Kitabı oku: «Faith and Unfaith: A Novel», sayfa 11
CHAPTER XVI
"There was a sound of revelry by night." – Byron.
So Dorian returns to town, and stays there until the annual hunt ball, of which he is a steward, summons him back to Pullingham.
It is, of course, the event of the season, this ball, and occurs early in March. Clarissa, going down to the vicarage, – where, now, indeed, she spends a good deal of her time, – speaks to the girls about it.
"I am so glad Georgie is in time for it," says Cissy, who is a warm-hearted little soul, and who desires good for every one. "There is something so nice about a real big ball."
"A ball!" says Georgie, growing a delicate pink, with excitement. "I never was at a real ball in my life. Oh, Clarissa, will you take me?"
"Georgie! As if it isn't a real joy to me to have you," says Clarissa, reproachfully. "I can't bear going anywhere by myself, and Mrs. Grey always insists on taking Cissy."
"Well, she is very kind, you know," says Cissy, with some regret. "But I do so wish she would let me go with you. However, mamma would not like me to refuse her, and, after all, I shall meet you both in the room. I wish we could manage to arrive just at the same moment."
"Well, I'll settle that with Mrs. Grey," says Clarissa. "Dorian will get me a ticket for Georgie."
"Who is Dorian?" asks Georgie, idly. Literally, she cares nothing about him, regarding him in this instance as merely a means to an end, – a person who can obtain for her an entrance into a desired haven. She has, indeed, forgotten that once before she asked this same question and received her answer.
"Why, I told you," says Clarissa. "He is Lord Sartoris's nephew, – the tall handsome young man who spoke to me at the concert."
"I didn't see him. When is this ball to be?"
"On the 5th. And now, about your dresses?"
"Mine goes without telling," says Cissy, in a resigned tone. "The whole county knows it by heart by this time. After all, there is a sort of comfort in everything, even in one's misfortune. Now, all my young men won't have the trouble of looking for me, they will know me directly, the instant their eyes light upon my gown, which is fast becoming an heirloom."
"If it is the gown you wore the other night at the Bellews', you look very sweet in it," says Clarissa, looking very sweet herself as she utters this comforting speech.
"You are an angel, you know," says Cissy, with a merry little laugh. "You see everybody through rose-colored spectacles."
"Isn't she rude?" says Clarissa. "One would think I was an old fogy of ninety-five. Spectacles, indeed!"
"I must run," says Miss Cissy. "I entirely forgot all about the dinner, and mamma left it to me, as she had to go and see old Mrs. Martin. Good-bye, dear, dearest Clarissa. How I wish I could go with you to this lovely ball!"
"Never mind; people always meet," says Clarissa, consolingly.
"Yes, – at Philippi," returns the irrepressible, and, with a faint grimace, she vanishes.
Georgie walks as far as the entrance-gate with Clarissa. When there, she looks at the iron bars wistfully, and then says, in her pretty childish way, "Let me go a little way with you, Clarissa, will you?"
Miss Peyton, who is walking, is delighted.
"As far as ever you will. Indeed, I want to speak to you. What – what is your dress like, Georgie?"
Georgie hesitates. Clarissa, misunderstanding her silence, says, gently, "Let me give you one, dearest?"
"Oh, no, no," says Miss Broughton, quickly. "I have one, – I have, indeed; and it is rather pretty."
"But you told me you had never been at a ball."
"Neither have I. The gown I speak of was bought for a musical party. It was given while I was with Aunt Elizabeth."
"Who gave it?"
"The gown?"
"Oh, no, – the party."
"Lady Lincoln. She has one son, Sir John, and I think it is he gives the parties. Aunt Elizabeth was so pleased that I was asked that she insisted on my going, though I cried, and prayed hard to be let stay at home. It was only" – dropping her voice, with a heavy sigh – "eleven months after papa had – had left me."
"It was cruel to force you to go against your will: but, when you were there, did you enjoy yourself?"
"I did," confesses Miss Broughton, with a blush. "I enjoyed myself more than I can say. I do not think I ever enjoyed myself so much in all my life. I forgot everything for the time being, and was quite happy. To me the flowers, the lights, the music, the pretty dresses, – everything, – were new and fresh, and helped to take me out of myself. And then, everybody was so kind, and Mr. Kennedy – "
"Who was he?" asks Clarissa, interested at once.
"A tall thin dark man, in the Guards, – the Coldstreams or the Grenadiers, I quite forget which. He talked to me all the evening; and, indeed, so did Sir John, Lady Lincoln's son; but I liked Mr. Kennedy best."
