That Girl in Black; and, Bronzie

Despard's face cleared. There was no question of her sincerity.

"I thought you were playing me off," he said boyishly.

Miss Fforde burst out laughing, but she instantly checked herself.

"What a pity," thought Mr Norreys. "I never heard a prettier laugh." "I did, indeed," he repeated, exaggerating his tone in hopes of making her laugh again.

But it was no use. Her face had regained the calm, formal composure it had worn at the beginning of the dance.

"She is like three girls rolled into one," thought Despard. "The shy, country-bred miss she seemed at first," and a feeling of shame shot through him at the recollection of his stupid judgment, "then this cold, impassive, princess-like damsel, and by fitful glimpses yet another, with nothing in common with either. And, notwithstanding the _role_ she has chosen to play, I--I strongly suspect it is _but_ a _role_," he decided hastily.

The riddle interested him.

"May I--will you not give me another dance?" he said deferentially. For the tenth waltz had come to an end.

"I am sorry I cannot," she replied. The words were simple and girlish, but the tone was regal. "Good-night, Mr Norreys. I congratulate you on your self-sacrifice at the altar of friendship. You may now take your departure with a clear conscience."

He stared. She was repeating some of his own words. Miss Fforde bowed coldly, and turned away. And Despard, bewildered, mortified even, though he would not own it, yet strangely attracted, and disgusted with himself for being so, after a passing word or two with his hostess, left the house.

An hour or two later Gertrude Englewood was bidding her young guest good-night.

"And oh, Maisie!" she exclaimed, "how did you get on with Despard? Is he not delightful?"

Miss Fforde smiled quietly. They were standing in her room, for she was to spend a night or two with her friend.

"I--to tell you the truth, I would _much_ rather not speak about him," she said. "He is very good looking, and--well, not stupid, I dare say. But I am not used to men, you know, Gertrude--not to men of the day, at least, of which I suppose he is a type. I cannot say that I care to see more of them. I am happier at home with papa."

She turned away quickly. Gertrude did not see the tears that rose to the girl's eyes, or the rush of colour that overspread her face at certain recollections of that evening. She was nineteen, but it was her first "real" dance, and she felt as if years had passed since the afternoon only two days ago when she had arrived.

Mrs Englewood looked and felt sadly disappointed. She had been so pleased with her own diplomacy.

"It will be different when you are a little more in the way of it," she said. "And--I really don't think your father should insist on your dressing _quite_ so plainly. It will do the very thing he wants to avoid--it will make you remarkable."

"No, no," said Maisie, shaking her head. "Papa is quite right. You must allow it had not that effect this evening. No one asked to be introduced to me."

"There was such a crowd--" Gertrude began, but this time Maisie's smile was quite a hearty one as she interrupted her.

"Never mind about that," she said. "But do tell me one thing. I saw Mr Norreys speaking to you for a moment as he went out. You didn't say anything about me to him, I hope?"

"No," said Mrs Englewood, "I did not. I would have liked to do so," she added honestly, "but somehow he looked queer--not exactly bored, but not encouraging. So I just let him go."

"That's right," said Maisie; "thank you. I am so glad you didn't. I do hope I shall never see him again," she added to herself.

CHAPTER TWO.

A hope not destined to be fulfilled.

For though Maisie wrote home to "papa" the morning after Mrs Englewood's dance, earnestly begging for leave to return to the country at once instead of going on to her next visit, and assuring him that she felt she would never be happy in fashionable society, never be happy _anywhere_, indeed, away from him and everything she cared for, papa was inexorable. It was natural she should be homesick at first, he replied; natural, and indeed unavoidable, that she should feel strange and lonely; and, as she well knew, she could not possibly long more, to be with him again, than he longed to have her; but there were all the reasons she knew full well why she should stay in town as had been arranged; the very reasons which had made him send her now made him say she must remain. Her own good sense would show her the soundness of his motives, and she must behave like his own brave Maisie. And the girl never knew what this letter had cost her invalid father, nor how he shrank from opposing her wishes.

"She set off so cheerfully," he said to himself, "and she has only been there three days. And she seemed rather to have enjoyed her first dinner-party and the concert, or whatever it was, that Gertrude Englewood took her to. What can have happened at the evening party? She dances well, I know; and she is not the sort of girl to expect or care much about ball-room admiration."

