FORGET-ME-NOTS
HEREFORD town is one of those slumbrous cities, guiltless of any bait
with which to lure the sight-seer, but possessing both a cathedral and
an individuality of its own. It is a town which seems to have acquired
no suburbs, to have grown up in its proper area out of the flat fields
which lie around. But on the night of which I am speaking an unwonted
stir was going on, a rumbling of vehicles through streets usually
silent, and a great noise of voices and hoofs in the different inn
yards. The Green Dragon, that stronghold of county respectability, was
crowded from garret to basement, as the lights in every window
proclaimed. Inside, chambermaids ran up and down-stairs, men-servants
shouted orders from landings, and prim ladies-maids went in and out of
bedrooms with the guarded demeanour of those who know, but may not
reveal, the mysteries which these contain. The eyes of citizens were
constantly gratified by the sight of chariots driven by massive
coachmen whose weight seemed likely to break down their vehicles in
front if unbalanced by rumbles behind. Into these last the smaller
youth of the town deemed it a pride and a pleasure to ascend, when
they could do so unnoticed, and to taste all the joys of so exalted a
state until the vulgar "Whip behind" of some envious friend made the
position untenable.
The cause of this uncommon activity in both town and urchins was that
the officers of the Hereford Yeomanry were giving a ball, and from the
remotest parts of the county people were flocking to it. The landlords
thought well of such events, for innkeeping, like hop-growing, is a
trade in which the speculator may compensate himself by one good
harvest for several lean years.
From the assembly rooms a flood of light streamed over the pavement,
and across it moved the uniformed figures of the hosts, resplendent in
blue and silver, and congregating near the door--some to watch with
solemn looks for consignments of their own relations, some, with
lighter aspect, for those of other people.
The ball had not actually begun, but in Herefordshire, where such
festivities were few, people liked to get as much of them as possible,
and carriages were already arriving to disgorge be-feathered old
ladies and be-wreathed young ones at the foot of the red-carpeted
steps. The band began to tune up, and a general feeling of expectation
pervaded the building. Harry Fenton was talking to his brother
Llewellyn, who had been dining with him, and who was, with apparent
difficulty, drawing on a pair of white kid gloves. More carriages
rolled up, the doorway was getting crowded, the bandmaster raised his
_bâton;_ then the band slid into a mazurka--much in vogue at the
time--and the colonel offered his arm to the county member's wife. The
floor filled rapidly.
Llewellyn Fenton was Harry's youngest brother and the dearest friend
he had in the world. Though he was only twenty-one, and consequently
four years Harry's junior, there had never been much real difference
between the two, the elder being younger than his age, and the younger
considerably older. Since their early boyhood they had held together,
Harry clinging rather to the harder nature of Llewellyn, and now that
they had grown up and gone their different ways, they took every
chance of meeting they could get. The Squire on the other side of the
ball-room caught sight of them standing together, and smiled as he saw
them exchange nods and go off to their respective partners; he liked
all his four boys, but Harry and Llewellyn were the pair which
appealed to him most.
The evening went on cheerfully, and dance succeeded dance. The
brothers had run up against each other again, and were watching a
quadrille from the door of the supper-room.
"Llewellyn," said Harry, taking hold of his arm, "who is that girl?
There, look. Dancing with Tom Bradford."
"I don't know," said his brother. "Let go, Harry."
"Good heavens! isn't she pretty?" he went on, unheeding, and gripping
Llewellyn.
"Well, yes," said the other, disengaging himself. "She is, there's no
denying that."
"Do you want to deny it?" asked Harry, with a contemptuous snort.
"N--no, I don't."
The girl in question was dancing in a set immediately in front of
them. She was a little over the middle height, though in these modern
days of tall women she would probably pass unnoticed on that score.
She seemed quite young, barely out of her teens, but her
self-possession was as complete as that quality can be when it is
mixed with self-consciousness--not the highest sort of
self-possession, but always something. One could not blame her for
being alive to her own good looks, they were so intensely obvious, and
her complexion, which struck one at once, was of that rose-and-white
sort which reminds the spectator of fruit--soft, and with a bloom on
it like the down of a butterfly's wing.
