Page:Once a Week Volume V.djvu/379

 372 Scott believed in her truth. They came upon Westby as if by accident.

“How d’ye do, Mr. Westby?” said Lilian. She gave him her hand, but at the very moment she involuntarily drew closer to Frank Scott.

Her hand in Westby’s hand was cold and inanimate; and though her heart beat violently she was perfectly self-possessed: Westby, on the contrary, appeared nervous and disconcerted.

“Who would have dreamt of seeing you here to-night?” continued Lilian. “We could never get you to our balls.”

“You know balls are not much in my way,” rejoined Westby, speaking with hesitation. “It’s a wonder I’m at Brighton at all, but the Marners would make me come to them for a few days.”

At that moment a claimant appeared for Lilian’s hand in the coming valse, and carried her off.

“We are the only people dancing,” observed Lilian to her partner.

“They’ll begin again directly if we set them an example.”

To the surprise of everybody the music suddenly stopped.

“What an absurdly short valse!” exclaimed Lilian. “What can it mean? Why did they stop the dance, Frank?” she inquired of her cousin, who had that moment crossed the room to where she was standing.

Scott made no reply to the question.

“Mrs. Vernon,” said he, “has sent me to fetch you away; she is tired and wishes to leave.”

“Nonsense! At this time of night? What a shame!”

“Well, you must come and speak to her. This gentleman will, I am sure, excuse you.”

Scott took Lilian on his arm.

“Frank, this is perfectly absurd in a chaperon. Chaperons ought to possess iron constitutions. Why I’ve a dozen more dances on my list. They’ve begun my favourite galop. It’s too bad! Mrs. Vernon may go if she likes, I shall crave protection of somebody else. Mrs. Cowper must pass our house. Why, this is the galop we were to dance together—I hate to miss a note of the music—you go and speak to Mrs. Vernon, and come back as quickly as possible.”

They were then on the stair-case, and Lilian turned to go back to the drawing-room.

Scott took her hand—

“The truth is, Lilian, they’ve sent for us to go home.”

He spoke very gravely.

“Go home! Why?”

She looked anxiously in her cousin’s face.

“Frank, is there any news from India?”

“A telegram has just arrived—it’s in the evening papers—Westby heard of it where he was dining—he went immediately to your house, and they asked him to come and fetch us away.”

“Something has happened to Fred!” she exclaimed, in sudden terror, clinging to her cousin’s arm. “Why, he was to have left Calcutta for England a week ago!”

Westby was standing at the foot of the stair-case, she saw there were tears in his eyes—tears in Westby’s stern eyes!

The sound of the music and the tread of the dance were perfectly audible where they stood.

“You need not tell me,” she said, calmly, “I know he is dead.” Then with agonised revulsion, “Oh, that horrible music!” and she strove to close out the sound with her hands violently pressed to her ears.

In another moment the sound had ceased, her hands fell from her head—Scott supported her in his arms. “For heaven’s sake, Westby,” he whispered, “make them stop that infernal dance till we get out of the house.”

Westby took a few turns up and down the solitary parade in face of the sea, a dirge sounded in the beating of the waves on the shingle—solemn music in unison with his thoughts. The ball-room had jarred him terribly, and to have to linger there in the midst of all the gaiety—but his heart had utterly failed him when he would have spoken to Lilian, and he was forced to confide the task to Scott. The telegram gave but scanty information about the death of Temple. “Captain Temple who had volunteered his services was mortally wounded—since dead.” He had died nobly, that was clear—dying doubtless as he had lived, ever ready to face danger—true-hearted, and honest, and outspoken.

“Good God!” exclaimed Westby, “that this girl Lilian should be his sister!”

Londoner who aspires to the dignity of even the very tiniest of back gardens is sufficiently familiar with gravel, and must be a fastidious person indeed if he does not feel perfectly satisfied with the clean, bright-coloured material forming his well-rolled walks. On pleasant summer evenings, when the last geranium has been planted out, or the few refractory twigs trimmed into order, when no flaws can be seen on the smooth turf, and not a single intrusive weed is visible in the well-kept beds, we doubt not many a thoughtful horticulturist, with soul serenely free from the vexations of disorder and the miseries of blight, finds occupation for a few minutes’ leisure during his last stroll in giving a fugitive thought to the pebbles which he crushes under foot, and in speculating on the questions, what they are, and whence they come. It may be that this process fails to lead him farther back in the genealogy of gravel than the pit at Clapham or at Hampstead; some few inquiring spirits there will be, however, innocent perhaps of all geological knowledge, but not content with so limited an excursion into the past, who will take the trouble to consult the oracles and study the text-books of masters in the stony science. If so, we fear they will return very little enlightened as to the original birth-place and condition of the materials which make up their garden paths. Such an inquirer would be told, ’tis true, what perhaps his own sharp eyes had already discovered, that gravel is the immediate offspring of the flint; but concerning the parent’s parentage the tidings would be extremely