Poor man! it was, so far, a disappointment to him. He would have liked to get a merry, happy letter that morning as he sat at his solitary breakfast. For he had no fear, no shadow of a fear, that his Maisie's head ever could be turned.

"I have guarded against any dangers of that kind for her, at least," he said to himself, "provided I have not gone too far and made her too sober-minded. But no; after all, it is erring on the safe side-- considering everything."

Three or four evenings after Mrs Englewood's dance Despard found himself at a musical party. He was in his own _milieu_ this time, and proportionately affable--with the cool, condescending affability which was the nearest approach to making himself agreeable that he recognised. He had been smiled at by the beauty of the evening, much enjoying her discomfiture when he did _not_ remain many minutes by her side; he had been all but abjectly entreated by the most important of the dowagers, a very great lady indeed, in every sense of the word, to promise his assistance at her intended theatricals; he had, in short, received the appreciation which was due to him, and was now resting on his oars, comfortably installed in an easy chair, debating within himself whether it was worth while to give Mrs Belmont a fright by engrossing her pretty daughter, and thus causing to retire from her side in the sulks Sir Henry Gayburn, to whom the girl was talking. For Sir Henry was rich, and was known to be looking out for a wife, and Despard had long since been erased from the maternal list of desirable possibilities.

"Shall I?" he was saying to himself as he lay back with a smile, when a voice beside him made him look up. It was that of the son of the house, a friend of his own; the young man seemed annoyed and perplexed.

"Norreys! oh, do me a good turn, will you? I have to look after the lady who has just been singing, and my mother is fussing about a girl who has been sitting all the evening alone. She's a stranger. Will you be so awfully good as to take her down for an ice or something?"

Despard looked round. He could scarcely refuse a request so couched, but he was far from pleased.

"Where is she? Who is she?" he asked, beginning languidly to show signs of moving.

"There--over by the window--that girl in black," his friend replied. "Who she is I can't say. My mother told me her name was Ford. Come along, and I'll introduce you, that's a good fellow."

Despard by this time had risen to his feet.

"Upon my soul!" he ejaculated.

But Mr Leslie was in too great a hurry to notice the unusual emphasis with which he spoke.

And in half a second he found himself standing in front of the girl, who, the last time they met, had aroused in him such unwonted emotions.

"Miss Ford," murmured young Leslie, "may I introduce Mr Norreys?" and then Mr Leslie turned on his heel and disappeared.

Despard stood there perfectly grave. He would hazard no repulse; he waited for her.

She looked up, but there was no smile on her face--only the calm self-composedness which it seemed to him he knew so well. How was it so? Had he met her before in some former existence? Why did all about her seem at once strange and yet familiar? He had never experienced the like before.

These thoughts--scarcely thoughts indeed--flickered through his brain as he looked at her. They served one purpose at least, they prevented his feeling or looking awkward, could such a state of things have been conceived possible.

Seeing that he was not going to speak, remembering, perhaps, that if _he_ remembered the last words she had honoured him with, he could scarcely be expected to do so, she at last opened her lips.

"That," she said quietly, slightly inclining her head in the direction where young Leslie had stood, "was, under the circumstances, unnecessary."

"He did not know," said Despard.

"I suppose not; though I don't know. Perhaps you told him you had forgotten my name."

"No," he replied, "I did not. It would not have been true."

She smiled very slightly.

"There is no dancing to-night," she said. "May I ask--?" and she hesitated.

"Why I ventured to disturb you?" he interrupted. "I was requested to take you downstairs for an ice or whatever you may prefer to that. The farce did not originate with me, I assure you."

"Do you mean by that that you will _not_ take me downstairs?" she said, smiling again as she got up from her seat. "I should like an ice very much."

Despard bowed without speaking, and offered her his arm.

But when he had piloted her through the crowd, and she was standing quietly with her ice, he broke the silence.

"Miss Ford," he began, "as the fates have again forced me on your notice, I should like to ask you a question."

She raised her eyes inquiringly. No--he had not exaggerated their beauty.

