ place more bearable when one goes there.”
Charley burst out laughing the next moment to see his father’s serious face.
“Well, really, my dear father,” he said, as he interpreted his look, “I how can you expect me to play the hypocrite?”
Sir Philip was troubled, but he said nothing; and soon after Charley retired to his own room, where, over a cigar, he sat turning about the various reports he had received from Branksome-street, wondering the while why none had come in the night before.
“Nothing of sufficient importance to send in, I suppose,” he muttered; and then he sat musing and thoughtful, reading here that Mr Maximilian Bray went to his office, dined out at Crescent Villas, went to Saint James’s Hall in the evening in company with Mrs M. and Miss B., returned to C.V., then back to lodgings; there, that Mrs M. and Miss B. called at Bury-street, and Mr Maximilian Bray accompanied them to the House of Commons.
Day after day the reports were of a similar nature, all tending to show that Max was a most constant visitor at Crescent Villas, but little more.
Charley sat so long that he had to give up his projected ride, and sent a messenger with a note to say that Sir Philip and he would dine with the Brays at six, and accompany them afterwards to the opera. They were punctual to their time; and Laura, handsomer than ever, and most tastefully dressed, greeted Charley shrinkingly, while, going up to Sir Philip, there was something very winning in the way in which she offered him her cheek, and the old gentleman saluted her.
“Nelly come back?” said Charley quietly, as he took Laura down to dinner.
“No,” said Laura; and as she spoke, there was a tremor in her arm. “I am to meet her to-morrow at Paddington-station. I thought perhaps – ”
“I would go with you,” said Charley smilingly. “To be sure I will. What train?”
“Fifty-five minutes past four,” said Laura huskily.
“I’ll be with you,” said Charley, “at, say, four or half-past three. I want to see her again.”
Laura looked now pale, now flushed; and Sir Philip told her she had never appeared more handsome. Then, the dinner past, the carriage arrived, and they were driven to the Haymarket. Sir Philip had passed in with Mrs Bray, and Charley was handing out Laura, when he felt a slight touch on the arm, and a note was passed into his hand; but the bearer, unless it was the stolid policeman at his side, had disappeared.
In spite of himself, Charley uttered a faint ejaculation of surprise as he took the note, and then looked round for the giver; and this was not lost upon Laura, who directly became fearfully agitated, leaning heavily upon his arm, so that he was compelled to half carry her into the crush-room.
“It is nothing; I shall be better directly,” she whispered. “A sudden spasm – faintness; but it is going off fast;” and all the while she gazed in her companion’s face with a terrified aspect, as if trying to read therein something that was certainly not visible.
“Suppose I leave you five minutes with the attendant, and get you an ice or a cup of coffee?” said Charley.
“No, no!” exclaimed Laura; “do not go – ”
But her words were too late: he had passed through the door, staying for a moment to read the note placed in his hands.
“Nothing last night. To-night Her Majesty’s Theatre. Stalls, Numbers. 24, 5, and 6. Mr M.B. and the ladies. Tickets procured at Andrews’s in Bond-street.”
A complete work of supererogation; for the next moment a voice speaking loudly made Charley shrink back, and press his crush-hat down over his eyes.
“Bai Jove, no! Capital time, I’m sure,” And the next moment Ella Bedford’s white-muslin skirt had swept against Charley as he stood stern and motionless as a statue.
Quite five minutes had elapsed after Ella had disappeared before Charley moved. His teeth had been set, and a feeling of rage, bitterness, and hatred combined, had surged up in his breast. Had he liked, he could have stretched forth his hand and touched her; but he did not stir. But he was himself again as he felt a trembling hand laid upon his arm, and a voice that he hardly knew said softly: “Had you forgotten me?”
“No,” said Charley earnestly, as, turning, he saw Laura at his elbow, very paler and with a strange shiver passing from time to time through her frame.
“Are you unwell?” he said kindly, as he drew her hand through his arm.
“No, no,” she exclaimed, brightening in an instant, as she leaned heavily upon that arm, and gazed almost imploringly in his face, her great dark eyes wearing a fascinating aspect that he had never seen there before; and thinking that he read all they would say, he turned frigid in an instant, and led her to the corridor, whence they were soon ushered into the private box.