"Poor Sir John!"
"Oh, no. Of course he cared nothing. When I left, Mr. Kennedy, and Sir John, and Aunt Elizabeth's maid, walked home with me; and I think they were cross, – the men, I mean. When I got home I found one of my gloves was missing, and Aunt Elizabeth said I was very careless; and then she asked me where was the crimson rose I had on my bosom when starting, and, you see," – apologetically, – "I had given it to Mr. Kennedy, because he asked me for it; but when I told her so, she said I was very forward! Did you ever hear such a word?" says Miss Broughton, tears of indignation in her eyes. "Was it forward to give a dead rose to a man who had been very kind to me for a whole evening?"
"Certainly not," says Clarissa, emphatically. "I would give a rose to any one who was kind to me, – if they asked for it. Did you ever see Mr Kennedy again?"
"Yes; he called next day, to return me my glove, which, he declared, he had kept by mistake. But somehow I never got that glove again, so I suppose he took it away with him when he left."
"I suppose so. Well, I shall write to Dorian for your ticket."
"Perhaps 'Dorian' will think me a great bother."
"Let him," says Clarissa, impatiently: as yet she has not forgiven him that speech (so much mistaken) at the concert.
The 5th has arrived. The day has dawned, lived, grown to its full size, and then sunk, as we all must, into the arms of Death. The night has come, with sound of music and breath of dying flowers, and the drip, drip of the softly-flowing fountains.
The rooms are looking lovely; fair faces smile, and soft eyes gleam; and figures, round and svelte as Venus's own, sway with the music and mingle with the throng.
The ball is at its height, when Clarissa, seeing Dorian, beckons to him with her fan. It is a very slight invitation to her side, but one instantly obeyed.
"Keep one dance for a friend of mine," she says, earnestly.
"Let me keep one dance for you."
"That, too, if you wish it; but I have a little friend here to-night, and she knows nobody, and, though I know you won't like it" (calling to mind again his supposed disparaging tone at the concert), "still, for my sake, be kind to her."
"I shall be nectar to her, if you entreat me in that fashion. Who is she?"
"Well, she is only a governess," begins Clarissa, beating about the bush: she is quite determined, nevertheless, that Georgie shall not be neglected or left out in the cold at this her first ball.
"A governess!" says Dorian, unthinkingly. "Oh, Clarissa, don't let me in for that. I don't mind them a bit; but I'm afraid of them. She is safe to ask me if I don't think Murray's Grammar the most artfully compiled book in the world, and I shan't know what to say in reply."
"You need not be afraid of my governess," says Clarissa, earnestly: "she will not trouble you about Murray or his Grammar."
"Of course, if you say I must dance with her, I must," says Branscombe, with a heavy sigh.
"I see her now. Come, let me introduce you to her."
"But not for this dance. I am engaged – I am, I give you my word – to the prettiest girl in the room, – the prettiest child, I should say."
"You can dance with your child, of course; but at least let me introduce you to my friend."
With a faint and carefully subdued shrug he submits to the inevitable, and goes where Clarissa leads. He finds himself presently at the other end of the room, near where a little dainty black-robed figure stands, with three men before her, all evidently possessed with an overpowering desire to inscribe their names upon the morsel of tinted and gilded paper she holds in her hand.
Her large blue eyes are almost black with excitement; her lips are parted, and, like Herrick's "Julia," are like "rubies," soft and rich. She is glancing up, in a little puzzled fashion, at the tall fair man who is bending over her whilst going through the usual formula, "May I have the pleasure," etc.
"Well, where is this dreadful woman?" says Dorian, at this moment, almost impatiently; he is watching Georgie and the fair man, and feels distinctly savage.
"Why, here," says Clarissa.
"Here? Not the – the girl in black, talking to Bellew!"
"Yes; that is your dreadful woman."
"Oh, look here, you know, it is too absurd," says Dorian, with a low laugh. "I have danced twice with her already, and am engaged to her for this!"
"She is your 'child,' then?" asks Clarissa, opening her eyes.
"Yes; but a governess, my dear Clarissa?"
"She is teaching the Redmond children. I told you so at the concert."
"I quite forgot, – utterly. How could one think of her as that, you know?"
"Now, please, do try and write plainly," breaks in Georgie's voice, plaintively. "Up to this I have not been able to read a single name upon my card."
"I'll do my best," says the fair young man. "Is that legible?"
