Kitabı oku: «The Master of the Ceremonies», sayfa 19
Volume Two – Chapter Eighteen.
A Stormy Scene
“I’ve never dared to write to you before, Clairy. Frank watches me so; but, though I don’t come, I think lots about you, and I shall never forget what a dear, good thing you were that night. Good-bye. We must be separate for a bit, till that bother’s all forgotten, but don’t you fidget; I’m going to be so good now.”
Claire was reading the note that had come to her, she knew not how, for the second time, wondering how a woman – her sister – could be so utterly heartless; and, after leaving her to bear the brunt of Sir Harry Payne’s shameless accusation, treat it all as such a mere trifle.
Claire held the letter in her hand, with her spirits very low, and a bitter, despairing look was in her eyes as she sat gazing before her, thinking that no greater trouble could come to her now.
Richard Linnell had just passed the house, and though ever since the night of the “At Home,” she had shrunk away and rigidly kept from noticing him, the one pleasure she had longed for was to see the grave, wistful look he was in the habit of directing at the window. Now, he had gone by without raising his eyes.
It was the most cruel pang of all. He might have had faith in her, even if she had rejected his suit, and told him that it was hopeless in the extreme.
Her cheeks burned as she thought of Cora Dean with her Juno-like face and her manifest liking for Richard Linnell.
“What is it to me?” she said to herself; and her tears fell fast upon the letter she held in her hand, and she did not hear her father enter the drawing-room, nor see him glance quickly from her in the flesh to the sweetly innocent face of his favourite child, smiling down upon him from the young Italian artist’s canvas.
Then he caught sight of the letter, and saw that she was weeping.
An angry flash came into his eyes; the mincing dandyism gave place to a sharp angular rigidity, and stepping quickly across the intervening space that separated him from his child, he was about to take the note from her hands.
Claire uttered a faint cry of alarm, started from the sofa, and hastily thrust the folded paper into her pocket.
“That letter,” he said, stamping his foot, “give me that letter.”
“No, no, I cannot, father,” she cried, with a look of terror at his worn and excited face.
“I insist,” he cried. “I will not allow these clandestine correspondences to be carried on. Give me the letter.”
“Father, I cannot,” she said firmly.
“Am I to take it from you by force?” he cried. “Am I, a gentleman who has struggled all these years to make himself the model from which society is to take its stand, who has striven so hard for his children, to be disgraced by you?”
No answer.
“Heaven knows how I have struggled, and it seems that two of my children must have been born with some base blood in their veins, and to be for ever my disgrace.”
Claire raised her eyes to his full of pitying wonder.
“See how your – no, God help me!” he cried wildly, “I dare not utter his name. See how you have disgraced your married sister – lowered me in the eyes of society. I am almost ruined, and just at a time when I had succeeded in placing your brother well. And now, see here – see here!”
He tore a note from his breast, and held it out rustling in his trembling hand.
“Here – I will not punish you more by reading it aloud,” he said; “but it is from my own son.”
“From Fred?”
“Silence, woman!” cried Denville, with a wild look of agony in his eyes, and a ghastly pallor taking the place of the two feverish spots that had stood in his cheeks. “I have no such son. He is an outcast. I forbid you to mention his name again.”
He stood quivering with a curious passion, his lips moving, his eyes staring wildly, and he beat one hand with the open letter he held in the other.
“Here!” he exclaimed at last, “from Morton – to say that, under the circumstances, he feels bound – for the sake of his own dignity and position in his regiment, to hold aloof from his home. The regiment will soon change quarters, and in time all this, he hopes, will be forgotten. Till then, all is to be at an end between us. This – from my own son.”
He began to pace the room nervously, thrusting back the letter; and then he turned upon Claire again.
“Not content, you still go on. Clandestine correspondence. Let me see who wrote that.”
“I cannot, father.”
“But I insist. Here, just when I had had your hand asked in marriage by one who is wealthy and noble, you disgrace us all by that shameless meeting. Give me the letter, I say.”
In his rage he caught her by the arms, and she struggled with him and fell upon her knees at his feet.
“Am I to use force?” he cried.
“For your own sake, no. Father, the letter is not what you think. For your own peace of mind, let it stay.”
His hands dropped to his sides at his daughter’s wild appeal, and the convulsed angry look once more gave place to the one of dread, as he drew back a step.
