"I believe every man who marries comes to the conclusion he has made a d——d mistake."
"And every woman, too," agrees Lady Jean, quickly. "Well, it's not to be wondered at. Difference of feeling makes a wide gulf between two natures; and where do you find two people likely to get on together for a lifetime? Bah—it is impossible! Now go—go—I have talked to you quite enough, and the music is over. I am going to chat with Lady Etwynde. She amuses me, and it is rarely any one does that nowadays."
Sir Francis takes himself off obediently, and the evening goes on as such evenings usually do. There is music and singing and conversation, and the people who get next the people they like, are content enough, and those who are wrongly paired are indescribably bored, and the beautiful hostess moves like a slender white lily among them all, and two blue eyes watch her with an intenser "yearning" than ever the Lady Etwynde or her friends have experienced for the subtle—the infinite—the sublime.
Lauraine is growing very weary of this life she leads. There seems no possible escape from it, and fashion, in its way, is just as fatiguing as the work-room, or the factory, or the office. There are times now when she longs to be away from the roar of noisy streets, to breathe cool fresh air, to be alone with the peace and loveliness of nature, to have just—rest.
There is no such thing to be found here. Every day, almost every hour, has its occupations. The jargon, the laughter, the scandals and frivolities of Society are alike distasteful; but she cannot evade them, be she ever so weary. She stands in the ranks, and must needs move onward in the hot and hurried march.
She is counting the days now before it will all be over—before she can fly to quiet Falcon's Chase, and in her child and her books find companionship more to her taste. She longs for those dark old forest lands, where the noise of the sea echoes always, and everything is grand and noble, and rich with the traditions of past ages. She does not dread solitude, but rather longs for it. All this feverish unrest will be over then. She need have no house party till the autumn, but she is going to take Lady Etwynde with her. There is something harmonious and tranquil about her that will suit the dim old Chase, with its great dusky chambers, and magnificent hall, and oak-panelled galleries. Moving to and fro among her guests, and talking the pretty frothy nothings that Society demands, Lauraine thinks only of this. The longing is taking absolute possession of her, and Keith will not be able to follow her—there.
She feels a dread—almost a dislike to him to-night. The memory of that scene a few days ago fills her with a sense of intolerable shame, and her mother's warning sounds like an added insult.
A sense of irritation—of impatience—of disappointment is heavy at her heart.
"He is not good, or honourable, or he would not stay," she says to herself, as move where she may, the sadness of those eyes, with their watchful entreaty, haunts her. "Why did I let him persuade me to utter that word?"
The guests leave—the great rooms are solitary. Sir Francis goes off to finish the evening somewhere else. Lauraine seats herself wearily by one of the open windows, and looks out at the foliage of the Park—all dry, and sere, and dusty now, with the long drought and heat of summer. She looks and looks, and great tears gather in her eyes and roll slowly down her cheeks. She has everything that the world counts worth having—she is young and beautiful and courted and flattered; but for all that her heart aches—aches—aches.