THE weeks went, and the time neared when dancing at the Institute would
end for the season--would end with a bang and a dazzle in a "long night,"
when dancing would be kept up shamelessly till something nearer one
o'clock than twelve. Johnny counted, first the weeks, then the days, and
last the hours. Not because of the dancing, although that was amusing,
but because he was to take Nora Sansom with his double ticket. For
herself, she may have counted days and hours, or may not; but true it was
that she sat up late on several nights, with nun's veiling and ribbons,
making a dress for the occasion--the first fine frock that had been hers.
And every night she hid it carefully.
Each dressmaking-class night of late it had been Johnny's privilege to
guard her home-going to the end of that second street--never farther.
Twice she had come to dancing, and by that small practice was already
Johnny's superior at the exercise; for a big-shouldered novice of eleven
stone two is a slower pupil than any girl of eighteen in the world. And
they were very welcome one to the other, and acquaintance bettered day by
day. Once Johnny ventured a question about the adventure of the morning,
now more than three years ago, but learned little from Miss Sansom's
answer. The lady who was ill was her relation, she said, and she found
her; and then she talked of something else.
And so till the evening before the "long night." It was the rule at the
Institute to honour the long night with gloves and white ties, by way of
compromise with evening dress; and Johnny bought his gloves with
discretion and selected his tie with care. Then he went to the
Institute, took a turn or two at the bars, climbed up the rope, and gave
another member a lesson with the gloves. Thus refreshed, he dressed
himself in his walking clothes, making sure that the tie and the gloves
were safe in his pocket, and set out for home. There was no dressmaking
class that night, so that he need not wait. But outside and plainly
waiting for him, was Nora Sansom herself. Johnny thought she had been
crying: as in fact she had.
"Oh, Mr. May," she said. "I'm very sorry, but--I thought you might be
here, and--and--I'm afraid I shan't be able to come to-morrow!"
"Not come! But--but why?"
"I'm sorry--I'm very sorry, Mr. May; but I can't tell you--really."
There was a quiver of the lip, and her voice was a little uneven, as
though there were danger of more tears. But Johnny was not disappointed
merely; he was also angry, and it was hard to conceal the fact. So he
said nothing, but turned and walked a few steps by her side.
"I--hope you won't mind," she pursued, uneasy at his silence. "I'm very
much disappointed--very much indeed." And it was plain that she was.
"But there'll be a good many there. And you'll have plenty of partners."
This last she found a hard thing to say.
"I don't care how many'll be there," Johnny replied. "I shan't go."
It was said curtly, almost angrily, but Nora Sansom heard it with an odd
little tremor of pleasure. Though she merely said, "But why not?
There's no reason why you should be disappointed too."
"Anyhow, I'm not going," he said; and after a pause added: "Perhaps you
might ha' gone if I hadn't asked you!"
"Oh, I shouldn't!" she answered, with tears in eyes and voice. "You know
I shouldn't! I never go anywhere!"
Johnny instantly felt himself a brute. "No," he said. "I know you
don't. I didn't mean anything unkind. But I won't go."
"Do you really mean it?"
"Of course. I'm not going without you." He might have said something
more, but a little group of people came straggling past. And the girl,
with her eyes on this group, said the first thing that came to her
tongue.
"Where will you go then?"
"Oh anywhere. I don't know. Walk about, perhaps."
She looked shyly up in his face, and down again. "_I_ might go for a
walk," she said.
Johnny's heart gave a great beat. "Alone?" he asked.
"I don't know. Perhaps."
But she would be questioned into nothing definite. _If_ she took a walk,
she _might_ go in such and such a direction, passing this or that place
at seven o'clock, or half-past. That was all. And now she must hurry
away, for she had already been too long.
What mattered the dance to Johnny now? A fig for the dance. Let them
dance that liked, and let them dance the floor through if it pleased
them. But how was it that Nora Sansom could take a walk to-morrow
evening, yet could not come to the Institute? That was difficult to
understand. Still, hang the dance!
For Nora it would be harder to speak. Howbeit indeed the destruction of
the looked-for evening's gladness, in her first fine frock, had been a
bitter thing. But that day her hiding-place had been discovered, and now
the dress that had cost such thoughtful design and such hopeful labour
was lying, rolled and ticketed, on a pawnbroker's shelf.