But Charley Vining had not read those beseeching eyes. The interpretation was not for him then, or, in his mad anger, woman though she was, he would have dashed her to the ground, and fled from her as from something too hideous to live upon this earth. He did not read them then, for the key was not his; but, satisfied in his own mind that she was agitated on his account, he was coldly polite all through the first act.
Volume Two – Chapter Twenty Six.
Trembling
Disturbed as Laura evidently was by some powerful motive, it was not long before her eye rested upon the occupants of the stalls immediately below, but two or three tiers nearer the stage. It almost seemed as if, as they sat side by side, she and Charley had seen them at the same moment; for involuntarily they both leaned forward, but only to draw back the next instant for eye to meet eye.
Surely enough, there was Max Bray seated between Mrs Marter and Ella Bedford, who, with their backs to them, had not seen the occupants of the private box. As for Mrs Bray, she had preferred a back seat, in which she was followed by Sir Philip, who insisted upon Charley taking the front, he caring very little now for the opera; while Mrs Bray found much more gratification in the ladies’ dresses than in what she called, in private, “a parcel of squalling,” and employed her lorgnette accordingly.
Laura’s next act was to glance round uneasily at Mamma Bray and Sir Philip; but there was nothing to fear there: their attention was taken up by the audience, and from their position it was impossible for them to see where Max and his companions were seated.
The next moment Laura’s eyes were directed towards Charley, as he sat sternly, fiercely looking down again, and then, softly, tremulously, and as if even the delicately-gloved hand deprecated what it was about to attempt, she laid that hand upon his stalwart arm, and he turned once more, frowning heavily, to encounter those great eyes, pitiful, imploring, swimming in tenderness. It seemed to him that it was pity for him, sorrow for the pain he was suffering; and as the frown passed from his brow, he returned her gaze till her eyes sank shrinkingly before his, and the great long dark lashes fell to curtain them from his sight.
But her hand still rested upon his arm, pressing it more and more tightly; and again her eyes were raised to his for him to read in them once more the same expression.
Yes, it must be pity, sorrow for him; and he read them so, as, forgetful of all – opera, the hundreds around, even those in the box with them – Laura came nearer and nearer to him, till he felt her soft breath upon his cheek as she whispered:
“Charley, I can bear this no longer. Will you take me home?”
They rose together, and Laura whispered a few words to Mrs Bray; the next minute they were in the corridor, and then what followed seemed to Charley like a dream – the coldness of air as they passed through swing – doors, the fastening of cloak and adjustment of hood, the descent of stairs, and the rattling of wheels; and then, with the recollection of what he had last seen – Ella Bedford’s face turned smilingly towards Max – Charley Vining was seated in a street cab, rattling over the stones, with Laura Bray still clinging to his arm, to utter his name once in a hoarse whisper, as, in spite of all he could do to prevent it, she flung herself on her knees in the rough straw, her rich evening dress forgotten, as she clung to his hand and pressed it to her burning forehead, kissed it, deluged it with her scalding tears, while, as he bent over her, he could feel that her sobs shook her frame as they burst from her labouring breast.
At length, partly by a few deeply-uttered words, partly by passing his arms round and lifting her, Charley Vining had the passionate girl at his side; but only for her to cling to him, sobbing fearfully, till they neared the house.
It was barely half-past nine, and as he handed her out, he would have parted from her; but she clung to his hand, and together they went up into the drawing-room, where, once more alone, Laura threw herself at his feet, clinging to him, sobbing hysterically, imploring him to forgive her, to be lenient to her; it was all for love of him – the love she had borne him so long without a tender word in return. She accused herself of want of womanly feeling, of baseness, of treachery, lashing herself with fierce words in her passion, till, moved by pity, maddened by despair and disappointment, Charley Vining began to feel that he was but weak – that he was but man, after all. The icy coldness gradually melted away, and he whispered first a few words, then one arm was passed round the kneeling form.
“Forgive me – forgive! It is all for the love of you!” sobbed Laura with a fierceness of emotion that startled him.
“Forgive you?” he said; “I have nothing to forgive.”