“Tell me,” he cried, still hesitating, “is it from that libertine, Sir Harry Payne?”
“No, no!”
“From Rockley?”
“No, father. How can you think me so degraded – so low!”
“Then – then – ”
“Father, for pity’s sake!” she cried, as she crept to his knees and embraced them. “Can you not see how I am willing to bear everything to save you pain? Has there not been agony and suffering enough in this house? You cannot think – you cannot believe. Is it not better that we should let this rest?”
He raised his trembling hands to his lips in a nervous, excited way, looking searchingly and furtively by turns in his child’s piteous face. The rage in his own had died out, to give place to the look of terror; and, as Claire clung to him, he now and again glanced at the door, as if he would flee from her presence.
“No, no,” he said at last. “I was wrong. I will not see the letter. You have your secrets: I have mine. Claire, my child, there is a veil, drawn down by you, over that night’s work. I dare not lift it, I dare not look.”
“Once more, father,” she said, “had we not better let it rest? I am content; I make no murmur against my fate.”
“No,” he said, flashing out again into anger; “but – hush! – stop! – I must not,” he whispered hoarsely. “These strange fits. I cannot bear them.”
He threw back and shook his head excitedly.
“I should go mad – I should go mad.”
“Father!”
“There, I am calm again, my child. I am not myself sometimes. There – there – it is past.”
He bent over and raised her to his breast, where she laid her head, uttering a piteous sigh.
“Stricken,” he whispered; “stricken, my child. The workings of a terrible fate. Don’t reproach – don’t think ill of me, Claire. Some day the light may come – no, no,” he cried wildly; “better the darkness. I am so weak – so torn by the agony I have endured. So weak, so pitiful a man; but, with all this wretched vanity and struggle for place, my miserable heart has been so full of love for you all – for my little May.”
Claire shivered.
“No, no,” he cried excitedly. “Claire, my child, don’t speak. Hush! listen, my child. There have been cases where, in self-abnegation – the sins of others – have been borne – by the innocent – the innocent! Oh, my child, my child!”
His head dropped upon his daughter’s shoulder, and he burst into a fit of sobbing, the outpourings of a flood of anguish that he fought vainly to restrain.
“Father, dear father!” she whispered, as her arms tightened around him.
“Claire, my child – my child!”
“Yes,” she said, as she seemed to be growing stronger and more firm; “your child – not your judge. Father, I see my duty clearly now. Your help and comfort to the end.”
Volume Two – Chapter Nineteen.
Peace and Sympathy
“And I thought that there would be no more rest and comfort here, my child. Claire, one night – ”
“No, no, dearest,” she cried, as she laid her soft white hand upon his lips; “the past cannot be recalled.”
“Only this little revelation,” he said, as he kissed the soft hand and held it to his cheek, “then the past shall be as dead with us. One night – since that night – I said to myself that I could bear no more, and I locked myself in my room; but something seemed to stay my hand – a something seemed to bid me live on, even in my pitiful, degraded state; and always – I cannot tell you how – your face seemed to be before my eyes. I tried to put it from me, but it was there. I fought against it, for I was enraged with you one minute, trembling with dread of what I dare not see the next; but still your face seemed to be there, my child, and I said at last that I would live it down or face it, if the dread time that haunts me always, as if lying in my path, should at last leap out.”
“Father!”
“My child! There, there; we do not know how much we can bear until the burden is laid upon us; and now let us cleave together like soldiers in the battle of life. Claire, child, we must live.”
She sat holding his hand in hers, with her brow knit, and a far-off look in her eyes.
“I am so old and broken,” he said musingly; “so helpless. For so many years my miserable energies have been bent solely to this pitiful life, or I would say let us leave here at once, and go where we are not known, to live in some simple fashion; but – I know nothing. I cannot work.”
“But I can, father,” she said, with a look of elation in her eyes. “I am young and strong, and I will work for you as you have worked for me. Let us go.”
“Where, my child?” he said, as he kissed her hand tenderly. “What work would you do – you, so beautiful, so unfit for the rough toil of life?”
“As a teacher – a governess,” she cried; but he shook his head, and began to tremble and draw her closer to him.
“No, no,” he said excitedly; “that would mean separation; and Claire,” he whispered, “I am so weak – so broken – that I must have your young spirit to sustain me. I cannot live without you. Left alone – no, no, no, I dare not be left alone.”
