When Miss Trevennon, dressed for the ball, descended to join her
cousin that memorable December evening, she looked undeniably lovely,
and so Mrs. Gaston admitted to herself with supreme satisfaction. The
young girl’s tall beauty was superbly displayed by this rather severe
costume--with its heavy, gleaming drapery falling about her, white and
plain. The flounces of rich lace made a splendid trimming for the long
skirt, which trailed behind her in a graceful, shimmering mass, and the
pointed body outlined to perfection her round and pliant waist. The
dress was cut high, and a fall of the lovely lace finished the throat
and sleeves.
Miss Trevennon’s clear-cut, soft-tinted face was somewhat inanimate
this evening. The ball had lost much of its charm since she had
contemplated the prospect in the morning. In the first place, the
possibility of Charley Somers coming to Washington troubled her, and,
in the second, Alan Decourcy’s words and looks, with a chance of their
repetition this evening, made her uneasy. Besides these, there was a
feeling of disappointment, all the keener for being unowned, even to
herself, that Louis Gaston should not be here to welcome her back, and
to share the interest and pride Cousin Eugenia so evidently took in her
appearance at this ball.
Arrived at their destination, Mrs. Gaston and Margaret, escorted by
General Gaston, were passing through the main hall on their way to the
dressing-rooms, when they came upon Alan Decourcy, with a sumptuously
apparelled lady on his arm. She was a decidedly pretty woman, and
Margaret observed that she clung to her companion with an air of the
friendliest familiarity. She also observed that her pink gauze costume
was somewhat _decolleté_, and that a strap of black velvet stood in
lieu of a sleeve across her white shoulder, a similar bit supporting a
superb pendant of diamonds, which ornamented her fair, round throat.
This lady bowed affably to Mrs. Gaston, and regarded Margaret with a
broad stare. Alan, of course, spoke also, but for some reason Margaret
avoided doing more than just glancing at him as she passed on toward
the staircase.
“And so Mrs. Vere already has your cousin in her toils!” said Mrs.
Gaston, as they were approaching the dressing-room.
“Was that Mrs. Vere?” said Margaret. “Who is she?”
“Oh, she’s one of the most noted of the married belles!” said Mrs.
Gaston. “If Mr. Decourcy were not a man of the world and well able to
take care of himself, it might be well for you to warn him. As it is, I
feel no anxiety about him.”
“And who is Mr. Vere?”
“Mrs. Vere’s husband. He may or may not be here. He’s apt to turn up in
the supper-room.”
Margaret said no more, but set herself to the adjustment of her toilet
with a certain air of preoccupation. Having ascertained by a glance
that her costume was in order, she stood looking very thoughtful as she
waited for her cousin, whose touches here and there consumed a much
longer time.
When the two ladies emerged from the dressing-room together, they found
Alan Decourcy, with General Gaston, awaiting them. He had freed himself
from Mrs. Vere, in some way, and offered his arm to take Margaret
into the room. She laid her hand within it lightly, and they followed
General and Mrs. Gaston in silence.
After they had spoken to their hostess and her daughters, Decourcy led
Miss Trevennon away to make the tour of the rooms, which were ablaze
with lights and flowers, and gorgeous to behold.
“There’s something very distinguished about this dress you are wearing,
Margaret,” he said, in a tone that was caressingly sweet, “or is it,
perhaps, my cousin’s lovely face and figure that make it appear so? You
are looking your very best, yet I never saw you so devoid of color.”
“It’s the contrast with Mrs. Vere’s gorgeousness, perhaps!” said
Margaret, with a rather strained little laugh. “When did you meet Mrs.
Vere, by-the-way?”
He turned suddenly, and looked at her with a glance of keen scrutiny,
but, seeing the utter unsuspiciousness of her frank gaze, he said
carelessly:
“Mrs. Vere? Oh, she’s a very old friend! I hardly remember the time
when I didn’t know Antoinette Vere.”
“Did you know of her being in Washington?”
“Yes, indeed; I saw her when I was in town, the other day. She lives
here.”
“Why, I wonder you did not tell me you had this great friend living
here, and make her come to see me!” said Margaret, in her honest way.
“I didn’t think of it,” he said, somewhat constrainedly. “I didn’t
suppose you’d care for it.”
He turned, then, and called her attention to some especially pretty bit
of decoration, and Mrs. Vere was not mentioned again.