"I should like to know the meaning of the strange words you honoured me with as I was leaving Mrs Englewood's the other evening. I do not think you have forgotten them."

"No," she replied, "I have not forgotten them, and I meant them, and I still mean them. But I will not talk about them or explain anything I said."

There was nothing the least flippant in her tone--only quiet determination. But Despard, watching keenly, saw that her lips quivered a little as she spoke.

"As you choose," he said. "Of course, in the face of such a very uncompromising refusal, I can say nothing more."

"Then shall we go upstairs again?" proposed Miss Fforde.

Mr Norreys acquiesced. But he had laid his plans, and he was a more diplomatic adversary than Miss Fforde was prepared to cope with.

"I finished reading the book we were speaking of the other evening," he began in a matter-of-fact voice; "I mean--" and he named the book. "At least, I fancy it was you I was discussing it with. The last volume falls off greatly."

"Oh, _do_ you think so?" said the girl in a tone of half-indignant disappointment, falling blindly into the trap. "I, on the contrary, felt that the last volume made amends for all that was unsatisfactory in the others. You see by it what he was driving at all the time, and that the _persiflage_ and apparent cynicism were only means to an end. I do _hate_ cynicism--it is so easy, and such a little makes such a great effect."

Something in her tone made Despard feel irritated. "Is she hitting at me again?" he thought. And the idea threw him, in his turn, off his guard.

The natural result was that both forgot themselves in the interest of the discussion. And Despard, when he, as it were, awoke to the realisation of this, took care not to throw away the advantage he had gained. He drew her out, he talked as he but seldom exerted himself to do, and when, at the end of half-an-hour or so, an elderly lady, whom he knew by name only, was seen approaching them, and Miss Fforde sprang to her feet, exclaiming,--

"Have you been looking for me? I hope not--" he smiled quietly as he prepared to withdraw--he had succeeded!

"Good-night, Mr Norreys," said Maisie simply.

"Two evenings ago she would not say good-night at all," he thought. But he made no attempt to do more than bow quietly.

"You are very--cold, grim--no, I don't know what to call it, Maisie, dear," said the lady, her cousin and present chaperone, as they drove away, "in your manner to men; and that man in particular--Despard Norreys. It is not often he is so civil to any girl."

"I detest all men--all young men," replied Maisie irritably.

"But, my dear, you should be commonly civil. And he had been giving himself, for him, unusual trouble to entertain you."

"Can he know about her? Oh, no, it is impossible," she added to herself.

Miss Fforde closed her lips firmly. But in a moment or two she opened them again.

"Cousin Agnes," she said, half smiling, "I am afraid you are quite mistaken. If I had not been what you call `commonly civil,' would he have gone on talking to me? On the contrary, I am sadly afraid I was far too civil."

"My dear child," ejaculated her cousin, "what do you mean?"

"Oh," said Maisie, "I don't know. Never mind the silly things I say. I like being with you, Cousin Agnes, but I don't like London. I am much happier at home in the country."

"But, my dear child, when I saw you at home a few months ago you were looking forward with pleasure to coming. What has changed you? What has disappointed you?"

"I am not suited for anything but a quiet country life--that is all," said Miss Fforde.

"But, then, Maisie, afterwards, you know, you will _have_ to come to town and have a house of your own and all that sort of thing. It is necessary for you to see something of the world to prepare you for--"

"Afterwards isn't _now_, Cousin Agnes. And I am doing my best, as papa wished," said the girl weariedly. "Do let us talk of something else. Really sometimes I do wish I were any one but myself."

"Maisie," said her cousin reproachfully, "you know, dear, that isn't right. You must take the cares and responsibilities of a position like yours along with the advantages and privileges of it."

"I know," Miss Fforde replied meekly enough; "but, Cousin Agnes, do tell me who was that very funny-looking man with the long fluffy beard whom you were talking to for some time."

"Oh, that, my dear, was Count Dalmiati, the celebrated so-and-so," and once launched in her descriptions Cousin Agnes left Maisie in peace.

