The following is a Gaslight etext.... |
A message to you about copyright and permissions |
|
Back to T.S. Jarvis'
Geoffrey Hampstead page
Fair goes the dancing when the sitar's tuned; Tune us the sitar neither low nor high, And we will dance away the hearts of men. The string o'erstretched breaks, and music flies; The string o'erslack is dumb, and music dies; Tune us the sitar neither low nor high. | |
Nautch girls' song. The Light of Asia. ARNOLD. |
MR. LINDON did not remain long with his family on the trip which Mrs. Lindon thought was only to last a month or two. On arriving in England, he transacted his business in a short time, and then proposed a run on the Continent. By degrees he took the family on to Rome, where they made friends at the hotel and seemed contented to remain for a while. He then pretended to have received a cablegram, and came home by the quickest route, having got them fairly installed in a foreign country without letting them suspect any coercion in the matter. Afterward he wrote to say he wished Nina to see something of England and Scotland, and, the proposal being agreeable to Mrs. Lindon, they accepted invitations from people they had met to pay visits in different places, so that, together with an art course in Paris and a musical course at Leipsic, they wandered about until nearly two years had elapsed, when they suddenly suspected that Mr. Lindon preferred that they should be away, upon which they returned at once.
Whether Nina came back "in love" with Jack was a question as to which be made many endeavors to satisfy himself. The ability to live up to the verb "to love" in all its moods and tenses is so varied, and the outward results of the inward grace are often so ephemeral that it would be hazardous to say what particular person is sufficiently unselfish to experience more than a gleam of a phase that calls for all the most beautiful possibilities. It is not merely a jingle of words to say that one who is not minded to be single should be single-minded.
Let us pass over the difficult point and take the young lady's statement for what it was worth. She said, of herself, that she was in love with Jack. He had extracted this from her with much insistence, while she aggravatingly asserted at the same time, that she only made the admission "for a quiet life," leaving Jack far from any certainty of possession that could lead to either indifference or comfort.
Two or three proposals of marriage which she had while away had evidently not captured her, even if they had turned her head a little. She had seen no person she liked better than Jack or else she would not, perhaps, have come back in the way she did. The proposals, however, if they ever had been made, served to turn Jack's daily existence into alternations of hot and cold shower-baths. One day she would talk about a Russian she had met in Paris. Then she solemnly gave the history of her walks and talks with a naval officer in Rome, till Jack's brow was damp with a cold exudation. But when it came to the delightful appearance of Colonel Vere, and the devotion he showed when he took her hand and asked her to share his estates, Jack said, with his teeth clinched, that he had had enough of the whole business and departed. He then spent two days of very complete misery, barometer at 28°, until she met him and laid her hand on his arm and said she was sorry; would he stop being a cross boy? that she had only been teasing him, and all the rest of it; while she looked out of her soft dark eyes in a way that left no doubt in Jack's mind that he had behaved like a brute.
In this way the first week of her return had been consumed, and as yet he had not felt that he could afford to divide her society with anybody. What with the rich Russian, the naval officer, and Colonel Vere what with getting into agonies and getting out of them it took him pretty nearly all his time to try to straighten matters out. So Geoffrey's introduction had not been mentioned further by him, except to Nina, who was becoming curious to see Jack's particular friend and Admirable Crichton. The opportunity for this meeting seemed about to offer itself in the shape of an entertainment where all those who remained in Toronto during the summer would collect one of those warm gatherings where the oft-tried case of pleasure vs. perspiration results so frequently in an undoubted verdict for the defendant.
The Dusenalls were among those wise enough to know that in summer they could be cooler in Toronto, at their own residence, with every comfort about them, than they could possibly be while stewing in an American hotel or broiling on the sands of an American seaport. They objected to spending large sums yearly in beautifying their grounds, merely to leave the shady walks, cool arbors, and tinkling fountains for the enjoyment of the gardeners' wives and children. In the thickness of their mansion walls there was a power to resist the sun which no thin wooden hotel can possess; therefore, in spite of a fashion which is somewhat dying out, they remained in Toronto during the hot months, and amused themselves a good deal on young Dusenall's yacht.
