THE BALL AT RUFFORD.
The evening of the ball found Alice arraying herself at her cheval
glass, an admiring Abigail was twitching and pulling at her dress--she
also admired herself in no small degree. The glass reflected an
exquisitely-fitting white silk ball costume, trimmed with clouds
of soft lace, tulle, and silver--it was not merely a dress, it
was an inspiration. A thick collar of diamonds encircled her
throat--Reginald’s wedding present; three diamond stars to correspond
sparkled in her hair; silver and diamond bangles, long white gloves,
and a feather fan completed her toilet.
Mary, in pale pink (her particular colour), looked remarkably well;
but Alice _killed_ her; no one would look at her twice beside such a
dazzling vision of loveliness.
Together they descended to the hall, and found Mr. and Mrs. Mayhew,
Geoffrey, and Reginald awaiting them, the two latter in the full
splendour of their hussar uniform. Maurice, who had been allowed to sit
up for once, seemed duly to appreciate the great occasion, and viewed
his father with profound and unmistakable admiration; even the radiant
apparition in white that came floating down the staircase was powerless
to divert his attention.
* * * * *
After an eight-mile drive the Monkswood party found themselves at the
scene of action, and amidst a throng of carriages and blaze of lights
descended at the entrance.
“We shall have to sort ourselves now,” remarked Geoffrey, as he sprang
out with the bound of a kangaroo. “You and Alice, Regy--Miss Ferrars
and I will follow--lead the way.”
On a table in the entrance-hall lay heaps of gilded programmes. Sir
Reginald picked up two as he passed, and, handing one to his wife, said
carelessly:
“You will give me a dance, Alice; won’t you?”
“Certainly,” she replied, secretly much surprised at the request. “I
have promised Geoffrey the second valse; what will you have?”
“The valse after supper, when the room is not so crowded. There seem to
be hundreds here,” glancing through the ball-room. “Let me see,” taking
her programme and looking at it for an instant; “Number fourteen,
‘Brises des Nuits,’ I’ll take that, thanks,” scribbling his initials
and handing back her card. “We had better move on now, the door is no
longer blocked.”
They at last succeeded in making their way to Lady Rufford, who
received them with much _empressement_; and Alice, after exchanging
a few words with her hostess, was eagerly engaged for the ensuing
lancers by a little Russian prince, who had clamorously begged for an
introduction.
It is almost needless to describe a large ball in a country house;
there is a strong family likeness among them, one is very much like
another. A good floor, good supper, Liddell’s band, and flowers in all
directions constitute the chief features. The house party, the _élite_
of the county, formed some portion of those present. There were pretty
country girls with rather _outré_ dresses; there were stylish young
ladies, who went to town every season, and wore unimpeachable frocks,
to these a ball was a very ordinary affair; there were young men, bored
and _blasé_, lounging against doors and walls, and looking superior
to the whole thing; rustic sons of neighbouring squires, uncouth and
unpolished, enjoying themselves hugely in elephantine gambols with
the partners of their choice. There were the chaperones--already
languishing for supper, a large military contingent, and an immense
number of outsiders, to whom this ball was the great social event of
the year. The rooms were crowded; the reception-room, tea-room, and
ball-room were almost impassible, not to speak of the staircase and all
the nooks and corners that were crammed.
Alice and Reginald were personally but little known, and they overheard
various remarks about themselves of a highly laudatory character. For
instance, during a pause in a valse Reginald’s lively partner, who was
freely discussing the dancers, exclaimed:
“Do look at that girl in white, just opposite. There, standing next the
pillar. How she and that boy are enjoying themselves! They seem too
intimate for you to call it a flirtation, and not sufficiently tender
for an engaged couple. Who can they be? I have never seen them before.”
Seeing her partner smile, she added:
“Ah, I believe you know them!”
“I do,” he calmly replied. “The boy, who would be extremely indignant
if he heard you call him one, is Mr. Saville, of the Fifth Hussars; and
the young lady with him is his cousin, and my wife.”
“Your wife! you don’t say so? You are joking! Is that really Lady
Fairfax? She looks so preposterously young, I could easily imagine this
to be her first ball.”
“Nevertheless, she has been married for more than three years.”
“She is uncommonly pretty,” returned the young lady, gazing at her with
all her eyes. “Several people have asked me who she was, but I did not
know. She is quite the belle of the evening. Don’t you think so?”
“I always agree with a lady, especially when it is a question of
taste,” was his evasive answer. “Shall we take another turn?”
