A BALL, A SNOWSTORM, AND A SNOWBALL
Axcester's December Ball was a social event of importance in South
Somerset. At once formal and familiar--familiar, since nine-tenths of
the company dwelt close enough together to be on visiting terms--it
nicely preluded the domestic festivities of Christmas, and the more
public ones which began with the New Year and culminated in the great
County Balls at Taunton and Bath. Nor were the families around Axcester
jaded with dancing, as those in the neighbourhood of Bath, for example;
but discussed dresses and the prospects of the Ball for some weeks
beforehand, and, when the day came, ordered out the chariot or barouche
in defiance of any ordinary weather.
The weather since Dorothea's visit to the Orange Room had included a
frost, a fall of snow with a partial thaw, and a second and much
severer frost; and by Wednesday afternoon the hill below Bayfield wore
a hard and slippery glaze. Endymion, however, had seen to the roughing
of the horses. Thin powdery snow began to fall as the Bayfield barouche
rolled past the gates into the high road; and Narcissus, who considered
himself a weather-prophet, foretold a thaw before morning. Unless the
weather grew worse, the party would drive back to Bayfield; but the old
caretaker in the Town House had orders to light fires there and prepare
the bedrooms, and on the chance of being detained. Dorothea had brought
her maid Polly.
In spite of her previous visit, the Orange Room gave her a shock of
delight and wonder. The litter had vanished, the hangings were in
place; fresh orange-coloured curtains divided the dancing-floor from
the recess beneath the gallery, and this had been furnished as a
withdrawing-room, with rugs, settees, groups of green foliage plants,
and candles, the light of which shone through shades of yellow paper.
The prisoners, too, had adorned with varicoloured paperwork the
candelabra, girandoles and mirrors which drew twinkles from the long
waxed floor, and softened whatever might have been garish in the
decorations. Certainly the panels took a new beauty, a luminous
delicacy, in their artificial rays; and Dorothea, when, after much
greeting and hand-shaking, she joined one of the groups inspecting
them, felt a sort of proprietary pleasure in the praises she heard.
Had she known it, she too was looking her best tonight--in an old-
maidish fashion, be it understood. She wore a gown of ashen-grey
muslin, edged with swansdown, and tied with sash and shoulder-knots
of a flame-hued ribbon which had taken her fancy at Bath in the autumn.
Her sandal-shoes, stockings, gloves, cap--she had worn caps for six
or seven years now,--even her fan, were of the same ash-coloured grey.
Dorothea knew how to dress. She also knew how to dance. The music made
her heart beat faster, and she never entered a ball-room without a
sense of happy expectancy. Poor lady! she never left but she carried
home heart-sickness, weariness, and a discontent of which she purged
her soul, on her knees, before lying down to sleep. She had a contrite
spirit; she knew that her lot was a fortunate one; but she envied her
maid Polly her good looks at times. With Polly's face, she might have
dancing to her heart's content. Usually she dropped some tears on her
pillow after a night's gaiety.
At Bath, at Taunton, at Axcester, it had always been the same, and with
time she had learnt to set her hopes low and steel her heart early to
their inevitable disappointment. So tonight she took her seat against
the wall and watched while the first three _contre-danses_ went by
without bringing her a partner. For the fourth--the "Soldier's joy"--
she was claimed by an awkward schoolboy, home for the holidays; whether
out of duty or obeying the law of Nature by which shy youths are
attracted to middle-aged partners, she could not tell, nor did she ask
herself, but danced the dance and enjoyed it more than her cavalier
was ever likely to guess. Such a chance had, before now, been looked
back upon as the one bright spot in a long evening's experience.
Dorothea loved all schoolboys for the kindness shown to her by these
few.
She went back to her seat, hard by a group to which Endymion was
discoursing at large. Endymion's was a mellow voice, of rich compass,
and he had a knack of compelling the attention of all persons within
range. He preferred this to addressing anyone in particular, and his
eye sought and found, and gathered by instinct, the last loiterer
without the charmed circle.
"Yes," he was saying, "it is tasteful, and something more. It
illustrates, as you well say, the better side of our excitable
neighbours across the Channel. Setting patriotism apart and regarding
the question merely in its--ah--philosophical aspect, it has often
occurred to me to wonder how a nation so expert in the arts of life,
so--how shall I put it?--"
"Natty," suggested one of his hearers; but he waved the word aside.
"--of such lightness of touch, as I might describe it,--I say, it has
often occurred to me to wonder how such a nation could so far mistake
its destiny and the designs of Providence (inscrutable though they be)
as to embark on a career of foreign conquest which can only--ah--
have one end."
"Come to grief," put in Lady Bateson, a dowager in a crimson cap with
military feathers. She was supposed to cherish a hopeless passion for
Endymion. Also, she was supposed to be acting as Dorothea's chaperon
tonight; but having with little exertion found partners for a niece of
her own, a sprightly young lady on a visit from Bath, felt that she
deserved to relax her mind in a little intellectual talk. Endymion
accepted her remark with magnificent tolerance.