"Bellew, is it? Yes, I can read that. Thank you, so much. Do you know, I haven't the faintest idea who I am going to dance this with, because" – examining her card – "it looks like 'Barleycorn,' and it can't be that, you know?"
"There once was a John Barleycorn," says Mr. Bellew, thoughtfully.
Clarissa has been claimed by Horace Branscombe, and has disappeared. Dorian, coming to the front, goes up to the little beauty in black and silver, and says, in a contrite tone, —
"I am so sorry I can't write; yet nevertheless I am John Barleycorn, and this dance belongs to me."
"Why, so it does," says Georgie, recognizing him in a naïve manner, and placing her hand upon his arm. She performs this last act slowly and with hesitation, as though not entirely sure of his identity, which has the effect of piquing him, and therefore heightening his admiration for her.
"You have forgotten me," he says, reproachfully.
"Oh, no," – slowly. "It was with you I danced the last waltz, I think."
"No. The last polka." He is even more piqued now. "It has slipped your memory; yet there are some things one never forgets."
"Yes," says Miss Broughton, with a suppressed sigh; "but those are unhappy things. Why think of them now? Let us dance again, and forget while we can."
"You mistake me," says Dorian, hastily. "I thought of nothing unhappy. I thought of you. I shall never forget this night."
"Ah, neither shall I!" says Miss Broughton, very earnestly indeed. By an artificial observer, it might be thought somewhat sentimentally.
"Do you mean that?" says Dorian, hopefully, if curiously. "Am I to understand you mean to keep this particular ball forever in mind?"
"You may, indeed."
"But why?" – with much animation, and an over-increasing show of hope.
"Because it is my first," says Miss Broughton, confidentially, with a little quick-drawn sigh of utter content, and a soft, if rather too general, smile.
"I see," – disappointedly. "Is that your reason? What a curious one!"
"You think it ridiculous, don't you?" says Georgie, faintly, ashamed of herself; "but it is quite true, and I can't help it. I was eighteen last month, and never before was I at any ball. I shall never forget this room, – I know that, – or the lights, or the flowers, or the man over there beating time for the band, or – or anything."
"I think 'the man over there' has much the best of it," says Dorian. "I wish I was the leader of that band. Is there any chance that your partners of this evening will be remembered by you?"
"Well, I suppose I sha'n't quite forget you," says Georgie, seriously, after a moment's careful reflection.
"I'll take jolly good care you don't," says Mr. Branscombe, rather losing his head, because of her intense calmness, and speaking with more emphasis than as a rule belongs to him. "You are staying at the vicarage aren't you?"
"Yes," says Georgie.
"And I live just three miles from that – ." Here he pauses, as though afraid to make his insinuation too plain.
"At Sartoris, isn't it?" asks Georgie, sweetly. "Yes? Clarissa showed me the entrance-gate to it last week. It looks pretty."
"Some day will you come up and see it?" asks he, with more earnestness than he acknowledges even to himself; "and," with a happy thought, "bring the children. It will be a nice walk for them."
"But you are always in London, are you not?" says Georgie.
"Oh, no, not always: I sha'n't go there again, for ever so long. So promise, will you?"
"I'll ask Mrs. Redmond. But I know we can. She never refuses me anything," says this most unorthodox governess.
"I'm sure I'm not surprised at that," says Branscombe. "Who could?"
"Aunt Elizabeth could," says Miss Broughton.
"I haven't the misfortune to know your aunt Elizabeth, for which I am devoutly grateful, because if she 'could,' as you say, she must be too good for hanging. By the by, this is not my first ball; yet you have never taken the trouble to ask me (though I asked you) why I intend keeping this night as a white spot in my memory."
"Well, I ask you now," says Georgie, penitently.
"Do you care to know?"
"I do, indeed."
"Then it is because to-night I met you for the first time."
He bends his head a little, and looks into her eyes, – the beautiful eyes that smile back so calmly into his, and are so cold to him, and yet so full of fire, – eyes that somehow have power to charm him as no others have yet been able to.
He is strangely anxious to know how his words will be received, and is proportionately aggrieved in that she takes them as a matter of course.
"After all, my reason is better than yours," she says, in her sweet, petulant voice. "Come, let us dance: we are only wasting time."
Branscombe is at first surprised, then puzzled, then fascinated. Almost any other woman of his acquaintance would have accepted his remark as a challenge, – would have smiled, or doubted, or answered him with some speech that would have been a leading question. But with this girl all is different. She takes his words literally, and, while believing them, shows herself utterly careless of the belief.