“Hush, dear!” she said, laying her cheek upon his shoulder, and drawing him to her breast, to soothe the agony of dread from which he suffered. “I will not leave you, then, father, I will be your help and stay. Nothing shall separate us now.”
“No, no.” He whispered the words. “I could not live without you, Claire, and I dare not die. My miserable, useless life may prove useful yet. Yes, my child, I feel it – I know it. My work is not yet done. Claire, my course is marked out for me; we must stay here till then.”
“Till then, father?”
“Yes; and live it down. Yes, I am wanted here. You will help me?”
“Father, I am your child.”
“Yes, yes,” he cried, resuming his old flippant air so suddenly that Claire, who did not realise the reaction that had set in, gazed at him tremblingly. “I shall live it down as of old. We must begin again, my dear, and those miserable, brainless butterflies will soon forget, and come to me for my help and introductions. We must not leave here, and the old fees will come once more.”
Claire sighed.
“Yes, child, it would have been a happier life to have gone; but it is braver to stay. Let your sweet face show in its dignity how lightly you treat all slander and scandal. Some day, after all, you shall marry well.”
She did not reply, and he went on excitedly:
“Now let me see what friends we have left. The Barclays stand firm as rocks. Those Deans, too – so vulgar, but quite as friendly as before. Mrs Pontardent.”
“Mrs Pontardent, father?”
“Yes, my dear, yes. Among so few, we must not be choosers. Remember old Hobson, you know. I know nothing against her but her tables. They gamble high; but where do they not? She has arranged for an evening, and I have promised her to go and take the management, and help her to receive her visitors – and – er – and – ”
“She has asked you to bring me?”
“Yes. How did you know?”
“I could read it in your eyes, father,” said Claire. “Oh, it is impossible.”
“I will not press you, my child; but it is almost life to me, and it would be giving us a stepping-stone to recover our lost ground.”
“Do you wish me to go, father?”
“If – if – you would not mind very much, my dear,” he said hesitatingly. “It would be helping me.”
He kissed her hand and left her to her own thoughts. The tears flowed for a while, and then, with a sigh, Claire rose with a look of resignation on her countenance, as if she accepted her fate.
Volume Two – Chapter Twenty.
Private Instructions
“Look here, Bell,” said Major Rockley, as he stood in his quarters, with his regimental servant before him; “you were drunk again last night?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then you are not ashamed of it?”
“Yes, sir, very much ashamed of it. It’s my weakness, sir.”
“Weakness, you scoundrel? It’s your blackguardly conduct. You have been under arrest so many times for this disgraceful behaviour, and I have such a black list against you, that if I lay it before Colonel Lascelles he will have you flogged.”
“But you won’t do that, sir.”
“Yes, I will, you scoundrel. No: I’ll give you another chance.”
“Thank you, sir; I was sure you would,” said the young man, flushing slightly, and with a strange look in his face.
“By the way, what time did Mr Denville come back to his quarters?”
“Two o’clock, sir.”
“With whom had he been?”
“Sir Matthew Bray, sir. Lady Drelincourt’s, I think.”
“Humph! Now, look here; can I trust you, Bell?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then I’m going to give you a delicate bit of business to do for me.”
“Yes, sir.”
“If you do it well, I shall give you a clean slate to begin again, and wipe off that last report.”
“Thankye, sir.”
“I cannot – at least I do not wish to – be seen in the business preparations, so I trust to you.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Go directly then, to Moggridge’s, and arrange for a post-chaise and four to be at Prince’s Road to-night at – say eleven – no; half-past ten.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Pick good fast horses. Pack a light valise with a change; put my pistols in the pockets of the carriage, and you will be there ready to see me off. You understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
“There’s – well, to be plain with you – a lady in the case.”
“I see, sir.”
“And, mind this; after we have started, you stay behind, and if there is any inquiry directly after, you volunteer information, and say we have taken the London Road. You understand?”
“Quite, sir.”
“There’s a sovereign for you. No: you’ll get drunk if I give it you now. I’ll give you five when I come back.”
“Very good, sir.”
“And mind, if I am wanted, I am unwell in bed. I want a good start.”
“I see, sir. You may depend on me. But what house, sir, in Prince’s Road?”