And then Ella, the past, all was forgotten, as his other arm drew her nearer to him as she knelt, and the next moment, with a wild sigh, Laura’s arms were tightly clasping his neck, and her face was buried in his breast. Then a click of the door-handle, a stream of light, and Laura was upon her feet, tall, proud, and defiant.
“Did you ring for candles, ma’am?” said the voice of the butler.
“Set them down,” was the reply; and the man withdrew.
Charley had risen too, and was standing by her side.
“Go, now,” she said, in a choking voice; “I can bear no more to-night. But tell me – O, tell me,” she cried, throwing herself at his feet, and clasping his knees – “tell me that you forgive me!”
“Forgive you, my poor girl?” said Charley softly, as he bent down to her, once more to pass his arms round her lithe form, when, with a bound, she was again nestling in his breast, but with her face turned towards his, and for a moment their lips met.
The next, Laura had hurried from the room; while, with every pulse in his frame beating furiously, Charley walked down to the hall, accepted the footman’s assistance with his coat, and then he made his way-out into the great deserted street, to walk staggering along like one who had drunk heavily of some potent liquor. But Charley Vining’s was a maddening sense. What had he done? He had not waited for the proof. He had been weak and vile in his own sight; and as he staggered along, he anathematised himself again and again, and, as if appealing to some great power, he called upon Ella to save him from the degradation of his heart.
“False! – false! – false to her! A coward – a scoundrel – a villain! Why was I made with such a weak and empty heart?”
Then he walked on faster and faster for long enough, not heeding where he went, but muttering still:
“Fate, fate, fate! And I have done all that mail can do. I must submit, and I love her not. Do I not hate her – or has she conquered?”
“Hadn’t you better take a cab, sir?” said a rough voice; and a policeman’s hand was laid upon his arm. “It’s too bad, r’aly, sir; but you gents will do it. Now, only think of coming into a place like this here, reg’lar lushy, and with diamond studs and gold watches and chains shining out in the light, and asking poor starving men to steal them!”
“I’m not drunk, my man,” cried Charley, himself again in a moment. “Thank you; get me a cab. Not a savoury locality!” and he glanced round at the dark lane and the ill-looking figures about.
“This way, then, sir,” said the man; and he led him into a wider thoroughfare, where, a cab being called, and the policeman substantially thanked, Charley Vining was driven to his hotel, his brain a very chaos of doubt, despondency, and rage at what he called his baseness and falseness to his vows.
End of Volume Two
Volume Three – Chapter One.
In the Balance
As if to show him how long he had been heedlessly wandering through the streets, Charley found Sir Philip quietly seated at the hotel on his return; and though his father carefully forbore to make any reference to the past, Charley fancied that he could detect a sense of elation on the old gentleman’s part – one which seemed to anger him more as his heart kept reproaching him for the evening’s lapse.
But Sir Philip made not the slightest reference to the events of the evening, not even remarking upon Laura’s indisposition; but there was an impressive way with which Sir Philip parted from his son that night, that Charley interpreted to mean satisfaction, and he frowned heavily as he sought his own room.
In spite of his troubled mind, without recourse to narcotics, the young man slept soundly and long, waking, though, with a strange heavy sense of oppression troubling him, as the thoughts of the past night’s events came upon him slowly one by one, till he was half maddened, hating himself for the part he had played, or, rather, for his weakness.
Then he recalled Ella’s quiet peaceful face as he saw her turn round to Max; and he asked himself why he should consider himself as in any way bound to her who refused to hold him by any ties. Morally he knew that he was quite free, and that, bitterly as he regretted the last night’s tête-à-tête with Laura Bray, he had shed sunshine upon her heart, and left her happy and exultant.
Then he remembered his promise to accompany her to the terminus at Paddington. He could not go – he would not go! But that was some hours distant yet, and for a while he felt that he need not trouble himself about it.
But what should he do? Write a long letter to Laura, telling her that she was to forgive his weakness of the past night, and bid her farewell for ever, while he made immediate arrangements for going abroad somewhere? Was it too late in life for him to get a commission? If he could, he would have to wait months perhaps, and he wanted to leave England at once. Africa seemed to present the field that would afford him the most variety and change. He would go there for a few years. He could soon make arrangements; and in the excitement of hunting, he would find the diversion he so much required.
