The City in the Clouds. Thorne Guy
and Pat Moore shaking me violently by the shoulder.
"Confound you, don't do that!" I shouted, jumping up—Pat Moore was six feet two in height, and the heaviest man in the Irish Guards. "Hallo, what are you doing here?"
"It's myself that has looked in for a drink," he said. "I thought we'd go to the ball together."
I was a little more awake by this time and saw that Pat was in full evening kit, and very grand he looked. He was supposed to be the handsomest man in London, on the large swaggering side, and certainly, whether in uniform or mufti, he was a very splendid figure. Nevertheless, he had no more idea of side than a spaniel dog, and he was just about as kind and faithful as the sportsman's friend. He possessed a certain downright honesty and common sense that endeared him to every one, though his own mother would hardly have called him clever. At an earlier period of our lives he had caned me a good deal at Eton, and it was difficult to get out of his dear, stupid old head that he had not some vague rights over me in that direction still.
"Now, Tom," he said, pouring himself out a mighty drink—for his head was cast-steel, "you go and make yourself look pretty and then come back here, 'cos I have something to tell you."
I went obediently away, bathed, shaved, was assisted by Preston into evening clothes and returned to the dining-room about a quarter to ten.
"What have you got to tell me, Pat?"
He thought for a moment. I believe that he always had to summon his words out of some cupboard in his brain—"Tom, I've seen the most beautiful girl in the world."
"Then leg it, Pat, hare away from temptation, or she'll have you!"—Pat had ten thousand a year and had been a dead mark for all sorts of schemes for the last two years.
"Don't be a silly ass, Tom, you don't know what you're talking about. This is serious."
"I don't know who you're talking about."
He was heaving himself out of his chair to explain, when the door opened and Preston announced "Lord Arthur Winstanley."
"Hallo, what brings you here?" I said.
"Thought I'd come in for a drink. Saw you were going to mother's to-night, Tom, thought we might as well be going together. Hallo, Pat. You coming along too?"
"Thought of doin' so," said Captain Moore.
Arthur threw himself into a chair—slim, clean shaved, with curly black hair and dark blue eyes, his clean-cut, clever face alive with youth and vitality.
"Tom," he said to me, "to-night you are going to see the most beautiful girl in the world."
"Hallo!" Pat shouted, "you've seen her too?"
"Seen her? Of course I have. Mother's giving the dance for her to-night."
Then I understood.
"Oh, Miss Morse?" I said.
"Jooaneeta!" said Pat in his rich, Irish voice.
"Generally pronounced 'Whanita' soft—like tropic moonlight, my old geranium," said Arthur.
"Sure, your pronunciation won't do at all, at all."
Pat twirled the end of his huge mustache, then he heaved a cushion. "You and your talk!" he said.
"Well, I've not seen her," I remarked, "but I'm quite willing to take the word of two experts. Isn't it about time we went?"
Winstanley produced a platinum watch no thicker than a half-crown from the pocket of his white waistcoat.
"Well, perhaps it might be," he said. "We can take up strategic positions, and get there before the crush. Although I don't live at home, I've got a snug little couple of rooms they keep for me, and mother will see that—"
He smiled to himself.
"Now look here," I said, "fair does! You are already half-way up the course with the fair Brazilian, but do let your pals have a chance. I suppose all the world will be round her, but do see that Pat and I have a small look in."
"Of course I will. We've done too much hunting together, we three. I tell you, Tom, you will be bowled clean over at the very sight of her. There never was such a girl since Cleopatra was a flapper. Now, send old Preston for a taxi and we'll get to cover side."
It was about half-past ten as we entered the hospitable portals of Brentford House in Belgrave Square. There was a tremendous crush; I never remember seeing so many people at Lady Brentford's, for, though everybody went to her parties, they were never overcrowded, owing to the immense size of the famous old London House.
Pat Moore and I kept close to Arthur, who, as a son of the house, knew his way a great deal better than we did, and we soon found ourselves at the top of the staircase and close to the alcove where Lady Brentford and her daughter, Lady Joan Winstanley, were standing, while I saw the bald head of the marquis, who was as innocent of hair as a new laid egg, shining in the background.
Dear Lady Brentford greeted Pat—who had formed a sort of battering-ram for us on the staircase—with marked kindness. It was thought that she saw in him a prospective husband for Arthur's sister. After greeting his mother and asking a question, Arthur went off at once and my turn came.
"My dear Sir Thomas, I am so glad to see you. Are you like all the other young men in London to-night?"
"I sincerely hope not," I told her, though I knew very well what she meant.
We were old friends, and she was not deceived for a moment. "I understand you perfectly, you wicked boy."
"Well then, Lady Brentford"—I lowered my voice—"has she come?"
Her eyes gleamed.
"Not yet, but I am expecting her every moment. Now, I am going to be kind to you. You wait here, just a little behind me, and I'll introduce you at once."
I hope I looked as grateful as I felt, for I confess my curiosity was greatly aroused, and besides it would be such a score over Pat and Arthur. There's something in power after all! Had I been merely Tom Kirby whose father had received a baronetcy for, say, soap, Lady Brentford would not have been nearly as nice, even though Arthur and I had been bosom friends at Oxford. But you see I was the Evening Special and that meant much, especially in a political house like this.
I waited, and talked a little with Lord Brentford, that sterling, old-fashioned member of more Cabinets than one would care to count. He said "hum," and then "ha," and then "hum" again, which was the extent of his conversation on every occasion except that of a specially good dinner, when he added "ho."
And then, I suppose it was about eleven o'clock, there was a stir and a movement all down the grand staircase. Except that the band in the ballroom did not burst into the strains of the National Anthem, it was exactly like the arrival of royalty. Coming up the staircase was a thick-set man of medium height with white hair, a brown face, and good features, but of such immobility that they might have been carved in sandstone. By his side, very simply dressed, and wearing no ornament but one rope of great pearls, came Juanita Morse.
If I live for a thousand years I shall never forget that first vision of her. I have seen all the beauties of London, Paris and Rome, danced with many of them, spoken at least to the majority, but never before or since have I seen such luminous and compelling loveliness. It is almost impossible for me to describe her, a presumption indeed, when so many abler pens than mine have hymned her praises. The poets of two Continents have lain their garlands of song at her little feet. She has been the theme of innumerable articles in the Press, the heroine of a dozen novels. And yet I must give some impression of her, I suppose. She was slender and tall, though not too tall. Her hair, which must have fallen to her feet and enveloped her like a cloud of night, was dead black. But it was not the coarse, lifeless black of so many women of the Latin race. It was as fine as spun silk, gleaming, vital and full of electricity—a live thing of itself, so it seemed to me. Her father's eyes were unpolished jet, but hers were of a deep blue-black, large, lustrous, and of unfathomable depth.