HOW MONA GOES TO HER FIRST BALL--AND HOW SHE FARES THEREAT.
It is the day of Lady Chetwoode's ball, or to be particular, for critics
"prove unkind" these times, it is the day to which belongs the night
that has been selected for Lady Chetwoode's ball; all which sounds very
like the metre of the house that Jack built.
Well, never mind! This ball promises to be a great success. Everybody
who is anybody is going, from George Beatoun, who has only five hundred
pounds a year in the world, and the oldest blood in the county, to the
duchess, who "fancies" Lilian Chetwoode, and has, in fact, adopted her
as her last "rave." Nobody has been forgotten, nobody is to be
chagrined: to guard against this has cost both Sir Guy and Lilian
Chetwoode many an hour of anxious thought.
To Mona, however, the idea of this dance is hardly pure nectar. It is
half a terror, half a joy. She is nervous, frightened, and a little
strange. It is the first time she has ever been to any large
entertainment, and she cannot help looking forward to her own _debut_
with a longing mingled largely with dread.
Now, as the hour approaches that is to bring her face to face with half
the county, her heart fails her, and almost with a sense of wonder she
contrasts her present life with the old one in her emerald isle, where
she lived happily, if with a certain dulness, in her uncle's farmhouse.
All day long the rain has been pouring, pouring; not loudly or
boisterously, not dashing itself with passionate force against pane and
gable, but falling with a silent and sullen persistency.
"No walks abroad to-night," says Mr. Darling, in a dismal tone, staring
in an injured fashion upon the drenched lawns and _pleasaunces_ outside.
"No Chinese lanterns, no friendly shrubberies,--_nothing_!"
Each window presents an aspect in a degree more dreary than the
last,--or so it appears. The flower-beds are beaten down, and are
melancholy in the extreme. The laurels do nothing but drip drip, in a
sad aside, "making mournful music for the mind." Whilst up and down the
elm walk the dreary wind goes madly, sporting and playing with the
raindrops, as it rushes here and there.
Indoors King Bore stalks rampant. Nobody seems in a very merry mood.
Even Nolly, who is generally game for anything, is a prey to despair. He
has, for the last hour, lost sight of Mona!
"Let us do something, anything, to get rid of some of these interminable
hours," says Doatie, flinging her book far from her. It is not
interesting, and only helps to add insult to injury. She yawns as much
as breeding will permit, and then crosses her hands behind her dainty
head. "Oh! here comes Mona. Mona, I am so bored that I shall die
presently, unless you suggest a remedy."
"Your brother is better at suggestions than I am," says Mona, gently,
who is always somewhat subdued when in the room with Lady Rodney.
"Nolly, do you hear that? Come over to the fire directly, and cease
counting those hateful raindrops. Mona believes in you. Isn't that
joyful news? Now get out of your moody fit at once, like a dear boy."
"I sha'n't," says Mr. Darling, in an aggrieved tone. "I feel slighted.
Mrs. Rodney has of _malice prepense_ secluded herself from public gaze
at least for an hour. I can't forget all _that_ in one moment."
"Where have you been?" asks Lady Rodney, slowly turning her head to look
at Mona. "Out of doors?" Her tone is unpleasant.
"No. In my own room," says Mona.
"Oh, Nolly! do think of some plan to cheat the afternoon of an hour or
two," persists Doatie, eagerly.
"I have it," says her brother with all the air of one who has discovered
a new continent. "Let's talk of graves, of worms, and epitaphs."
At this Doatie turns her back on him, while Mona breaks into a peal of
silver laughter.
"Would you not like to do that?" demands Nolly, sadly "I should. I'm
quite in the humor for it."
"I am afraid we are not," says Violet, smiling too. "Think of something
else."
"Well, if you all _will_ insist upon a change, and desire something more
lively, then,--
'For heaven's sake, let us sit upon the ground,
And tell sad stories of the death of kings.'
Perhaps after all you are right, and that will be better It will be
rather effective, too, if uncomfortable, our all sitting on the polished
floor."
"Fancy Nolly quoting Shakspeare," says Geoffrey, who has just entered,
and is now leaning over Mona's chair. He stoops and whispers something
in her ear that makes her flush and glance appealingly at Doatie.
Whereon Miss Darling, who is quick to sympathize, rises, and soon learns
what the whisper has been about.