Seeing only the face one would guess it to be accompanied by rich
golden hair, but this girl's was of that shade which can only be
described as mouse-coloured, and it grew light and fluffy, rather low
on her forehead, its curious contrast with the warm complexion putting
her quite out of the common run of red-cheeked, yellow-locked county
beauties. Her neck was long and slim, and she carried herself
perfectly when moving, though there was a lack of repose about her
whole personality when she stood still. She was dressed charmingly in
some shiny, silky stuff with a pattern of blue forget-me-nots running
over it. On the front of her bodice she wore a small artificial bunch
of these flowers, and a wreath of the same in her hair.
Many people besides Harry were looking at her, and she was evidently
entirely aware of the fact.
For the rest of that dance he kept the eye of a lynx upon the
unconscious Tom Bradford, and when that youth had finally resigned his
partner to the chaperonage of a pleasant-looking spinster, he was off
like an arrow after him. Llewellyn looked on rather grimly; he had
some experience of his brother's flames.
The more precise customs of those days required that young men should
first be introduced to the chaperons of their would-be partners, and
Harry found himself bowing before the lady whom Tom Bradford named as
Miss Ridgeway. She in turn presented him to the girl beside her, who
was fluttering her fan and smiling.
"My niece, Miss Isoline Ridgeway," she said, throwing an approving
look on the open-faced young fellow.
By some miracle it appeared that Miss Isoline was not engaged for the
next dance, and as a portly Minor Canon appeared at this juncture and
led away her aunt to the refreshment table, the two were left
together. Harry's heart beat; now that he was safely introduced to the
object of his admiration he could not think what to say to her.
Besides, he was afraid that Llewellyn was looking.
"I was--I mean--I have been trying to get introduced to you for ever
so long," he stammered out at last, quite forgetting that he had only
caught sight of her about ten minutes before.
"Then I hope you are grateful to Mr. Bradford," she replied.
"Yes, I am," said Harry. "Tom is a very good fellow," he added, more
because the sound of his own voice was encouraging than for any other
reason.
Isoline glanced over her shoulder towards her late partner, as if she
would say that she did not think much of Mr. Bradford.
"He cannot dance," she remarked.
"I hope you will find me no worse," said loyal Harry.
"Oh no," she replied, with a little laugh, "I am sure I shall not."
"It is strange that I have never seen you before," he said, "for you
live in Hereford, don't you? I have often heard your aunt's name."
"I lost my parents some time ago, and I have lately come to live with
her. I am only just out of mourning." And she looked down at her
forget-me-not sprinkled dress.
He did not quite know what to say, but, as the next dance was
beginning, he offered her his arm with a little bow.
Isoline Ridgeway danced divinely, and Harry felt as though he were
flying into the seventh heaven--wherever that problematical spot may
be--flying and sailing with the mouse-coloured head near his shoulder.
The valse had been so lately introduced into England that, in the
country, people were only beginning to take it up, and very few could
dance it well, so these two, with their perfect accord and grace of
motion, were remarked by many.
"Who is that pretty girl dancing with my boy?" asked Harry's father of
a neighbour. "They seem to be enjoying themselves."
The old gentleman addressed adjusted his spectacles.
"That is Miss Ridgeway's niece," he replied.
"But, my dear sir, that conveys nothing to me," said the Squire.
"Old Ridgeway was a solicitor in some Midland town, I believe, and a
slippery scoundrel too. He settled here some time ago, but he has been
dead twenty years or more. His daughter, Miss Ridgeway, lives in the
same house still, and her sister was married to the present Vicar of
Crishowell, near Llangarth. That is all I can tell you about them."
"Indeed," said the Squire, "I did not know that, though I know Lewis
of Crishowell very well."
"She is a good creature, Miss Ridgeway, and does a great deal among
the poor. The niece seems more likely to do a great deal among the
rich, if one may judge by her looks. They are not quite the sort of
people one would have met here when I was young."
"You are right--quite right," said Mr. Fenton. And the two old
gentlemen sighed over the falling away of their times as their fathers
and grandfathers had done before them.
Meantime the valse had come to an end, and Isoline and Harry went
towards the coolness of the entrance. "Sitting out," for more than a
very few minutes, was not countenanced then as it is now, and they
stood together in the passage looking into the empty street.
"I shall be very sorry when to-night is over," said he presently.
"So shall I," she replied demurely. "I enjoy balls more than anything
in the world. I wonder when I shall go to another."
