"Her eyes were deeper than the depth
Of waters stilled at even."
"Dorian?" says Clarissa.
"Clarissa!" says Dorian.
"I really think I shall give a ball."
"What?" cries a small, sweet, plaintive voice from the corner, and
Georgie, emerging from obscurity and the tremendous volume she has
been studying, comes to the front, in her usual vehement fashion, and
stands before Miss Peyton, expectation in every feature. "Oh,
Clarissa, do say it again."
"Papa says I must entertain the county in some way," says Clarissa,
meditatively, "and I really think a ball will be the best way. Don't
you?"
"Don't I, though?" says Miss Broughton, with much vivacity. "Clarissa,
you grow sweeter daily. Let me offer you some small return for your
happy thought."
She laughs, and, stooping, presses her warm ripe lips against her
friend's cheek. She blushes as she performs this graceful act, and a
small, bright, mischievous gleam grows within her eye. The whole
action is half mocking, half tender:
"A rosebud set with little wilfulthorns,
And sweet as English air can make her, she."
The lines come hurriedly to Branscombe's mind, and linger there.
Raising her head again, her eyes meet his, and she laughs, for the
second time, out of the pure gladness of her heart.
"I think it was my happy thought," says Branscombe, mildly. "_I_
suggested this dance to Clarissa only yesterday. Might not I, too,
partake of the 'small return'?"
"It no longer belongs to me; I have given it all away,--here," says
Georgie, touching Clarissa's cheek with one finger; "but for that,"
with a slow adorable glance, "I should be charmed."
"I think I shall get pencil and paper and write down the names," says
Clarissa, energetically, rising and going towards the door. "Dorian,
take care of Georgie until I return."
"I wish I knew how," says Branscombe, in a tone so low that only
Georgie can hear it. Then, as the door closes he says, "Did you mean
your last speech?"
"My last? What was it? I never remember anything." She very seldom
blushes, but now again a soft delicate color creeps into her face.
"If you _hadn't_ given it all away, would you have given me a little
of that small return?"
"No."
"Not even if _I_ were to give a ball for you?"
"N-o--no."
"Not if I were to do for you the one thing you most desired?"
"No--no--no!" She speaks hastily, and glances at him somewhat
confusedly from beneath her long lashes.
"Well, of course, it is too much to expect," says Branscombe; "yet I
would do a good deal for you, even without hope of payment."
He comes a little nearer to her, and lays his hand upon the table
close to hers.
"If you really made the suggestion to Clarissa, you deserve some
reward," says Georgie, nodding her head. "Now, what shall it be?"
"Dance half the night with me."
"That would bore you,--and me. No; but if dancing delights
you--sir--may I have the pleasure of the first quadrille?"
"Madam," says Branscombe, laying his hand upon his heart, "you do me
too much honor; I am at your service now and forever."
"It is too large a promise."
"A true one, nevertheless."
A little earnest shade shows itself upon his face, but Georgie laughs
lightly, and moves away from him over to the window, and at this
moment Clarissa returns, armed with paper and pencils and a very much
pleased smile.
"Can't I have the gardens lighted?" she says, "with Chinese lanterns,
and that? I have been thinking of it."
"I don't know about 'that,'" says Dorian. "I'm not sure but it might
blow us all to atoms; but the celestial lights will be quite 'too,
too!' It must be a splendid thing, Clarissa, to have a brain like
yours. Now, neither Miss Broughton nor I have a particle between us."
"Speak for yourself, please," says Miss Broughton, very justly
incensed.
"I'm doing even more than that, I'm speaking for you too. Don't put up
too many Chinese lanterns, Clarissa, or it will be awkward: we shall
be seen."
"What matter? I love light," says Georgie, innocently. "How I do hope
there will be a moon! Not a mean effort at one, but a good, round,
substantial, vast old moon, such as there was two months ago."
* * * * *
She has her wish: such another moonlight night as comes to Pullingham
on the night of Miss Peyton's ball has been rarely, if ever, seen. It
breaks over the whole place in a flood of light so whitely brilliant
that the very sleeping flowers lift up their heads, as though
believing the soft mystic light to be the early birth of morn.