Dorian, passing his arm round her waist, leads her out into the room, and again they waltz, in silence, – he having nothing to say to her, she being so filled with joy at the bare motion that she cares no more for converse. At last, she grows languid in his arms, and stops before a door that leads into a conservatory. It has been exquisitely fitted up for the occasion, and is one glowing mass of green and white and crimson sweetness. It is cool and faintly lit. A little sad fountain, somewhere in the distance, is mourning sweetly, plaintively, – perhaps for some lost nymph.
"Like some tired bee that flags
Mid roses over-blown,"
"You will give me another dance?" says Branscombe, taking her card.
"If I have one. Isn't it funny? – I feared when coming I should not get a dance at all, because, of course, I knew nobody; yet I have had more partners than I want, and am enjoying myself so much."
"Your card is full," says Branscombe, in a tone that suggests a national calamity. "Would you – would you throw over one of these fellows for me?"
"I would, in a minute," says Miss Broughton, naïvely; "but, if he found me out afterwards, would he be angry?"
"He sha'n't find you out. I'll take care of that. The crowd is intense. Of course" – slowly – "I won't ask you to do it, unless you wish it. Do you?"
"There is one name on that card I can't bear," says Miss Broughton, with her eyes fixed upon a flower she holds. Her dark lashes have fallen upon her cheeks, and lie there like twin shadows. He can see nothing but her mobile lips and delicately pencilled brows. He is watching her closely, and now wonders vaguely if she is a baby or a coquette.
"Show me the man you would discard," he says, running her pencil down her programme.
"There, – stop there. The name is Huntley, is it not? Yes. Well, he is old, and fat, and horrid; and I know he can't dance. You may draw the pencil across his name, – if you are sure, quite sure, he won't find me out."
"He shall not. But I would far rather you condemned that fair-haired fellow you were talking to just now," says Dorian, who is vaguely, faintly jealous of young Bellew.
"But he is so much nicer than Mr. Huntley," declares Georgie, earnestly: "and he was my first partner, and I promised him so faithfully to keep this dance for him."
"He'll never see you in the crush," says Branscombe.
"But I told him exactly where to find me."
"It is the most difficult thing in the world to be anywhere at the precise moment stated."
"But I should like to dance with him again," declares Miss Broughton, innocently, being driven into a corner.
"Oh, of course that ends the matter," says Dorian, in an impossible tone, drawing the pencil with much uncalled-for energy across Mr. Huntley's name.
Then some other man comes up, and claims the little wilful beauty for the waltz then playing, and, carrying her off in triumph, leaves Branscombe alone.
CHAPTER XVII
"It is the hydra of calamities,
The sevenfold death: the jealous are the
Damn'd." – Young.
Having watched her until the last fold of her gown has disappeared, Branscombe turns abruptly away, and, passing through a glass door that leads into the gardens outside, paces slowly up and down the winding paths beneath the subdued light of countless Chinese lanterns, that, hanging amidst the foliage, contrast oddly with the cold white brilliancy of the stars overhead, that
"Rush forth in myriads, as to wage
War with the lines of darkness."
Cold as the night air is, not a breath of wind comes to disturb the strange calm that hangs over land and sea. Far down in the bay the ocean lies at rest. From the distance a faint sound of music from the band comes softly, seductively to the ear, but beyond and above it comes the song of the nightingale that, resting in yonder thicket, pours forth its heart in tender hurried melody, as though fearful the night will be
"Too short for him to utter forth his love-chant,
And disburthen his full soul of all its music."
The notes rise and fall, and tremble on the air. No other sound comes from the breast of nature to mar the richness of its tone. No earthly thing seems living but itself. For it the night appears created, and draws its "sable curtain stained with gold" over the sleeping world. This nightingale, of all the feathered tribes, is wakeful, and chants its hymn of praise at midnight, whilst all its brethren rest in peaceful slumber.
The intense and solemn stillness of all around renders more enchanting the trills and tender trembles that shake its tiny throat. There is
"No whispering but of leaves, on which the breath
Of heaven plays music to the birds that slumber."
Yet this one sweet bird refuses rest, and, as though one of those "small foules" that "slepen alle night with open eye," sings on courageously amidst the gloom.
Dorian, strolling absently through the walks, and into the shrubberies beyond, listens, and feels some sense of comfort (that has yet with it a touch of pain) creep through him as the nightingale's sweet song smites upon his ear.
Yet this is not the only sound that disturbs the quiet of the night. Sadly, mournfully, a half-suppressed sob falls upon the air.