Their residence was well adapted for such a party as they were now giving, and the guests were made to understand that in the afternoon there would be a sort of garden-party, with lawn-tennis chiefly in view, and at dark a substantial high tea to wind up with dancing as long as human nature could stand the strain; and if any had got too old or too corpulent or too dignified to play tennis, they could hardly get too much so to look on; or, if this lacked interest, they could walk about the lawns and gardens and converse, or, if possible, make love; or listen to a good military band while enjoying a harmless cigarette; and if they liked none of these things they could never have been known by the people of whom this account is given, and thus, perhaps, might as well never have been born.
The men, of course, played in their
flannels, which a few of them afterward changed in Charley
Dusenall's rooms when there was a suspension of hostilities
for toilets. Most of them went home to dinner and appeared
later on for the dancing. People came in afternoon-dress
and remained for tea and through the evening in that
attire, or else they dropped in at the usual time in
evening-dress. It did not matter. It was all a sort of
"go-as- Mrs. Lindon arrived with her daughter late
in the evening, when everything was whirling. Jack had his
name down for a couple of dances, and a few more were
bestowed upon eager aspirants, and then she had no more to
give away so sorry! card quite filled! She
told dancing fibs in a charming manner that seemed to take
away half the pang of disappointment. This was a field-day,
and the discarded ones could receive more notice on some
other, smaller occasion.
To see Jack and Nina dancing together was to
see two people completely satisfied with themselves. As a
dancer, Jack "fancied himself." He had an eye for
calculating distances and he had the courage of his
opinions when he proposed to dance through a small space.
As for Nina, she was the incarnation of a waltz. Her small
feet seemed as quick as the pat of a cat's paw. In watching
her the idea of exertion never seemed to present itself.
There is a pleasure in the rhythmic pulsations of the feet
and in yielding to the sensuous strains of the music (which
alone seems to be the propelling power) that is more
distinctly animal than a good many of our other pleasures;
and Nina was born to dance.
At the end of Jack's first dance with her,
Geoffrey came idling through the conservatory, and entered
the ball-room close beside the place where Mrs. Lindon was
seated with several other mothers. As the last bars of the
waltz were expiring, Jack brought up at what he called "the
moorings" with all the easy swing and grace of a dancer who
loves his dance. The act of stopping seemed to divide the
unity in trinity existing between his partner, himself, and
the music, and it was therefore to be regretted, and not to
be done harshly, but lingeringly, if it must be
done, while Nina, as he released her, came forward toward
her mother with her sleeveless arms still partly hanging in
the air, and with a pretty little trip and slide on the
floor, as if she could not get the "time" out of her feet.
Her head was slightly thrown back, the eyelids were
drooped, and the lips were parted with a smile of
recognition for Mrs. Lindon, while her attitude showed the
curves of her small waist to advantage; so that the first
glimpse of Nina that Geoffrey received was not an
unpleasant one. She seemed to be moving naturally and
carelessly. She was only endeavoring to make the other
mothers envious, when they compared her with their own
daughters. Such wiles were part of her nature. When feeling
particularly vigorous, almost every attitude of some people
is a challenge males with their bravery, females
with their graces and, whatever changes the future
may develop in the predilections of woman, there may for a
long time be some left to acknowledge that for them a
likable man is one who is able to assert, in a refined way,
sufficient primitive force to make submission seem like
conquest rather than choice.
Jack at once introduced Geoffrey his
face beaming while he did so. He was so proud of Nina. He
was so proud of Geoffrey. Nina was blushing at having
Hampstead witness her little by-play with her mother at the
conclusion of the dance but not displeased withal.
Jack thought he had never seen her look so beautiful. And
Geoffrey was such a strapper. Jack surveyed them both with
unbounded satisfaction. He slapped Hampstead on the arm,
and tightened the sleeve of his coat over his biceps,
patting the hard limb, and saying warmly: "Here's where the
secret lies, Nina! This is what takes the prizes."
