By this time the lights of Harborough were twinkling in the distance, and the Rev. Dove, whose horse had coughed more than once, thought it advisable to trot forward and get the carriage ready; whilst his daughter and Mr. Sawyer came on at a foot’s pace, the latter gallantly affirming that he would take the greatest possible care of his charge, and wishing, as soon as they were alone, either that somebody else would overtake them, and so break the tête-à-tête, or else that he could find something to say, else she must think him so confoundedly stupid. It was agreeable, too, when he got a little more used to it. The girl talked on in her gentle, pleasant voice, of the hounds, and the people, and the country. Her tones had caught the languor of slight fatigue, and were very soft and silvery to the ear. More than once he wished it was not too dark to see the long eyelashes resting on her cheek, those silky excrescences having made no slight impression on Mr. Sawyer. He felt quite sorry when the turnpike denoted their approach to the confines of the town at which their ride must cease. He could not conceive now how he could have been so out of spirits not an hour ago.
“When shall I see you again?” he ventured to ask as their horses’ hoofs clattered on the stony pavement, and he saw the lamps of the Reverend’s carriage glowing like the eyes of some monster ready to carry off his Andromeda. As he spoke he even ventured to place his hand on her horse’s neck; and this was a great stretch of gallantry for Mr. Sawyer.
“Oh, you’ll be at the ball,” answered Miss Dove, without withdrawing her steed from the range of her companion’s caresses. “You’ll be at the ball, of course, even if we don’t meet out hunting before that.”
“Ball!” repeated our friend in amazement. “What ball do you mean?”
“Why, the Harborough Ball,” answered the young lady. “Everybody will be there; Captain Struggles, Major Brush—even Mr. Crasher, though he won’t do much in the way of dancing. Why, it is held at your hotel. The music will keep you awake all night, so you may as well go.”
“I will, if you’ll dance with me,” rejoined Mr. Sawyer, with the air of a man who is “in for a penny, in for a pound.”
And he felt queerer than he had ever done about Miss Mexico when she murmured a gentle affirmative. Nay, when he had put her carefully into papa’s carriage, and tucked her up as assiduously as if she was going to the North Pole, he whispered, “You won’t forget your promise?” while he shook hands, and wished her “Good-bye.” Nor did the scarce perceptible pressure with which that promise was ratified tend to restore our friend’s equanimity in the least.
He was not a ball-going man: far from it. Also, I question whether it is not a breach of privilege that your rest at an hotel should be broken for a whole night by the thumping of feet, the squeaking of fiddles, the Scotch Quadrilles, and the monotonous “Tempête;” whilst your dinner and general comfort for two days previous to, and two days after the solemnity, is reduced to positive misery. Nevertheless, Mr. Sawyer caught himself repeating more than once during the evening—which, by the way, he spent in an atmosphere of smoke, with Struggles, Brush, Savage, and the Honourable Crasher—“Ball! ball!—was ever anything so lucky? Go!—of course I’ll go! In fact, I promised: and perhaps she’ll dance with me twice!”