But then about Laura? He recalled the scene at Lexville, where she had hung upon his arm and wept; and then the events of the past night flashed upon him, and he groaned as he told himself that he had been cowardly and weak – that as yet he had had no proof that Ella was lost to him for ever.
What was the last night’s scene, then?
He stamped upon the floor with impotent rage, and determined at last to forswear all ties. He went out directly after lunch to make preliminary inquiries respecting the means for leaving England. Paddington, Laura, Max, Miss Bedford, were driven from his mind, and he hurried along, but only to hear his name uttered as he passed an open carriage; and starting and turning round, there was Laura, flushed and happy-looking, sitting with her hands outstretched to him.
He could not help himself, though he called himself weak and folly-stricken, as he took her hand in his, watching the bright flush give way to a deadly pallor.
“How she loves me!” thought Charley, as he leaned on the side of the barouche; and it was from no vanity or conceit; he was too true-hearted and genuine, too honest and simple-minded. “Why should I make her unhappy, perhaps for life, when, by a sacrifice, I can send joy into her heart – into the heart of that loving old man? What have I to care for, what to live for, that I should hesitate?”
“Ella!” his conscience whispered; but the whisper was very faint; it was hardly heard amidst the tumult of contending thoughts. The African scheme was forgotten, and Charley Vining was in the balance. One vigorous pressure on either scale would carry the beam down. How was it to be?
How was it to be? The indicator was pointing directly upwards, each scale poised and motionless. Coldness, distant behaviour, returned letters, an evidently favoured rival – a man almost beneath contempt – misery for those who loved him, and more bitterness: all these in one scale; and in the other —
A passionate determined love, strong as his own, a woman pleading to him for what he had so long refused, warmth, tenderness, no rivalry, gratification to Sir Philip, and, above all, the knowledge that on the past night he had allowed himself to be betrayed into a warmth for which he had been blaming himself as though he had committed a grievous sin.
Which was the scale to go down, when Laura was in trembling tones, and, in a retiring way, asking him to take the seat by her side, for the time would soon be at hand for the visit to Paddington?
Her voice trembled audibly as she spoke, but the latter scale did not go fiercely down: the indicator only moved slightly in Laura’s favour, as, remembering his promise of the day before, Charley said he would go, and took his seat by her side. It was only a slight motion, and the faintest breath from Ella’s lips would have sent that scale up – up – up rapidly, till it kicked the beam.
But there was no breath there, though Charley’s heart still clung to Ella fondly. Laura’s scale wanted a strong impulse in her favour, and as, half triumphant, half sad, she felt Charley Vining take his place by her side, she flushed, then paled, and again and again a strange shiver of dread passed through her frame. Once even her teeth chattered, as if some fearful illness was attacking her. But the disease was only mental, and, seeking Charley’s hand, her own nestled in it – clung to it convulsively, as if she dreaded even now that she would lose him, when so very, very near the goal of her hopes, of her plotting and scheming; and yet she had not known of his anger against self, and the plans for going abroad; though had she known them, she could have trembled no more.
Laura’s scale was growing heavier; for Charley did not withdraw his hand, but let hers rest therein. It only wanted one addition either way now, for the weighing was just at hand – the scales were no longer evenly poised. Which was to sink boldly? The striking of the clock at five would decide it, and it was now four.
Volume Three – Chapter Two.
The Weighing
If any one will take the trouble to refer to Bradshaw’s Guide– that fine piece of exercise for the brain – for the month in the year in which the events being recorded took place, he will find, in connection with the Great Western Railway service, that whereas the down express left Paddington at 4:50 p.m., there was an up train due at the platform at 4:55.
It was to meet this latter train that Mr Bray’s barouche was being rattled over the newly macadamised roads, with Charley Vining and Laura therein.
No one could have sat by Laura’s side for an instant without remarking her extreme agitation; and as Charley turned to gaze in her pleading face, he felt something like pity warming his breast towards her – her agitation was so genuine, and she had shown him the night before how earnest and passionate was her love.