"So you are Jonathan's David, are you?" said
Nina, smiling, as they talked together.
"Well, he patronizes me a good deal," said
Geoffrey. "But don't you think he looks as if he wished to
find his next partner? Suppose we give him a chance to do
so; let us go off and discuss his moral character."
He went away with Nina on his arm, leaving
Jack quite radiant to see them both so friendly.
When they arrived in the long conservatory
adjoining, Geoffrey held out his hand for her card. He did
not ask for it, except perhaps by a look. Having possessed
himself of it, he found five successive dances vacant
evidently kept for some one, and he was bold enough
suddenly to conclude they had been kept for him. He looked
at the card amused, and as he scratched a long mark across
all five, he drawled, "May I have the pleasure of
some dances?" And then he mused aloud as he examined the
card, "Don't seem to be more than five. Humph! Too bad! But
perhaps we can manage a few more, Miss Lindon?"
Nina was accustomed to distribute her favors
with a reluctant hand and with a condescension peculiarly
her own, and to hear suppliant voices around her. She would
be capricious, and loved her power. Even Jack did not count
upon continued sunshine, and took what he could get with
some thanksgivings. She was a presumptive heiress, and had
not escaped the inflation of the purse-proud. But, on the
other hand, since her return she had heard a good deal
about the various perfections of his friend, and how well
he did everything; and from what her girl friends said, she
had gleaned that Geoffrey was more in demand than would be
confessed. He was not very desirable financially, perhaps,
but hugely so because he was sought after. This much would
have been sufficient to have made her amused rather than
annoyed at his cool way of assuming that she would devote
herself to him for an unlimited time, but there was
something more about Geoffrey than mere fashion to account
for his popularity, and that was the peculiar influence of
his presence upon those with whom he conversed.
Thus Nina, if she came to the Dusenalls with
the intention of having a flirtation with Geoffrey, which
the condition of her card and her acquiescence to his
demands confessed, had hit upon a person who was far more
than her match, for Hampstead's acquaintanceships were not
much governed by rule. As long as a girl diverted him and
wished to amuse herself he had no particular creed as to
consequences, but merely made it understood
verbally, at least that there was nothing lasting
about the matter, and that it was merely for "the temporary
mutual benefit and improvement of both parties." This was a
remnant of a code of justification by which he endeavored
to patch up his self-respect: but nobody knew better than
he that such phrases mean nothing to women who are falling
in love and intend to continue in love.
Underneath the careless tones with which he
spoke to Nina there was an earnestness and concentration
that influenced her. As he gravely handed back her card and
caught and held her glance with an intensity in his gray
eyes and will-power in his face, she felt, for the first
time with any man, that she was not completely at her ease.
When obeying the warning impulses that formerly fulfilled
the offices of thought women do not often make a mistake.
By these intuitions, sufficient at first for self-protection,
she knew there was willfulness and mastery in
him, and that if she would be true to Jack she should
return to him. If change of masters be hurtful to women,
this was the time for her to remember about the woman who
hesitates. Geoffrey said, "Let us go in and have a dance,
Miss Lindon," and she rose with a nervous smile and glanced
across to the place where her mother was sitting. But Mrs.
Lindon had never been a tower of strength to her, or she
might have gone to her. She had a distinct feeling that
this new acquaintance was more powerful in some way than
she had anticipated, and that everything was not all right
with Jack's interests, and she was at one of those moments
when a woman's ability to decide is so peculiarly the
essence of her character, circumstances, and teaching as
fairly to indicate her general moral level. The band that played at the Dusenalls' was
one that could be listened to with pleasure. It was
composed of bottle-nosed Germans who worked at trades
during the day and who played together generally for their
own amusement. In all they played they brought out the soul
of the movement. It was to one of the dreamiest of waltzes
that Nina danced with Geoffrey one of those pieces
where from softer cadences the air swells into rapturous
triumph, or sinks into despair, and wooes the dancer into
the most unintellectual and pleasant frame of mind
if the weather be not too warm.