Branscombe starts, and looks round suddenly, but can see nothing. No footsteps make themselves heard. The shrubs are sufficiently thick to conceal the presence of any one, yet it seems to him as if the thought of that sob was born of fancy, and that the earthly owner of it is unborn.
Then some ray from the brilliant moon opens his eyes, and he sees a woman's figure standing in a somewhat disconsolate attitude, with her back against a tall elm, and her eyes fixed wistfully upon the distant windows, through which the lights are streaming, and the passing to and fro of the dancing crowd may be distinctly seen.
Dorian, recognizing her, goes quickly up to her and lays his hand upon her shoulder. It is Ruth Annersley!
She stifles a low cry, and, turning to him, grows even a shade paler than she was a moment since.
"Ruth," says Dorian, "what on earth brings you here at this hour?"
For a moment she makes him no answer. She raises her hand to brush away the tears that still lie heavily upon her cheeks, and then moves a little away from him, so as to elude his touch.
"I came to see them dancing," she says, at length, with difficulty; "I thought it would be a pretty sight; and – it is – I have been so – so pleased."
The words seem to choke her. With a movement that is terribly pathetic she lays her hand upon her heart; and then Dorian, following the direction her eyes have taken, sees what they see.
In an open window, directly opposite to where they are standing, two figures can be seen in very close proximity to each other. Beyond are the forms of the dancers; the faint sweet strains of the band float out to meet the midnight air; but the two in the window seem lost to all but the fact of their own existence, and that they are together. At least, so it seems to the onlookers in the shrubberies.
See, now he takes her hand, – the kindly curtain hiding the act from those within; he stoops towards her; the girl leans a little forward; and then Dorian knows them; the man is Horace, and the girl Clarissa Peyton!
Instinctively he glances from them to Ruth. She, too, is leaning forward, her whole attention concentrated upon the picture before her. Her eyes are wide and miserable, her cheeks pale and haggard.
"You have seen enough of this ball, Ruth," says Branscombe, very gently. "Go home now."
"Yes; enough, – too much," says the girl, starting into life again. She draws her breath quickly, painfully: her brow contracts. As though unable to resist the movement, she again lays her hand upon her heart, and holds it there, as though in anguish.
"What is it?" asks Dorian. "Are you in pain? How white you are!"
"I am tired. I have a pain here," pressing her hand still more closely against her side. "This morning I felt well and strong – and now – . My mother died of heart-disease; perhaps I shall die of it too. I think so; I hope so!"
"You are talking very great nonsense," says Dorian, roughly, though in his soul shocked to the last degree by the girl's manner, which is full of reckless misery. "Nobody sees any amusement in dying. Come, let me see you home."
"Oh, no! Please do not come, Mr. Branscombe," entreats she, so earnestly that he feels she has a meaning in her words. "I have the key of the small gate, and can run home in five minutes once I pass that."
"Then at least I shall see you safely as far as the gate," says Branscombe, who is tender and gentle in his manner to all women.
Silently they walk through the damp night grass, neither speaking, until, coming to a curve in the way, she breaks silence.
"How beautiful Miss Peyton looks to-night," she says, in a tone impossible to translate.
"Very," says Dorian, unkindly, yet with very kindly intent. "But then she is always one of the most beautiful women I know."
"Is she – very much admired?" – this rather timidly.
"One can understand that at once," says Dorian, quietly. "Both her face and figure are perfect." As he says this, quite calmly, his heart bleeds for the girl beside him.
"Who has she been dancing most with?" Eagerly, almost painfully, this question is put. The utter simplicity of it touches Dorian to his heart's core.
"With my brother, of course. She – she would not care to dance very much with any one else now, on account of her engagement."
"Her engagement?"
"Yes. She is to be married to my brother some time next year."
He hates himself bitterly as he says this: but something within him compels him to the cruel deed, if only through pity for the girl who walks beside him.
They are now within the shade of trees, and he cannot see her face; though in very truth, if he could have seen it at this moment, he would not have looked at it. No word escapes her; she walks on steadily, as though actually made strong by the receiving of the blow.
Dorian would gladly believe that her silence means indifference; but to-night has forced a truth upon him that for months he has determinedly put behind him. Her tears, her agitation, the agony that shone in her eyes as she fixed them upon Horace's form in the window, have betrayed only too surely the secret she would so gladly hide.
She makes no further attempt at conversation, and, when they come to the little iron gate that leads on to the road, would have passed through, and gone on her homeward way mechanically, without bidding him even good-night, as if (which is indeed the case) she has forgotten the very fact of his near presence.
