‘Or rather the masques and tournaments of those of chivalry. But I was away from home, and had to ride a long way for the ball and the Ladies’ Bag to-morrow.’
‘I am afraid you must be tired. How far have you come to-day?’
‘Really,’ said the young lady, with some hesitation, ‘I must plead guilty to having ridden fifty miles to-day. I am afraid it shows over-eagerness for pleasure, and dear old Mr. Sternworth might scold me, if he was not so indulgent to what he calls “the necessities of youth.” But our home is a lonely spot, and I have so very little change.’
‘Fifty miles!’ said Wilfred, in astonishment. ‘And do you really mean to say that you have ridden that immense distance, and are going to dance afterwards? It will kill you.’
‘You must be thinking of young ladies in England, Mr. Effingham,’ said the girl, with an amused look; ‘not but what some of them rode fair distances for the same reasons a hundred years ago, papa says. I daresay I shall feel tired on Sunday; but, as I’ve ridden ever since I could walk, it is nothing so very wonderful. You mustn’t think me quite an Amazon.’
‘On the contrary,’ said Wilfred, looking at the girl’s graceful figure, and recognising that air of refinement which tells of gentle blood, ‘I am lost in astonishment only. You look as if you had made a start from “The Big House” with the rest of Mrs. Rockley’s flock. But we must join this waltz, if you don’t mind, or your journey will have been in vain.’
Miss Fane smiled assent, and as they threaded the lively maze, practically demonstrated that she had by no means so overtired herself as to interfere with her dancing. Wilfred immediately established her among the half-dozen perfections he had discovered in that line. There was, moreover, a frank, unconcealed enjoyment of the whole affair, which pleased her partner. Her fresh, unpremeditated remarks, showing original thought, interested him; so much so, that when he led her to a seat beside her chaperon, having previously secured a second dance at a later period of the evening—and the very last—even Sir Roger de Coverley—the bitterness of soul with which he had seen Christabel Rockley borne off by the all-conquering Bob Clarke, was considerably abated. He would have been incensed if any one had quoted ‘surgit amari aliquid,’ nevertheless; if one may so render the cheerful bard, ‘some charming person generally turns up, with power to interest.’ It would not have been so far inapplicable to his, or indeed to the (comparatively) broken hearts of most of us.
By the time the dance of dances had arrived, when he was privileged to clasp the slight waist and gaze into the haunting eyes of the divine Christabel, he was conscious of a more philosophical state of mind than in the beginning of the evening. Nevertheless, the mystic glamour of beauty came over him, fresh and resistless, as the condescending charmer let her witching orbs fall kindly on his countenance, smiled merrily till her pearly teeth just parted the rosy lips, and blushed enchantingly when he accused her of permitting Bob Clarke to monopolise her. She defended herself, however, in such a pleading, melodious voice; said it was cruel in people to make remarks, altogether looking so like a lovely child, half penitent, half pouting, that he felt much minded to take her in his arms and assure her of his forgiveness, promising unbounded confidence in her prudence, and obedience to her commands for the time to come.
‘There will be some more excitement, do you know, for the Ladies’ Bag to-morrow,’ said the enchantress. ‘Mr. Churbett’s Grey Surrey may not win it, after all. Bob told me that a horse of Mr. Greyford’s, that nobody knows about, has a chance. He’s suspected of having been in good company before. Won’t it be fun if he wins, though I shall be sorry for Mr. Churbett. Only Mr. Greyford can’t get a gentleman rider the proper weight. What is yours?’
‘Really,’ said Wilfred, ‘I’m not sure to a few pounds. But why do you ask?’