All around is calm and drowsy sweet. The stars come forth to light the
world, and, perhaps, to do homage to Clarissa on this the night of her
first ball.
About six weeks have passed since Ruth Annersley left her home, and as
yet no tidings of her have reached Pullingham. Already people are
beginning to forget that such an _esclandre_ ever occurred in their
quiet village. The minutest inquiries have been made (chiefly by Lord
Sartoris, who is now very seldom at home); rewards offered; numerous
paragraphs, addressed to "R. A.," have appeared in the London papers,
but without result. The world is growing tired of the miserable
scandal, and Ruth's disappearance ceases to be the one engrossing
topic of conversation at village teas and bar-room revelries.
To-night is fair enough to make one believe sin impossible. It is
touched by heaven; great waves of light, sent by the "silver queen of
night," lie languidly on tree and bower; the very paths are bright
with its stray beams.
"Bats and grisly owls on noiseless wings" flit to and fro, "and now
the nightingale, not distant far, begins her solitary song."
Within, music is sounding, and laughter, and the faint sweet dropping
of fountains. Clarissa, moving about among her guests, is looking
quite lovely in a pale satin trimmed heavily with old gold. She is
happy and quite content, though her eyes, in spite of her, turn
anxiously, every now and then, to the doorway.
Every one is smiling, radiant. Even Dorian, who is waltzing with any
one but the woman he desires, is looking gracious all through, and is
creating havoc in the bosom of the damsel who has rashly intrusted
herself to his care.
Cissy Redmond, in the arms of a cavalry-man, is floating round the
room, her unutterable little _nez retrousse_ looking even more
pronounced than usual. Her face is lit up with pleasurable excitement;
to her--as she tells the cavalry-man without hesitation--the evening
is "quite too awfully much, don't you know!" and the cavalry-man
understands her perfectly, and is rather taking to her, which is
undoubtedly clever of the cavalry-man.
He is now talking to her in his very best style, and she is
smiling,--but not at him.
Within the shelter of a door, directly opposite, stands Mr. Hastings,
and he is answering back her smile fourfold. He will not dance
himself,--conscience forbidding,--yet it pleases him to see his Cissy
(as she now is) enjoying herself. The band is playing "Beautiful
Ferns" dreamily, languidly; and I think at this very moment Mr.
Hastings's reverend toes are keeping excellent time to the music. But
this, of course, is barest supposition; for what human eye can
penetrate leather?
The waltz comes to an end, and Dorian, having successfully rid himself
of his late partner, draws Georgie's hand within his arm and leads her
into a conservatory.
Her late partner was a fat, kindly squire, who _will_ dance, but who,
at the expiration of each effort to eclipse Terpsichore, feels
devoutly thankful that his task has come to an end. He is, to say the
mildest least of him, exceedingly tiring, and Georgie is rather glad
than otherwise that Dorian should lead her into the cool recess where
flowers and perfumed fountains hold full sway. She sinks into a seat,
and sighs audibly, and looks upwards at her companion from under
half-closed lids, and then, letting them drop suddenly, plays, in a
restless fashion, with the large black fan she holds.
Branscombe is stupidly silent; indeed, it hardly occurs to him that
speech is necessary. He is gazing earnestly, tenderly, at the small
face beside him,--
"A face o'er which a thousand shadows go."
The small face, perhaps, objects to this minute scrutiny, because
presently it raises itself, and says, coquettishly,--
"How silent you are! What are you thinking of?"
"Of you," says Dorian, simply. "What a foolish question! You are a
perfect picture in that black gown, with your baby arms and neck."
"Anything else?" asks Miss Broughton, demurely.
"Yes. It also seems to me that you cannot be more than fifteen. You
look such a little thing, and so young."
"But I'm not young," says Georgie, hastily. "I am quite old. I wish
you would remember I am nearly nineteen."
"Quite a Noah's Ark sort of person,--a fossil of the pre-Adamite
period. How I envy you! You are, indeed, unique in your way. Don't be
angry with me because I said you looked young; and don't wish to be
old. There is no candor so hateful, no truth so unpleasing, as age."
"How do you know?" demands she, saucily, sweetly, half touched by his
tone. "You are not yet a Methuselah." Then, "Do you know your brother
has come at last? He is very late, isn't he?"