"Oh! how charming!" she cries, clapping her hands. "The very thing! Why
did we not think of it before? To teach Mona the last new step! It will
be delicious." Good-natured Doatie, as she says this, springs to her
feet and runs her hand into Mona's. "Come," she says. "Before to-night,
I promise you, you shall rival Terpsichore herself."
"Yes, she certainly must learn before to-night," says Violet, with
sudden and unexpected interest, folding and putting away her work as
though bent on other employment. "Let us come into the ballroom."
"Do you know no other dances but those--er--very Irish performances?"
asks Lady Rodney, in a supercilious tone, alluding to the country dance
Mona and Geoffrey had gone through on the night of Doatie's arrival.
"No. I have never been to a ball in all my life," says Mona distinctly.
But she pales a little at the note of contempt in the other's voice.
Unconsciously she moves a few steps nearer to Geoffrey, and holds out
her hand to him in a childish entreating fashion.
He clasps it and presses it lightly but fondly to his lips. His brow
darkens. The little stern expression, so seldom seen upon his kindly
face, but which is inherited from his father, creeps up now and alters
him preceptibly.
"You mistake my mother," he says to Mona, in a peculiar tone, looking at
Lady Rodney, not at her. "My wife is, I am sure, the last person she
would choose to be rude to; though, I confess, her manner just now would
mislead most people."
With the frown still on his forehead, he draws Mona's hand through his
arm, and leads her from the room.
Lady Rodney has turned pale. Otherwise she betrays no sign of chagrin,
though in her heart she feels deeply the rebuke administered by this,
her favorite son. To have Mona be a witness of her defeat is gall and
wormwood to her. And silently, without any outward gesture, she
registers a vow to be revenged for the insult (as she deems it) that has
just been put upon her.
Dorothy Darling, who has been listening anxiously to all that has
passed, and who is very grieved thereat, now speaks boldly.
"I am afraid," she says to Lady Rodney, quite calmly, having a little
way of her own of introducing questionable topics without giving
offence,--"I am afraid you do not like Mona?"
At this Lady Rodney flings down her guard and her work at the same time,
and rises to her feet.
"Like her," she says, with suppressed vehemence. "How should I like a
woman who has stolen from me my son, and who can teach him to be rude
even to his own mother?"
"Oh, Lady Rodney, I am sure she did not mean to do that."
"I don't care what she meant; she has at all events done it. Like her! A
person who speaks of 'Jack Robinson,' and talks of the 'long and short
of it.' How could you imagine such a thing! As for you, Dorothy, I can
only feel regret that you should so far forget yourself as to rush into
a friendship with a young woman so thoroughly out of your own sphere."
Having delivered herself of this speech, she sweeps from the room,
leaving Violet and Dorothy slightly nonplussed.
"Well, I never heard anything so absurd!" says Doatie, presently,
recovering her breath, and opening her big eyes to their widest. "Such a
tirade, and all for nothing. If saying 'Jack Robinson' is a social
crime, I must be the biggest sinner living, as I say it just when I
like. I think Mona adorable, and so does every one else. Don't you?"
"I am not sure. I don't fall in love with people at first sight. I am
slow to read character," says Violet, calmly. "You, perhaps, possess
that gift?"
"Not a bit of it, my dear. I only say to myself, such and such a person
has kind eyes or a loving mouth, and then I make up my mind to them. I
am seldom disappointed; but as to reading or studying character, that
isn't in my line at all. It positively isn't in me. But don't you think
Lady Rodney is unjust to Mona?"
"Yes, I think she is. But of course there are many excuses to be made
for her. An Irish girl of no family whatever, no matter how sweet, is
not the sort of person one would select as a wife for one's son. Come to
the ballroom. I want to make Mona perfect in dancing."
"You want to make her a success to-night," says Dorothy, quickly. "I
know you do. You are a dear thing, Violet, if a little difficult. And I
verily believe you have fallen as great a victim to the charms of this
Irish siren 'without family' as any of us. Come, confess it."
"There is nothing to confess. I think her very much to be liked, if you
mean that," says Violet, slowly.
"She is a perfect pet," says Miss Darling, with emphasis, "and you know
it."
Then they adjourn to the ballroom, and Sir Nicholas is pressed into the
service, and presently Jack Rodney, discovering where Violet is, drops
in too, and after a bit dancing becomes universal. Entering into the
spirit of the thing, they take their "preliminary canter" now, as Nolly
expresses it, as though to get into proper training for the Chetwoodes'
ball later on. And they all dance with Mona, and show a great desire
that she shall not be found wanting when called upon by the rank,
beauty, and fashion of Lauderdale to trip it on the "light fantastic
toe."