A cool night breeze was passing through the
room, bringing with it the fragrance of the dewey flowers
outside, and carrying off the odor of those nauseating
tube-roses (which people will wear), and replacing
it with a perfume more acceptable to gods and men
especially men.
If Jack "fancied himself" as a dancer,
Geoffrey had a better right to do so. His stature aided him
also, and men with retreating chins were rather inclined to
give him the road. He had a set look about the lower part
of his face which in crowds was an advantage to him. It
suggested some vis major perhaps a
locomotive, which no one cares to encounter.
In two minutes after they had embarked on
this hazardous voyage Nina had but one idea, or rather she
was conscious of a pervading sense of pleasure, that ran
away with her calmer self. No thought of anything definite
was with her, only a vague consciousness of turning and
floating, of being admired, of being impelled by music and
by Geoffrey. As the dance went on it seemed like some
master power that led through the mazes delightfully and
resistlessly.
When the music ended, for they had never
stopped, she sighed with sorrow. It had been too short. She
had yielded herself so completely to its fascination that
she seemed like one awakening from a dream. And then her
conscience smote her when she thought of Jack, and how in
some way she had enjoyed herself too much, and did not seem
to be quite the same girl that she had been half an hour
before; but these thoughts left her as they walked about
and spoke a few words together. While circling the long
room she noticed Geoffrey bowing to a tall young lady whose
long white silk train swept behind her majestically. There
was a respect and gravity in his bow which Nina, with her
quick observation, noticed.
"Who is that you are bowing to?" she asked.
"That is Miss Margaret Mackintosh."
"Oh, I think she is perfectly lovely," said
Nina, as she looked back admiringly.
"So do I," said Geoffrey.
Nina turned about now with curiosity, in
order to meet her again. Miss Mackintosh came down the room
once more with a partner who was one of the very young
persons who now are the dancing men in Toronto
called the "infants" by a lady (still unwon) who remembers
when there were marriageable men to be found dancing at
parties. This detrimental with Miss Mackintosh was having
an enjoyable time of it. What with the beauty of his
partner, her stately figure, gracious manner, and the
rapidity with which she talked to him, the little man did
not quite know where he was, and he could do little else
than turn occasionally and murmur complete acquiescence in
what she was saying, while he sometimes glanced at her
active face for a moment. In doing this, though, he would
lose the thread of her discourse, in consequence of his
unfeigned admiration, and, as he was straining every nerve
to follow her quick ideas, this was a risky thing to do.
Once or twice, seeing him turn toward her so attentively,
she turned also and said, "Don't you think so?" and then
the little man would endeavor to mentally pull himself
together, and with some appearance of deep thought would
again acquiesce with unction. Certainly he thought he did
think so every time.
The close scrutiny of Hampstead and Nina did
not seem to affect her as she passed them with her face
uplifted and earnest. She did not seem to have any side
eyes open to see who were regarding her. When the handsome
dress that had made such a cavern in her allowance money
was trodden on, she gathered it up with an active movement
not seeming to notice the unpleasantness, nor for a
moment abating the earnestness of her conversation. Her
idea seemed to be to prevent the dress from interrupting
her rather than to save it. One could see that, once on,
the dress was perhaps not thought of again, that it was not
the main part of her pleasure, but was lost in her endeavor
to make herself agreeable, and in this way to enjoy
herself.
"I am sure she must have a very kind heart,"
said Nina, smiling.
"Why?" asked Geoffrey.
"Because she takes so much trouble over such
a poor specimen of a man."
"Perhaps, as Douglas Jerrold said, she
belongs to the Royal Humane Society," added Geoffrey.
As Nina could not remember being acquainted
with any Mr. Jerrold, the remark lost some of its weight.
