A moment of madness, and other stories (vol. 3 of 3)Marryat, Florence
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A moment of madness, and other stories (vol. 3 of 3)
Marryat, Florence
English fiction -- 19th century; Short stories, English
Then I entered into a few details with him concerning the day’s sport
we had enjoyed; but I took care to be brief, for I saw that my presence
there displeased him, and I could not get the rustle of that dress out
of my mind. As I concluded, and with some remark upon the lateness of
the hour, turned to leave the room, a cough sounded from behind a large
Indian screen which stood in one corner. It was the faintest, most
subdued of coughs, but sufficiently tangible to be sworn to; and as it
fell upon my ear I could not help a change of countenance.
‘All right!’ said my host, with affected nonchalance, as he rose and
almost backed me to the door. ‘We’ll have a talk over all this after
dinner, Wilmer; sorry I wasn’t with you; but, as you say, it’s late. _Au
revoir!_’ and simultaneously the study door closed upon me.
I was very much startled and very much shocked. I had not a doubt that
I was correct in my surmise that Sir Harry had some visitor in his room
whom he had thought it necessary to conceal from me; and though Hope
suggested that it might have been his wife, Common Sense rose up to
refute so absurd an idea. Added to which, I had not traversed twenty
yards after leaving him before I met Justina attired in her walking
things, and just returning from a stroll round the garden.
‘Is it very late, uncle?’ she demanded, with a smile, as we encountered
one another. ‘I have been out with the children. Have you seen Mary or
Lady Amabel? I am afraid they will think I have neglected them shamefully
this afternoon.’
I answered her questions indifferently, thinking the while that she had
no occasion to blame herself for not having paid sufficient attention to
Lady Amabel Scott, for that it was she whom I had surprised _tête-à-tête_
with Sir Harry Trevor, I had not a shadow of doubt.
Well, I was not the one to judge them, nor to bring them to judgment;
but I thought very hard things of Sir Harry’s cousin during the dressing
hour, and pitied my poor niece, who must some day inevitably learn that
it was a true instinct which had made her shrink from her beautiful
guest. And during the evening which followed my discovery, I turned
with disgust from the lightning glances which darted from Lady Amabel’s
blue eyes, and the arch smile which helped to make them so seductive. I
could no longer think her beauty harmless: the red curves of her mouth
were cruel serpents in my mind; poisoned arrows flew from her lips;
there was no innocence left in look, or word, or action; and I found
myself turning with a sensation of relief to gaze at the Quaker-like
attire, the downcast eyes, and modest appearance of the professor’s wife,
whilst I inwardly blamed myself for having ever been so foolish as to be
gulled into believing that the flaunting beauty of Lady Amabel Scott was
superior to Mrs Benson’s quiet graces.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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