CHAPTER IX. — AND AFTER?
When Elma woke up next morning, it was broad daylight. She woke with a start, to find herself lying upon the bed where she had flung herself. For a minute or two she couldn’t recollect or recall to herself how it had all come about. It was too remote from anything in her previous waking thought, too dream-like, too impossible. Then an unspeakable horror flashed over her unawares. Her face flushed hot. Shame and terror overcame her. She buried her head in her hands in an agony of awe. Her own self-respect was literally outraged. It wasn’t exactly remorse; it wasn’t exactly fear; it was a strange creeping feeling of ineffable disgust and incredulous astonishment.
There could be but one explanation of this impossible episode. She must have gone mad all at once! She must be a frantic lunatic!
A single thought usurped her whole soul. If she was going mad—if this was really mania—she could never, never, never—marry Cyril Waring.
For in a flash of intuition she knew that now. She knew she was in love. She knew he loved her.
In that wild moment of awakening all the rest mattered nothing. The solitary idea that ran now through her head, as the impulse to dance had run through it last night, was the idea that she could never marry Cyril Waring. And if Cyril Waring could have seen her just then! her cheeks burned yet a brighter scarlet at that thought than even before. One virginal blush suffused her face from chin to forehead. The maidenly sense of shame consumed and devoured her.
Was she mad? Was she mad? And was this a lucid interval?
Presently, as she lay still on her bed all dressed, and with her face in her hands, trembling for very shame, a little knock sounded tentatively at the door of her bedroom. It was a timid, small knock, very low and soft, and, as it were, inquiring. It seemed to say in an apologetic sort of undertone, “I don’t know whether you’re awake or not just yet; and if you’re still asleep, pray don’t let me for a moment disturb or arouse you.”
“Who’s there?” Elma mustered up courage to ask, in a hushed voice of terror, hiding her head under the bed-clothes.
“It’s me, darling,” Mrs. Clifford answered, very softly and sweetly. Elma had never heard her mother speak in so tender and gentle a tone before, though they loved one another well, and were far more sympathetic than most mothers and daughters. And besides, that knock was so unlike mamma’s. Why so soft and low?