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Page 11
Chapter 4.
It was not easy to find Mrs. Crayford in the crowd. Searching
here, and searching there, Frank became conscious of a stranger,
who appeared to be looking for somebody, on his side. He was a
dark, heavy-browed, strongly-built man, dressed in a shabby old
naval officer's uniform. His manner--strikingly resolute and
self-contained--was unmistakably the manner of a gentleman. He
wound his way slowly through the crowd; stopping to look at every
lady whom he passed, and then looking away again with a frown.
Little by little he approached the conservatory--entered it,
after a moment's reflection--detected the glimmer of a white
dress in the distance, through the shrubs and flowers--advanced
to get a nearer view of the lady--and burst into Clara's presence
with a cry of delight.
She sprang to her feet. She stood before him speechless,
motionless, struck to stone. All her life was in her eyes--the
eyes which told her she was looking at Richard Wardour.
He was the first to speak.
"I am sorry I startled you, my darling. I forgot everything but
the happiness of seeing you again. We only reached our moorings
two hours since. I was some time inquiring after you, and some
time getting my ticket when they told me you were at the ball.
Wish me joy, Clara! I am promoted. I have come back to make you
my wife."
A momentary change passed over the blank terror of her face. Her
color rose faintly, her lips moved. She abruptly put a question
to him.
"Did you get my letter?"
He started. "A letter from you? I never received it."
The momentary animation died out of her face again. She drew back
from him and dropped into a chair. He advanced toward her,
astonished and alarmed. She shrank in the chair--shrank, as if
she was frightened of him.
"Clara, you have not even shaken hands with me! What does it
mean?"
He paused; waiting and watching her. She made no reply. A flash
of the quick temper in him leaped up in his eyes. He repeated his
last words in louder and sterner tones:
"What does it mean?"
She replied this time. His tone had hurt her--his tone had roused
her sinking courage.
"It means, Mr. Wardour, that you have been mistaken from the
first."
"How have I been mistaken?"
"You have been under a wrong impression, and you have given me no
opportunity of setting you right."
"In what way have I been wrong?"
"You have been too hasty and too confident about yourself and
about me. You have entirely misunderstood me. I am grieved to
distress you, but for your sake I must speak plainly. I am your
friend always, Mr. Wardour. I can never be your wife."
He mechanically repeated the last words. He seemed to doubt
whether he had heard her aright.
"You can never be my wife?"
"Never!"
"Why?"
There was no answer. She was incapable of telling him a
falsehood. She was ashamed to tell him the truth.
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