“You’ll see, blockhead. The one that is lighted up. Mrs Pontardent’s.”
Major Rockley’s regimental servant saluted, turned upon his heel, and went out muttering “Scoundrel!” between his teeth. “I wonder who the lady is?”
“I wouldn’t change places with you, my fine fellow,” he muttered, as he went across the parade ground; and, turning a corner, he came suddenly upon Sir Harry Payne, Sir Matthew Bray, and the new cornet, who flushed scarlet, as he saw the dragoon.
James Bell saluted, and was passing, but Sir Harry Payne stopped him, and Cornet Denville said hastily:
“I’ve left my cigar-case. Join you directly.”
He went away quickly, and Sir Harry Payne said:
“Where are you going, Bell?”
“Major’s washerwoman, sir,” said the dragoon promptly.
“Then you can call at River’s for me. Half a dozen pairs of white kid gloves. He knows my size. Shall he get you some, Matt?”
“No; not going.”
“Isn’t she going?”
“No.”
“Never mind; you’d better come. Denville’s pretty sister will be there.”
“Phew! Will she?” said Sir Matthew, whistling. “I say, mind what you’re about. There may be a row.”
“Not there. I shan’t notice her; and if I did, Denville’s all right. We’re the best of friends now.”
“But are you sure she’s coming?”
“Pontardent told me herself. She came round the old man.”
“Then I will come. Order me some gloves, Harry. I’ve no change.”
“You never do have any. Here! Tell them to send half a dozen pairs for Sir Matthew, and put them down to me. What’s the matter with your lip?”
“My lip, sir?”
“Yes; it’s bleeding.”
“Cracked, sir.”
“Yes: fevered. Drink too much. That will do. Nines, or tens – the gloves?”
“No, no: eights,” cried Sir Matthew; and the dragoon went on out of the barrack gates, with his face growing grey.
“This is being a soldier,” he muttered. “The scoundrel! If I thrash him till he can’t move, they’ll shoot me. But no, it can’t be. She’s too good a girl. Impossible. Besides, I shall be there.”
He went straight to the livery-stable keeper, and arranged for the best four horses he had, and gave the man a hint.
“Very private, you know.”
“Right, my lad. I know what the Major is. Here’s half-a-crown for you to get a glass.”
“Thank ye.”
James Bell pocketed the coin, and went off back to pack his master’s valise, and load the case of pistols ready to take to the chaise in the evening, after which he went to have one half-pint of ale, for he was suffering from a severe sensation of thirst, one that he often felt come on.
“Just one glass,” he said. “That’s all.”
James Bell partook of his one glass, but it was not all. Then he went back to see to the horses in his charge in a stable near the barracks – two belonging to the Major, and one of the Colonel’s.
The helper was there, and as the extra work would fall to his share that night, there was an excuse for giving him a glass of ale, of which he partook, nothing loth.
The message of Sir Harry Payne had been given, the clothes were packed up, the pistols ready. Yes, every thing had been done; and at last, when it was getting dark, James Bell, looking very stern and determined, and with a tendency to walk extremely straight, as if he were aiming at something right ahead, went off to Moggridge’s, placed the packed valise under the seat of the post-chaise, the pistols in the pockets, and then had a chat with the postboys, and – a glass of ale.
There was an hour yet to the time, so he strolled to the end of the yard, and thought he would just go as far as the stables to see if the helper had properly bedded down the horses; and this proving to be the case, and a shilling still remaining unspent of that half-crown, the dragoon suggested that a pot of the best ale should be fetched, and that they should drink it before he went.
The helper was worthy of his title, and fetched the ale, and then, one seated on a truss of straw, the other upon the corn-bin, the two men finished the ale between them, and just at the time that James Bell should have been at Mrs Pontardent’s gate, he was fast asleep in the stable.
That afternoon Mr Barclay was busy with his partner, when a visitor was announced, and as it was probably a call relating to money matters, Mrs Barclay left the room.
“Oh, it’s you, Moggridge,” said Barclay gruffly. “You don’t want money, I’m sure.”
“Thank ye, no, Mr Barclay, sir,” said the visitor, a closely shaven, sharp-faced man, with bow legs. “Things is moving, sir. I’m doing tidy;” and he went on chewing a piece of clover hay, which he had between his lips.
“What do you want then?”
