# Comin' Thro' the Rye (Mathers)/Summer/Chapter 10

CHAPTER X.
Supper is over, and I have danced a great many dances with partners, good, bad, and indifferent, have been startled, amused, pleased at the pretty speeches made to me, and which I have tried hard to convince myself are not meant in the very least, though in my secret soul I do believe that a few of them were not spoken in jest but earnest: and now we have stepped out of the crowded, noisy rooms, Paul and I, on to the terrace, where couples are walking up and down in the clear white light of the moon making love, or the ​semblance of it, Corydon to Phillis, and sometimes—alas, for the order of things!—Phillis to Corydon. Paul has stolen a warm white shawl from the back of a chair, where it had been left by an unsuspecting dowager; there will be a fine hue and cry after it by-and-by.
The night is very lovely, more like an August one than September, the air is so warm, and the perfume of the flowering myrtle wanders abroad so sweetly. Down yonder, by the trout stream, the great masses of foliage lie dark and stirless; there is not a puff of wind to rock the pigeon-cotes hung aloft in the boughs; there is no sound of insect, bird, or beast, to ruffle the silence, only the far-off swish of the sea as softly laps the shore. Turning the corner of the house, we come to a stone parapet, that overlooks the flower garden dappled all over with flowers, and melting imperceptibly into the woods, that in turn seem to merge themselves into the sea. From the bed of mignonette below comes up to us a pure, fresh breath, that recommends itself more favourably to me than any of the voluptuous heavy perfumes of the hot-house flowers we left in the room behind us.
"I wonder if Juliet had a bed of mignonette?" I say, looking out at the silver streak of sea beyond the dusky woods.
"I dare say. What made you think of her?"
"This parapet and the flower garden stretched out below. I can almost fancy I hear Romeo calling—
and Juliet calling back—
"Do you think any girl could love like that now-a-days, Nell?"
"Was she not very quick?" I ask doubtfully; "do you not think ​it was strange she should have fallen in love with him all at once like that?"
"It is a poor love that is afraid to discover itself as soon as felt," he says, "and that beats about the bush until it is certain of the same being returned. I believe that the strongest and most enduring love is that which is sudden, or fallen into."
"I am glad they both died," I say; "perhaps if Romeo had lived he would have loved some one else and spoilt the whole story."
"Yes, I think he would have forgotten in time and loved again, as you say; why should he not? Do you believe that a man cannot care as much the second time as the first?"
"I do not know about men," I answer; "I only know that a woman could not. Juliet would have had no second lover, I am very sure."
"If you had been Juliet," he says, stooping his head to look into my face, "and Romeo had died, what would you have done?"
"I should not have killed myself, but I should have loved him dead as passionately as I had loved him living; and no word of love from another should ever have shamed his memory."
"I am going to ask you a question, Nell; an impertinent one you will no doubt consider but I will have an answer. Have you ever had a lover?"
My heart stands still as I lift my eyes to him, standing there by my side. For a moment I hesitate then, for speaking the truth has always come more naturally to me than to tell lies, I answer, "Yes."
He turns away. "They are all alike," he mutters half-aloud, 'all alike!"
"And he makes love to you, I suppose?"
"Yes, indeed!" I say, with a rueful sigh, given to the memory of how bootless that love-making has proved.
​"And do you like him?"
There is a confident, half-teazing ring in his voice as he asks the question, and I turn my head away ruffled and hurt. Shall I talk over George's true, honest love?
"Nell!" he says, coming round to the other side and looking into my averted face, "did you hear me?"
"Yes."
"Confess now that you do not care a straw for this—this Lubin?"
"Do I not!" I answer, roused by his tone and the slighting allusion to my absent lover, who is so leal to me, and to whom I——— "There you are quite mistaken; I like him very much indeed; next to my own people I don't know any one whom———"
"Next to your own people?" he says, with a queer smile. "Would you not put the man you loved before?"
"That would entirely depend on who he was! If he were a selfish person———"
"If? Have you not made up your mind then?"
