Shortly after midnight our own little company broke up, loath to
leave the charming spectacle. The guests departed with the greatest
reluctance, having given Dawson a half-sovereign for waiting up to
lock the door. Mrs. Beresford said that it seemed unendurable to leave
matters in such an unfinished condition, and her son promised to come
very early next morning for the latest bulletins.
“I leave all the romances in your hands,” he whispered to me; “do let
them turn out happily, do!”
Salemina also retired to her virtuous couch, remembering that she was to
visit infant schools with a great educational dignitary on the morrow.
Francesca and I turned the gas entirely out, although we had been
sitting all the evening in a kind of twilight, and slipping on our
dressing-gowns sat again at the window for a farewell peep into the
past, present, and future of the 'Brighthelmston set.'
At midnight the dowager duchess arrived. She must at least have been a
dowager duchess, and if there is anything greater, within the bounds of
a reasonable imagination, she was that. Long streamers of black tulle
floated from a diamond soup-tureen which surmounted her hair. Narrow
puffings of white traversed her black velvet gown in all directions,
making her look somewhat like a railway map, and a diamond fan-chain
defined, or attempted to define, what was in its nature neither
definable nor confinable, to wit, her waist, or what had been, in early
youth, her waist.
The entire company was stirred by the arrival of the dowager duchess,
and it undoubtedly added new eclat to what was already a fashionable
event; for we counted three gentlemen who wore orders glittering on
ribbons that crossed the white of their immaculate linen, and there was
an Indian potentate with a jewelled turban who divided attention with
the dowager duchess's diamond soup-tureen.
At twelve-thirty Lord Brighthelmston chided Celandine for flirting too
much.
At twelve-forty Lady Brighthelmston reminded Violet (who was a h'orphan
niece) that the beautiful being in the white uniform was not the eldest
son.
At twelve-fifty there arrived an elderly gentleman, before whom the
servants bowed low. Lord Brighthelmston went to fetch Patricia, who
chanced to be sitting out a dance with Terence. The three came out on
the balcony, which was deserted, in the near prospect of supper, and the
personage--whom we suspected to be Patricia's godfather--took from his
waistcoat pocket a string of pearls, and, clasping it round her white
throat, stooped gently and kissed her forehead.
Then at one o'clock came supper. Francesca and I had secretly provided
for that contingency, and curling up on a sofa we drew toward us a
little table which Dawson had spread with a galantine of chicken, some
cress sandwiches, and a jug of milk.
At one-thirty we were quite overcome with sleep, and retired to our
beds, where of course we speedily grew wakeful.
“It is giving a ball, not going to one, that is so exhausting!” yawned
Francesca. “How many times have I danced all night with half the fatigue
that I am feeling now!”
The sound of music came across the street through the closed door of our
sitting-room. Waltz after waltz, a polka, a galop, then waltzes again,
until our brains reeled with the rhythm. As if this were not enough,
when our windows at the back were opened wide we were quite within reach
of Lady Durden's small dance, where another Hungarian band discoursed
more waltzes and galops.
“Dancing, dancing everywhere, and not a turn for us!” grumbled
Francesca. “I simply cannot sleep, can you?”
“We must make a determined effort,” I advised; “don't speak again, and
perhaps drowsiness will overtake us.”
It finally did overtake Francesca, but I had too much to think about--my
own problems as well as Patricia's. After what seemed to be hours of
tossing I was helplessly drawn back into the sitting-room, just to see
if anything had happened, and if the affair was ever likely to come to
an end.
It was half-past two, and yes, the ball was decidedly 'thinning out.'
The attendants in the lower hall, when they were not calling carriages,
yawned behind their hands, and stood first on one foot, and then on the
other.
Women in beautiful wraps, their heads flashing with jewels, descended
the staircase, and drove, or even walked, away into the summer night.
Lady Brighthelmston began to look tired, although all the world, as it
said good night, was telling her that it was one of the most delightful
balls of the season.
The English nosegay had lost its white flower, for Patricia was not
in the family group. I looked everywhere for the gleam of her silvery
scarf, everywhere for Terence, while, the waltz music having ceased, the
Spanish students played 'Love's Young Dream.'
I hummed the words as the sweet old tune, strummed by the tinkling
mandolins, vibrated clearly in the maze of other sounds:--
'Oh! the days have gone when Beauty bright
My heart's chain wove;
When my dream of life from morn till night
Was Love, still Love.
New hope may bloom and days may come,
Of milder, calmer beam,
But there's nothing half so sweet in life
As Love's Young Dream.'
At last, in a quiet spot under the oak-tree, the lately risen moon found
Patricia's diamond arrow and discovered her to me. The Japanese lanterns
had burned out; she was wrapped like a young nun, in a cloud of white
that made her eyelashes seem darker.
I looked once, because the moonbeam led me into it before I realised;
then I stole away from the window and into my own room, closing the door
softly behind me.
We had so far been looking only at conventionalities, preliminaries,
things that all (who had eyes to see) might see; but this was
different--quite, quite different.
They were as beautiful under the friendly shadow of their urban oak-tree
as were ever Romeo and Juliet on the balcony of the Capulets. I may not
tell you what I saw in my one quickly repented-of glance. That would be
vulgarising something that was already a little profaned by my innocent
participation.
I do not know whether Terence was heir, even ever so far removed, to any
title or estates, and I am sure Patricia did not care: he may have been
vulgarly rich or aristocratically poor. I only know that they loved each
other in the old yet ever new way, without any ifs or ands or buts; that
he worshipped, she honoured; he asked humbly, she gave gladly.
How do I know? Ah! that's a 'Penelope secret,' as Francesca says.
Perhaps you doubt my intuitions altogether. Perhaps you believe in
your heart that it was an ordinary ball, where a lot of stupid people
arrived, danced, supped, and departed. Perhaps you do not think his name
was Terence or hers Patricia, and if you go so far as that in blindness
and incredulity I should not expect you to translate properly what I
saw last night under the oak-tree, the night of the ball on the opposite
side, when Patricia made her debut.