Two days later came the afternoon of Lady Valence's garden-party. It was one of the garden parties to which "everybody" went--Despard Norreys for one, as a matter of course. He had got more gratification and less annoyance out of his second meeting with Miss Fforde; for he flattered himself he knew how to manage her now--"that little girl in black, who thinks herself so wonderfully wise, forsooth!" Yet the sting was there still; the very persistence with which he repeated to himself that he had mastered her showed it. His thoughts recurred to her more than they were in the habit of doing to any one or anything but his own immediate concerns. Out of curiosity, merely, no doubt; curiosity increased by the apparent improbability of satisfying it. For no one seemed to know anything about her. She might have dropped from the skies. He had indeed some difficulty in recalling her personality to the two or three people to whom he applied for information.

"A girl in black--at the Leslies' musical party? Why, my dear fellow, there were probably a dozen girls in black there. There usually is a good sprinkling of black frocks at evening parties," said one of the knowers of everybody whom he had selected to honour with his inquiries. "What was there remarkable about her? There must have been something to attract _your_ notice."

"No, on the contrary," Despard replied, "she was remarkably unremarkable;" and he laughed lightly. "It was only rather absurd. I have seemed haunted by her once or twice lately, and yet nobody knows anything about her, except that her name is Ford."

"Ford," said his companion; "that does _not_ tell much. And not pretty, you say?"

"Pretty, oh, yes. No, not exactly pretty," and a vision of Maisie's clear cold profile and--yes, there was no denying it--_most_ lovely eyes, rose before him. "More than pretty," he would have said had he not been afraid of being laughed at. "I don't really know how to describe her, and it is of less than no consequence. I don't suppose I shall ever see her again," and he went on to talk of other matters.

He did see her again, however, and it was, as will have already been supposed, at Lady Valence's garden-party that he did so. It was a cold day, of course. The weather, with its usual consideration, had changed that very morning, after having been, for May, really decently mild and agreeable. The wind had veered round to the east, and it seemed not improbable that the rain would look in, an uninvited guest, in the course of the afternoon.

Lady Valence declared herself in despair, but as nobody could remember the weather ever being anything but highly detestable the day of her garden-party, it is to be hoped that she in reality took it more philosophically than she allowed, Despard strode about feeling very cold, and wondering why he had come, and why, having come, he stayed. There was a long row of conservatories and ferneries, and glass-houses of every degree of temperature not far from the lawn, where at one end the band was playing, and at the other some deluded beings were eating ices. Despard shivered; the whole was too ghastly. A door in the centre house stood invitingly open, and he turned in. Voices near at hand, female voices, warned him off at one side, for he was not feeling amiable, and he hastened in the opposite direction. By degrees the pleasant warmth, the extreme beauty of the plants and flowers amidst which he found himself, the solitariness, too, soothed and subdued his irritation.

"If I could smoke," he began to say to himself, when, looking round with a half-formed idea of so doing, he caught sight amidst the ferns of feminine drapery. Some one was there before him--but a very quiet, mouse-like somebody. A somebody who was standing there motionless, gazing at the tall tropical plants, enjoying, apparently, the warmth and the quiet like himself.

"That girl in black, that sphinx of a girl again--by Jove!" murmured Despard under his breath, and as he did so, she turned and saw him.

Her first glance was of annoyance; he saw her clearly from where he stood, there was no mistaking the fact. But, so quickly, that it was difficult to believe it had been there, the expression of vexation passed. The sharply contracted brows smoothed; the graceful head bent slightly forward; the lips parted.

"How do you do, Mr Norreys?" she said. "We are always running against each other unexpectedly, are we not?"

Her tone was perfectly natural, her manner expressed simple pleasure and gratification. She was again the third, the rarest of her three selves--the personality which Despard, in his heart of hearts, believed to be _herself_.

He smiled--a slightly amused, _almost_ a slightly condescending smile, but a very pleasant one all the same. He could afford to be pleasant now. Poor silly little girl--she had given in with a good grace, a truce to her nonsense of regal airs and dignity; a truce, too, to the timid self-consciousness of her first introduction.

"She understands better now, I see," he thought. "Understands that a little country girl is but--ah, well--but a little country girl. Still, I must allow--" and he hesitated as his glance fell on her; it was the first time he had seen her by daylight, and the words he had mentally used did not quite "fit"--"I must allow that she has brains, and some character of her own."