The burden on Clara's mind weighs
on it more heavily than ever,
after what Mrs. Crayford has
said to her. She is too unhappy
to feel the inspiriting influence
of the dance. After a turn round
the room, she complains of fatigue.
Mr. Francis Aldersley looks at
the conservatory (still as invitingly
cool and empty as ever); leads
her back to it; and places her
on a seat among the shrubs. She
tries--very feebly--to dismiss
him.
"Don't let
me keep you from dancing, Mr.
Aldersley."
He seats himself by her side,
and feasts his eyes on the lovely
downcast face that dares not
turn toward him. He whispers
to her:
"Call me Frank."
She longs to call him Frank--she
loves him with all her heart.
But Mrs. Crayford's warning words
are still in her mind. She never
opens her lips. Her lover moves
a little closer, and asks another
favor. Men are all alike on these
occasions. Silence invariably
encourages them to try again.
"Clara! have
you forgotten what I said at
the concert yesterday?
May I say it again?"
"No!"
"We sail to-morrow
for the Arctic seas. I may
not return
for years. Don't send me away
without hope! Think of the long,
lonely time in the dark North!
Make it a happy time for _me_."
Though he speaks with the fervor
of a man, he is little more than
a lad: he is only twenty years
old, and he is going to risk
his young life on the frozen
deep! Clara pities him as she
never pitied any human creature
before. He gently takes her hand.
She tries to release it.
"What! not
even that little favor on the
last night?"
Her faithful heart takes his
part, in spite of her. Her hand
remains in his, and feels its
soft persuasive pressure. She
is a lost woman. It is only a
question of time now!
"Clara! do
you love me?"
There is a pause. She shrinks
from looking at him--she trembles
with strange contradictory sensations
of pleasure and pain. His arm
steals round her; he repeats
his question in a whisper; his
lips almost touch her little
rosy ear as he says it again:
"Do you love
me?"
She closes her eyes faintly--she
hears nothing but those words--feels
nothing but his arm round her
--forgets Mrs. Crayford's warning--forgets
Richard Wardour himself--turns
suddenly, with a loving woman's
desperate disregard of everything
but her love--nestles her head
on his bosom, and answers him
in that way, at last!
He lifts the
beautiful drooping head--their
lips meet in their
first kiss--they are both in
heaven: it is Clara who brings
them back to earth again with
a start--it is Clara who says, "Oh!
what have I done?"--as usual,
when it is too late.
Frank answers the question.
"You have made
me happy, my angel. Now, when
I come back,
I come back to make you my wife."
She shudders. She remembers
Richard Wardour again at those
words.
"Mind!" she says, "nobody
is to know we are engaged till
I
permit you to mention it. Remember
that!"
He promises to remember it.
His arm tries to wind round her
once more. No! She is mistress
of herself; she can positively
dismiss him now--after she has
let him kiss her!
"Go!" she says. "I
want to see Mrs. Crayford.
Find her!
Say I am here, waiting to speak
to her. Go at once, Frank--for
my sake!"
There is no alternative but
to obey her. His eyes drink a
last draught of her beauty. He
hurries away on his errand--the
happiest man in the room. Five
minutes since she was only his
partner in the dance. He has
spoken--and she has pledged herself
to be his partner for life!
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