Part 3 — CHAPTER XI.—THE CHARADE PARTY.

The bitter storm raging over the country, and spreading woe and terror and desolation far out at sea, does not much affect the expected guests. Carriage after carriage drives in at the gates of Government House; and ere long, many eager eyes are fixed on the drop-scene, the owners of them ready to be pleased or otherwise by the coming performance. Curiosity and criticism are on the alert; some of the audience are just as much inclined to find fault as to admire. When Lady Dillworth 'comes on' she feels unaccountably agitated at seeing her 'dear friends' sitting in solemn state on rows of chairs, all ready to detect her slightest shortcomings. For the moment she feels as though she would fain dart away beyond their range of vision. But this nervousness speedily vanishes. Amidst the bursts of applause that greet her, she begins to catch somewhat of the spirit of a successful débutante, and her pulse throbs triumphantly. Her voice rings out in strains of pathetic melody; she forgets her qualms, her trepidation, and almost even her own identity, so carried away is she by the intensely tragic music.

During the first part, the singing goes on faultlessly, then a somewhat awkward sense of failure begins to steal over the performers. Major Dillon and Walter differ about some minor points, and the former nearly bewilders the others with his eccentric proceedings. The chorus get out of tune, and the Major reproves them so vigorously that he nearly banishes all sense of harmony out of their heads.

Liddy Delmere is much amused, and she and Walter make themselves conspicuous with ill-timed mirth. This is unfortunate, as the irate mother of the hapless 'Lucia' should be grave and dignified. But Liddy forgets her part, the words and air and everything, and only remembers Walter Reeves is beside her. Lady Dillworth calls her to order with one of her haughtiest looks.

'Liddy, Liddy! do be reasonable. Don't you see what wretched idiots we are making of ourselves? We are only bringing down ridicule on our heads.'

Then in a pause, when she is not wanted to sing, Katie slips away to a room adjoining, that has been fitted up temporarily for the performers. She lifts the window-blind, and looks out on the rather grim garden, dimly lighted up with flickering coloured lamps. Dense clumps of evergreens glitter with raindrops, and cast deep uncertain shadows on the grass. The bare branches of the beech-trees are swaying wildly in the wind, and flinging themselves about like gaunt weird arms. Above in the troubled sky, heavy masses of storm-cloud are driven rapidly past, giving glimpses now and then of an almost full moon.

'Oh, what a fearful night this must be at sea!' muses Katie, and then a sudden shudder comes over her as her thoughts fly off to the unfortunate ship Daring, perhaps even now wrecked and broken up on the fatal Short Reefs.

'What have I done? what have I done?' she exclaims wildly, as like a lightning flash, a sudden revelation of the possible result of her act that morning comes before her. She has prevented the Leo from going to sea by altering her husband's order; her own meddling fingers have kept back the very aid that might have saved the ship. The Leo is at that moment safely riding at her anchor in Seabright harbour; her captain is sporting himself in delightful ease. But what about the Daring? Where is she?

Even now the pitiless waves may be dashing over her, even now she may be breaking up on the sharp rocks. Perhaps the storm that rages past is bearing on its wild wings the awful death-shrieks of sailors as they go down into the pitiless waters.

Ah, they may be crying for help, that never comes!—help, she has kept back from them, foolishly, wickedly kept back! Souls, precious souls, may be going to their doom, in life's full prime, with unrepented sins on their heads; and she indirectly may be the one who has hurled them to their end. These thoughts rush through Lady Dillworth's mind with a crushing force, and with a vividness that makes her heart bound, her whole frame tremble. In the howling of the wind, as it sobs with wild violence through the trees, she fancies she hears the cries of the sailors writhing in agony amidst the surging waves. She thinks they are calling on her—accusing her, and her brain whirls and her heart beats almost to madness.

'"There is sorrow on the sea; it cannot be quiet." O God! help these poor men in their distress—lay not their death to my charge!' she cries almost aloud, and then she looks up, and sees Liddy Delmere watching her with alarm.

'O Lady Dillworth! what is the matter? How pale and ill you look! Shall I call any one? Shall I get anything?'

'Be quiet, Liddy; I insist. I feel faint; but you need not proclaim the fact to the whole world.'

Katie covers her face with her hands, and stands for a minute trying to recover herself—trying—while the angry wind howls like an avenging spirit in her ears. Presently she looks up: 'I feel better now. What do you want of me, Liddy?'

