A FIRST BALL.
Nevertheless, Lieutenant King was quite as well acquainted with Nan
Beresford as he was with the other members of the family--and this was
how he came to know her. The Beresfords had for many years been the
intimate friends of the Strathernes; and though they saw less of each
other since Lady Beresford, on becoming a widow, had gone to live
permanently in Brighton, still the London season brought them in a
measure together again. Lady Beresford took rooms in Bruton Street
during the fashionable months of the year for herself and her grown-up
daughters; and from time to time, and as a great treat, Nan was allowed
to come up for a few days from Brighton. On these rare occasions, if
Sir George heard of the Beautiful Wretch being in town, nothing would
do but that she should come with her mother and sisters to lunch in
Spring Gardens--he being at this time Senior Naval Lord. And Nan was
rejoiced. She was not at all a foolish young virgin; she was well
aware of the affection the old Admiral had for her; and while she
heartily reciprocated it, she knew that his special patronage of her
gave her a sort of distinction among her sisters.
Well, one of these opportunities arrived, and Nan, not a little elated,
but outwardly very demure, drove away with her mother and sisters, in a
hired brougham, to New Street. In due course they arrived at their
destination, and they had just got inside the door when, as chance
would have it, Sir George himself came from the dining-room into the
hall. He was a wiry-looking, handsome, elderly man, with grizzled
hair, a firm face, and the kindliest of gray eyes; while on this
occasion he was very gorgeously attired, for he had already dressed for
a Levee, and, moreover, it was a Collar Day. It was extraordinary to
see how naturally Nan went up to him, taking it for granted he would
scarcely have a word for anybody else. And he hadn't. Of course he
shook hands with Lady Beresford and Mary and Edith, and welcomed them
in a kind of way; but it was Nan that he seized with both hands; and it
was Nan that he himself escorted upstairs to the drawing-room; and it
was Nan that he presented to Lady Stratherne, just as if there was
nobody else in the world. Lady Stratherne, though she was also a
miracle of kindness, knew her duties better, and busied herself with
the others, leaving those two to themselves.
'Well, now,' said the old sailor, briskly, 'what is our first dance to
be?'
'I beg your pardon, Sir George?' she said.
'Why, don't you know, girl, that you're coming to the ball?'
'What ball, Sir George?' said she, quite innocently.
What ball, indeed! And she had heard her sisters speak of nothing else
for a fortnight.
'Why, my ball; our ball, everybody's ball! Why, don't you know that
the world is going to stand still on Thursday night--in amazement. And
if you didn't know, now you know; and that's the ball you're coming to,
as sure as my name is Jack Horner--now, now, I've set my mind on it----'
Nan was no longer a hypocrite. Her heart began to beat rapidly--not
with joy, but with fright.
'Oh, Sir George, I--I never was at a ball--I--I never go out--mamma
would never dream----'
He turned and sung across the room--
'Mother!'
The lady who was addressed in this homely fashion was herself far from
homely: she was a distinguished-looking woman, with pale, refined
features, and a singularly intelligent and sweet expression.
'Mother, this girl is coming to the ball on Thursday, whether she likes
it or not. I want a partner; I insist on having a partner. Get a card
and invite her--a card all to herself--her name in capital letters--the
honour of the company of the BEAUTIFUL WRETCH: will that do?'
Lady Stratherne said nothing at all, but regarded the other mother with
a sort of puzzled smile.
'Oh, Sir George!' Lady Beresford protested, 'it is impossible. Thank
you very much--but it is impossible----'
'Impossible!' he cried. 'We don't know what that is at the Admiralty.
The men who write in the newspapers expect us to be able to do
everything at a moment's notice; and of course they're right; and so of
course we can do it. And so can you; the end of the argument being
that Nan is coming to our ball on Thursday night, as I'm a living
Dutchman.'
But the matter was not so easily settled. There was a fierce fight.
It was ridiculous that a school-girl, who ought to be walking two and
two along the Marine Parade, should go to one of the big balls of the
London season. How could a ball-dress be got ready by Thursday night?
And so forth: and so forth. Sir George paid no attention to all this
firing of cotton pellets. She was coming to the ball on Thursday
night, he maintained with a dogged obstinacy worthy of Nelson. And the
end of it was that before they went down to lunch it had been finally
agreed that Nan was to come to this ball; her mother remarking to Lady
Stratherne, with a sigh of resignation--
'I can't imagine what Sir George sees in that gawky child.'