But he cannot let her go without a word.
"Good-night," he says, very kindly, his tone warmer because of his pity for her. "Take care of yourself. Are you sure you do not fear going alone?"
"Yes." Her voice is low, and sounds strange, even in her own ears.
"Wrap your shawl more closely round you. The night is cold. Is the pain in your side better?"
"Yes," – almost regretfully.
"That is right. Well, good-by. I shall stand here until I see you have safely turned the corner; then I shall know you are out of all danger." He has been holding her hand somewhat anxiously all this time, not quite liking the strained expression in her face. Now he presses it, and then drops it gently.
"Good-night," returns she, slowly, and then turns away from him, never remembering to thank him for his kindness, – hardly, indeed, conscious of having spoken the farewell word.
Her brain seems on fire; her body cold as death. Oh, to be in her own room, free from all watching eyes, where she can fling herself upon the ground, and moan and cry aloud against her fate, with only the friendly darkness to overhear her! She hurries rapidly onward, and soon the corner hides her from sight.
Dorian, when she has safely passed the spot agreed upon, goes back once more in the direction of the house. He has hardly, however, gone two hundred yards, when the voice of his uncle, Lord Sartoris, calling to him through the gloom, stays his steps, and rouses him from the painful revery into which he is fast falling.
"Who were you parting with at the gate?" asks Lord Sartoris, in so unusual a tone that Dorian looks at him in some surprise. He is a little sorry, for reasons that do not touch himself, that the question should have been asked at all.
"Ruth Annersley," he answers, without hesitation, feeling that any prevarication at this moment will only make matters worse for the unhappy girl. May not Arthur have seen and known her?
"Ruth Annersley?"
"Yes. You will, of course, say nothing about it. She was foolish enough to wish to see a few people dancing, so came here, and, standing among the shrubs, obtained her wish, – which, no doubt, proved as satisfactory as most of our desires, when gained."
"At this hour of the night to be here, alone!"
"Yes. Very imprudent of her, of course, and all that."
"There must have been some strong inducement to make a girl of her gentle nature undertake so bold, so daring, a step. It was a strictly improper action," says the old man, in his most stilted style.
"I dare say. Imprudent, however, was the word I used. I am rather glad I was the one to meet her, as she knew me; and, as a rule, people talk so much about nothing, and make such mountains out of mole-hills."
"It was fortunate, indeed, your meeting her. It might, in fact, almost be termed a curious coincidence, your managing to be on this deserted walk just at the required moment."
There is something so unpleasant, so sneering, about his tone that Dorian colors hotly.
"I confess I hardly see it in the light you do," he says, easily enough, but very coldly. "And I think I should term the coincidence 'lucky,' rather than curious. I see no difference between this walk and half a dozen others. People don't seem to affect any of them much."
"No," says Lord Sartoris.
"Any other fellow might have been here as well as me. You, for example."
"Just so!" says Lord Sartoris.
"Then why bring in the word curious?"
"It merely occurred to me at the moment," says his lordship, drily. "Been dancing much?"
"Yes, – no, – pretty well. Are you coming in?"
They are again in front of the house, and near the steps that lead to the conservatory.
"Not just yet, I think."
"Then I fear I must leave you. I am engaged for this dance."
So, for the first time, these two part coldly. The old man goes slowly, moodily, up and down the gravelled path beneath the brilliant moon, that —
"From her clouded veil soft gliding,
Lifts her silvery lamp on high,"
and thinks of many things in a humor more sad than bitter; while the young man, with angry brow and lips compressed, goes swiftly onward to the house.
As he regains the ball-room, the remembrance of the little partner he has come to claim rushes back upon him pleasantly, and serves to dissipate the gloomy and somewhat indignant thoughts that have been oppressing him. But where is she? He looks anxiously around; and, after five minutes' fruitless search, lo! there are her eyes smiling out at him from the arms of a gay and (doubtless) gallant plunger.
The next instant she is gone; but he follows her slight form with eager glance, and at length crosses the room to where she is now standing with her soldier. As he does so he flings from him all tormenting thoughts, forgetting – as it is his nature to do – the possible misery of the future in the certain happiness of the present.
"The next is ours, is it not?" he says; and she smiles at him, and – can it be? – willingly transfers her hand from the heavy's arm to his; and then they dance; and presently he takes her down to the Peytons' carriage and puts her carefully into it, and presses her hand, I think, ever so slightly, and then drives home, beneath the silent stars, with an odd sensation at his heart – half pain, half pleasure – he has never felt before.