“Not very _enthusiastic_ about his wife,” was his partner’s mental
observation as they once more joined the dancers.
“Who is the lovely girl in white?” was a question that half the room
were asking each other. Alice is at last obtaining a _social success_,
dozens of partners vainly beg for dances. She is turning the heads of
all the young men, and filling the breasts of her own sex with the
devouring flame of envy.
Supper was served at round tables accommodating ten or twelve. Sir
Reginald and his partner had taken their places at one at which he
was a stranger to all the other guests. A fat red-faced man, who was
voraciously gobbling down lobster-salad, remarked to his neighbours:
“Capital ball! capital supper!”
“Yes,” replied a bored-looking youth, with a patronising drawl, “good
floor, lots of pretty girls.”
“Ah!” added a third, helping himself to ham, “but there is no one
that comes within the length of a street of that girl in white, Lady
Fairfax.”
“Quite agree with you,” responded the bored one, in a tone of deep
approval.
“Could not get a dance, though,” said another; “card crammed.”
“But,” pleaded his partner, a young person with a figure and dress
resembling a pink-and-white pin-cushion, “although she is quite too
lovely, she has a melancholy expression when her face is in repose. I
admire a more _riant_ style. I think Miss Gordon is more taking, though
not so strictly pretty.”
“I think so too,” said another lady; “Miss Gordon is _my_ beauty.”
“You are welcome to her, ladies,” responded the red-faced squire; “none
of the gentlemen will dispute her with you--we are all sworn admirers
of Lady Fairfax. She’s like a princess--a fairy princess. Let’s drink
her health,” seizing a magnum of champagne and suiting the action to
the word, having already supped “not wisely, but too well.”
Reginald, much disgusted, was tied to this particular table by his
partner’s wants--the demands of a locust-like appetite.
“Never so tiresome or so hungry a girl,” he thought, as he replenished
her plate time after time.
“What fun it is to hear them discussing your wife,” she whispered; “you
should get up and return thanks. How taken aback they would look.”
“I don’t think I will disturb their equanimity so cruelly,” he
returned. “But if you have _quite_ finished, we will adjourn. The next
dance has commenced, and your partner is sure to be anathematising me.”
As he rose and left the table, someone said:
“Who is the young hussar fellow with the V.C. and the scowl?”
“Walking down the room with the girl in green?” answered a
quiet-looking man, who had taken the vacant place, and was critically
scanning the _menu_.
“Yes, the same.”
“Oh, that’s Fairfax.” (Sensation at the supper-table.)
Sir Reginald having recovered his liberty, was on his way to seek for a
fresh partner, when he came face to face with one of the Twenty-Ninth
who had been his host at Cheetapore. After a few brief expressions of
pleasure and astonishment, the dragoon asked the hussar where he was
staying, etc.
“I hope I shall have the pleasure of being presented to your wife. She
is here, is she not?”
“Yes, but she is dancing at present.”
“Point her out, please; I am most anxious to see her.”
“Coming this way, in the white dress, dancing with the Highlander.”
“Jove!” ejaculated the dragoon, when she had passed. An enormous amount
of admiration was compressed into that one syllable.
“You are a lucky fellow,” he added, surveying his companion enviously.
“If I could get a wife like that, I’d marry to-morrow. Has she a
sister?”
“No.”
“Has she a cousin with a family likeness?”
“Don’t be a fool, Carew,” replied Sir Reginald impatiently.
“I’m perfectly serious. There, she is sitting down now,” seizing his
friend by the arm; “come along and introduce me.”
But ere they reached the ottoman another partner had claimed Alice and
carried her away.
“Never mind,” said Sir Reginald consolingly, “come over to-morrow and
dine and sleep. That will be a much better opportunity for making my
wife’s acquaintance.”
Meantime Alice had been enjoying herself excessively. She was very fond
of dancing; the floor and the music were all that could be desired, and
she had had a succession of good partners. Her spirits, as Geoffrey
remarked to her, were quite up to concert-pitch, and she was spending a
very pleasant evening.
“So was Reginald,” she thought, as she observed him dancing every
dance, and selecting with much discrimination the prettiest girls in
the room! At length her waltz, number fourteen, came round. She had
been in to supper with a young lord, who, anxious to retain the belle
of the evening on his arm as long as possible, was parading slowly up
and down, entreating her for “one more dance.”
“But I really cannot give you one; I have already put down four extra
dances that are not on the card.”