“Well, you know what you said, sir, after the Hon. Tom Badgley went off that night, and dodged the sheriff’s officers; and you know what I promised you.”
“Who’s going now?”
“Major Rockley, sir.”
“The deuce! Alone?”
“No, sir. I think there’s a lady in the case.”
“Who?”
“Don’t know, sir. Take up at Mrs Pontardent’s party; half arter ten.”
“Thank ye, Moggridge. What’ll you take?”
“Well, sir, champagne’s a thing as don’t often come in my way, and – ”
“Come along,” said Barclay, and Mr Moggridge’s desires were satisfied.
“Not a bolt!” said Barclay to himself. “Who’s the woman? Well, I don’t want him to go. If he goes off he won’t meet my bill. He must be stopped, but how?”
He stood thinking for a few minutes, and then sat down and wrote a letter which he took out, and picking a boy from the idlers on the cliff, sent it to its destination.
Volume Two – Chapter Twenty One.
A Walk and a Drive
Richard Linnell found a good deal of relief in his restless state of mind in taking long country walks, telling himself that he got away from his thoughts; but, on the contrary, he thought the more, and enjoyed his misery as some young men do whose love affairs go crooked.
He was about nine miles away from Saltinville on the day of Mrs Pontardent’s party, and rapidly increasing the distance, when he suddenly became aware of the sound of wheels behind in the road, and looking round as he gave place to the driver, he found that Cora Dean was checking her ponies.
“Confound her! she has followed me,” he said to himself, as she drew up by his side, quite alone, for the little seat generally occupied by the boy-groom was turned over and closed.
“This is unexpected, Mr Linnell,” she said, holding out her gloved hand. “I thought you were at home.”
“I felt sure you were,” he said, smiling.
“Why?”
The question was accompanied by a half resentful, half tender look, the first intended, the latter not.
“I expected that you would be busy with hair-dressers and dressmakers, preparing for to-night’s battle.”
“To-night’s battle?”
“Yes,” he said, in a bantering, reckless way that was new to him, “the battle with the beaux whom you are going to slay.”
He felt as if he could have bitten his tongue off the next moment, as he saw the look of pain she gave him.
“What have I done?” she said in a soft, low, half-passionate tone.
“Done! What do you mean?”
“Why do you take pleasure in laughing at me and mocking me?”
“Oh, nonsense!” he cried. “I was only speaking lightly.”
“Why should you speak lightly to me?” she said. “We have lived in the same house now for over a year, and, instead of being neighbours and friends, there always seems to be a great gap between us.”
“Why, what a sentimental view you take of things,” he said. “We shake hands when we meet. We smile at one another, and nod and chat.”
“Yes,” she said sadly, “we shake hands, we smile at each other, we nod and chat, but – ”
She stopped and seemed to try and command herself; and, to his great relief, she spoke lightly as she said:
“I shall see you to-night, of course?”
“No; I thought you were going to a party.”
“Yes, but you will be there?”
“No,” he said gravely; “I am not going.”
“Not going!” she cried. “Why, you were asked.”
“How do you know?”
She turned crimson, and avoided his searching look.
“Did Mrs Pontardent tell you?”
“Yes, and you will go?”
“No,” he said; “I declined. Why was I asked – do you know?”
She darted an appealing look at him; and the haughty, self-assertive woman seemed to be completely changed.
“Don’t – don’t be angry with me,” she said. “I – I thought it would be so pleasant if you were going to be there.”
“You never asked that woman to invite me, Miss Dean?”
She did not speak, but her face began to work, her hands dropped in her lap, her head drooped upon her chest, and she wept bitterly.
“Oh, Miss Dean, for heaven’s sake don’t do that,” he said. “I hate to see a woman cry. I can’t bear it. Pray forgive me if I spoke harshly. I could not help feeling annoyed that you should have done this.”
“You ought to be grateful,” she cried passionately. “The woman you love so dearly will be there with gay Major Rockley – oh, Mr Linnell – Richard – for heaven’s sake forgive me. What have I said – what have I done?”
In her alarm at the start he gave, and at his ghastly face, she let fall the reins and caught at his arm, when the ponies, feeling their heads free, dashed off; but this brought Linnell back to the present, and with one bound he reached the rein, hung on to it, and was dragged along for a few yards, turning the ponies’ heads towards a steep bank by the side of the narrow unfrequented road. The result would have been that he would have been crushed between the chaise and the bank, but for Cora’s presence of mind in seizing the other rein and dragging at it with all her might.
