"_Comus!_" gasped Miss Mountjoy.
"And _L'Allegro_ and _Il Penseroso_, they are not bad."
"My child. These were the compositions of the immortal bard before his
eyes were opened."
"I thought, aunt, that he had dictated the _Paradise Lost and Regained_
after he was blind."
"I refer to the eyes of his soul," said the old lady sternly.
"I want a story-book."
"There is the _Dairyman's Daughter_."
"I have read it, and hate it."
"I fear, Leticia, that you are in the gall of bitterness and the bond of
iniquity."
Unhappily the sisters very rarely met one another. It was but
occasionally that Lady Lacy and Betty came to town, and when they did,
Miss Mountjoy put as many difficulties as she could in the way of their
associating together.
On one such visit to London, Lady Lacy called and asked if she might
take Letice with herself to the theatre. Miss Mountjoy shivered with
horror, reared herself, and expressed her opinion of stage-plays and
those who went to see them in strong and uncomplimentary terms. As she
had the custody of Letice, she would by no persuasion be induced to
allow her to imperil her soul by going to such a wicked place. Lady Lacy
was fain to withdraw in some dismay and much regret.
Poor Letice, who had heard this offer made, had flashed into sudden
brightness and a tremor of joy; when it was refused, she burst into a
flood of tears and an ecstasy of rage. She ran up to her room, and took
and tore to pieces a volume of _Clayton's Sermons_, scattered the leaves
over the floor, and stamped upon them.
"Letice," said Miss Mountjoy, when she saw the devastation, "you are a
child of wrath."
"Why mayn't I go where there is something pretty to see? Why may I not
hear good music? Why must I be kept forever in the Doleful Dumps?"
"Because all these things are of the world, worldly."
"If God hates all that is fair and beautiful, why did He create the
peacock, the humming-bird, and the bird of paradise, instead of filling
the world with barn-door fowls?"
"You have a carnal mind. You will never go to heaven."
"Lucky I--if the saints there do nothing but hold missionary meetings to
convert one another. Pray what else can they do?"
"They are engaged in the worship of God."
"I don't know what that means. All I am acquainted with is the worship
of the congregation. At Salem Chapel the minister faces it, mouths at
it, gesticulates to it, harangues, flatters, fawns at it, and, indeed,
prays at it. If that be all, heaven must be a deadly dull hole."
Miss Mountjoy reared herself, she became livid with wrath. "You wicked
girl."
"Aunt," said Letice, intent on further incensing her, "I do wish you
would let me go--just for once--to a Catholic church to see what the
worship of God is."
"I would rather see you dead at my feet!" exclaimed the incensed lady,
and stalked, rigid as a poker, out of the room.
Thus the unhappy girl grew up to woman's estate, her heart seething with
rebellion.
And then a terrible thing occurred. She caught scarlet fever, which took
an unfavourable turn, and her life was despaired of. Miss Mountjoy was
not one to conceal from the girl that her days were few, and her future
condition hopeless.
Letice fought against the idea of dying so young.
"Oh, aunt! I won't die! I can't die! I have seen nothing of the pomps
and vanities. I want to just taste them, and know what they are like.
Oh! save me, make the doctor give me something to revive me. I want the
pomps and vanities, oh! so much. I will not, I cannot die!" But her
will, her struggle, availed nothing, and she passed away into the Great
Unseen.
Miss Mountjoy wrote a formal letter to her brother, who had now become a
general, to inform him of the lamented decease of his eldest daughter.
It was not a comforting letter. It dwelt unnecessarily on the faults of
Letice, it expressed no hopes as to her happiness in the world to which
she had passed. There had been no signs of resignation at the last; no
turning from the world with its pomps and vanities to better things,
only a vain longing after what she could not have; a bitter resentment
against Providence for having denied them to her; and a steeling of her
heart against good and pious influences.
A year had passed.
Lady Lacy had come to town along with her niece. A dear friend had
placed her house at her disposal. She had herself gone to Dresden with
her daughters to finish them off in music and German. Lady Lacy was very
glad of the occasion, for Betty was now of an age to be brought out.
There was to be a great ball at the house of the Countess of Belgrove,
unto whom Lady Lacy was related, and at the ball Betty was to make her
début.
The girl was in a condition of boundless excitement. A beautiful
ball-dress of white satin, trimmed with rich Valenciennes lace, was laid
over her chair for her to wear. Neat little white satin shoes stood on
the floor, quite new, for her feet. In a flower-glass stood a red
camellia that was destined to adorn her hair, and on the dressing-table,
in a morocco case, was a pearl necklace that had belonged to her mother.
The maid did her hair, but the camellia, which was to be the only point
of colour about her, except her rosy lips and flushed cheeks--that
camellia was not to be put into her hair till the last minute.
The maid offered to help her to dress.
"No, thank you, Martha; I can do that perfectly well myself. I am
accustomed to use my own hands, and I can take my own time about it."
"But really, miss, I think you should allow me."
"Indeed, indeed, no. There is plenty of time, and I shall go leisurely
to work. When the carriage comes just tap at the door and tell me, and I
will rejoin my aunt."
When the maid was gone, Betty locked her door. She lighted the candles
beside the cheval-glass, and looked at herself in the mirror and
laughed. For the first time, with glad surprise and innocent pleasure,
she realised how pretty she was. And pretty she was indeed, with her
pleasant face, honest eyes, finely arched brows, and twinkling smile
that produced dimples in her cheeks.
"There is plenty of time," she said. "I shan't take a hundred years in
dressing now that my hair is done."
She yawned. A great heaviness had come over her.
"I really think I shall have a nap first. I am dead sleepy now, and
forty winks will set me up for the night."