“Let me look at your programme, if you don’t mind,” he asked with cool
superiority.
She handed it to him unhesitatingly.
Yes, every dance was full!
“Who is this fellow, R.M.F., who has got himself down for the next?
Can’t you throw him over--forget all about it--and give it to a very
deserving young man instead?”
“How do you know that the other is not a very deserving young man
also?” she asked with a smile.
“Who is he? He did not even give you his valuable autograph! Maybe he
is not very keen about dancing--ten to one he is at supper! Who is he?”
he repeated pertinaciously.
“He is my husband, since you insist on knowing.”
“Your husband----” with an impatient gesture, “oh, come then, that’s
all right. The laws of society don’t permit married people to dance
together. I never heard of such a thing. You’ll give _me_ the dance,
won’t you?” he added with tranquil confidence.
“No, certainly not!” she replied quietly.
“But if he forgets all about it, as he is sure to do--what then?”
“Your inference is not very flattering. But in that ‘case
unprecedented’ you may have the dance with pleasure,” rejoined Alice
with a smile.
“You are not a _bride_, are you?” he asked anxiously, after a moment’s
silence.
“Oh no; I’ve been married more than three years,” she returned with
some dignity.
“And may I ask if you always dance with your husband at balls?”
“Never, as yet, since we have been married,” she replied, looking
down and surveying the toe of her slender satin shoe, with critical
inspection.
“Well, mind you don’t throw me over. Let us sit down here at the end of
the room till the band strikes up.”
Presently the strains of “Brises des Nuits” was heard, recalling
wandering dancers.
“Look, Lady Fairfax! here’s a good-looking young hussar coming over
here. I know he is going to ask you to dance. Remember your promise.”
“Where is he?” she asked indifferently.
“There, in the middle of the room. He has stopped to speak to that
little artillery-man with the sandy moustache. Don’t you see him? A
handsome, determined-looking fellow. I saw a fixed purpose in his eye
just now, but you won’t _hear_ of it, will you? Here he comes.”
“But he is my husband!” exclaimed Alice triumphantly. “You see he did
not forget the dance after all.”
“That Fairfax? Why, I thought he was quite elderly, and he does not
look more than six or seven and twenty. I see he is a V.C., and I have
been wondering who he was all the evening. Will you introduce me?”
“I believe this is our dance, Alice?” said Sir Reginald, stiffly.
“Yes, I think so,” she replied, rising with assumed indifference.
Having presented her late partner, she took her husband’s arm and
joined the dancers; one step--two steps--and they floated off.
“How well that couple waltz,” was remarked by more than one. “They are
the best dancers in the room,” observed a man who considered himself a
good judge and a still better performer.
Their step suited exactly, and they glided easily in and out among
the bumping, revolving crowd, with a combination of ease and grace
that justified his remark. Reginald’s London seasons stood him in good
stead; and when Alice felt his arm firmly encircling her waist, and
they plunged into the giddy vortex, she was perfectly confident that,
so good was his steering, so quick his eye, and so perfect his step,
that no matter what frantic or ponderous couples were afloat, _she_
would meet with no collisions. She could not restrain a pardonable
feeling of pride as she saw glance after glance levelled at herself
and her husband with unmistakable approval. It was some time before
Steepshire society realised the stupendous fact that “Fairfax was
dancing with his wife.” It was: “Who is the pretty girl dancing
with Fairfax?” or, “Who is the hussar Lady Fairfax has got hold of?”
But when they had taken the idea well into their minds they were
dumbfounded. “Where was the _divorcée_? Where was the enraged husband?
Above all, where was the _idiot_ who had promoted such a scandal? The
Fairfaxes were on the very best of terms. They were the handsomest
couple in the room; they were _devoted_ to each other.” Such were the
whispers that floated round; and Alice was rehabilitated as quickly as
her friends could desire, and placed, by public opinion, on the very
top rung of the social ladder.
Alice knew perfectly that her husband had danced with her with an
object in view. She felt that it was a most decided “duty dance.” Not
for an instant did his arm linger round her waist; not for a second
did his hand press hers. If she had been the merest stranger he could
not have treated her with more distant ceremony. She paused to take
breath for a few seconds, and they came to a standstill just opposite
a large mirror, which faced them right across the room. She looked
over, and saw a tall slight girl in white, fanning herself with a large
feather fan; and it also reflected a very good-looking hussar, clad in
all the pomp and panoply of his profession. His dark-blue gold-laced
uniform became him well. He was leaning against the wall, watching
the crowd with an air of supreme indifference and a decidedly bored
expression of countenance. “Who would think we were husband and wife?”
thought Alice, as she glanced once more at that couple across the
room--“who, indeed? I will make one more effort to-night if I have an
opportunity. It will be my last attempt at making friends. If I fail
now I fail for ever.”