In a few minutes Mr. Leary came up to speak to Miss Trevennon, and,
soon after, one or two other acquaintances appeared, and Margaret was
importuned for dances.
“I shall not dance this evening,” she said, forming the resolution
suddenly. She had not thought of the matter before, but when the time
came she found herself indisposed to dance. There were strong protests
from the young gentlemen, but these her decided manner soon silenced,
and when Mr. Leary offered his arm, to take her to look for a seat, she
looked around for Decourcy and found that he was gone.
For a long while after this, she had not time to think of her cousin.
Scores of people were presented to her, by Mrs. Gaston and others,
and the General whispered to her that his popularity with the young
gentlemen this evening was something phenomenal. She went into the
drawing-room and looked on for a while, and though she kept to her
resolution she might have had two partners for every dance, if she had
chosen. Most of the men whom she declined to dance with manifested an
entire willingness to stop and talk instead, and throughout the evening
she was so well attended, that Cousin Eugenia, who had heard with
quaking of her resolution not to dance, admitted to herself, in the
end, that it had given her young cousin a more distinguished appearance.
When the evening was growing old, and the flowers began to droop and
the music to flag; when the girls began to look the worse for too much
dancing, and the men, in many cases, the worse for too much wine, Miss
Trevennon, finding herself a little weary, yielded to the suggestion
of her companion for the moment, who happened to be Lord Waring, and
allowed herself to be led to a cool, dim recess in the conservatory,
where she sank into a seat to wait, while Lord Waring went for a glass
of water for her. It was very still and quiet here. Almost every one
was occupied either in the supper-room or in dancing, and Margaret
supposed herself to be quite alone, until the sound of low-toned
voices arrested her attention. Turning, she caught sight, between the
branches of some densely leaved palms, of the figures of a man and
woman. The latter’s back was turned, but Margaret recognized the pink
costume and smooth, bare shoulders. The head was raised to meet the
ardent gaze of the man who bent above her. This man’s face was turned
full toward Margaret, and she, too, could see that gaze--a tender,
fervid look that, but a few hours since, had been bent upon herself.
Instinctively she closed her eyes, afraid to look longer, and feeling
a quick pang of horror as she remembered that so recently this man had
kissed her hand. Thank Heaven he had never, for one instant, touched
her heart--that she cared not an atom for him! But suppose it had been
different! Suppose the tenderness he had so successfully counterfeited,
the significant words she had so implicitly believed, had awakened an
answering tenderness in her heart!
As these hurried thoughts rushed through her mind, she rose to her
feet, confused and agitated. Again her troubled gaze rested for one
instant upon another vision of those two figures through the vista
of flowers and leaves, but it was for an instant only, for she felt
a swift instinct of flight, and forgetting Lord Waring and the fact
that he would expect to find her where he had left her, she fled from
the conservatory and entered the room beyond. Bewildered, agitated,
weak, uncertain, she looked about her with a troubled gaze, and met the
steadfast eyes of Louis Gaston.
With a look of joyful relief she hastened toward him and placed her
hand, with a confiding motion, within the arm he extended. His calm
and self-collected aspect, the firm support of his strong arm, the
repose of his quiet manner, the freshness of his evening toilet,
recently made, which contrasted so pleasantly with the somewhat
dishevelled and flushed appearance of many of the men at this late
hour, all these were so restful and reassuring that Margaret drew a
long breath of contentment to find herself so safe.
“Where did you come from?” she said. “You were the very last person I
expected to see.”
“I returned from New York by the evening train, and, late as it was,
I concluded to dress and come to the ball. I have seen my hostess,
who has kindly forgiven my tardiness, and my next thought was to find
you. I was in the act of seeking you in the supper-room when you
unexpectedly appeared before me, solitary and alone.”
“I was _so_ glad to see you,” she said, with the unconscious simplicity
a child might have shown.
He took her words as naturally as they were uttered, and said simply:
“How did you happen to be alone?”
“Oh, Lord Waring was with me,” she said, suddenly, remembering her
errant knight. “He went to get me some water. I wonder where he is.”
At this moment Lord Waring appeared at the door of the conservatory,
glass in hand.
Margaret hurriedly made her apologies, explaining her having caught
sight of Mr. Gaston unexpectedly, his recent return from New York, etc.
His lordship accepted her explanation in good part, and when Margaret
had drunk the water rather eagerly he went off to return the glass,
saying he would see her again.