Pity is said to be very nearly akin to love, and Charley’s pity was growing stronger. Why should he not take the good the gods provided him? She asked no more. But no; there was that one great proof wanted; and his words were quite cold and commonplace as he said to her, “You seem unwell. Do you not think it would be better to return home? Why, this poor little hand is quite chilly, and you shiver. You must have taken cold last night.”
“Cold? Last night? No, no,” she said hoarsely; and he felt the pressure upon his hand tighten. “We must meet Nelly, and I am quite well, Charley. I never felt more happy.”
He encountered her glance, but it awoke no response in his breast; and as he read her countenance, he saw there the tokens of a terrible agitation, and surely he may be excused for imagining himself the cause.
“At last!” said Charley impatiently, as he handed Laura out, trembling violently; but the next moment, though she was deathly pale, the agitation seemed to have passed away, and taking his arm, she held to it tightly.
“Ten minutes too soon,” said Charley. “Shall we go round to the waiting-room?”
“Yes, please,” cried Laura eagerly; and walking round, he stopped to read a waybill.
“Let me see,” he said; “this train leaves first. Ours comes in five minutes after.”
“Take me into the waiting-room,” said Laura anxiously. “It is cold out here.”
“I fear that you are going to be unwell,” he said, attending to her request.
“No; indeed, indeed I am quite well, dearest Charley,” she whispered, and an impatient frown crossed his brow; but he said no more, only half led, half followed her to a window looking out upon the platform, where there was the customary hurry previous to the departure of a train, when the first bell has rung. Porters running here and there with luggage, cool passengers, excited passengers, box- and wrapper-laden ladies’-maids seeking second-class carriages; footmen bearing fasces of umbrellas and walking-sticks; heavy swells seeking smoking-compartments; Smith’s boys shouting the evening papers; and as they gazed through the great plate-glass window of the waiting-room, the hurry and bustle seemed to have an interest for Charley he had never known before.
“We shall be in plenty of time when this train has gone,” said Laura; and she clung very tightly to his arm. “I long to see Nelly again. Don’t you think she improves?”
“Very much. I quite love that child!” said Charley with some animation. “She is so piquante, and fresh, and genuine!”
A sort of gasping sigh escaped from Laura’s breast, but he would not heed it.
And now the bustle was nearly over; the last bell had rung, the inspector had taken his last glance, the doors were banging, and the guard’s whistle was at his lips, when the inspector held up his hand, as there came the pattering of hastening feet on the platform.
“Bai Jove, portare, make haste, or we shall miss it!” cried a familiar voice.
“This way, sir,” was the reply; and an official trotted by with a black portmanteau on his shoulder and a bag in his hand; and Charley started as if he had received a fatal stab, for directly following, clinging to Max Bray’s arm, shawled and muffled, and pale as ashes, Ella Bedford passed the window.
“Max!” exclaimed Laura excitedly, while, as Charley made a movement to reach the door, she clung to his arm. “Dearest Charley,” she whispered in low impassioned tones, “my own love, my dear life, do not leave me! pray, pray do not leave! I love you dearly, more dearly than ever, and my heart bleeds for you – truly – faithfully!” She could say no more, for her emotion choked her utterance; but she clung to him wildly, as he stood, now pale and motionless as a statue, gazing through the window. And in those brief moments what had he seen?
Ella handed into a first-class compartment, Max following her, while her pale face was directly opposite to Charley, and only a couple of carriage-lengths distant. Then came the bang of the door, the piping whistle, the shriek of the engine, then the rapidly increasing panting snorts as of impatience to be off; the carriages glided by; and where Ella Bedford’s face had been the moment before, was first one and then another, strangers all; then the guards own, then blankness – a blankness that seemed to have made its way to his soul, till looking down he became aware of the stony face gazing up into his, the wild eyes, the parted lips, and the arms clinging to him so tightly.
His face softened as he gazed down at her, and then a sigh tore its way from his breast; a sigh that seemed to bear with it the image of a pale sweet face; and from that moment it was to Charley Vining as if he had been transformed into another man.
“My poor girl!” he said softly, more than pityingly, as he drew her arm closer to his breast.
