Towards the close of the evening one of these functionaries, struck by Frank’s handsome face and melancholy expression, asked if he could introduce him to a partner, but it was too late, and Frank only said,
“Thank you, I would rather not dance.”
Whereon that gentleman put him down for a puppy, in which we trust he erred. The ball finished at last, and the party returned home. Clara had only sat down once. Ought she not to have been happy?
The next morning the school broke up for their short holiday. Frank had been intending to go upon a walking tour, but a letter from Herbert altered his intentions. It informed him that a competitive examination was to be held in a fortnight for twenty direct commissions in the artillery—mathematics to form the principal subject of examination. Herbert was going in—would not Frank try his fortune also? If so, his father would be happy to see him at their house in town at once. It was the commencement of the Russian war. If Clara had danced with him the night before, I think England might have lost a soldier, so that must form part of her claim to forgiveness. As it was, his decision was immediate. Fortunately his engagement with Mr. Martin had only been made for a quarter, terminable or not, according to the wishes of either party; so he informed that gentleman, that circumstances had occurred which prevented his having the pleasure of remaining at Slopcombe; and then he began to pack up. He would have liked to have said goodbye to Clara, but she had gone out to spend the day, and he did not like to wait till the next; so he returned to town.
His recent devotion to mathematics did him good service, for he was third on the list of successful candidates. Herbert also obtained an appointment, but he was not so high up. A fortnight afterwards, and exactly one month from the night of the Slopcombe ball, he sailed for Varna.
CHAPTER V.
More than five years have elapsed since the end of our last chapter. “Many changes have we seen” in that period, not only in the great events of which the whole world takes note; but also in the fortunes of a single family. The easy-going, scholarly, good-tempered Martin is no more; and Clara, after having refused one or two good offers, no one could conceive why, has at the age of two-and-twenty accepted the situation of governess at Lord Morningthorpe’s.
Again our curtain draws up upon a ball. It is at the earl’s house in Mayfair. The earl supports the ministry, and has come to town early. It is Lady Morningthorpe’s first reception this year. From a quiet corner, half-hidden by the curtains of a bay-window, Clara watches the élite of London fashion.
But Clara was always fond of dancing, and as she watches the waltzers whirl past her, she cannot help wishing to be among them.
The balls at which she had been, not a very great number, seem to pass in review before her. At last her thoughts revert to one at Slopcombe, and she sighs as she thinks of one whom she had seen there, sitting alone and friendless as she sat now. The face rises before her as clearly as if there was a mental daguerreotype of it within—never to be effaced. The face as she remembers it, she will never see again. But her reverie is interrupted by a tall, dark, bronzed officer in a splendid uniform, who stoops over her, and says in a clear, though deep voice:—
“Miss Clara Martin, may I have the pleasure of dancing the next two dances with you?”
She looks at him with surprise. His left arm is suspended in a sling, his black hair does not quite cover the mark of a sabre-cut as well as his black beard conceals the lower part of his face—he wears five medals on his breast—but more than these he bears that which none but the brave with the brave can share, the noblest decoration the nineteenth century has seen—one beyond the reach of ordinary knights-bachelors—the Victoria Cross.
Clara tried to speak but could not. A faint suspicion dawned upon her mind, but she was unable to give it utterance.
The officer saw her difficulty, and said, “Do you know, Miss Clara, that I consider I hold a promise of yours for two dances, which has never been performed yet?”
“Mr. Ainslie?”
“No, not Mr. Ainslie,” he replied; “but”—seeing her start—“Frank Ainslie, now, as ever, very much at your service.”
“And you have been wounded,” she said, softly.
“About a score of times, more or less. My arm is well now, but the doctor says I must continue the sling a little longer.”
“And is that the Victoria Cross?”
“Admirably guessed! Is it the first you have seen?”
“Yes; you must tell me how you won it.”
“Well, I was fortunate enough to rescue a lady from some sowars at Ramlehgunge. She was in the middle of a troop of about a dozen. I rode at them, sabred two, and got this slash; put her in front of me, and got away. They gave chase. Fortunately, my mare was thorough-bred, and carried the extra weight as if it had been nothing. I dropped five of our pursuers with my revolver, one by one; the rest gave in, after they had put a ball in my left arm.”
“And as you are Mr. Ainslie no longer, what may be your present title?”
“If I must announce myself officially, then, Captain Frank Ainslie, K.-Companion of the Bath and V. C. But, you know, I am still longing for the performance of your promise. You do not know how often I have thought of it.”
And so they danced together, at last.
And immediately there was a perfect furore about the beautiful blonde that Frank was dancing with, and much wonder as to where she had sprung from; and Lady Morningthorpe received petitions from thirteen young gentlemen for an immediate introduction; so, if Frank had not taken the precaution of engaging her for two more dances, he would not have seen any more of her that evening.