Now, we have it on the best authority--or what ought to be the best
authority--that is to say, we have it from a multitude of lady-writers,
that the prospect of going to a first ball is one of the great joys of
a young girl's life. The present writer, at all events, is not bold
enough to impeach such an array of witnesses, and will only state the
simple fact that in the case of Nan Beresford this prospect filled her
mind with nothing but terror and dismay. It was in all sincerity that
she had besought Sir George to let her off; though she might as well
have gone down on her knees to the Monument. He could not understand
why a young girl of seventeen should be really reluctant to go to a
dance--and a very pretty dance, too, for the rooms were to be decorated
with flags. And when Nan told her mother and sisters that she would
far rather not go to the ball, her mother fancied she was afraid that
her dress, being hurriedly made, would not compare well with her
sisters' long studied costumes, while the sisters simply said to each
other, 'Oh, she knows she can't dance.'
There was some little truth in this last remark. Although she lived in
a well-frequented house, where there were plenty of people coming and
going, Nan had grown up very much apart. She had her own ways and
occupations, which were mostly solitary. And dancing had never been a
favourite amusement of hers. Of course, in the evening, when some
young people were present, there was frequently a carpet-dance
improvised; and then sometimes Nan was dragged in to make up a set at
some square dance. She got through it mechanically; but it afforded
her no special pleasure; and as for round dances, she said they made
her giddy, and so she got excused. Giddy she said; and yet she could
walk, without the slightest sensation in the brain, along the extreme
verge of those high chalk-cliffs, to watch the jackdaws, and hawks, and
gulls at nest-building time, and she could swing for an hour in a
trapeze, so long as the seat was comfortable and you gave her a book to
read.
Not that she at all played the part of Cinderella in the house. Her
mother was exceedingly fond of her--partly, perhaps, because Nan alone
took the trouble to humour all her mysterious nerve-miseries; while her
sisters tolerated her, though they thought her unsocial. Even this
dress, when it did appear--and a thousand times Nan had inwardly prayed
that it might not be ready in time--was quite as pretty as theirs. It
was very pretty indeed; but somehow, Nan, as she regarded herself in
the big mirror, convinced herself that there was not enough of her to
carry off a ball-dress. Her sisters had a certain 'presence' that a
grand costume became. She thought she was too thin--that she looked
more like a school-girl than ever; and she wished that she were not
freckled. When, at last, she was in the carriage with the others--Mr.
Thomas had gone in a hansom rather than ride with the coachman--she
said, cunningly,
'Mamma, dear, I am sure you will be excited with speaking to so many
old friends; and you know your nerves cannot stand it. Let me sit by
you, and take as much of the talk as I can. I really don't care to
dance. I would rather not dance. I would far rather sit by you,
mamma. And I am sure it is not necessary for us to stay long; it will
do you such a deal of harm.'
Lady Beresford sighed.
'When one has grown-up daughters----,' she said almost to herself.
'Mamma, dear,' said Nan, eagerly, 'would you rather stay at home?
Wouldn't you rather stay at home? and I will keep you company----'
'Don't be silly, child,' said her eldest sister. 'Do you think your
dress cost nothing?'
The worst time of all was the waiting in Spring Gardens, where there
was a block of carriages. It was all darkness, and expectation, and
the hopeless sense that, being imprisoned in this slowly moving line,
there was no escape. But when they were once at the entrance, and when
Nan got a glimpse at the hall, her courage revived wonderfully. There
was such a crowd of people--coming, going, waiting, looking for
friends, and arranging dresses--that she felt that she could slip into
this self-interested throng, and be lost from observation altogether.
She began to be forgetful of herself. When they were going up the
stairs she heard names after names announced that she was quite
familiar with--either through the newspapers or through the
conversation at luncheon-tables; and she was almost anxious to get
quickly up to have a glimpse at these celebrated people. When she got
to the landing, she did not see Lady Stratherne at all; for her eyes
were filled with wonder at the blaze of light and colour beyond--the
draperies of flags, and masses of chandeliers--and she said, under her
breath, 'Oh, mamma, isn't it beautiful!' The next thing she heard was
'Nan, dear, how well you are looking! What beautiful forget-me-nots!'
and in a startled way she found that she was shaking hands with Lady
Stratherne, whose kind eyes were regarding her with a momentary
approval. Instinctively, however, she knew from the way that her
hostess's eyes had turned to the next comers--there were far too many
loiterers about this landing, and Lady Stratherne had enough to do to
prevent a dead block on the stairs--that she need not stay to speak; so
she followed her mother and sisters into the large, brilliantly-lit
room. Oh, how glad she was that it was crammed with this dense
busily-occupied crowd! She felt quite safe; she felt happy; she was
pleased that those few forget-me-nots looked nice. And there was no
dancing at all. 'Oh, mamma, tell me who all the people are,' she said.
