Now while I looked on, being more delighted to see than to dance—besides, my heart was strangely moved with what I now know was a presentiment of happiness—Lord Chudleigh joined me, and we began to talk, not indifferently, but, from the first, gravely and seriously.
“You will not dance, Miss Kitty?” he asked.
“No, my lord,” I replied; “I would rather watch the scene, which is more beautiful than anything I have ever dreamed of.”
“Come with me,” he said, offering me his hand, “to a place more retired, whence we can see the gaiety, without hearing too much the laughter.”
They should have been happy without laughing: the cries of merriment consorted not with the scene around us.
Outside the circle of the lamps the woods were quite dark, but for the light of the solemn moon. We wandered away from the noise of the dancers, and presently came to a rustic bench beneath a tree, where my lord invited me to rest.
It was not so dark but that I could see his face, which was grave and unlike the face of an eager lover. There was sadness in it and shame, as belongs to one who has a thing to confess. Alas! what ought to have been the shame and sadness of my face?
“While they are dancing and laughing,” he said, “let us talk seriously, you and I, Miss Kitty.”
“Pray go on, my lord,” I said, trembling.
He began, not speaking of love, but of general things: of the ambition which is becoming to a man of rank: of the serious charge and duties of his life: of the plans which he had formed in his own mind worthily to pass through the years allotted to him, and to prepare for the eternity which waits us all beyond.