Part 15 (2/2)
”He sings well,” I said, gazing in wonder at her ball-gown--pale turquoise silk, with a stomacher of solid brilliants and petticoat of blue and silver. ”Elsin, I think I never saw so beautiful a maid in all my life, nor a beautiful gown so n.o.bly borne.”
”Do you really think so?” she asked, delighted at my bluntness. ”And you, too, Carus--why, you are like a radiant one from the sky! I have ever thought you handsome, but not as flawless as you now reveal yourself. Lord! we should cut a swathe to-night, you and I, sir, blinding all eyes in our proper glitter. I could dance all night, and all day too! I never felt so light, so gay, so eager, so reckless. I'm quivering with delight, Carus, from throat to knee; and, for the rest, my head is humming with the devil's tattoo and my feet keeping time.”
She raised the hem of her petticoat a hand's breadth, and tapped the floor with one little foot--a trifle only. ”That ballet figure that we did at Sir Henry's--do you remember?--and the heat of the ballroom, and the French red running from the women's cheeks? To-night is perfect, cool and fragrant. I shall dance until I die, and go up to heaven in one high, maddened whirl--zip!--like a burning soul!”
We were descending the stoop now. Our chaise stood ready. I placed her and followed, and away we rolled down Broadway.
”Am I to have two dances?” I asked.
”Two? Why, you blessed man, you may have twenty!”
She turned to me, eyes sparkling, fan half spread, a picture of exquisite youth and beauty. Her jewels flashed in the chaise-lamps, her neck and shoulders glowed clear and softly fair.
”Is that French red on lip and cheek?” I asked, to tease her.
”If there were a certain sort of bridge betwixt Wall Street and the Fort you might find out without asking,” she said, looking me daringly in the eyes. ”Lacking that same bridge, you have another bridge and another problem, Mr. Renault.”
”For lack of a Kissing-Bridge I must solve the _pons asinorum_, I see,”
said I, imprisoning her hands. There was a delicate hint of a struggle, a little cry, and I had kissed her. Breathless she looked at me; the smile grew fixed on her red lips.
”Your experience in such trifles is a blessing to the untaught,” she said. ”You have not crumpled a ribbon. Truly, Carus, only long and intense devotion to the art could turn you out a perfect master.”
”My compliments to you, Elsin; I take no credit that your gown is smooth and the lace unruffled.”
”Thank you; but if you mean that I, too, am practised in the art, you are wrong.”
The fixed smile trembled a little, but her eyes were wide and bright.
”Would you laugh, Carus, if I said it: what you did to me--is the first--the very first in all my life?”
”Oh, no,” I said gravely, ”I should not laugh if you commanded otherwise.”
She looked at me in silence, the light from the chaise-lamps playing over her flushed face. Presently she turned and surveyed the darkness where, row on row, ruins of burned houses stood, the stars s.h.i.+ning down through roofless walls.
Into my head came ringing the song that Walter Butler sang:
”Ninon! Ninon! thy sweet life flies!
Wasted in hours day follows day.
The rose to-night to-morrow dies: Wilt thou disdain to love alway?
How canst thou live unconscious of Love's fire, Immune to pa.s.sion, guiltless of desire?”
Now all around us lamplight glimmered as we entered Bowling Green, where coach and chaise and sedan-chair were jumbled in a confusion increased by the crack of whips, the trample of impatient horses, and the cries of grooms and chairmen. In the lamp's increasing glare I made out a double line of soldiers, through which those invited to the Fort were pa.s.sing; and as our chaise stopped and I aided Elsin to descend, the fresh sea-wind from the Battery struck us full, blowing her lace scarf across my face.
Through lines of servants and soldiers we pa.s.sed, her hand nestling closely to my arm, past the new series of outworks and barricades, where bronze field-pieces stood s.h.i.+ning in the moonlight, then over a dry moat by a flimsy bridge, and entered the sally-port, thronged with officers, all laughing and chatting, alert to watch the guests arriving, and a little bold, too, with their stares and their quizzing-gla.s.ses. There is, at times, something almost German in the British lack of delicacy, which is, so far, rare with us here, though I doubt not the French will taint a few among us. But insolence in stare and smirk is not among our listed sins, though, doubtless, otherwise the list is full as long as that of any nation, and longer, too, for all I know.
Conducting Elsin Grey, I grew impatient at the staring, and made way for her without ceremony, which caused a mutter here and there.
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