She began to consider herself quite at home in the middle of such a
crowd of strangers; she had only to be delighted with the blaze of
colour, the brilliant costumes, the scent of flowers, the wonders of
diamonds.
Momentarily her great good fortune increased. Friends of Lady
Beresford began to come round her; and they made a sort of circle, as
it were; and Nan found she could keep herself just a little bit outside
of it, seeing everything, herself unseen. Her cup of happiness was
full. She had passed the ordeal unscathed. Why, it was nothing! All
the people were engaged with themselves; there was not a sound of
music; nothing but a hum of talking, and always that bewildering glow
of light and colour, and here and there a figure and face suddenly
revealing to her somebody she recognised from photographs and portraits
in the illustrated papers. She was becoming quite lost to herself.
She could have stood there for ever. She was not thinking of Nan
Beresford at all when----
When suddenly there was a long low growl from a violoncello. Her heart
sank.
Almost at the same moment she saw another little group--of elderly men,
mostly--open out at one corner of the room near her; and the next thing
she knew was that Sir George's keen eyes had caught sight of her. He
was by her side in a second.
'What,' said he, 'standing all alone? Why, where's Charley? What's
Charley about? Lady Beresford, how are you? Ah, Mary? Edith, you are
lovelier every day. But where is that rascal Charley? I must find a
partner for my sweet-heart----'
'Oh, please, Sir George,' said Nan, with her heart beating fast.
But by this time there was a noise of preparatory music, and in the
middle of the crowd there was something visible like the formation of a
double line. At the same instant young Charley Stratherne came
hurriedly along, with an eagle eye for possible partners. Him his
father instantly seized.
'Where's Frank King? Go and get Frank King. I want Frank King.'
And behold, Frank King was at his elbow!
'Sir George----?'
'Oh, that's you, Frank King. Ask this young lady if she will dance
with you----'
'Come on, Frank,' said the youthful M.C., in his hurried bewilderment
of duty. 'You'll just do. Let me introduce you to Miss Anne
Beresford. Lieutenant King. They want a couple at the other end.'
So he disappeared in the crowd; and Nan found herself in the possession
of this young naval officer, who seemed to take matters very coolly,
considering that they were wanted right at the top of the spacious
assembly-room. Happily, she heard from the music that it was the
Lancers that was about to begin; so she was not entirely dismayed.
'I suppose we shall get through somehow,' said he, surveying the close
mass of people with the eye of a strategist. The clearing of the space
in the middle had naturally made the surrounding crowd denser.
'I think it will be difficult,' said she, timidly.
'Well, we can try this end,' said he, about to lead her in that
direction.
'Oh!' she said, very earnestly, 'I am sure we shall only embarrass them
if we have another set at this end. And--and--I am not anxious to
dance the Lancers. I would as soon not,' she said.
Then for the first time it seemed that he turned towards her; and as
she happened to be looking up at him to impress on him that she would
as soon not dance, she instantaneously lowered her eyes and sought
refuge in the little scented programme.
'Perhaps,' said he, after the fifteenth part of a second, 'perhaps you
would give me a dance that you like better.'
Her innocent answer was to hand him her programme, upon which there was
as yet not a scrap of writing. So, when that matter was arranged, he
said to her,
'Would you like to see this dance, then? It's very pretty, when you
are at a little distance. And I know how to get to that recess there;
it's raised a few inches, you know; and I think you could see.'
'Oh! I should like that!' she said. How grateful she was to him!
They made their way to this side recess, which had been built out,
temporarily, from the drawing-room, for the sake of additional space.
It was decorated with trailing-plants, trained on trellis-work; and two
or three circles of red candles, amid so much green foliage, had a
pretty effect. There were a few people standing about and looking on
at the dancing, or talking; it was possible to talk, for here the music
was softened.
Nan's companion led her to a raised bench, from which she could see
very well; but even as she sat down, and while she was so glad to have
been relieved from dancing out there amid all those people, she was
touched by some strange misgivings. It was her duty to have danced.
She had been presented with a partner; and if only she had not shown
herself reluctant, she knew very well he could have found places for
them. Were not officers always fond of dancing? And then it suddenly
occurred to her that she ought to try to make him some amends. She
ought to entertain him with brilliant conversation, as it were.
Meanwhile, what was he doing? Not thinking of her--except as a booby,
a child who could not talk. No doubt he was looking out at all those
beautiful women there, and wishing he was not imprisoned in this corner.
Nan timidly raised her eyes, and instantly dropped them again. He had
been for the moment looking at the forget-me-nots in her hair.