Faith And Unfaith Part 24

And then the concert comes to an end, and adieux are said, and fresh congratulations poured out, so to speak, upon the Redmonds; and then every one goes home.

Dorian Brans...o...b.. climbs into his dog-cart, and drives swiftly homeward, under the glistening stars, whose "beauty makes unhappy,"--his mind filled with many thoughts.

"'My love, my pearl!'"--the words of Georgie's song haunt him incessantly, and ring their changes on his brain. "What words could be more appropriate, more suited to her?" (Alas, when we come to p.r.o.nouns it is generally all over with us!) "A pearl! so fair! so pure! so solitary! It just expressed her. By what right has Fate cast that pretty child upon the cruel world to take her chance, to live or die in it?

"How large her eyes are, and what a heavenly blue, and what a sad expression lies within them! 'Grandmamma, grandmamma, what big eyes you have!'" Here he rouses himself, and laughs a little, and wishes, with some petulance, that he could put her out of his head.

"'My love, my pearl!' Yes, it was a very pretty song, and haunts one somehow; but no doubt a good night's sleep will kill it. Hold up, you brute,"--this to the kind and patient mare, who is doing her good nine miles an hour, and who has mildly objected to a sharp stone. "Why didn't Clarissa introduce me to her? I wish to goodness I hadn't to go back to town to-morrow!" And so on, until he reaches Sartoris, and flings himself, with some impatience, out of the trap, to the amazement of his groom, who is accustomed to think of his master as a young man to whom exertion is impossible.

Then he goes to bed, and spends the next four hours miserably, as he falls into a heavy slumber, and dreams that oysters, pearl-laden, are rus.h.i.+ng boisterously over his body.

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."