When the dance had concluded, Sir Reginald led his partner through
the series of long rooms, in the wake of a multitude of others; not
a few drifted aside into various sequestered bowers of flirtation,
but the mass of dancers kept on moving down the great corridor; their
goal appeared to be the garden, and many couples were soon scattered
over its grassy sward. Our hero and heroine found their way into
the conservatory. It was a charming place; a dim religious light,
distributed by Chinese lanterns, sufficed to show gigantic tropical
plants, palms, pyramids of flowers, and various cunningly-placed
crimson seats for _two_. Having found a vacancy in a retired nook,
Sir Reginald threw himself into one corner of the sofa when Alice had
seated herself at the other; a silence, broken only by the murmur of
half-a-dozen adjacent flirtations and the splash of a fountain, lasted
for at least five minutes.
“What possessed me to come here?” thought Reginald to himself. “Absence
of mind? I forgot for the moment it was not old times. This is just
the sort of place we used to affect before we were married.” He looked
at his wife--contemplated her with a grave critical scrutiny almost
severe. She was leaning back in her corner, playing with her fan. The
red background of the couch threw her slender graceful figure into bold
relief. She was very lovely, certainly; and now he came to think of it,
there _was_ a melancholy look on her face when in repose.
“Reginald,” she said, sitting up and facing him, “do you remember the
last time we danced together?”
“No! I think not!” he answered dubiously.
(I think you _do_, Sir Reginald.)
“It was at the Lancasters; we danced together half the evening.”
“Did we? Then we must have made ourselves rather remarkable,” he
replied, with a short laugh, breaking off a large bit of fern and
critically examining its fronds.
“Do you remember the ball at Burford House?”
Considering that it was at that very ball he had proposed to her, he
could not well plead forgetfulness.
“I do, of course,” he answered, glancing at her quickly, and pausing
in the act of dissecting the fern bit by bit. “What is the good of
calling up these reminiscences? There are some things which are best
forgotten,” he added with cool judicial serenity.
“Do you wish to forget _that_ evening, Reginald?” she asked in a tone
of low reproach, and raising her fan to hide her trembling lips.
“Well, no,” he replied slowly and with evident reluctance. “Not yet;
but I quite agree with Balzac that ‘Life would be intolerable without
a certain amount of forgetting;’ and I am glad to say that I have
forgotten _much_.”
“Why should you endeavour to forget? Why are you so changed to me,
Reginald?” she asked with an enormous effort. “What makes you so stern,
so hard to me?” she faltered, laying a timid little hand on his. “Won’t
you tell me?”
He would--he will--he is about to speak--he has thrown away the
fern-stalk, and has taken her hand firmly in his own. Precisely at this
critical moment a well-known voice exclaimed jovially:
“So here you are!” and Geoffrey suddenly appeared before them. “Fairly
run to earth! A nice dance you’ve led me. None but a couple of regular
professional flirts would have found out this cover. Alice, your
partners are literally tearing each other to pieces in the ball-room,
and unless you wish for _bloodshed_ you had better be off--it’s really
serious!” offering his arm. “You have five men waiting for the same
dance.”
Oh, Geoffrey! Geoffrey! If you had only come five minutes later!
Reginald dropped Alice’s hand like the traditional live coal, and Alice
shrank back into her corner of the sofa at the first sound of her
cousin’s approach.
“I’m engaged for this too,” said Reginald, rising and looking at his
programme. “You will take Alice back to the ball-room, I suppose,
then?” he observed, with extraordinary command of countenance; and,
turning away, he sauntered off, ostensibly in search of his own partner.
The ball was over; people were leaving in crowds--the Fairfaxes among
the first flight.
“Alice,” said Geoffrey from his corner of the carriage, “I am proud of
you; you took the shine out of them all to-night. _Now_ I can believe
in the old duke’s infatuation.”
“What duke?” asked Miss Ferrars sleepily.
“Have you never heard that the old Duke of St. Remo, old enough to be
her great-grandfather, fell madly in love with my pretty little cousin
when she was at Nice, and proposed in due form?”
“Geoffrey, be quiet; you are really very provoking. Do leave me alone,”
crossly.