He had scarcely disappeared when Gaston and Margaret, going out into
the hall, saw Mrs. Vere and Alan Decourcy coming toward them.
Gaston suddenly stood still, detaining his companion by a slight
pressure of the arm, and said, hurriedly:
“It is just possible that Mrs. Vere may ask you to join a theatre-party
she is getting up for to-morrow evening. Forgive me if I take the
liberty of suggesting that you shall decline if she should do so. Make
an engagement to go with me instead, and just excuse yourself on the
plea of a previous engagement. I hope you will pardon my venturing to
advise you.”
“Certainly,” said Margaret; “but she will not ask me. I do not know
her.”
Mrs. Vere, however, was coming straight toward them, and she now
stopped in front of them, and giving Louis a tap with her fan, said:
“Present me to Miss Trevennon,” and when Gaston had complied, she went
on in a rather boisterous tone:
“I’ve been teasing your cousin to present me to you all the evening,
Miss Trevennon; but I suppose he wanted the monopoly of you, for he
would not even bring me into your neighborhood.”
“It may have been that he wanted the monopoly of yourself,” said
Gaston, looking at her keenly and speaking in his quietest tones.
“Well, it’s more than you’ll ever want, then!” said Mrs. Vere, pertly;
“so you can just keep yourself out of the matter.”
“I have every intention of doing so, madam,” said Gaston, gravely. “I
know my place, and I value my peace of mind.”
Mrs. Vere flashed a quick, vindictive glance at him, as he uttered
these quiet words, and then turning to Margaret, she said:
“I want to ask you to join a little theatre-party I am giving to-morrow
evening, Miss Trevennon. There will be eight of us, and we are going to
see _As You Like It_, and have a little supper at my house afterward.
Now don’t say you have any other engagement.”
“Unfortunately I must,” said Margaret, conscious of the insincerity of
the qualifying term, and yet too grateful to Louis for preparing her
for this contingency to feel very contrite on account of it. “I have
already pledged myself elsewhere.”
“How tiresome!” said Mrs. Vere, darting a suspicious glance at Louis,
which he met with imperturbable gravity. “By-the-way, I called on you
while you were in Baltimore. I suppose you got my card.”
And, without waiting for an answer, she moved away, on Decourcy’s arm,
saying, as if half involuntarily:
“I detest that man.”
Decourcy, who was looking somewhat preoccupied, made no answer, until
she gave his arm a little jerk and said, with the petulance of a child:
“What’s the matter with you? Why don’t you speak?”
“What can I say, except that I feel deeply sorry for poor Gaston, and
appropriately grateful that I do not happen to be in his place.”
He spoke in his softest tones, but Mrs. Vere knew instinctively that
her spell was, for the time being, broken. Well! it had been broken
before, she reflected, and she had always succeeded in mending it, and
she felt confident she could do so again.
Meantime, as Margaret and Louis walked away, to look for Mrs. Gaston,
the former said:
“Was it not rather odd that Mrs. Vere didn’t ask you to join her party?”
“She did,” said Louis. “She wrote me a note, which was forwarded to me
in New York.”
“And what did you do?” asked Margaret.
“Excused myself on the score of another engagement.”
“But you didn’t----” she began, and then stopped with uplifted eyebrows.
“I know,” he answered, smiling; “but I foresaw at least the possibility
that you would be propitious.”
“I think she’s angry with you about it.”
“Very likely. She’s been angry with me before.”
“I didn’t know, until to-night, that she was an old friend of Alan’s,”
said Margaret.
“Oh yes,” he answered, indifferently; “it’s an affair of long standing,
I hear.”
“What do you mean?” said Margaret, facing him with a sudden surprise,
and then, remembering the scene she had witnessed in the conservatory,
she averted her eyes, and was silent.
“I merely meant,” he answered, in a tone of quick regret, “that I
happened to hear Waring say that they were friends in London, last
year. Mr. and Mrs. Vere spent the season there, and your cousin
happening to be there also, naturally saw them often--all being
Americans together.”
At this point they caught sight of Mrs. Gaston, and Margaret hastened
to join her, and so the subject was very willingly dropped by them both.
Cousin Eugenia declared and reiterated that Margaret had been a shining
success at this ball, but of that the girl thought and cared little.
But for many days to come, the recurring thoughts of that evening
brought with them certain memories that rankled, as well as certain
others that comforted and soothed.