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.
