Small-talk! Why, I've been in
situations sometimes where I would have given the power of writing
like Dickens (if I had it) for perfection in this last art.
But this careless, easy, limpid, smooth, natural, pleasant, and
agreeable flow of chat was nothing but gall and wormwood to the
listener above. She ought to be there. Why was she so slighted? Could
it be possible that he would go away without seeing her?
She was soon to know.
She heard him rise. She heard him saunter to the door.
"Thanks, yes. Ha, ha, you're too kind--really--yes--very happy, you
know. To-morrow, is it? Good-morning."
And with these words he went out.
With pale face and staring eyes Ethel darted back to the window. He
did not see her. His back was turned. He mounted his horse and gayly
cantered away. For full five minutes Ethel stood,--crouched in the
shadow of the window, staring after him, with her dark eyes burning
and glowing in the intensity of their gaze. Then she turned away with
a bewildered look. Then she locked the door. Then she flung herself
upon the sofa, buried her head in her hands, and burst into a
convulsive passion of tears. Miserable, indeed, were the thoughts that
came now to that poor stricken girl as she lay there prostrate. She
had waited long, and hoped fondly, and all her waiting and all her
hope had been for this. It was for this that she had been praying--for
this that she had so fondly cherished his memory. He had come at last,
and he had gone; but for her he had certainly shown nothing save an
indifference as profound as it was inexplicable.
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