"He always is," says Dorian.
"And he has brought a friend with him. And who do you think it is?"
"I haven't the faintest idea," says Branscombe, turning a vivid red.
"Why, _my_ Mr. Kennedy!"
"_Your_ Mr. Kennedy?" reiterates he, blankly, his red becoming a
crimson of the liveliest hue.
"Yes, the dark thin young man I met at Sir John Lincoln's. I dare say
I told you about him?"
"Yes, you did," says Dorian, grimly.
"I see him over there," pointing airily with her fan through the open
conservatory door to a distant wall where many young men are
congregated together.
"The man with the nose?" asks Branscombe, slightingly, feeling sure in
his soul he is _not_ the man with the nose.
"He has a nose," says Miss Broughton, equably, "though there isn't
much of it. He is very like a Chinese pug. Don't you see him? But he
_is_ so nice."
Dorian looks again in the desired direction, and as he does so a tall
young man, with a somewhat canine expression, but very kindly,
advances towards him, and, entering the conservatory, comes up to Miss
Broughton with a smile full of delight upon his ingenuous countenance.
"Miss Broughton," he says, in a low musical voice, that has
unmistakable pleasure in it. "Can it really be you? I didn't believe
life could afford me so happy a moment as this."
"I saw you ten minutes ago," says Georgie, in her quick bright
fashion.
"And made no sign? that was cruel," says Kennedy, with some reproach
in his tone. He is looking with ill-suppressed admiration upon her
fair uplifted face. "Now that I have found you, what dance will you
give me?"
"Any one I have," she says, sweetly.
"The tenth? The dance after next,--after this, I mean?"
Branscombe, who is standing beside her, here turns his head to look
steadfastly at her. His blue eyes are almost black, his lips are
compressed, his face is very pale. Not an hour ago she had promised
him this tenth dance. He had asked it of her in haste, even as he went
by her with another partner, and she had smiled consent. Will she
forget it?
"With pleasure," she says, softly, gayly, her usual lovely smile upon
her lips. She is apparently utterly unconscious of any one except her
old-new friend. Kennedy puts her name down upon his card.
At this Dorian makes one step forward, as though to protest against
something,--some iniquity done; but, a sudden thought striking him, he
draws back, and, bringing his teeth upon his under lip with some
force, turns abruptly away. When next he looks in her direction, he
finds both Georgie and her partner have disappeared.
The night wanes. Already the "keen stars that falter never" are
dropping, one by one, to slumber, perfect and serene. Diana, tired of
her ceaseless watch, is paling, fading, dying imperceptibly, as though
feeling herself soon to be conquered by the sturdy morn.
Dorian, who has held himself carefully aloof from Miss Broughton ever
since that last scene, when she had shown herself so unmindful of him
and his just claim to the dance then on the cards, now, going up to
her, says, coldly,--
"I think the next is our dance, Miss Broughton."
Georgie, who is laughing gayly with Mr. Kennedy, turns her face to
his, some surprise mixed with the sweetness of her regard. Never
before has he addressed her in such a tone.
"Is it?" she says, gently. "I had forgotten; but of course my card
will tell."
"One often forgets, and one's card doesn't always tell," replies he,
with a smile tinctured with bitterness.
She opens her eyes, and stares at him blankly. There is some balm in
Gilead, he tells himself, as he sees she is totally unaware of his
meaning. Perhaps, after all, she _did_ forget about that tenth dance,
and did not purposely fling him over for the man now beside her, who
is grinning at her in a supremely idiotic fashion. How he hates a
fellow who simpers straight through everything, and looks always as if
the world and he were eternally at peace!
She flushes softly,--a gentle, delicate flush, born of distress,
coldness from even an ordinary friend striking like ice upon her
heart. She looks at her card confusedly.
"Yes, the next is ours," she says, without raising her eyes; and then
the band begins again, and Dorian feels her hand upon his arm, and
Kennedy bows disconsolately and disappears amid the crowd.
"Do you particularly want to dance this?" asks Dorian, with an effort.
"No; not much."
"Will you come out into the gardens instead? I want--I must speak to
you."
"You may speak to me here, or in the garden, or any where," says
Georgie, rather frightened by the vehemence of his tone.
