AFTER THE BALL.
Lake glided from the feast with a sense of a tremendous
liability upon him. There was no retreat.
The morning—yes, the morning—what
then? Should he live to see the evening?
Sir Harry Bracton was the crack shot of Swivel’s
gallery. He could hit a walking-cane at fifteen
yards, at the word. There he was, talking to
old Lady Chelford. Very well; and there was that
fellow with the twisted moustache—plainly
an officer and a gentleman—twisting the
end of one of them, and thinking profoundly, with
his back to the wall, evidently considering his coming
diplomacy with Lake’s ‘friend.’
Aye, by-the-bye, and Lake’s eye wandered in bewilderment
among village dons and elderly country gentlemen, in
search of that inestimable treasure.
These thoughts went whisking and whirling round in
Captain Lake’s brain, to the roar and clatter
of the Joinville Polka, to which fifty pair of dancing
feet were hopping and skimming over the floor.
‘Monstrous hot, Sir—hey? ha, ha,
by Jove!’ said Major Jackson, who had just returned
from the supper-room, where he had heard several narratives
of the occurrence. ’Don’t think I
was so hot since the ball at Government House, by
Jove, Sir, in 1828—awful summer that!’
The major was jerking his handkerchief under his florid
nose and chin, by way of ventilation; and eyeing the
young man shrewdly the while, to read what he might
of the story in his face.
‘Been in Calcutta, Lake?’
’No; very hot, indeed. Could I say just
a word with you—this way a little.
So glad I met you.’ And they edged into
a little nook of the lobby, where they had a few minutes’
confidential talk, during which the major looked grave
and consequential, and carried his head high, nodding
now and then with military decision.
Major Jackson whispered an abrupt word or two in his
ear, and threw back his head, eyeing Lake with grave
and sly defiance. Then came another whisper and
a wink; and the major shook his hand, briefly but hard,
and the gentlemen parted.
Lake strolled into the ball-room, and on to the upper
end, where the ‘best’ people are, and
suddenly he was in Miss Brandon’s presence.
’I’ve been very presumptuous, I fear,
to-night, Miss Brandon, he said, in his peculiar low
tones. ’I’ve been very importunate—I
prized the honour I sought so very much, I forgot
how little I deserved it. And I do not think
it likely you’ll see me for a good while—possibly
for a very long time. I’ve therefore ventured
to come, merely to say good-bye—only that,
just—good-bye. And—and to
beg that flower’—and he plucked it
resolutely from her bouquet—’which
I will keep while I live. Good-bye, Miss Brandon.’
And Captain Stanley Lake, that pale apparition, was
gone.
I do not know at all how Miss Brandon felt at this
instant; for I never could quite understand that strange
lady. But I believe she looked a little pale
as she gravely adjusted the flowers so audaciously
violated by the touch of the cool young gentleman.
