AFTER THE BALL.

W WHATEVER might have been Rachel's confusion of mind as to the nature and consequences of her escapade, Mr. Dalrymple, from the moment that he took her in his arms, understood the situation perfectly. It was sufficiently serious to a man in his position, who, whatever his faults, was the soul of honour; but it was never his way to dally with difficulties, and he left himself in no sort of suspense or uncertainty as to how he would deal with this one.

Whether right or wrong, whether wise or foolish, in any sudden crisis requiring sudden choice of action, he obeyed his natural impulse, subject to his own rough code of duty only, without an instant's hesitation, and followed it up with unswerving determination, totally unembarrassed by any anxiety as to where it might lead or what it might cost him, or as to any ultimate consequences that might ensue.

In nine cases out of ten a man of honour, placed as he was now, would have regretted an unconsidered act of folly, and have cast about for means of extricating himself and the girl who was behaving badly to her affianced husband from the position into which it had led them—even, perhaps, to the extent of using

But he was the one man in ten who, equally a man of honour, felt himself under no obligation to do anything of the kind. If she loved him—and now he knew she did; if he loved her, or was able to love her—and he allowed himself no doubt upon that point from this moment of her self-revelation, though he had not meant to permit anybody (least of all a mere child like this) to supplant the dead woman on whom the passion of his best years had been spent—then the thing was settled. They might waltz together till daylight, and no one would have any right to interfere.

The social complications that surrounded them, and which a conventional gentleman would have considered of the last importance, were to him mere matters of detail. They must manage to get out of them as best they could.

So he carried her round and round the room, the most perfect partner he had ever danced with, who moved so sympathetically with all his movements that she might have been his shadow—but for the electric current of strong life that her hand in his, and her light weight on his shoulder, and the subtle sense of her emotion, sent thrilling through his veins; and in the teeming silence his brain was busy making rapid plans and calculations for effectively dealing with the many difficulties that would come crowding upon both of them as soon as this waltz was over.

Clearly, the first thing to do was to dispose of ambiguities between themselves.

"Come into the conservatory," he said, in a quick under tone, when five silent, delicious minutes had passed; "I want to say something to you before these people begin to spread all over the place again."

But even as he spoke, as if a spell had been broken, the light and rapture died suddenly out of her face, her limbs relaxed, her airy footsteps faltered, she seemed to melt away in his arms.

"Oh," she whispered, looking up at him with tragic eyes, full of fear and despair, "how wicked I have been! What will he say to me?"

"Never mind him," replied Mr. Dalrymple; "you must not let him have any right to dictate to you any more—you must break off your engagement at once, and get out of his hands. Wicked!—the only wicked thing would be to deceive him any longer. You know you don't love him. Come into the conservatory, and let us talk about it. Do come—there is nobody there now!"

But Rachel, being a woman, and a coward, and only eighteen years old, would not come. She knew what she wanted, but she dared not do it—she dared not even think of it.

"I must not—I must not!" she protested, in a childish panic of terror. "Let me go, Mr. Dalrymple, please—I have done very wrong—I am afraid to stay——"

And slipping out of his arms, which did the utmost that courtesy permitted to hold her, she fled through a doorway near and disappeared; and thus threw away an opportunity the loss of which was to cost them both long days and nights of suspense and suffering—as she foresaw with agonies of regret, even while she did it.

Mr. Dalrymple danced and talked, and sauntered about, proud and cool as usual to the superficial observer, but raging with impatience in his heart, and watched for her return; but he saw her no more until supper time, when she was led into the dining-room, looking very pale and quiet, on Mr. Kingston's arm.

The whole night passed, and he never had a chance to get near her again; though as may be supposed, it was from no lack of effort on his part; and he went to the laundry at last, hours after she had gone to bed, to change his clothes preparatory to taking a morning walk up the hills, without even having had the satisfaction of one look from her eyes, which, however timid and terrified, he felt sure would have told him the truth.

She did not come into the drawing-room before breakfast; and at that irregularly conducted meal she sat again by Mr. Kingston's side, the whole table's length from him. But glancing round her as she took her seat, she met his fixed gaze, and bowed with a subtle, wistful impressiveness that reassured him completely as to the state of her mind towards him, let her outward actions be what they might.

It was very tantalising; all his habitual calmness was upset; his very hand trembled as he took his coffee from Lucilla, and once when his gentle hostess spoke to him, he did not hear her.

The fret of this state of things, it is needless to say, chafed his incipient passion into flame; and the flame was kept up thereafter, at a more or less fierce heat and brightness, by the winds of adversity that ought to—and in nine cases out of ten would—have put it out.