She lets him lead her down the stone steps that lead to the
shrubberies outside, and from thence to the gardens. The night is
still. The waning moonlight clear as day. All things seem calm and
full of rest,--that deepest rest that comes before the awakening.
"Who is your new friend?" asks he, abruptly, when silence any longer
has become impossible.
"Mr. Kennedy. He is not exactly a friend. I met him one night before
in all my life, and he was very kind to me----"
"One night!" repeats Dorian, ignoring the fact that she yet has
something more to say. "One night! What an impression"--unkindly--"he
must have made on that memorable occasion, to account for the very
warm reception accorded to him this evening!"
She turns her head away from him, but makes no reply.
"Why did you promise me that dance if you didn't mean giving it?" he
goes on, with something in his voice that resembles passion, mixed
with pain. "I certainly believed you in earnest when you promised it
to me."
"You believed right: I did mean it. Am I not giving it?" says Georgie,
bewildered, her eyes gleaming, large and troubled, in the white light
that illumines the sleeping world. "It is your fault that we are not
dancing now. I, for my part, would much rather be inside, with the
music, than out here with you, when you talk so unkindly."
"I have no doubt you would rather be anywhere than with me," says
Dorian, hastily; "and of course this new friend is intensely
interesting."
"At least he is not rude," says Miss Broughton, calmly, plucking a
pale green branch from a laurestinus near her.
"I am perfectly convinced he is one of the few faultless people upon
earth," says Branscombe, now in a white heat of fury. "I shouldn't
dream of aspiring to his level. But yet I think you needn't have given
him the dance you promised me."
"I didn't," says Miss Broughton, indignantly, in all good faith.
"You mean to tell me you hadn't given me the tenth dance half an hour
before?"
"The tenth! You might as well speak about the hundred and tenth! If it
wasn't on my card how could I remember it?"
"But it was on your card: I wrote it down myself."
"I am sure you are making a mistake," says Miss Broughton, mildly;
though in her present frame of mind, I think she would have dearly
liked to tell him he is lying.
"Then show me your card. If I have blundered in this matter I shall go
on my knees to beg your pardon."
"I don't want you on your knees,"--pettishly. "I detest a man on his
knees, he always looks so silly. As for my card,"--grandly,--"here it
is."
Dorian, taking it, opens it, and, running his eyes down the small
columns, stops short at number ten. There, sure enough, is "D. B." in
very large capitals indeed.
"You see," he says, feeling himself, as he says it, slightly
ungenerous.
"I am very sorry," says Miss Broughton, standing far away from him,
and with a little quiver in her tone. "I have behaved badly, I now
see. But I did not mean it." She has grown very pale; her eyes are
dilating; her rounded arms, soft and fair and lovable as a little
child's, are gleaming snow-white against the background of shining
laurel leaves that are glittering behind her in the moonlight. Her
voice is quiet, but her eyes are full of angry tears, and her small
gloved hands clasp and unclasp each other nervously.
"You have proved me in the wrong," she goes on, with a very poor
attempt at coolness, "and, of course, justice is on your side. And you
are quite right to say anything that is unkind to me; and--and I
_hate_ people who are always in the right."
With this she turns, and, regardless of him, walks hurriedly, and
plainly full of childish rage, back to the house.
Dorian, stricken with remorse, follows her.
"Georgie, forgive me! I didn't mean it; I swear I didn't!" he says,
calling her by her Christian name for the first time, and quite
unconsciously. "Don't leave me like this; or, at least let me call
to-morrow and explain."
"I don't want to see you to-morrow or any other day," declares Miss
Broughton, with cruel emphasis, not even turning her head to him as
she speaks.
"But you shall see me to-morrow," exclaims he, seizing her hand, as
she reaches the conservatory door, to detain her. "You will be here; I
shall come to see you. I entreat, I implore you not to deny yourself
to me." Raising her hand, he presses it with passionate fervor to his
lips.
Georgie, detaching her hand from his grasp, moves away from him.
"'Must is for the queen, and shall is for the king,'" quotes she, with
a small pout, "and to-morrow--catch me if you can!"
She frowns slightly, and, with a sudden movement, getting behind a
large flowering shrub, disappears from his gaze for the night.