The true inwardness of the old wit that comes down to us in
books is our knowledge of the reputation of the joker.
"And does she dance well?" asked Nina.
"No," said Geoffrey, as he still looked
after Miss Mackintosh with grave and thoughtful eyes. "I
don't think she has in her enough of what Gthe calls
the 'dæmonic element' of our nature to dance well."
"Not very complimentary to those who can
dance well," said Nina, archly pointing to herself.
Geoffrey shrugged his shoulders, as he
looked at his partner. "Some people prefer the
dæmonic element," said he. But he turned again from
the rose to the tall, white lily, who was once more
approaching them, with something of a melancholy idea in
his mind that men like him ought to confine themselves
entirely to the rose, and not aspire above their moral
level. Margaret Mackintosh was the one person he revered.
She was the symbol to him of all that was good and pure. He
had almost forgotten what these words meant, but the
presence of Margaret always re-interpreted the lost
language.
"And do you admire her very much?" Nina
inquired.
"I admire her more than any person I ever
saw."
Sooner or later, it would have gone hard
with Geoffrey for making this speech, if he had been any
one else. But it occurred to Nina that he did not care
whether she took offense or not. He was leaning against the
wall, apparently oblivious, for the moment, to any of her
ideas, charms, or graces, but looking, withal, exceedingly
handsome, and a thought came to her which should not come
to an engaged young lady. She made up her mind that he
would make him care for her a great deal and then would
snub him and marry Jack.
The music commenced again.
"Come now," said Nina, gayly, "and
try a little more of the dæmonic element."
Geoffrey turned to her quickly, and
his face flushed as, to quote Shakespeare's sonnet,
"his bad angel fired his good one out." He saw in
her face her intention to subjugate him, and knew
that he had accidently paved the way for this new
foolish notion of hers by his candid admiration of
Miss Mackintosh.
"Have you any of it to spare?" said
he, as his arm encircled her for the dance.
No verbal answer was given, but they
floated away among the dancers. Here she forgot her
slight feelings of resentment and retained only the
desire to attract him, without further wish to
punish him afterward. A few turns around the room,
and she was in as much of a whirl as she had been
before. They danced throughout the music
almost without ceasing; and when it ended she
unconsciously leaned upon his arm, as they strolled
off together, almost as if she were tired. The
thought of how she was acting came to her, only it
came now as an intruder. A usurper reigned with
sovereign sway, and Right was quickly ousted on his
approach. A little while ago, and the power to
decide, for Jack or against him, was more evenly
balanced; but now, how different! She was wandering
on with no other impulse than the indefinite wish
to please Geoffrey. If she had been a man, sophisms
and excuses might have occurred to her. But it was
not her habit to analyze self much, and even
sophisms require some thought.
They passed through the conservatory
and out to the broad walk of pressed gravel, where
several couples were promenading. Here they walked
up and down once or twice in the cool breeze that
seemed delicious after the invisible dust of the
ball-room. Nina was saying nothing, but leaning on
his arm, and it seemed to her that his low, deep
tones vibrated through her as a sympathetic
note sometimes makes glass ring as if in
echo.
Geoffrey was wondering where all the
pride and self-assertion had gone to in this girl
who now seemed so trustful and docile. Even her
answers seemed mechanical and vague, as if she were
in some way bewildered.
Jack, in the mean time, was elbowing
his way through a crowd, trying to get one of his
partners something to eat. He was the only person
likely to notice her absence, and this he did not
do, and, as Geoffrey was down for five dances, he
knew no others would be looking for her. So he
walked on past the end of the terrace, and,
descending some steps, proceeded farther till they
came to more steps leading down into a path dark
with overhanging trees. Nina hesitated, and said
she was always afraid to go among dark trees, but
Geoffrey said, "Oh, I'll take care of
you." Then she thought it was pleasant to have an
athlete for a protector, and she glanced at his
strong face and frame with confidence. She no
longer went with him as she had danced, with her
mind in a whirl, but peacefully and calmly, with no
other thought than to be with him. He took her hand
as they descended the stairs, and, though she
shrank a little from a proceeding new to her, it
seemed natural enough, and gave her a sense of
protection in the dark paths. It did not occur to
her that she could have done without it. She did
not notice their silence. Geoffrey, too, thought it
pleasant enough in the balmy air without
conversation. He was interested by her beauty and
her sudden partiality for him.