After breakfast the company began to disperse in a desultory manner by installments. Some of the guests lingered until the afternoon; some until the next day.

The Digbys were the first to leave—partly because they had so far to go, partly because Mrs. Digby was anxious about her children—and of course Mr. Dalrymple had to go with them.

He hunted in vain for Rachel when the breakfast party broke up. She knew he was hunting for her, and she longed to go to him, and therefore as a matter of course, she hid herself.

Only at the last moment, as he was about to ride gloomily away, she appeared on the threshold of one of the inferior front doors, pale and shrinking, but desperate with vague despair—thinking to solace herself with one more glimpse of him when he would not know she was looking. But he saw her in a moment, flung himself from Lucifer's back, and caught her before she could steal away again.

It was not the sort of farewell he had hoped for—several of the ladies came straggling about them before they could exchange half a dozen words—but it was infinitely better than none.

"Are you going to Queensland?" Rachel asked, in a tone which said plainly—"Are you going away from me?"

"I must go," he replied; "but I shall not stay—I shall come back as quickly as possible. And you—what will you do?"

She flushed scarlet and dropped her eyes, and her lips began to quiver. The rustle of Mrs. Hardy's majestic skirts was heard approaching. It was too late for confidences.

"I hope, when I come back, I shall find you free," he whispered hurriedly, emphasising the significance of the words with the crushing clasp of his hand over hers and the eager desire in his eyes; and then he took off his cap, included all the ladies in one last silent adieu, remounted his horse, and departed.

As he rode through the bush this lovely spring morning, near enough to the waggonette to open the gates for it, but far enough away to indulge in his meditations undisturbed, he pondered many things; and particularly he wondered, with a devouring anxiety, what Rachel had been doing and thinking of since she left him so abruptly at midnight, after practically giving herself to him.

If he could have known it is doubtful if he would have felt so certain of her as he was, though nothing would have deterred him now from making the best fight in his power for the possession of her.

When, in terror of the consequences of what she had done, she broke away from him and escaped out of the ball-room, she rushed to her own room, forgetting until she dashed into the middle of an untidy litter of open boxes and portmanteaus which Miss Hale had left on the floor, that it was not hers to-night; and then she turned and sped down one of the innumerable passages into the quiet starlight outside, and sought refuge in that lonely arbour at the bottom of the garden, which already, not many hours before, had given sanctuary to these new emotions.

That she courted bronchitis and consumption, exposing her bare warm arms and bosom to the chill of a frosty night, was a trivial circumstance quite unworthy of consideration.

In this arbour she abandoned herself to the full luxury of that passion which was neither joy nor grief, and yet had the pain and ecstasy of both in the sharpest degree.

She knelt on the damp floor, and leaned her arms on the dusty bench, regardless of panic-stricken ants and enterprising black beetles, and she shook from head to foot with sobs.

"Oh my love!" she murmured to herself. "Oh, my love!"

And then presently lifting herself up and appealing to the star-worlds far away, and the immutable universe in general:

"Oh, what shall I do? Oh, what can I do?"

By and bye she sat down on the bench, clasped her hands on her knees, and tried her best to compose herself.

The keen air made her shiver, and perhaps it did something to cool her agitation and brace her nerves as well.

Slowly she gathered her wits together, made tremulous efforts to school herself to be womanly and courageous, and at last crept back to the lighted and crowded house, hugging a brave but terrible resolution.

She went to the nearest fire to warm herself. It was in a little room adjoining the dining-room, where the last preparations for supper were going on.

As she knelt on the hearthrug, extending her white arms to the blaze, Mr. Kingston came behind her and laid his hands on her shoulders, so silently and unexpectedly that she gave a little startled cry.

"Did I frighten you, my pet?" said he, gaily; "I beg your pardon. I couldn't think where you were gone to. I am afraid you are tired. You have been waltzing too much. That fellow Dalrymple does go round at a killing pace with his long legs. Poor Miss Hale couldn't stand him at all—she nearly fainted. Ah, naughty child! Didn't I tell you not to dance with him? And you never paid the least heed! If this is how you defy me now, what am I to expect after we are married, eh?"

She looked up in his face with guilty, bewildered eyes. He was not by any means so cool as he assumed to be, but it was evident that he intended to ignore her offence, and was not going to scold her.

He was not young and rash, if she was; and the few minutes he had taken for reflection, during her absence in the garden, had shown him where the path of wisdom lay. Her first sensation was one of extreme relief; and then she became slowly conscious of a vague sinking at her heart.

Once more she sighed to herself—feeling discouraged and overpowered, and unequal to the formidable vastness of her resolution—"Oh, what shall I do?"

