Amidst the gay company, her gaiety was gone. The roses upon which the mid-day son was but the moment before brightly beaming, had forsaken her cheeks—on that instant when the word “wife” fell from the lips of Dorothy Dayrell.
To her the hawking party was no longer a party of pleasure. The sociality that surrounded her was only irksome and to withdraw from it had been her first thought. To escape observation as well: for she knew that the dire cloud, that had settled over her heart, could not fail to be reflected in her face.
On recovering from the shock caused by the unexpected announcement, she had turned her back upon the company, and stolen silently away.
The trees standing closely around the spot—with the underwood still in foliage—favoured her withdrawal—as also the peculiar topic of conversation which at the moment was absorbing the attention of all.
She had not stayed to listen to the further revelations made by the courtier Wayland—the one word spoken by his cousin had been the cue for her silent exit from the circle of conversation.
She needed no confirmation of what she had heard. A vague suspicion already conceived, springing out of the ambiguity of some stray speeches let fall by Holtspur himself—not only at their first interview, but while arranging the terms of that parting promise—had the foundation for an easy faith in the statement of Dorothy Dayrell.
Painful as was the conviction, Marion could not resist it. She thought not of calling it in question.
Once among the trees she glided rapidly on—knowing not whether; nor caring: so long as her steps carried her far from the companionship of her own kind.
After wandering awhile, she came to a stop; and now, for the first time, did her countenance betray, in all its palpable reality, the bitterness that was burning within her.
Her heart felt, as if parting in twain. A sigh—a half-suppressed scream—escaped from her bosom; and, but that she had seized upon a sapling to support herself, she would have fallen to the earth.