He turned his charger as he spoke
Upon the river-shore;
He gave the bridle-reins a shake,
Said 'Adieu for evermore,
My love!
And adieu for evermore!'
Sutton, who was practising 'La ci darem la mano' with Maud when the telegram arrived, glanced at its contents without stopping the duet and slipped it into his pocket before Maud had even seen it. 'Andiam, Andiam, Andiam,' she sang joyfully; 'Andiam, Andiam, Andiam' pealed Sutton's pleasant tenor tones; 'd'un innocente Amor' sang the two together; so the performance came smoothly to its close. 'And now,' Sutton said, 'I am afraid we must stop our practice for this morning, as I have to go to the Viceroy. I will come and see you on my way back. I may have to go down to Dustypore this afternoon.'
'Down to Dustypore!' Maud cried, in a tone that bespoke the pang of disappointment that shot into her heart, 'I thought that you were to stay all the summer?'
'And so did I,' said her companion; 'but unluckily some of my naughty boys on the Hills out there have been getting into too good spirits, and I must go and look after them. And now for his Excellency.'
Before Sutton had been gone many minutes Desvœux came galloping up the pathway, and found Maud still standing in the verandah, where she had wished Sutton farewell, and where in truth she had been standing in a brown study ever since he went. Desvœux was in the gloomiest spirits, far too much concerned about himself to pay much attention to Maud's troubled looks. 'Have you heard the dreadful, dreadful news?' he said. 'All our holidays are over for the year. There has been an outbreak on the frontier. The troops are already on the march. The Agent is closeted with the Viceroy and goes down this afternoon, and of course poor I have to go along with him. Sutton is to command the expedition, and, I daresay, is off already. Every soldier in the place will be ordered down; and meanwhile what is to become of the fancy-ball?'
'And the moonlight picnic?' cried Maud, suddenly conscious of the necessity of concealing a feeling which she would not for the world have had Desvœux suspect, namely, that Sutton's absence would be to her a calamity which would go far to render balls and picnics alike a matter of indifference.
'Yes,' Desvœux said, with bitter vehemence; 'life is sometimes too unendurably disagreeable, and things go so provokingly as one does not want them. And we were just having such a happy time! And then, I suppose, to make our farewell the sadder, you have chosen this morning to look your loveliest. As for me, the only bits of life I care about any longer are those I spend with you.'
'And with Mrs Vereker,' cried Maud. 'Come, Mr. Desvœux, confess, now, have you not been there just this minute saying the very same thing to her? I'll ask her this afternoon and we will compare notes as to our adieux!'
'Profane idea!' said Desvœux. 'But you are always mocking. You know I care a great deal more about you than you do about me.'
'Impossible,' cried Maud. 'Did I not tell you just now that I was broken-hearted about the picnic? I meant to sit by the waterfall and make you sing us "Spirito Gentil" in the moonlight. It is a cruel disappointment.'