"Precisely." He inclined towards her. "You have hit it precisely."
Dorothea stole a glance at her brother. Military and hunt uniforms were
_de rigueur_ at these Axcester balls, and a Major of Yeomanry more
splendid than Endymion Westcote it would have been hard to find in
England. He stood with a hand negligently resting on his left hip--
the word hip,--his right foot advanced, the toe of his polished boot
tapping the floor. His smile, indulgent as it hovered over Lady
Bateson, descended to this protruded leg and became complacent, as it
had a right to be.
"Well, I've always said so from the start," Lady Bateson announced,
"and now I'm sure of it. I don't mind Frenchmen as Frenchmen; but what
I say is, let them stick to their fal-de-rals."
"That is the side of them which, in my somewhat responsible position,
I endeavour to humour. You see the result." He swept his hand towards
the painted panels. "One thing I must say, in justice to my charges,
I find them docile."
Dorothea had confidence in her brother's tact and his unerring eye for
his audience. Yet she looked about her nervously, to make sure that of
the few prisoners selected for invitation to the ball, none was within
earshot. The Vicomte de Tocqueville, a stoical young patrician, had
chosen a partner for the next dance, and was leading her out with that
air of vacuity with which he revenged himself upon the passing hour of
misfortune. "Go on," it seemed to say, "but permit me to remind you
that, so far as I am concerned, you do not exist." Old General
Rochambeau and old Rear-Admiral de Wailly-Duchemin, in worn but
carefully-brushed regimentals, patrolled the far end of the room
arm-in-arm. The Admiral seemed in an ill humour; and this was nothing
new, he grumbled at everything. But the General's demeanour, as he
trotted up and down beside his friend (doubtless doing his best to
pacify him), betrayed an unwonted agitation. It occurred to Dorothea
that he had not yet greeted her and paid his usual compliment.
"Miss Westcote is not dancing tonight?"
The voice was at her elbow, and she looked up with a start--to meet
the gaze of M. Raoul.
"Excuse me"--she wished to explain why she had been startled--"I did
not expect--"
"To see me here! It appears that they have given the scene-painter a
free ticket, and I assume that it carries permission to dance, provided
he does not display in an unseemly manner the patch in the rear of his
best tunic."
He turned his head in a serio-comic effort to stare down his back.
Dorothea admitted to herself that he made a decidedly handsome fellow
in his blue uniform with red facings and corded epaulettes; nor does a
uniform look any the worse for having seen a moderate amount of service.
"But Mademoiselle was in a--what do you call it?--a brown study, which
I interrupted."
"I was wondering why General Rochambeau had, not yet come to speak with
me."
"I can account for it, perhaps; but first you must answer my question,
Mademoiselle. Are you not dancing tonight?"
"That will depend, sir, on whether I am asked or no."
She said it almost archly, on the moment's impulse; and, the words out,
felt that they were over-bold. But she did not regret them when her
eyes met his. He was offering his arm, and she found herself joining in
his laugh--a happy, confidential little laugh. Dorothea cast a nervous
glance towards her brother, but Endymion's back was turned. She saw
that her partner noted the look, and half-defiantly she nodded towards
the gallery as the French musicians struck into a jolly jigging quick-
step with a crash at every third bar.
"_Mais cela me rend folle_," she murmured.
"Do you know the air? It's the 'Bridge of Lodi,' and we are to dance
'Britannia's Triumph' to it. Come, Mademoiselle, since the 'Triumph'
is nicely mixed, let your captive lead you."
Those were days of reels, poussettes, ladies' chains, and figure
dancing; honest heel-and-toe, hopping and twisting, hands across and
down the middle--an art contemned now, worse than neglected, insulted
by the vulgar caricature of "kitchen lancers"; but then seriously
practised, delighting the eye, bringing blood to the dancers' cheeks.
For five minutes and more Dorothea was entirely happy. M. Raoul--
himself no mean performer--tasted, after his first surprise, something
of the joy of discovery. Who could have guessed that this quiet
spinster, who, as a rule, held herself and walked so awkwardly, would
prove the best partner in the room? He had not the least doubt of it.
Others danced with more abandonment, with more exuberant vigour--
"romped" was his criticism--but none with such _élan_ perfectly
restrained, covering precision with grace. Hands across, cast off and
wheel; as their fingers met again he felt the tense nerves, the throb
of the pulse beneath the glove. Her lips were parted, her eyes and
whole face animated. She was not thinking of him, or of anyone; only
of the swing and beat of the music, the sway of life and colour, her
own body swaying to it, enslaved to the moment and answering no other
call.
"I understand why they call it the Triumph," he murmured, as he led
her back to her seat. She turned her eyes on him as one coming out of
a dream.