Then she laid herself upon the bed. A numbing, over-powering lethargy
weighed on her, and almost at once she sank into a dreamless sleep. So
unconscious was she that she did not hear Martha's tap at the door nor
the roll of the carriage as it took her aunt away.
She woke with a start. It was full day.
For some moments she did not realise this fact, nor that she was still
dressed in the gown in which she had lain down the previous evening.
She rose in dismay. She had slept so soundly that she had missed the
ball.
She rang her bell and unlocked the door.
"What, miss, up already?" asked the maid, coming in with a tray on which
were tea and bread and butter.
"Yes, Martha. Oh! what will aunt say? I have slept so long and like a
log, and never went to the ball. Why did you not call me?"
"Please, miss, you have forgotten. You went to the ball last night."
"No; I did not. I overslept myself."
The maid smiled. "If I may be so bold as to say so, I think, Miss Betty,
you are dreaming still."
"No; I did not go."
The maid took up the satin dress. It was crumpled, the lace was a little
torn, and the train showed unmistakable signs of having been drawn over
a floor.
She then held up the shoes. They had been worn, and well worn, as if
danced in all night.
"Look here, miss; here is your programme! Why, deary me! you must have
had a lot of dancing. It is quite full."
Betty looked at the programme with dazed eyes; then at the camellia. It
had lost some of its petals, and these had not fallen on the
toilet-cover. Where were they? What was the meaning of this?
"Martha, bring me my hot water, and leave me alone."
Betty was sorely perplexed. There were evidences that her dress had been
worn. The pearl necklace was in the case, but not as she had left
it--outside. She bathed her head in cold water. She racked her brain.
She could not recall the smallest particular of the ball. She perused
the programme. A light colour came into her cheek as she recognised the
initials "C. F.," those of Captain Charles Fontanel, of whom of late she
had seen a good deal. Other characters expressed nothing to her mind.
"How very strange!" she said; "and I was lying on the bed in the dress I
had on yesterday evening. I cannot explain it."
Twenty minutes later, Betty went downstairs and entered the
breakfast-room. Lady Lacy was there. She went up to her aunt and kissed
her.
"I am so sorry that I overslept myself," she said. "I was like one of
the Seven Sleepers."
"My dear, I should not have minded if you had not come down till midday.
After a first ball you must be tired."
"I meant--last night."
"How, last night?"
"I mean when I went to dress."
"Oh, you were punctual enough. When I was ready you were already in the
hall."
The bewilderment of the girl grew apace.
"I am sure," said her aunt, "you enjoyed yourself. But you gave the
lion's share of the dances to Captain Fontanel. If this had been at
Exeter, it would have caused talk; but here you are known only to a few;
however, Lady Belgrove observed it."
"I hope you are not very tired, auntie darling," said Betty, to change
slightly the theme that perplexed her.
"Nothing to speak of. I like to go to a ball; it recalls my old dancing
days. But I thought you looked white and fagged all the evening. Perhaps
it was excitement."
As soon as breakfast was concluded, Betty escaped to her room. A fear
was oppressing her. The only explanation of the mystery was that she had
been to the dance in her sleep. She was a somnambulist. What had she
said and done when unconscious? What a dreadful thing it would have been
had she woke up in the middle of a dance! She must have dressed herself,
gone to Lady Belgrove's, danced all night, returned, taken off her
dress, put on her afternoon tea-gown, lain down and concluded her
sleep--all in one long tract of unconsciousness.
"By the way," said her aunt next day, "I have taken tickets for
_Carmen_, at Her Majesty's. You would like to go?"
"Oh, delighted, aunt. I know some of the music--of course, the Toreador
song; but I have never heard the whole opera. It will be delightful."
"And you are not too tired to go?"
"No--ten thousand times, no--I shall love to see it."
"What dress will you go in?"
"I think my black, and put a rose in my hair."
"That will do very well. The black becomes you. I think you could not do
better."
Betty was highly delighted. She had been to plays, never to a real
opera.
In the evening, dinner was early, unnecessarily early, and Betty knew
that it would not take her long to dress, so she went into the little
conservatory and seated herself there. The scent of the heliotropes was
strong. Betty called them cherry-pie. She had got the libretto, and she
looked it over; but as she looked, her eyes closed, and without being
aware that she was going to sleep, in a moment she was completely
unconscious.
She woke, feeling stiff and cold.
"Goodness!" said she, "I hope I am not late. Why--what is that light?"
The glimmer of dawn shone in at the conservatory windows.
Much astonished, she left it. The hall, the staircase were dark. She
groped her way to her room, and switched on the electric light.
Before her lay her black-and-white muslin dress on the bed; on the table
were her white twelve-button gloves folded about her fan. She took them
up, and below them, somewhat crumpled, lay the play-bill, scented.
"How very unaccountable this is," she said; and removing the dress,
seated herself on the bed and thought.
"Why did they turn out the lights?" she asked herself, then sprang to
her feet, switched off the electric current, and saw that actually the
morning light was entering the room. She resumed her seat; put her hands
to her brow.
"It cannot--it cannot be that this dreadful thing has happened again."
Presently she heard the servants stirring. She hastily undressed and
retired between the sheets, but not to sleep. Her mind worked. She was
seriously alarmed.
At the usual time Martha arrived with tea.
"Awake, Miss Betty!" she said. "I hope you had a nice evening. I dare
say it was beautiful."
"But," began the girl, then checked herself, and said--
"Is my aunt getting up? Is she very tired?"
"Oh, miss, my lady is a wonderful person; she never seems to tire. She
is always down at the same time."
Betty dressed, but her mind was in a turmoil. On one thing she was
resolved. She must see a doctor. But she would not frighten her aunt,
she would keep the matter close from her.