"You will be up there in the clear April days, by the side of that beautiful river, and I shall be playing the mountebank here, among the London gas and fog."

But at this moment the orchestra began the slow music that intimated the resumption of the minuet, and this recalled him to his senses; he had hurriedly to take leave of her, and then he went and rejoined Miss Burgoyne, who merely said, "Well, that's a pretty trick!" as she gave him her hand for the dance.

A still stranger thing, however, happened in the next scene, where the gay young officer, the French prisoner of war, makes love to the innkeeper's daughter. Estelle noticed with great surprise that not only did Nina deliver the English maiden's retorts without any of the saucy spirit that the situation demanded, but also that she was quite confused about the words, stammering and hesitating, and getting through them in the most perfunctory manner. At last, when the little Capitaine Crepin says, "Bewitching maid, say you will fly with me!" Clara's reply is, "You forget I am to be married to-morrow--see, here comes my betrothed;"

but Nina only got as far as "married to-morrow"--then she paused--hesitated--she put her hand to her head as if everything had gone from her brain--and at the same moment Estelle, with the most admirable presence of mind, continued, "See, here comes your betrothed,"

thus giving the lover his cue. The dialogue now remained with Estelle and this husband-elect, so that Nina had time to recover; and in the trio that closes the scene she sang her part well enough. Directly they had left the stage, Estelle ran to her friend.

"Nina, what was the matter?" she exclaimed.

"My head--" said Nina, pressing her hand against her forehead and talking rather faintly--"I do not know--my head is giddy, Estelle--oh, I wish it was all over!--I wish I was home!"

"You have very little more to do now, Nina!" Estelle said quickly to her, in French. "Come, you must have courage, Nina--I will run and get you my smelling-salts, and it will pa.s.s away--oh, you must make an effort, Nina--would you let Miss Burgoyne see you break down--no, no, indeed! You will be all right, Nina, I a.s.sure you--and I will tell the prompter to be on the watch for you--oh, I wouldn't give way--before Miss Burgoyne--if I were you, no, not for a hundred pounds!"

Therewith the kind-hearted little French officer sped away to her own room, and brought back the smelling-salts and was most eagerly solicitous that Nina should conquer this pa.s.sing attack of hysteria, as she deemed it. And, indeed, Nina managed to get through the rest of her part without any serious breakdown, to Estelle's exceeding joy.

As they went home together in the four-wheeled cab, Nina did not utter a word. Once or twice Estelle fancied she heard a slight sob; but she merely said to herself,

"Ah, it has come back, that trembling of the nerves? But I will make her take some wine at supper, and she will go to bed and sleep well; to-morrow she will have forgotten all about it."

And Estelle was most kind and considerate when they got down to Sloane Street. She helped Nina off with her things; she stirred up the fire; she put a bottle of white wine on the table, where supper was already laid; she drew in Nina's chair for her. Then Mrs. Grey came up, to see that her children, as she called them, were all right; and she was easily induced to stay for a little while, for a retired actress is always eager to hear news of the theatre; so she and Miss Girond fell to talking between themselves. Nina sat silent; her eyes seemed heavy and tired; she only pretended to touch the food and wine before her.

"Very well, then, Nina," her friend said, when Mrs. Grey had gone, "if you will have nothing to eat or to drink, you must go to bed and see what a sound night's rest will do for you. I am going to sit up a little while to read, but I shall not disturb you."

"Good-night, then, Estelle," said Nina, rather languidly; "you have been so kind to me!"

They kissed each other; then Nina opened the folding-doors, and disappeared into her own room, while Estelle took up her book. It was "Les Vacances de Camille" she had got hold of; but she did not turn the pages quickly; there was something else in her mind. She was thinking of Nina. She was troubled about her, in a vague kind of way. She had never seen Nina look like that before, and she was puzzled and a little concerned.

Suddenly, in this hushed stillness, she heard, or fancied she heard, a slight sound that startled her; it came from the adjoining room.

Stealthily she arose and approached the door; she put her ear close and listened; yes, she had not been mistaken--Nina was sobbing bitterly.

Estelle did not hesitate a moment; she boldly opened the door and went in; and the first thing she beheld was Nina, just as she had left the other room, now lying p.r.o.ne on the bed, her face buried in the pillow, while in vain she tried to control the violence of her grief.

"Nina!" she cried, in alarm.

Nina sprang up--she thrust out both trembling hands, as if wildly seeking for help, and Estelle was not slow to seize them.

"Nina, what is it?" she exclaimed, frightened by the haggard face and streaming eyes.

"Estelle!--Estelle!" said Nina, in a low voice that simply tore the heart of this faithful friend of hers. "It is nothing! It is only that my life is broken--my life is broken--and I have no mother--_Poverina!_--she would have said to me--"

Her sobs choked her speech; she withdrew her trembling hands; she threw herself again on the bed, face downward, and burst into a wild fit of weeping. Estelle knew not what to do; she was terrified.

"Nina, what has happened?" she cried again.

"It is nothing!--it is nothing!--it is nothing!" she said, between her pa.s.sionate sobs. "I have made a mistake; I am punished--O G.o.d, can you not kill me!--I do not wish to live--"

"Nina!" said Estelle, and the girl bent down and put her cheek close to her friend's, and she tenderly placed both her hands on the ma.s.ses of beautiful blue-black hair. "Nina--tell me!"

In time the violent sobbing ceased, or partially ceased; Nina rose, but she clung to Estelle's hand and kissed it pa.s.sionately.

