“You knew they were there!” I cry
in a whisper of passionate resentment, snatching my
hand from his arm; “you brought me here on
purpose!”
Then, regardless of appearances, I turn quickly away,
and walk back down the passage alone!
This is how the ball ends for me. As soon as
I am out of sight, I quicken my walk into a run, and,
flying up the stairs, take refuge in my bedroom.
Nor do I emerge thence again. The ball itself
goes on for hours. The drawing-room is directly
beneath me. It seems to me as if the sound of
the fiddling, of the pounding, scampering feet would
never, never end.
I believe, at least I hear afterward, that Mr. Parker,
whose spirits go on rising with the steady speed of
quicksilver in fine weather, declines to allow his
guests to depart, countermands their carriages, bribes
their servants, and, in short, reaches the pitch of
joyfully confident faith to which all things seem
not only possible, but extremely desirable,
and in whose eyes the mango-tree feat would appear
but a childish trifle.
The room is made up for the night; windows closed,
shutters bolted, curtains draped. With hasty
impatience I undo them all. I throw high the
sash, and lean out. It is not a warm night; there
is a little frosty crispness in the air, but I am
burning. I am talking quickly and articulately
to myself all the time, under my breath; it seems to
me to relieve a little the inarticulate thoughts.
I will not wink at it any longer, indeed I will not;
nobody could expect it of me. I will not be taken
in by that transparent fallacy of old friends!
Nobody but me is. They all see it; Algy,
Musgrave, all of them. At the thought of the
victory written in Musgrave’s eyes just now—at
the recollection of the devilish irony of his wish,
as we parted in Brindley Wood—
“I hope that your fidelity may be rewarded as
it deserves—” I start up, with a
sort of cry, as if I had been smartly stung, and begin
to walk quickly up and down the room. I will
not storm at Roger—no, I will not even
raise my voice, if I can remember, and, after all,
there is a great deal to be said on his side; he has
been very forbearing to me always, and I—I
have been trying to him; most petulant and shrewish;
treating him to perpetual, tiresome tears, and peevish,
veiled reproaches. I will only ask him quite
meekly and humbly to let me go home again; to send
me back to the changed and emptied school-room; to
Algy’s bills and morosities; to the wearing
pricks of father’s little pin-point tyrannies.
I have lit the candles, and am looking at myself in
the cheval-glass. What has become of my beauty,
pray? The powder is shaken from my hair; it no
longer rises in a white and comely pile; the motion
of dancing has loosened and tossed it; it has a look
of dull, gray dishevelment. The rouge has almost
disappeared; melted away, or sunk in; there never was
a great deal of it, never the generous abundance that
adorned Mr. Parker’s face. I cannot help
laughing, even now, as I think of the round red smouch
that so artlessly ornamented each of his cheeks.
