it till the blood ran.
By this time Ernest had recovered himself. He saw several young fellows bearing down upon them, and knew what they were seeking.
"Miss Ceswick," he said, "will you introduce me?"
No sooner said than done, and at that moment the band began to play a waltz. In five seconds more Eva was floating down the room upon his arm, and the advancing young gentlemen were left lamenting, and, if the truth must be told, anathematising "that puppy Kershaw" beneath their breath.
There was a spirit in her feet; she danced divinely. Lightly leaning on his arm, they swept round the room, the incarnation of youthful strength and beauty, and, as they passed, even sour old Lady Astleigh lowered her ancient nose an inch or more, and deigned to ask who was that handsome young man dancing with the "tall girl." Presently they halted, and Ernest observed a more than usually intrepid man coming towards them, with the design, no doubt, of obtaining an introduction and the promise of dances. But again he was equal to the occasion. "Have you a card?" he asked.
"O yes."
"Will you allow me to put my name down for another dance? I think that our steps suit."
"Yes, we get on nicely. Here it is."
Ernest took it. The young man had arrived now, and was hovering round and glowering. Ernest nodded to him cheerfully, and "put his name" very much down--indeed, for no less than three dances and an extra.
Eva opened her eyes a little, but she said nothing; their steps suited so very well.
"May I ask you, Kershaw----" began his would-be rival.
"O, certainly," answered Ernest benignly, "I will be with you presently"; and they floated off again on the rising wave of the music.
When the dance ended, they stopped just by the spot where Miss Ceswick was sitting. Florence and Dorothy were both dancing, but Jeremy, who did not dance, was standing by her, looking as sulky as a bear with a sore head. Eva stretched out her hand to him with a smile.
"I hope that you are going to dance with me, Mr. Jones," she said.
"I don't dance," he answered, curtly, and walked away.
She glanced after him wonderingly; his manner was decidedly rude.
"I do not think that Mr. Jones is in a good temper," she said to Ernest, with a smile.
"O, he is a queer fellow; going out always makes him cross," he answered carelessly.
Then the gathering phalanx of would-be partners marched in and took possession and Ernest had to retire.
The ball was drawing to its close. The dancing-room, notwithstanding its open windows, was intensely hot, and many of the dancers were strolling in the gardens, among them Ernest and Eva. They had just danced their third waltz, in which they had discovered that their steps suited better than ever.
Florence, Dorothy, and her brother were also walking, all three together. It is curious how people in misfortune cling to one another. They walked in silence; they had nothing to say. Presently they caught sight of two tall figures standing by a bush, on which was fixed a dying Chinese lantern. It is sometimes unfortunate to be tall, it betrays one's identity; there was no mistaking the two figures, though it was so dark. Instinctively the three halted. And just then the expiring Chinese lantern did an unkind thing; it caught fire, and threw a lurid light upon a very pretty little scene. Ernest was bending forward towards Eva with all his soul in his expressive eyes, and begging for something. She was blushing sweetly, and looking down at the rose in her bosom; one hand, too, was raised, as though to unfasten it. The light for a moment was so strong that Dorothy afterwards remembered noticing how long Eva's curling black eyelashes looked against her cheek. In another second it had flared out, and the darkness hid the sequel; but it may here be stated that when Eva re-appeared in the ballroom she had lost her rose.
Charming and idyllic as undoubtedly was this /tableau très vivant/ of youth and beauty, obeying the primary laws of nature, and making love in a Garden of Eden illumined with Chinese lanterns, it did not seem to please any of the three spectators.
Jeremy actually forgot the presence of ladies, and went so far as to swear aloud. Nor did they reprove him; probably it gave their feelings some vicarious relief.
"I think we had better be going home; it is late," said Dorothy, after a pause. "Jeremy, will you go and order the carriage?"
Jeremy went.
Florence said nothing, but she took her fan in both her hands and bent it slowly, so that the ivory sticks snapped one by one with a succession of sharp reports. Then she threw it down, and set her heel upon it, and ground it into the path. There was something inexpressibly cruel about the way in which she crushed the pretty toy. The action seemed to be the appropriate and unconscious outcome of some mental process, and it is an odd proof of the excitement under which they were both labouring, that at the time the gentle-minded Dorothy saw in it nothing strange. At that moment the two girls were nearer each other than they had ever been before, or would ever be again; the common stroke of misfortune for a moment welded their opposite natures into one. At that moment, too, they knew that they both loved the same man; before, they had guessed it, and had not liked each other the better for it, but now that was forgotten.
"I think, Florence," said Dorothy, with a little tremor in her voice, "that we are 'out of the running,' as Jeremy says. Your sister is too beautiful for any woman to stand against her. He has fallen in love with her."
"Yes," said Florence, with a bitter laugh and a flash of her brown eyes; "his highness has thrown a handkerchief to a new favourite, and she has lost no time in picking it up. We always used to call her 'the sultana'"; and she laughed again.
"Perhaps," suggested Dorothy, "she only means to flirt with him a little; I hoped that Jeremy----"
"Jeremy! what chance has Jeremy against him? Ernest would make more way with a woman in two hours than Jeremy would in two years. We all love to be taken by storm, my dear. Do not deceive yourself. Flirt with him! she will love him wildly in a week. Who could help loving him?" she added, with a thrill of her rich voice.
Dorothy said nothing: she knew that it was true, and they walked a few steps in silence.
"Dorothy, do you know what generally happens to favourites and sultanas?"
"No."
"They come to a bad end; the other ladies of the harem murder them, you know."
"What /do/ you mean?"
"Don't be frightened; I don't mean that we should murder my dear sister. What I do mean is, that I think we might manage to depose her. Will you help me if I find a plan?"
Dorothy's better self had had time to assert itself by now; the influence of the blow was over, and their natures were wide apart again.
"No, certainly not," she answered. "Ernest has a right to choose for himself, and if your sister gets the better of us, it is the fortune of war, that is all--though certainly the fight is not quite fair," she added, as she thought of Eva's radiant loveliness.
Florence glanced at her contemptuously.
"You have no spirit," she said.
"What do you mean to do?"