"You have been so kind, so affectionate to me, Estelle! To-morrow you will know--perhaps. I will leave you a letter. I am going away. If you forget me--well, that is right; if you do not forget me, do not think bad of--of poor Nina!"

"I don't know what you mean, Nina," said Estelle, who was herself whimpering by this time; "but I won't let you go away. No, I will not.

You do not know what you say. It is madness--to-morrow morning you will reflect--to-morrow morning you will tell me, and rely on me as a friend."

"Yes, to-morrow morning all will be right, Estelle," Nina said, again kissing the hand that she clung to. "Pardon me that I have kept you up--and disturbed you. Go away to your bed, Estelle--to-morrow morning all will be right!"

Very reluctantly Estelle was at length persuaded to leave; and as she left she turned off the gas in the sitting-room. A few minutes thereafter Nina, still dressed as she had come home from the theatre, entered the room, re-lit the gas, and noiselessly proceeded to clear a portion of the table, on which she placed writing materials. Then she went into her bedroom and fetched a little drawer in which she kept her valuables; and the first thing she did was to take out an old-fashioned gold ring she had brought with her from Naples. She put the ring in an envelope, and (while her eyelids were still heavy with tears, and her cheeks wan and worn) she wrote outside--"_For Estelle._"

CHAPTER XVI.

AN AWAKENING.

London is a dreary-looking city on a Sunday morning, especially on a Sunday morning in November; people seem to know how tedious the hours are going to be, and lie in bed as long as they decently can; the teeming and swarming capital of the world looks as if it had suddenly grown lifeless. When Lionel got up, there was a sort of yellow darkness in the air; hardly a single human being was visible in the Green Park over the way; a solitary saunterer, hands deep in the pockets of his overcoat, who wandered idly along the neglected pavement, had the appearance of having been out all night, and of not knowing what to do with himself, now that what pa.s.sed for daylight had come. All of a sudden there flashed into the brain of this young man standing by the French window a yearning to get away from this dark and dismal town--there came before him a vision of clear air, of wind-swept waves, with an after-church promenade of fashionable folk in which he might recognize the welcome face of many a friend. He looked at his watch; there was yet time; he would hurry through his breakfast and catch the 10.45 to Brighton.

But was there nothing else prompting this unpremeditated resolve to get away down to Victoria station? Not some secret hope that he might perchance descry Lady Cunyngham and her daughter among the crowd swarming on to the long platform? They had not definitely told him at the theatre that they were returning the next morning; but was it not just possible--or, rather, extremely probable? And surely he might presume on their mutual acquaintance so far as to get into the same railway-carriage and have some casual chatting with them on the way down? He had been as attentive as possible to them on the previous evening; and they had seemed pleased. And he had tried to arouse in Miss Honnor's mind some recollection of the closer relationship which had existed between her and him in the solitudes of far Strathaivron.

When he did arrive at Victoria station he found the people pouring in in shoals; for now was the very height of the Brighton season; besides which there were plenty of Londoners glad to escape, if only for a day, from the perpetual fog and gloom. And yet, curiously enough, although the carriages were being rapidly filled, he took no trouble about securing a seat. After he had gone down the whole length of the train, he turned, and kept watching the new arrivals as they came through the distant gate. The time for departure was imminent; but he did not seem anxious about getting to Brighton. And at last his patience, or his obstinacy, was rewarded; he saw two figures--away along there--that he instantly recognized; even at a greater distance he could have told that one of these was Honnor Cunyngham, for who else in all England walked like that? The two ladies were unattended by either man or maid; and as they came along they seemed rather concerned at the crowded condition of the train. Lionel walked quickly forward to meet them. There was no time for the expression of surprise on their part--only for the briefest greeting.

"I must try to get you seats," said he, "but the train appears to be very full, and the guards are at their wits' end. I say!" he called to a porter. "Look here; this train is crammed, and the people are pouring in yet; what are they going to do?"

"There's a relief train, sir," said the porter, indicating a long row of empty carriages just across the platform.

"You are sure those are going?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then we can get in now?"

The man looked doubtful; but Lionel soon settled that matter by taking the two ladies along to a Pullman car, where the conductor at once allowed them to pa.s.s. It is true that as soon as the public outside perceived that these empty carriages were also going, they took possession without more ado; but in the meantime Lionel and his two companions had had their choice of places, so that they were seated together when the train started.

"It was most fortunate we met you," Lady Cunyngham said, bending very friendly eyes on the young man. "I do so hate a crowded train; it happens so seldom in travelling in England that one is not used to it.

Are you going down to Brighton for any time, Mr. Moore?"

"Mother," said Honnor Cunyngham, almost reproachfully, "you forget what Mr. Moore's engagements are."

"Yes," said he, with a smile, "it is rather a cruel question. My glimpses of the sea and sky are few and far between. The heavens that I usually find over my head are made of canvas; and the country scenes I wander through are run on wheels."

"But don't you think," said Miss Honnor to him (and it seemed so cheerful to be away from the London gloom and out here in the clearer air; to find himself sitting so near this young lady, able to regard her dress, listening to her voice, sometimes venturing to meet the straightforward glance of her calm eyes--all this was a wondrous and marvellous thing)--"don't you think you enjoy getting away from town all the more keenly? I shall never forget you in Strathaivron; _you_ were never bored like some of the other gentlemen."

"Each and every day was one to be marked by a white stone," he said, with an earnestness hardly befitting railway-carriage conversation.

"The wet ones, too?" she asked, pleasantly.

"Wet or dry, what was the difference?" he made bold to say. "What did I care about the rain if I could go down to the Aivron or away up to the Geinig with you and old Robert?"