Even Jack Rodney comes out of himself, and, conquering his habitual
laziness, takes her in hand, and, as being the best dancer present, _par
excellence_, teaches and tutors, and encourages her until Doatie cries
"enough," and protests with pathos she will have no more of it, as she
is not going to be cut out by Mona at all events in the dancing line.
So the day wears to evening; and the rain ceases, and the sullen clouds
scud with a violent haste across the tired sky. Then the stars come out,
first slowly, one by one, as though timid early guests at the great
gathering, then with a brilliant rush, until all the sky,
"Bespangled with those isles of light
So wildly, spiritually bright."
shows promise of a fairer morrow.
Mona, coming slowly downstairs, enters with lagging steps the library,
where tea is awaiting them before they start.
She is gowned in a cream-colored satin that hangs in severe straight
lines, and clings to her lissom rounded figure as dew clings to a
flower. A few rows of tiny pearls clasp her neck. Upon her bosom some
Christmas roses, pure and white as her own soul, lie softly; a few more
nestle in her hair, which is drawn simply back and coiled in a loose
knot behind her head; she wears no earrings and very few bracelets.
One of the latter, however, is worthy of note. It is a plain gold band
on which stands out a figure of Atalanta posed as when she started for
her famous race. It had been sent to her on her marriage by Mr. Maxwell,
in hearty remembrance, no doubt, of the night when she by her fleetness
had saved his life.
She is looking very beautiful to-night. As she enters the room, nearly
every one stops talking, and careless of good breeding, stares at her.
There is a touch of purity about Mona that is perhaps one of her
chiefest charms.
Even Lady Rodney can hardly take her eyes from the girl's face as she
advances beneath the full glare of the chandelier, utterly unconscious
of the extent of the beauty that is her rich gift.
Sir Nicholas, going up to her, takes her by both hands, and leads her
gently beneath the huge bunch of mistletoe that still hangs from the
centre-lamp. Here, stooping, he embraces her warmly. Mona, coloring,
shrinks involuntarily a few steps backward.
"Forgive me, my sister," says Nicholas, quickly. "Not the kiss, but the
fact that until now I never quite understood how very beautiful you
are!"
Mona smiles brightly--as might any true woman--at so warm a compliment.
But Doatie, putting on a pathetic little _moue_ that just suits her baby
face, walks over to her _fiance_ and looks up at him with appealing
eyes.
"Don't altogether forget _me_, Nicholas," she says, in her pretty
childish way, pretending (little rogue that she is) to be offended.
"You, my own!" responds Nicholas, in a very low tone, that of course
means everything, and necessitates a withdrawal into the curtained
recess of the window, where whisperings may be unheard.
Then the carriages are announced, and every one finishes his and her
tea, and many shawls are caught up and presently all are driving rapidly
beneath the changeful moon to Chetwoode.
Now, strange as it may seem, the very moment Mona sets her foot upon the
polished ballroom floor, and sees the lights, and hears the music, and
the distant splashing of water in some unknown spot, and breathes the
breath of dying flowers, all fears, all doubts, vanish; and only a
passionate desire to dance, and be in unison with the sweet sounds that
move the air, overfills her.
Then some one asks her to dance, and presently--with her face lit up
with happy excitement, and her heart throbbing--she is actually mingling
with the gay crowd that a moment since she has been envying. In and out
among the dancers they glide, Mona so happy that she barely has time for
thought, and so gives herself up entirely to the music to the exclusion
of her partner. He has but a small place in her enjoyment. Perhaps,
indeed, she betrays her satisfaction rather more than is customary or
correct in an age when the _nil admirari_ system reigns supreme. Yet
there are many in the room who unconsciously smile in sympathy with her
happy smile, and feel warmed by the glow of natural gladness that
animates her breast.
After a little while, pausing beside a doorway, she casts an upward
glance at her companion.
"I am glad you have at last deigned to take some small notice of me,"
says he, with a faint touch of pique in his tone. And then, looking at
him again, she sees it is the young man who had nearly ridden over her
some time ago, and tells herself she has been just a little rude to his
Grace the Duke of Lauderdale.
"And I went to the utmost trouble to get an introduction," goes on
Lauderdale, in an aggrieved voice; "because I thought you might not care
about that impromptu ceremony at the lodge-gate; and yet what do I
receive for my pains but disappointment? Have you quite forgotten me?"