“Don’t interrupt; you know you are very _proud_ of his scalp, though
you would not be a duchess. Is not his proposal kept among our family
archives to this day?”
“Geoffrey! only I am so sleepy I would box your ears. Meanwhile, permit
me to remind you of one word--the mystic word, _wait_!”
“Fancy, descending from a duke to a baronet! I am a deeply injured
man. Only for your nonsense I might have been quoting ‘My cousin, the
duchess.’ You would have made such a sweet little nurse. I daresay
you would have been spoon-feeding the dear old fellow by this time,
whereas, thanks to your heartless conduct, he has been hurried to an
early grave.”
“How foolish of you not to have accepted him, Alice,” put in Mary, with
lazy interest.
“Was she not? Miss Fane did all she could to make her; but she only
cried and sobbed, and made no end of scenes; so she had to get her own
way. You always _do_ get your own way, don’t you, Lady Fairfax?”
But all this was thrown away on Alice, who was leaning back in her
corner apparently fast asleep.
“Only we had to go in our war-paint, it was a very pleasant ball,
wasn’t it, Rex? I’m nearly smothered in this tunic. I suppose you, as
my senior officer, would not hear of my taking it off, would you?”
“No,” replied Reginald, with a yawn; “suppose you follow the general
example and go to sleep. I’ll excuse _that_ if you like.”
A very weary, drowsy party ascended the shallow steps of Monkswood, as
the stars were disappearing and giving place to the gray dawn. With
yawns and candles they all dispersed, leaden-footed, to their own
apartments, to seek tired nature’s soft restorer, sleep.
But there was little sleep for Sir Reginald, nor had he any apparent
inclination to woo the fickle goddess, as he paced his long, low-roofed
bedchamber from end to end.
“What did Alice mean, to-night?” he said to himself. “How weak I am
where she is concerned! I was on the point of yielding; only for
Geoffrey it was all over with me. Fancy a Fairfax breaking his word of
honour--his oath! Well, in ten days’ time I may go; in ten days more I
shall have made sufficient sacrifice to the shrine of public opinion,
and in ten days I shall be out of the way of temptation.”
A knock at the door--an angry knock.
Enter to him Geoffrey, robed in a dressing-gown of blinding brilliancy.
“I say, Rex, are you doing sentry go? because, if _not_, will you have
the goodness to remember that my room is under yours?”
Exit, with slam of door.
Reginald accepted the rebuke, and ceasing his promenade seated himself
on the edge of his bed in a very dissatisfied frame of mind. He had
miscalculated his strength on which he piqued himself. His iron will
appeared a very flexible article to him now. He had thought himself
man enough to remain at Monkswood, mixing daily and familiarly with
Alice, unmoved and unruffled, the very embodiment of the typical
iceberg; and now he found he could not bear it, it was too much for his
self-control. How capricious she was! one morning full of solicitude
for his safety, changing ere evening like the veriest weathercock. On
rare occasions amazing him with a glimpse of her former self, as on the
day after Helen’s arrival (attributed by him to the immediate result of
Helen’s influence), and on the evening before the races. After that,
the thermometer of her manners changed from fair to freezing. But this
evening again there had been a thaw. What did it mean? Better sustain
an even temperament throughout as he did. She was ready enough to
reproach him with harshness, to win him into good-humour with herself,
to recur to the past as if there were no barrier between them, and that
barrier wholly erected and sustained by her. Had she forgotten that
he had sworn he would never be reconciled save on one condition? Not
likely; she must remember it as well as he did himself.
“If I could believe that she cared for me,” he said, “it would be
different. Once or twice I have been mad enough to think so, but only
for a moment; cool reflection, and Alice’s subsequent treatment,
effectually dispelled my illusions on that score. She never would have
left me all those years without one line; she never would have given
me such a freezing reception, not one word of welcome for the present
or regret for the past. Reginald Fairfax,” he added aloud, as he rose
and began to pull off his tunic, “listen to common sense, keep out of
your wife’s way, for you are a greater fool than I thought you; keep
aloof from her altogether, if you would wish to say when you leave
this roof for ever, all is lost save _honour_. If she had had anything
to say to you, it would have been said long ago. Sitting up all night
won’t mend matters. Sitting up all night won’t make her ask you to
forgive and forget; she will never give in. And,” after a pause and
glancing at himself sternly in the glass, “if I know _you_, you’ll
never give in either.” Having garrisoned his mind with this reflection,
he followed the example of the household, and went to bed.