"Surely you will go to the Hunt Ball? It will be in less than a week."
"No, I am going away," said she, watching his face for the effect of
her words, and not disclosing the fact that neither she nor her aunt
had been invited.
"Going away!" echoed he, in dismay. "But where? Forgive me, but I
thought you said you had only just come to Hereford."
"I am going to stay with my uncle at Crishowell Vicarage while my aunt
goes away for some months; she has been ill, and the doctor ordered
it."
"Oh, at Crishowell," he said, much relieved. "That is not very far;
I--I go to Crishowell sometimes. I did not know that Mr. Lewis was
your uncle."
"He married my aunt's sister," said Isoline, "but she is dead. It will
be very dull there."
"If I have to go to Crishowell on any business--or anything, do you
think he will allow me to pay my respects to you--and to him, of
course?"
"He might," she answered, looking under her eyelashes. "At any rate, I
will ask him."
"Thank you, thank you," said Harry fervently.
Isoline was delighted. The prospect of five or six months in the
unvaried society of her uncle had not been inspiring; she only
remembered him as an unnecessarily elderly person who had once heard
her catechism in her youth and been dissatisfied with the recital. It
was hardly to be supposed that a young girl, full of spirits and eager
for life, could look forward to it, especially one who had grown up in
the atmosphere of small towns and knew nothing of country pleasures.
But the horizon brightened.
"I think I must go back to my aunt now," she said, with a little prim
air which became her charmingly.
"But you will give me one more dance?" pleaded Harry. "What a fool I
was to find you so late."
"I have only one more to give," she replied, "and that is the very
last of all."
"Keep it for me, pray, and promise you will stay till the end. I can
look after you and Miss Ridgeway, and put you into your carriage when
it is over."
"Oh, yes, I will stay, if my aunt does not mind," said Isoline, as
they went back to the ballroom.
The elder Miss Ridgeway was an eminently good-natured person, and the
refreshment administered by the Minor Canon had been sustaining, so
she professed herself ready to remain till the end of the ball, and
Harry, with deep gratitude, betook himself to his other partners till
the blissful moment should arrive when he might claim Isoline again.
He saw nothing more of Llewellyn, who had his own affairs and
amusements on hand, and, for once in his life, he was very glad. It is
to be feared that the girls with whom he danced found him dull
company, as most of the time he was turning over in his mind what
possible pretext he could invent for an early visit to Crishowell.
The last dance was Sir Roger de Coverley; a great many people had
resolved to see the entertainment out, and, as Harry stood opposite
Isoline in the ranks, he marked with pleasure that it promised to be a
long affair. He had just come from an interview with the bandmaster,
whom he had thoughtfully taken apart and supplied with a bottle of
champagne, and the purposeful manner in which the little round man was
taking his place among the musicians was reassuring.
Sir Roger is without doubt the most light-hearted and popular of
country dances, nevertheless it is one in which a man is like to see a
great deal more of every one else's partner than of his own. Harry's
time was taken up by bowings, scrapings, and crossings of hands with
the most homely daughter of the Minor Canon, while Isoline went
through the same evolutions with a sprightly gentleman, whose age in
no way hampered the intricate steps with which he ornamented the
occasion. It was unsatisfactory--highly so--like many things ardently
longed for and little enjoyed, and when the music stopped for an
instant before merging itself into "God save the Queen," and people
were bidding each other good-night in groups, the young man ruefully
led her back to her aunt, who was making for the place in which she
had left her cloak. He waited for the two women to come out of the
cloak-room, and then plunged into the street to find the modest fly
which had conveyed his goddess to the ball. The air was bitter, for
the winter sunrise was as yet far off. Coachmen were urging their
horses up to the door, and footmen touching their hats to their
respective masters and mistresses above them on the steps to signify
that their carriages were waiting in the little string that had formed
itself in the road. The fly was wedged in between an omnibus belonging
to one of the town hotels and a large barouche, so there was a few
minutes' delay, in which Harry found time to remind Isoline of her
promise about her uncle. Then he handed Miss Ridgeway respectfully in,
held her niece's fingers in his own for one moment, and the clumsy
vehicle rolled away with a great clatter, leaving him standing upon
the pavement. As he turned to go up the steps he noticed something
lying at his feet, and, stooping, picked up an artificial
forget-me-not.