"I have never enjoyed a dance so much in my life," she said seriously.
He laughed.
"It must have been an inspiration--" he began, and checked himself,
with a glance over his shoulder at the painted panel behind them.
"You were saying--" She looked up after a moment.
"Nothing. Listen to the Ting-tang!"
He drew aside one of the orange curtains, and Dorothea heard the note
of a bell clanging in a distant street. "Time for all good prisoners
to be in bed, and Heaven temper the wind to the thin blanket! It is
snowing--snowing furiously."
"Do they suffer much in these winters?"
He shrugged his shoulders.
"They die sometimes, though your brother does his best to prevent it.
It promises to be a hard season for them."
"I wish I could help; but Endymion--my brother does not approve of
ladies mixing themselves up in these affairs."
"Yet he has carried off half-a-dozen to the supper-room, where at a
side table three of my compatriots are vending knick-knacks, to add
a little beef to their _ragoûts_."
"Is it that which has annoyed General Rochambeau?"
She had recognised the phrase, but let it pass.
"It is."
She understood. For some reason her brain was unusually clear tonight.
At any other time she would have defended, or at least excused, her
brother. She knew it, and found time to wonder at her new practicality
as she answered:
"I must think of some way to help."
She saw his brow clear--saw that had risen in his esteem--and was
glad.
"To you, Mademoiselle, we shall find it easy to be grateful."
"By helping them," she explained, "I may also be helping my brother.
You do not understand him as I do, and you sharpen your wit upon him,"
"Be assured it does not hurt him, Mademoiselle."
"No, but it hurts _me_."
He bowed gravely.
"It shall not hurt you, again. Whom you love, you shall protect."
"Ah! M. Raoul!" Endymion Westcote hailed him from the doorway and
crossed the room with Narcissus in tow. "My brother is interested in
your panel of Bacchus and Ariadne; he will be glad to discuss it with
you. Br-r-r-!"--he shivered--"I have been down to the door, and it
is snowing viciously. Some of our friends will hardly find their homes
tonight. I hope, by the way, you have brought a great-coat?"
Raoul ignored the question.
"I fear, sir, your learning will discover half-a-dozen mistakes," said
he, addressing Narcissus and leading the way towards the panel.
"But whilst I think of it," Endymion persisted, "I saw half-a-dozen old
baize chair-covers behind the cloak-room door. Don't hesitate to take
one; you can return it to-morrow or next day." Dorothea being his only
audience, he beamed a look on her which said: "They come to us in a
hurry, these prisoners--no time to collect a wardrobe; but I think of
these little things."
"Rest assured, sir, I will turn up my coat-collar," said Raoul; and
Dorothea could see him, a moment later, shaking his head good-
naturedly, though the Commissary still protested.
Dorothea, left to herself, watched them examining and discussing the
panel of Bacchus and Ariadne. The orchestra started another _contre-
danse_, but no partner approached to claim her. The dance began. It
was the "Dashing White Sergeant," and one exuberant couple threatened
to tread upon her toes. She stood up and, for lack of anything better
to do, began to study the panel behind her.
A moment later her hand went up to her throat.
It was the panel on which M. Raoul had sketched an imaginary board
with his thumb-nail--the Garden of the Hesperides. But the Perseus
was different; he wore the face of M. Raoul himself. And beneath the
throat of the nymph on the right, half concealed in the folds about
her bosom, hung a locket--a small enamelled heart, edged with
brilliants. Just such a trinket--a brooch--had pinned the collar of
her close habit three days before, when she and M. Raoul had stood
together discussing the panel. It was a legacy from her mother.
Hastily she put out a hand and drew the edge of the orange curtain
over nymph and locket.
Soon after supper Endymion Westcote informed his sister that it was
hopeless to think of returning to Bayfield. The barouche would convey
her back to the Town House; but already the snow lay a foot and a half
deep, and was still falling. He himself, after packing her off with
Narcissus, would remain and attend to the comfort of the guests, many
of whom must bivouac at "The Dogs" for the night as best they could.
At midnight, or a little later, the barouche was announced. It drew up
close to the porch, axle-deep in snow. Upstairs the orchestra was
sawing out the strains of "Major Malley's Reel," as Endymion lifted
his sister in and slammed the door upon her and Narcissus. The noise
prevented his hearing a sash-window lifted, immediately above the porch.
"Right away!"
The inn-servant who had accompanied the Westcotes turned back to trim a
candle flaring in the draughty passage. But it so happened that, in
starting, the coachman entangled his off-rein in the trace-buckle.
Endymion, in his polished hessians, ran round to unhitch it.
On the window-sill above, two deft hands quickly scooped up and moulded
a snowball.
"He should turn up his coat-collar, the pig! _V'Ian pour le
Commissaire!_"
Endymion Westcote did not hear the voice; but as the vehicle rolled
heavily forward, out of the darkness a snowball struck him accurately
on the nape of the neck.