'Have you forgotten our duet comes on when this chorus is over? Are you well enough to sing?' asks Miss Delmere, as she gazes with amazement at Lady Dillworth's haggard face and startled eyes.

'O yes; I will sing. Don't be uneasy; I shall not break down.' She takes Liddy's arm, and they make their appearance on the stage just in time. Much license has been taken with the score of Lucia di Lammermoor—new songs and duets have been introduced, and it is one of the latter in which Katie is now required to take a part.

With a great effort she composes herself, and begins. As she goes on, her voice regains its rich fullness; no one would suppose such a tempest of agony had so lately swept over her.

While she is sustaining a rather prolonged cadence, she sees the Admiral enter the room. He stands for a minute looking at her, and listening; then he catches a glimpse of Walter Reeves, and goes quickly towards him. Though in the middle of her duet, Katie notices the start her husband gives and the quick frown that gathers on his brow. She sees him beckon Walter aside; the heads are bowed a moment as an excited whisper passes, then they leave the room together. Ere her part is over, she sees Walter return alone, and quietly make his way among the groups of people till he gets near the stage again, and there he takes up his position. The moment Lady Dillworth is free she is at his side, questioning and eager.

'I saw Sir Herbert here a minute ago. Where is he now?'

'He went out to find your father, for he said he must see him at once. I offered to go; but Sir Herbert would not hear of that.—How splendidly you sang in that duet, Lady Dillworth! Your voice came out in perfection.'

'Why did he want to see my father?' she asks impatiently.

'Sir Herbert did not say; but something appears to have annoyed him very much. I never saw him more put out, though he gave no explanation.'

Katie changes the subject abruptly.

'Is it very stormy at sea to-night, Captain Reeves? I mean, is there any danger to ships?'

'I should think there is. We haven't had such a storm as this since last winter. Every roar of the wind only makes me congratulate myself on being in such snug quarters. There's a wonderful difference between this fairy scene, with its music and mirth and its galaxy of youth and beauty, and what one would meet with out on the wild billows to-night.—What a charming evening you have given us, Lady Dillworth!'

Katie can hardly keep herself from stamping her little foot with impatience, as she looks up at Walter's self-satisfied face, beaming with enjoyment; and then she watches the smile with which he presently bends down to whisper something to Miss Delmere. Liddy responds with a flash of her bright blue eyes, and a heightened colour springs to her cheek as she makes room for Walter beside her. Never has she looked better than on this evening; the quaint antiquated costume contrasts capitally with her fair laughing face. At last the charade comes to an end; there is a subdued murmur of applause as everybody says how cleverly it has all been done. They make wild guesses at the word, and Walter has at last to explain the secret. Lady Dillworth listens to the comments of her guests with an abstracted air; and when the last carriage drives away, she summons the footman and inquires whether Sir Herbert has returned.

Hunter is an old servant of the Admiral's, and has followed his master's fortunes in various places and homes, and was with him when the first Lady Dillworth died; so he knows his ways, and sees more than perhaps his employers give him credit for. He turns a grave face towards his mistress, as he replies: 'Yes, my Lady. Master came in just when the acting was over; and when he saw the company wasn't gone, he told me to tell your Ladyship he was very tired, and would go to bed at once, instead of going back to the drawing-room.'

'Very tired, did he say?'

'Yes, my Lady; and he looked weary-like.'

'That will do, Hunter. We want breakfast very early to-morrow morning, as Miss Delmere is going away by the first train.'

Then Katie goes up to her boudoir. The fire is still burning brightly, and the lamp is throwing a soft light through the curtained room. Still in her fancy dress, the stomacher flashing with jewels, she seats herself in the arm-chair; and there, while the warmth steals over her, she covers her face with her hands, and thinks bitterly, confusedly—the loud shrieking of the wind and the fury of the cruel storm keeping up a wild accompaniment to her musings.

She wonders what she had better do. Shall she rouse her husband from his slumbers, and tell him all, or shall she wait till events call forth a confession? Never has she felt such a poor, mean, despicable coward. She hates herself for her irresolution; and all the time her fancy pictures up the surging whirlpools, the jagged rocks, the dashing waves, the yawning gulfs, and the drowning men with their despairing eyes, ever calling for the help that does not come!