“Charley!” she sighed gently; but there were volumes in that one word; and had they been alone, she would have thrown herself upon his breast, where she felt now she might cling. Then her eyes closed, a faint hysterical sob passed her lips, and she smiled, as if from a sense of ineffable satisfaction, as she felt his strong arms supporting her – that he was bearing her towards the inner room; and then all was blank.
Ten minutes after, Laura unclosed her eyes, to find herself upon a couch, with Nelly and Charley at her side; and starting up, she rested upon one elbow. Then she fixed her eyes upon the latter, and caught at his hand.
“You will not leave me?” she gasped hoarsely.
“No!” he whispered almost tenderly. “I feared that you were unwell.” And he passed his hand across her damp brow, smoothing back the raven hair; and Laura sank back, her eyes closed and a smile upon her lip, drawing with her his hand, which she held tightly in both hers; for, saving Nelly, they were now alone.
A quarter of an hour passed in silence, and then Charley Vining said gently:
“Do you think you can bear to be moved?”
“Yes,” she said, rising eagerly and fixing her eyes upon his, “if you are with me. But,” she said, leaning towards him and whispering, “do not be angry; only tell me, to set me at rest – tell me that you will not – Max – dear Charley, you know what I mean.”
“Follow Max – your brother?” said Charley sternly; “no!”
The next minute Laura was leaning upon his arm, and they sought the carriage, Nelly taking Charley’s other arm, and whispering to him as he turned towards her with a sad smile on his lip, “I’m so sorry, Charley, and yet so glad, and I don’t know how I feel; but tell me, is it to be brother Charley?”
“Hush!” said the other sternly, as they reached the carriage.
Had he not been so preoccupied, Charley Vining would have seen that a strange man, rather shabbily-dressed, was close beside him, vainly attempting to gain his attention; for, after handing Laura and her sister into the barouche, he was about to leave them to return alone; but the imploring look of dread in Laura’s eyes stayed him, and yielding to her outstretched hand, he leaped in and took his place opposite.
Upon reaching Harley-street the strange man seemed to be there before them, and Charley would again have left, but Laura begged him to go with her upstairs; and seeing how pale and disturbed she was, he accompanied her to the drawing-room.
“There! – need I tell you on my honour,” he said, taking her hand gently, “you need be under no fear.”
“And – and, Charley,” she said appealingly, “you will not judge me harshly?”
“Judge you harshly?” he said; “no.” And as she held out her hands to him, he took her gently to his breast and kissed her.
“Do you know how happy you have made me?” she whispered, clinging to him and gazing up in his pale honest face.
“No,” he said in the same tone; “but I fear I have pained you sorely.”
“Charley!”
“Laura!”
There was no other sound heard in that room but those softly uttered words; and when, a minute or two after, Mrs Bray quietly opened the door unobserved, she stepped back again on the points of her toes smiling with a satisfied air, and posted herself as a sentinel upon the stairs.
And all this while that strange man was impatiently watching the windows from the other side of the street.
“Couldn’t get to see you before, sir,” said a voice, as Charley Vining left Mr Bray’s house in Harley-street. “Perhaps you’ll run over that while I follow you and wait for farther orders.”
Charley started, and looked up to see that a rather shabbily-dressed man was walking away from him, after placing a note in his hands.
“Mr M.B. went to Crescent Villas at nine this morning, stayed ten minutes, returned to Bury-street, left Bury-street at three in a cab with a black portmanteau, and was driven to the front of the Colosseum. Waited an hour, and was then joined by Miss E.B. carrying a small black bag – very pale, and evidently been crying. Mr M.B. said aloud, ‘At last!’ as he handed her into the cab. Driven rapidly to Paddington-station. Took first-class tickets to Penzance, and left by 4:50 express. Are we to follow?”
So read Charley Vining, the letters at times swimming before his eyes. He glanced round, and the bearer was a dozen yards in his rear. But he waved him back. A quarter of an hour ago, and he had told himself that he was free; but the suggestion at the end of the letter whispered him that some links of his old chains still clung around. But no; he would not have them followed. Why should he? What was it to him? But for his infatuation, he might have known to what all was tending. It was nothing to him now; but a sigh that was almost a sob escaped from his breast, as, once more turning, he waited till the man was alongside.