At length he stopped in one of the
distant paths as they came to a seat between the
trunks of two large trees. Here they sat down at
opposite sides of the seat, and Geoffrey leaned
back against the tree beside him. The leaves on the
overhanging boughs quivered in the light of the
moon, and the delicate perfume in the air spoke of
flower-beds near by. He thought it extremely
pleasant here, and he laid his head back against
the tree beside him to listen to the tinkling of
the fountain and to enjoy the scent-laden night
air. An idea was still with him that this was the
girl Jack was engaged to, and he thought it would
be as well to keep that idea before him. He said to
himself that he liked Jack, and thought he was very
considerate, under the circumstances, for his
friend when he took out a little silver case and
suggested that he would like a cigarette.
Nina did not answer him. She was in
some phase of thought in which cigarettes had no
place, and only looked toward him slowly, as if she
had merely heard the sound of his voice and not the
words. He selected from the case one of those
innocuous tubes of rice-paper and prairie-grass,
and, as he did so, the absent look on her face
seemed peculiar. With a fuse in one hand and the
cigarette in the other, he paused before striking a
light, and they looked at each other for a moment
as he thought of stories he had read of one
person's influence over another.
Like many, he had a general curiosity about strange
phases of mankind, and it occurred to him that Nina
would make an interesting subject for experiment.
Presently he said, in resonant tones, deep and
musical:
"Do you like to be here, Nina?"
She did not seem to notice that he
called her by this familiar name, but she stood up
and remained silently gazing at the moon through a
break in the foliage. Her beauty was sublimated by
the white light, and, as Geoffrey took a step
towards her, he forgot about his cigarette, and,
taking both her hands in his, he repeated his
question two or three times before she answered.
Then she turned impetuously.
"Oh, why do you make me do
everything that is wrong? I should not be here. I
should never have spoken to you. I was afraid of
you from the first moment I saw you."
Geoffrey led her by one hand back to
the seat.
"Now answer me. Do you like to be
here with me,
Nina?"
She looked at the moon and at the
ground and all about, but remained mute and
apparently pondering.
He had forgotten Jack now as well as
the cigarette, and was rapidly losing the
remembrance that this was to be merely a scientific
experiment.
"Your silence makes me all the more
impatient. I will know now. Do you like to be here,
Nina?"
A new earnestness in his tone
thrilled her and made her tremble. She turned with
a sudden impulse, as if something had made her
reckless:
"You are forcing me to answer you,"
she said vehemently, as she looked at him with a
constrained, though affectionate expression in her
eyes. "But I will tell you if I die for it. Oh, I
am so wicked to say so, but I must. You make me.
Oh, now let us go into the house."
Geoffrey's generous intention to act
rightly by Jack departed from him, and for a moment
he drew her toward him, saying that she must not
care too much for being there, "because, you know,"
he said, "this is only a little flirtation, and is
quite too good to last."
She seemed not to be listening to
him, but to be thinking; and after a moment she
said, in long drawn out, sorrowful accents:
"Oh poor Jack!"
Something in the slow, melancholy
way she said this, and the thought of the poor
place that Jack certainly held at the present time
in her affections, struck Geoffrey as irresistibly
amusing, and he laughed aloud in an unsympathetic
way, which presented him to her in a new light, and
she sprang from him at once. Her emotion turned to
anger as she thought that the laugh had been
derisive, and her blood boiled to think be could
bring her here to laugh at her after he had
succeeded in winning her so completely.
"Come into the house at once," she
cried. "I can't go in alone even if I knew the
way."
