Imagine with what feverish impatience he awaited them, and with what a sinking, anxious heart he appeared amongst them. Violet blushed, and looked at Rose; the laughter in her eyes plainly betrayed her share in the plot, in defiance of the affected gravity of her face. He shook hands with such of the company as he knew personally, was introduced to the others, and then quietly seated himself beside Violet, in a manner so free from either embarrassment or gallantry, that it put her quite at her ease. She had determined, from the first, to frustrate Rose's kindly-intentioned scheme; and she felt that she had strength enough to do so. But his manner at once convinced her that, however he might have been brought there, it was with no intention of taking any advantage of their meeting to open forbidden subjects.
Marmaduke was in high spirits, and talked quite brilliantly. Violet was silent; but from time to time, as he turned to address a remark to her, he saw her look of admiration, and that inspired him.
I need not describe the pic-nic, for time presses, and pic-nics are all very much alike. Enough if we know that the day was spent merrily and noisily, and that dinner was noisier and merrier than all: the champagne drank, amounting to something incredible.
Evening was drawing in. The last rays of a magnificent sunset were fading in the western sky, and the cool breeze springing up warned the company that it was time to prepare for their return.
The boisterous gaiety of the afternoon and dinner had ceased. Every one knows the effect of an exhilarating feast, followed by a listless exhausted hour or two; when the excitement produced by wine and laughter has passed away, a lassitude succeeds, which in poetical minds induces a tender melancholy, in prosaic minds a desire for stimulus or sleep.
As the day went down, all the guests were exhausted, except Marmaduke and Violet, who, while the others were gradually becoming duller and duller, had insensibly wandered away, engrossed in the most enchanting conversation.
"Did I not tell you?" whispered Rose, as she pointed out to Julius the retreating figures of her sister and Marmaduke.
Away the lovers wandered, and although their hearts were full of love, although their eyes were speaking it as eloquently as love can speak, not a syllable crossed their lips which could be referred to it. A vague yearning—a dim, melancholy, o'ermastering feeling held its empire over their souls. The witching twilight, closing in so strange a day, seemed irresistibly to guide their thoughts into that one channel which they had hitherto so dexterously avoided. Her hand was on his arm—he pressed it tenderly, yet gently—so gently!—to his side. He gazed into her large lustrous eyes, and intoxicated by their beauty and tenderness, he began to speak.
"It is getting late. We must return. We must separate. Oh! Violet, before we separate, tell me that it is not for ever——"
"Marmaduke!" she stammered out, alarmed.