Terpsichore, at a fashionable watering-place in the New World, affects
pretty much the same airs as in the Old.
In a ball-room, where all are not supposed to be _best people_, the
solitary gentlemen-stranger finds but little opportunity of taking
exercise--especially in the "square-dances." As the coteries make the
sets, and monopolise the choicest portions of the floor, when the room
is crowded and everybody determined to dance, the unlucky wight, without
acquaintances, finds himself sadly overlooked. The stewards are usually
too much occupied with themselves, to remember those honorary duties
represented by rosette or ribbon in the buttonhole.
When it comes to the "round," the stranger stands a better chance. It
is only a matter of mutual consent between two individuals; and he must
be a very insignificant personage, indeed, who cannot then find some
neglected wallflower willing to accommodate him.
Something of this frigidity might have been felt in the atmosphere of a
Newport ball-room; even in those days, _ante bellum_, when shoddy was a
thing unheard-of, and "ile" lay "unstruck" in the dark underground.
Something of it _was_ felt by the young officer lately returned from
Mexico, and who was in fact a greater stranger to the "society" of the
country for which he had been fighting, than to that against which he
had fought!
In both he was but a traveller--half-wandering waif, half-adventurer--
guided in his peregrinations less by interest than inclination.
To go dancing among unknown people is about the dullest occupation to
which a traveller can betake himself; unless the dance be one of the
free kind, where introductions are easy--morris, masque, or fandango.
Maynard knew, or conjectured, this to be true of Newport, as elsewhere.
But for all that, he had determined on going to the ball.
It was partly out of curiosity; partly to kill time; and perhaps not a
little for the chance of again meeting the two girls with whom he had
been so romantically made acquainted.
He had seen them several times since--at the dinner-table, and
elsewhere; but only at a distance, and without claiming the privilege of
his _outre_ introduction.
He was too proud to throw himself in their way. Besides, it was for
them to make the advance, and say whether the acquaintance was to be
kept up.
They did not! Two days had passed, and they did not--either by speech,
epistle, bow, or courtesy!
"What am I to make of these people?" soliloquised he.
"They must be the veriest--" He was going to say "snobs," when checked
by the thought that they were ladies.
Besides, such an epithet to Julia Girdwood! (He had taken pains to make
himself acquainted with her name.) Not more inappropriate than if
applied to a countess or a queen!
With all his gallantry he could not help some spasms of chagrin; the
keener, that, go where he would, Julia Girdwood seemed to go along with
him. Her splendid face and figure appeared ever before him.
To what was he to attribute this indifference--it might be called
ingratitude on her part?
Could it be explained by the promise exacted from him upon the cliff?
This might make it in some way excusable. He had since seen the girls
only with their maternal guardian--a dame of severe aspect. Had the
secret to be kept from _her_! And was this the reason why they were
preserving distance?
It was probable. He had some pleasure in thinking so; but more, when
once or twice, he detected Julia's dark eyes strangely gazing upon him,
and instantly withdrawn, as his became turned upon her.
"The play's the thing, wherewith to touch the conscience of the king,"
Hamlet declared.
The ball! It promised a clearing up of this little mystery, with
perhaps some others. He would be sure to meet them there--mother,
daughter, niece--all three! It would be strange if he could not
introduce himself; but if not, he must trust to the stewards.
And to the ball he went; dressed with as much taste as the laws of
fashion would allow--in those days liberal enough to permit of a white
waistcoat.
With only an occasional interval--transient as the scintillation of a
meteor--it has been black ever since!
The ball-room was declared open.
Carriages were setting down by the piazza of the Ocean House, and silks
rustling along the corridors of that most select of caravanserais.
From the grand dining-saloon, cleared for the occasion (and when
cleared, making a dancing-room worthy of Terpsichore herself), came
those not very harmonious sounds that tell of the tuning of fiddles, and
clearing out the throats of trombones.
The Girdwood party entered with considerable _eclat_--the mother dressed
like a grand-duchess, though without her diamonds. These blazed upon
the brow of Julia, and sparkled on her snow white bosom--for the set
comprised a necklace with pendants.
She was otherwise splendidly attired; and, in truth, looked superb. The
cousin of more modest grace and means, though pretty, seemed as nothing
beside her.
Mrs Girdwood had made a mistake--in coming in too early. It is true
there were fashionable people already in the room. But these were the
"organisers" of the entertainment; who, backed by a sort of
semi-official authority, had gathered in little groups over the floor,
scanning across fans, or through eye-glasses, the dancers as they came
in.
Through these the Girdwoods had to run the gauntlet--as they made their
way to the upper end of the room.
They did so with success, though not without being aware of some
supercilious glances, accompanied by whispered words that, if heard,
might have somewhat disconcerted them.
It was the second Newport ball--"hops" count for nothing--at which Mrs
Girdwood and her girls had shown themselves.
The first had not given great satisfaction--more especially to Julia.
But there was a better prospect now. Mrs Girdwood had entered, with a
confidence based on the conversation she had just held with the
distinguished _incognito_, Mr Swinton.
She had seen this gentleman during the day: for, as already known, he
had not shut himself up in his room. She was sufficiently discerning to
see that he was possessed of a fine face and figure. His hair, too--of
the most aristocratic kind! How could it be otherwise? She alone knew
the reason--she and her daughter; to whom she had, of course,
communicated the secret of her discovery. A bit of broken promise that
need not be severely criticised.
She knew of my lord's late arrival--from Canada he had told her--though
he had paid a flying visit to New York.
She hoped no one in the ball-room would recognise him--at least not till
after she had paraded him with her own party, and could assume the
seeming of his introducer.
She had still stronger reason for this. Storekeeper's widow, as she
was, she possessed the true tact of the match-making mother. It belongs
to no clime exclusively; no country. It can be as well acquired in New
York as in London, Vienna, or Paris. She was a believer in first
impressions--with the "compromises" that often spring from them; and in
this theory--with the view of putting it into practice--she had
instructed her dear Julia while dressing her for the ball.
The daughter had promised compliance. Who wouldn't, with the prospect
of earning twenty thousand dollars' worth of diamonds?