But I do not answer him. I slip from his side and run fleetly away, and reach the ball-room before he can overtake me: certainly it was a narrow escape that time. My partner for the dance meets me as I enter, and I walk through the Lancers absently enough; fortunately, however, he has the gift of the gab in high perfection, and I am only required to throw in an occasional yes and no. We have for our vis-à-vis a very stout lady and a very active little gentleman, and looking upon them, I am irresistibly reminded of an elephant labouring after a flea, she is so slow, he so spry; I am sure he takes a dozen steps to her one. On my left is a broad-faced young man, who wears a perpetual and uneasy smile, that neither seems able to expand into a grin or depart in peace; I have a great mind to make a face at him as we advance in the figure, and see whether it deepens or vanishes.
​It is growing very late, or early; daylight will be soon looking in upon us, but the fun of the ball is at its height. Supper has made shy men bold, bold men impudent, silent men garrulous, and cheerful men harlequins; prim young women relax into hearty laughter, fast young women wax faster; admiration degenerates into flirtation, and flirtation into downright love-making; love-making, that is to say, which is born of champagne, propinquity, and opportunity—a poor imitation of the genuine article. The dowagers beam unctuously over their double chins; there is not a single wallflower left to grace the wall. Have they indeed risen and touted for partners? Several proposals are flying about, and the general appearance of everything points to the fact that time is scurrying with flying feet, and that they who would enjoy themselves must do so speedily or not at all.
How the society masks drop off the faces! How the true ring of the voice comes out, and the real expression of lips and eyes reveals itself! If a physiognomist could stand in our midst, how easily he would read the relaxed countenances of those present! Of some it is true, there is no evil or mischief to learn, but of others much. Many of the men and women here to-night bring into society faces as carefully prepared to meet the world's eye as the clothes they wear; it is not often one can get a peep at them as they really are.
We go into the supper-room, where are congregated a good many people, drinking, talking, laughing, fanning themselves, making love, and talking scandal. Scraps of conversation come fitfully to my ears. "What colour eyes do you like best?" "Blue, like yours." "My dear Mrs. Backbite, I saw the man deliberately kiss her hand, and she actually looked as though she liked it?" "Yes, first-rate action. Is it true she is scratched for the Vasher stakes?" "Yes; and entered for the Vestris." "It was Vasher who sheered off, not the Fleming." "St. John says that Vasher is mad about ​that Miss ———" (I do not catch the name). "Any one can see that." I do not hear the rest, for Paul himself stands before me.
"This is our waltz," he says. "Are you too tired to dance it?"
"No."
I put my hand under his arm, and go back to the ball-room. Already it is growing empty; some one or other has made a move, and like a flock of sheep every one is following, Willing mothers are running about after their unwilling daughters, who have, indeed, the advantage over their anxious parents, inasmuch as they can dance away from the same, "up the sides and down the middle."
Faster and faster goes the music, quicker and quicker go the flying feet; all are enjoying it with a zest that nothing, save the knowledge that it will be quickly over, could possibly give. Into the feet of some of the middle-aged waiting folk the music gets, and partners being forthcoming, they essay a turn or two, at first with some shyness, much as Mr. Aminadab Sleek and Lady Creamly did in "Home," then with vigour; finally they revolve with much enjoyment, perfect in the steps of thirty years ago.
Oh, this last dance! The light, the music, the perfume of the flowers, the long harmonious movement, they are woven into one exquisite sensation that blooms for a little space and dies. And now all too soon the waltz ceases, and delivers over the girls to the custody of their mothers, and they go away torn, spoiled, flushed, with all the carefully built up finery of a few hours ago in ruins. It is always wretched work seeing the last of everything—the lights put out, the daylight on weary faces, and the winding up. So at the foot of the stairs I say good-night to Paul. But he does not take my hand, and as I turn away he walks along by my side.
"Good-night, again," I say, wearily, as I reach my door. "Oh, I am so sleepy!"
​"Good-night," he says; then pressing both my hands against his lips, "Good-night, little Nell!"