Geoffrey rose and begged her pardon,
assuring her that nothing but the peculiarity of
her remark had caused his laugh.
"I will not stay here another
instant. If you don't come at once I'll find my way
alone." And she stamped her foot upon the ground.
Hampstead did not like to be stamped
at, and his face altered. As long as she had been
facile and pleasing, a sense of duty toward her and
Jack bad made him considerate. It had seemed to him
while sitting there that this girl was his; and the
sense of possession had made him kind, but now that
she seemed to vex him unnecessarily it appeared to
him like a denial of his influence. The idea of the
experiment suddenly returned, together with a sense
of power and a desire to compel submission which
displaced his wish to be considerate. He sat down
on the seat again facing her and said:
"I want you to come here." He
motioned to the seat beside him.
"I won't go near you. I hate you!
I'll run in by myself."
"You can not run away because
I wish you to come here."
Hampstead said this in a measured
way, and his brow seemed to knot into cords as he
concentrated his will-power. His face bore an
unpleasant expression. A quarter of a minute passed
and she stood trembling and fascinated; and before
another half-minute had elapsed she came very
slowly forward, and approached him with the
expression of her face changed into one of
enervation. Her eyes were dilated, and her hands
hung loosely at her sides. Hampstead saw, with some
consternation, that she had become like something
else, that she looked very like a mad-woman. A shock
went through him as he looked at her not knowing
how the matter might terminate. He saw that she was
mesmerized an automaton moved by his will
only. The combined flirtation and experiment had gone
further than he had intended, and the result was startling
especially as the possibility that she might not
recover flashed through his mind. The power he had
been wielding (which receives much cheap ridicule
from very learned men who would fain deny what they
can not explain) suddenly seemed to him to be a
devilish one, and he felt that he had done
something wrong. He had not intended it. An idea
had seized him, and he was merely concentrating a
power which he unconsciously used almost every hour
of his life. He considered what ought to be done to
bring her back to a normal state. Not knowing
anything better to do, he walked her about quickly,
speaking to her, a little sharply, so as to rouse
her.
Then, by telling her to wake up, and
by asking her simple questions and requiring an
answer, he succeeded in bringing her back to
something like her usual condition. When she quite
knew where she was, she thought she must have
fainted. All her anger was gone, and Geoffrey, to
give the devil his due, felt sorry for her. It had
been an interesting episode something quite
new to him in a scientific way but uncanny.
She still looked to him as if for protection, and
she would have wept had he not warned her how she
would appear in the ball-room. "Oh, Mr. Hampstead,
you have treated me cruelly," she said. Geoffrey felt
that this was true enough.
"It was all my own fault, though. I
do not blame you. You have taught me a great deal
to-night. I seem to know, somehow, your best and
your worst, and what man can be."
She leaned upon his arm, partly from
weakness and partly because she felt that, good or
bad, he was master, and that she liked to lean upon
him. The movement touched Geoffrey with compassion.
Having nothing to offer in return, it distressed
him to notice her affection which he knew would
only bring her unhappiness. He tried, therefore, to
say something to remove the impressions that had
come to her.
"You speak of good and bad in me,"
he said quickly. "Now I think you are so much in my
confidence that I can trust you in what I am going
to say. Don't believe that there is any good in me.
I tell you the truth no because I am sorry that we
have been so foolish to-night. There is no good in
me. It is all the other thing."
Nina shuddered feeling as if
he had spoken the truth but that it was already too
late for her to listen to it.
He took her back into the house,
smiling and pleasant to those about him, as if
nothing had occurred, and left her with Mrs.
Lindon.
But he did not go to find Margaret
Mackintosh again. He went home somewhat excited,
and smoked four of five pipes of tobacco. At first
he was regretful, for he knew he had been doing
harm. He said he was a whimsical fool. But after a
couple of "night-caps" he began to think how
picturesque she had looked in the moonlight, and he
afterward dropped off into as dreamless an
undisturbed a sleep as the most virtuous may enjoy.
(End of Chapter V.)