As it was, he received a violent kick which turned him sick and faint, and when he came to, the ponies’ reins were secured to a tree in the hedge, and he was lying upon the grass, with Cora’s arm supporting his head, and her frightened face bending over him.
“What is it?” he cried sharply. “Are you hurt?”
“No,” she said softly. “Don’t move. How brave you are!”
He looked at her wonderingly, and then flushing once more, he recalled the whole scene, and what led to it.
“I was afraid you were hurt,” he said, trying to rise; but the giddy feeling came back, and he sank down again.
“You are hurt,” she cried. “What shall I do? Richard – dear Richard! He’s dying. Oh, my love – my love!”
“Hush!” he cried huskily, as she was raising his head in her arms; “for God’s sake don’t speak to me like that. There – there – you see I am better. The pony kicked me. It made my head swim. There,” he cried, rising to his knees, “you see it is all right. I quite frightened you.”
He stood up now and offered her his hand to rise; but she did not take it, for she covered her face with her hands and crouched lower and lower on her knees, sobbing wildly in a passion of grief, for his words had been as cold and distant as if they had been strangers.
“Miss Dean – Miss Dean – pray let me help you to your carriage,” he said; but she shrank from him.
“Don’t touch me!” she cried bitterly; “you made me love you – you made me disgrace myself like this, and now I am to be your laughing-stock and scorn.” She looked up at him with her eyes full of rage, which died out on the instant as she cried to him wildly, “I wish you had let me drown!”
He stood looking at her for a few moments, and then glanced along the winding lane; but they were quite alone. Then, taking her hand, he made her rise, for she submitted to his will without a trace of resistance.
“I am very sorry,” he said at last simply.
“Sorry!” she cried angrily. “Oh, why am I such a mad fool? Why did I betray myself like this?”
“Hush!” he said softly, as he held her hand between both of his; “listen to me. Do you think I have not seen for long enough that you are beautiful, and that – ”
“How dare you?” she cried fiercely. “It is not true.”
“You must hear me,” he said; “and forgive my awkwardness for speaking as I do. You know my story so well: have I not always been steadfast to that love?”
She sobbed violently and tried to snatch away her hand, but he held it firmly.
“I have always tried to be to you as a friend. Heaven knows I would not have wounded you like this.”
“Yes,” she sobbed bitterly, “Heaven knows.”
“Why did you stab me with those cruel words?” he cried resentfully.
“I don’t know,” she wailed. “I was mad. It makes me mad to see you go on worshipping her as you do. Does she make you love and hate her too, as she does me?”
“Hush – hush!” he said quickly. “I want to like and respect you, Cora Dean.”
“Like! Respect!” she cried, with a flash of her former rage. “Why have I degraded myself like this?”
“Do you not trust me?” he said gently, as he looked in her eyes. “Do you think I should be such a despicable coward as ever to whisper word of this to a soul? Come,” he said, with a frank smile, “we have both been unfortunate. Let us be friends.”
“Friends?” she cried. “No; a woman never forgives a slight like this. Do you think I could?”
“Yes,” he said, after a few moments’ pause. “You hate me, and are bitter against me now; but when you have grown calm you will respect me, I am sure. Cora,” he cried, with an outburst as excited as her own, “there is no such thing as love or truth on earth. I – Bah! What am I saying?” he cried, checking himself. “Come, we are friends. Let me help you to your place again.”
He offered his hand once more, but she struck it aside, and went to the ponies’ heads while he tried to forestall her, but had to catch at the side of the chaise to save himself a fall.
Her anger was gone on the instant as she saw his face contract with pain, and in a moment she was by his side.
“It is my turn to triumph,” she said in a deep, low tone. “Richard Linnell, you must trust to the woman you despise I shall have to drive you home.”
He tried to master the pain, but he could not; and, with a deprecating smile, he had to confess his weakness, and accept a seat back to Saltinville, for it was impossible to walk.
It was a triumph, Cora Dean saw, as she sat up proud and stately beside him; and she felt her heart glow as they reached the town, and scores of promenaders noted him seated by her side; but it was not a pleasant drive home, all the same.