It would have been much better—much easier—if he had scolded her.

Before the revels of the night were quite over, Mrs. Hardy sent her to bed, noticing that she was looking unusually quiet and pale. She was very glad to go, and made haste to hide herself in the little impromptu nest that had been prepared for her on a couch in her aunt's room, before that lady should require the use of her apartment.

She was wide awake, however, when Mrs. Hardy joined her, and too restless to disguise it; and the elder woman, who knew nothing of the girl's entanglements with her two lovers—who had, indeed, congratulated herself on the prudent abstinence which had been unexpectedly practised with reference to "that objectionable young man" who was such a dangerously delightful dancer—gossiped and grumbled over the little events of the evening, chiefly of the accident to her lace and the absurdities of Miss Hale and Mr. Lessel, who were publicly known to have had a serious misunderstanding, unaware of her listener's pre-occupation, until the candles were finally extinguished.

About an hour later, as she was anxiously cogitating what steps she should take towards the repairing of her own mishap, Mrs. Hardy thought she heard a suspicious sound in the silence of the room.

"Rachel," she called, softly; "is that you, child?"

No answer. Only a rustle of drapery, indicating that Rachel had turned over in her bed. She listened a few minutes, and the suspicious sound was repeated. Raising herself on her elbow, she called more loudly.

"You are not crying, Rachel, are you?"

The girl flung herself out of bed, ran across the room, a little white ghost in the faint dawn, and threw her arms round her aunt's neck. She had no mother, poor little thing, to tell her troubles to; and she wanted a mother now.

"Oh, dear Aunt Elizabeth," she sobbed passionately, "do help me—I am so miserable! I don't want to marry Mr. Kingston! I don't love him—I have made a mistake! I didn't think enough about it, and now I know we should never suit each other. Won't you tell him I was too young, and that I made a mistake? Won't you—oh, please do!—help me to break it off?"

On what a mere chance does destiny depend.

If Mrs. Hardy's evening had been triumphant and prosperous—if she had not torn her best lace, and torn it in consequence of Rachel's carelessness—she would probably have received the girl's touching confidence as a tender mother should. As it was, she felt that after all her fatigues and worries, this was really too much.

"What nonsense are you talking, child?" she exclaimed angrily. "Is it any fault of Mr. Kingston's if Miss Hale behaves like an idiot? She is nothing but a vulgar flirt, and he knows it as well as you do—only it is his way to be attentive to all women."

"Miss Hale!" repeated Rachel vaguely; "I'm not thinking of Miss Hale. I am not blaming anybody—only myself. I was very wrong to accept Mr. Kingston at the first—oh, aunt, you know we are not suited to each other! He ought to marry somebody older and grander, and I—I thought I should like to be rich, and to live in that house—and I thought I should come to love him in time; but now I know it was all a mistake. Do—do let me break it off before it goes any further! Let me stay with you—I shall be quite happy to stay with you and Uncle Hardy, if you'll only let me!"

"You are dreaming," replied her aunt, giving her a slight shake in the extremity of her dismay and mortification; "you talk like a baby. Do you think a man is to be taken up one day and thrown away the next? And it is worse than that to jilt a man—and Mr. Kingston of all people—after being engaged to him for months, as you have been, and after leading him into all sorts of preparations and expense. The bare idea is monstrous! And all for nothing at all, but some ridiculous sudden fancy! You may have seen things of that sort done amongst the people you have been brought up with, but no lady would think of disgracing herself and her family by such conduct."

"Oh, aunt!" moaned Rachel piteously, as if she had had an unexpected blow.

"I don't like to speak harshly to you, my dear," Mrs. Hardy proceeded, in a rather more gentle, but still irritated tone. "Only you must not vex me with such absurd and childish notions. I know it is only a passing whim—you are over-tired, and you are hurt because Mr. Kingston paid Miss Hale so much attention, though it is only what he does to all women, without meaning anything whatever; but still it is a serious and horrible thing—breaking an engagement, a really happy engagement, as yours is—jilting a kind, good man, after giving him every encouragement—even to think of! Don't let me hear you mention it again, unless you want to break my heart altogether. And after all I have done for you—I don't want to boast, but I have been a good aunt to you, Rachel, and you would have been in a poor place but for me—the least you can do is to respect my wishes, especially as you know I wish nothing but what is for your real good and welfare."

Rachel wandered back to her bed, laid her head gently on the pillow, and closed her eyes. Mrs. Hardy in the dead silence that presently ensued, was relieved to think that she had "settled off" at last; but it was not sleep that kept her so quiet—it was the calmness of defeat and despair.