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.

I can’t say whether Miss Brandon deigned to follow him with her dark, dreamy gaze. I rather think not. And three minutes afterwards he had left the Town Hall.

The Brandon party did not stay very late. And they dropped Rachel at her little dwelling. How very silent Dorcas was, thought Rachel, as they drove from Gylingden. Perhaps others were thinking the same of Rachel.

Next morning, at half-past seven o’clock, a dozen or so of rustics, under command of Major Jackson, arrived at the back entrance of Brandon Hall, bearing Stanley Lake upon a shutter, with glassy eyes, that did not seem to see, sunken face, and a very blue tinge about his mouth.

The major fussed into the house, and saw and talked with Larcom, who was solemn and bland upon the subject, and went out, first, to make personal inspection of the captain, who seemed to him to be dying. He was shot somewhere in the shoulder or breast — they could not see exactly where, nor disturb him as he lay. A good deal of blood had flowed from him, upon the arm and side of one of the men who supported his head.

Lake said nothing — he only whispered rather indistinctly one word, ‘water’— and was not able to lift his head when it came; and when they poured it into and over his lips, he sighed and closed his eyes.

‘It is not a bad sign, bleeding so freely, but he looks devilish shaky, you see. I’ve seen lots of our fellows hit, you know, and I don’t like his looks — poor fellow. You’d better see Lord Chelford this minute. He could not stand being brought all the way to the town. I’ll run down and send up the doctor, and he’ll take him on if he can bear it.’

Major Jackson did not run. Though I have seen with an astonishment that has never subsided, fellows just as old and as fat, and braced up, besides, in the inflexibilities of regimentals, keeping up at double quick, at the heads of their companies, for a good quarter of a mile, before the colonel on horseback mercifully called a halt.

He walked at his best pace, however, and indeed was confoundedly uneasy about his own personal liabilities.

The major surprised Doctor Buddle shaving. He popped in unceremoniously. The fat little doctor received him in drawers and a very tight web worsted shirt, standing by the window, at which dangled a small looking-glass.

‘By George, Sir, they’ve been at mischief,’ burst forth the major; and the doctor, razor in hand, listened with wide open eyes and half his face lathered, to the story. Before it was over the doctor shaved the unshorn side, and (the major still in the room) completed his toilet in hot haste.

Honest Major Jackson was very uncomfortable. Of course, Buddle could not give any sort of opinion upon a case which he had not seen; but it described uglily, and the major consulted in broken hints, with an uneasy wink or two, about a flight to Boulogne.

‘Well, it will be no harm to be ready; but take no step till I come back,’ said the doctor, who had stuffed a great roll of lint and plaister, and some other medicinals, into one pocket, and his leather case of instruments, forceps, probe, scissors, and all the other steel and silver horrors, into the other; so he strutted forth in his great coat, unnaturally broad about the hips; and the major, ‘devilish uncomfortable,’ accompanied him at a smart pace to the great gate of Brandon. He did not care to enter, feeling a little guilty, although he explained on the way all about the matter. How devilish stiff Bracton’s man was about it. And, by Jove, Sir! you know, what was to be said? for Lake, like a fool, chucked a lot of grapes in his face — for nothing, by George!’

The doctor, short and broad, was now stumping up the straight avenue, under the noble trees that roofed it over, and Major Jackson sauntered about in the vicinity of the gate, more interested in Lake’s safety than he would have believed possible a day or two before.

Lord Chelford being an early man, was, notwithstanding the ball of the preceding night, dressing, when St. Ange, his Swiss servant, knocked at his door with a dozen pockethandkerchiefs, a bottle of eau-de-cologne, and some other properties of his métier.

St. Ange could not wait until he had laid them down, but broke out with —

‘Oh, mi Lor! — qu’est-il arrivé? — le pauvre capitaine! il est tué— il se meurt — he dies — d’un coup de pistolet. He comes de se battre from beating himself in duel — il a été atteint dans la poitrine — le pauvre gentil-homme! of a blow of the pistol.’

And so on, the young nobleman gathering the facts as best he might.

‘Is Larcom there?’

‘In the gallery, mi lor.’

‘Ask him to come in.’

So Monsieur Larcom entered, and bowed ominously.

‘You’ve seen him, Larcom. Is he very much hurt?’

‘He appears, my lord, to me, I regret to say, almost a-dying like.’

‘Very weak? Does he speak to you?’

‘Not a word, my lord. Since he got a little water he’s quite quiet.’

‘Poor fellow. Where have you put him?’

‘In the housekeeper’s lobby, my lord. I rather think he’s a-dying. He looks uncommon bad, and I and Mrs. Esterbroke, the housekeeper, my lord, thought you would no............