Sam dropped the hand, and started back as if stung. A hateful
thought flashed upon him.
"Moggridge? But no--"
He seized his lantern, and turned the slide. A stream of light shot
into the corner of the chaise, and revealed--the bland face of Mr.
Goodwyn-Sandys!
There was an instant of blank dismay. Then, with a peal of laughter,
Geraldine sank back among the cushions.
"_Good_-night!" said the Honourable Frederic with grim affability;
then, popping his head out at the further window, "Drive on, John!"
The post-boy cracked his whip, the horses sprang forward, and Sam,
with that pitiless laugh still pealing in his ears, was left standing
on the high-road.
In the tumult of the moment, beyond a wild sense of injustice, it is
my belief that his brain accomplished little. He stared dully after
the retreating chaise, until it disappeared in the direction of Five
Lanes; and then he groaned aloud.
There was a patch of turf, now heavy with dew, beside the sign-post.
Upon this he sat down, and with his elbows on his knees, and head
between his hands, strove to still the giddy whirl in his brain. And
as his folly and its bitterness found him out, the poor fool rocked
himself, and cursed the day when he was born. If any one yet doubt
that Mr. Moggridge was an inspired singer, let him turn to that
sublime aspiration in _Sophronia: a Tragedy_--
"Let me be criminal, but never weak;
For weaklings wear the stunted form of sin
Without its brave apparel"--
and considered Sam Buzza as he writhed beneath the sign-post.
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