"No. Of course I remember you now," says Mona, taking all this nonsense
as quite _bona fide_ sense in a maddeningly fascinating fashion. "How
unkind I have been! But I was listening to the music, not to our
introduction, when Sir Nicholas brought you up to me, and--and that is
my only excuse." Then, sweetly, "You love music?"
"Well, I do," says the duke. "But I say that perhaps as a means of
defence. If I said otherwise, you might think me fit only 'for treasons,
stratagems, and spoils.'"
"Oh, no! you don't look like that," says Mona, with a heavenly smile.
"You do not seem like a man that could not be 'trusted.'"
He is delighted with her ready response, her gayety, her sweetness, her
freshness; was there ever so fair a face? Every one in the room by this
time is asking who is the duke's partner, and Lady Chetwoode is beset
with queries. All the women, except a very few, are consumed with
jealousy; all the men are devoured with envy of the duke. Beyond all
doubt the pretty Irish bride is the rage of the hour.
She chatters on gayly to the duke, losing sight of the fact of his rank,
and laughing and making merry with him as though he were one of the
ordinary friends of her life. And to Lauderdale, who is susceptible to
beauty and tired of adulation, such manner has its charm, and he is
perhaps losing his head a little, and is conning a sentence or two of a
slightly tender nature, when another partner coming up claims Mona, and
carries her away from what might prove dangerous quarters.
"Malcolm, who was that lovely creature you were talking to just now?"
asks his mother, as Lauderdale draws near her.
"That? Oh, that was the bride, Mrs. Rodney," replies he. "She is lovely,
if you like."
"Oh, indeed!" says the duchess, with some faint surprise. Then she turns
to Lady Rodney, who is near her, and who is looking cold and
supercilious. "I congratulate you," she says, warmly. "What a face that
child has! How charming! How full of feeling! You are fortunate in
securing so fair a daughter."
"Thank you," says Lady Rodney, coldly, letting her lids fall over her
eyes.
"I am sorry I have missed her so often," says the duchess, who had been
told that Mona was out when she called on her the second time, and who
had been really not at home when Mona returned her calls. "But you will
introduce me to her soon, I hope."
Just at this moment Mona comes up to them, smiling and happy.
"Ah! here she is," says the duchess, looking at the girl's bright face
with much interest, and turning graciously towards Mona. And then
nothing remains but for Lady Rodney to get through the introduction as
calmly as she can, though it is sorely against her will, and the
duchess, taking her hand, says something very pretty to her, while the
duke looks on with ill-disguised admiration in his face.
They are all standing in a sort of anteroom, curtained off, but only
partly concealed from the ballroom. Young Lady Chetwoode, who, as I have
said, is a special pet with the duchess, is present, with Sir Guy and
one or two others.
"You must give me another dance, Mrs. Rodney, before your card is quite
full," says the duke, smiling. "If, indeed, I am yet in time."
"Yes, quite in time," says Mona. Then she pauses, looking at him so
earnestly that he is compelled to return her gaze. "You shall have
another dance," she says, in her clear voice, that is perfectly distinct
to every one; "but you must not call me Mrs. Rodney: I am only Mrs.
Geoffrey!"
A dead silence follows. Lady Rodney raises her head, scenting mischief
in the air.
"No?" says Lauderdale, laughing. "But why, then? There is no other Mrs.
Rodney, is there?"
"No. But there will be when Captain Rodney marries. And Lady Rodney says
I have no claim to the name at all. I am only Mrs. Geoffrey."
She says it all quite simply, with a smile, and a quick blush that
arises merely from the effort of having to explain, not from the
explanation itself. There is not a touch of malice in her soft eyes or
on her parted lips.
Lady Chetwoode looks at her fan and then at Sir Guy. The duchess, with a
grave expression, looks at Lady Rodney. Can her old friend have proved
herself unkind to this pretty stranger? Can she have already shown
symptoms of that tyrannical temper which, according to the duchess, is
Lady Rodney's chief bane? She says nothing, however, but, moving her fan
with a beckoning gesture, draws her skirts aside, and motions to Mona,
to seat herself beside her.
Mona obeys, feeling no shrinking from the kindly stout lady who is
evidently bent on being "all things" to her. It does occur, perhaps, to
her laughter-loving mind that there is a paucity of nose about the
duchess, and a rather large amount of "too, too solid flesh;" but she
smothers all such iniquitous reflections, and commences to talk with her
gayly and naturally.