The great day dawned at last; the day of the Hunt Ball, which took
place annually in the Town Hall of Ridgefield, and was attended by
everybody who was anyone--and many nobodies.
Letty’s white _crêpe_, completed with her assistance, was charming;
soft, girlish, and yet distinguished--for her mental eye had copied it
from one of the trousseau gowns of a young and royal princess.
Mrs. Fenchurch, who was not remarkable for her taste in dress, wore
a ginger-coloured velvet, with opal ornaments; but she carried
herself with dignity and looked a Claremont, and a personage! Colonel
Fenchurch, in his pink coat, black satin breeches, and neat silk
stockings, squeezed himself into the brougham, with many compliments
for his two companions.
The town of Ridgefield was eight miles away, and as the family bowled
along the road at a steady pace, the Colonel dozed, his wife meditated
with closed eyes; but their niece all the time stared out on the
brown hedges and bare ditches, which were illuminated by the flashing
carriage lamps. Of what was she thinking? Was it possible that she was
wondering if Lancelot Lumley would be at the ball?
The Holt party were somewhat late arrivals, and when the carriage drew
up under an awning in front of the Town Hall, the first to step out
and run the gauntlet of many spectators was Colonel Fenchurch. He had
a remarkably well-turned leg, and looked particularly spruce. His wife
followed with impressive deliberation, and last of all came the young
lady in white. Her appearance was greeted with a loud murmur, as she
floated up the steps in the wake of her relations.
As they left the cloak-room, Mrs. Fenchurch, who had received many
greetings, was confronted with a lady in a superb sable cloak; a
handsome woman with flashing black eyes, and wearing in her hair a
magnificent diamond ornament.
“Oh, Mrs. Fen,” she exclaimed, “how are you? Going strong, eh?” Then
her eyes suddenly alighted on Mrs. Fen’s companion, and she gave her a
hard, critical stare.
“Ah, I suppose this little girl is the niece? going to take her
preliminary canter?” and with a patronising nod, she passed on to the
dressing-room.
Letty encountered her aunt’s eye, who, seizing her arm to lead her
forward, said:
“That is Mrs. Flashman, a wonderful rider, but an odious, detestable
creature, who slams gates, jostles you at fences, and swears at her
horses, and her servants.”
Two minutes later, Miss Glyn found herself with a programme in her
hand, standing in the ball-room. This was beautifully decorated, a
military band was established in the gallery, and the sides of the
room and a sort of platform at the upper end were densely crowded
with guests. Others were promenading up and down impatiently awaiting
the next waltz. Many neighbours had brought large house-parties, whose
smart gowns and splendid jewels, gave an air of London society to the
Brakesley Hunt Ball.
Mrs. Fenchurch paced slowly towards the dais. On her way, she
encountered several acquaintances, and introduced her niece to Lord
Seafield--a thin young man with a very prominent nose and no chin--to
Sir Edgar Broome, the M.F.H., and to the Dowager Duchess of Campshire.
Before ascending the platform, she was accosted by Lancelot Lumley, who
came forward eagerly, programme in hand, and said:
“I hope Miss Glyn can spare me a couple of waltzes?”
Miss Glyn promptly produced her programme, and he scribbled his
initials before three. The next, which was just beginning, the one
before supper, and number twelve.
Mrs. Fenchurch looked on with glum disapproval. _Three_ dances to an
impecunious subaltern! But she could not offer any audible objection,
and as the band struck up he said:
“Shall we make a start now before the room gets crammed?” and light as
a feather the young lady was whirled away, and the elder was compelled
to mount to the platform alone. But from this and other coigns of
vantage, the extraordinary beauty of Miss Glyn was soon remarked.
Indeed, her own chaperon, as she surveyed her through her best gold
glasses, assured herself, that she had never until now realised the
girl’s astonishing good looks! Of course dress went a long way, so
did youth--and candle-light; but Letty’s profile was perfect, her
complexion, the shape of her face, the setting on of her head, were
beyond criticism--and then her grace!
As Dorothy Fenchurch watched the white form revolving round and round,
she began to experience an intoxicating sensation; the stimulating
conviction was borne in upon her, that she had a valuable prize to
offer in the marriage market!
Seen just at home, running about in her school frocks and garden
apron, Letty was merely a pretty girl, with lots of hair, and a good
complexion; here, in the midst of the magnates of the land, she was
the beauty of the evening! People--her neighbours--gathered about Mrs.
Fenchurch and began to talk, discussing local news, the recent weather,
the various notable magnates who had honoured the ball.
“I say, Mrs. Fen, have you noticed the lovely nymph in white and
silver?” enquired the Secretary of the Hunt. “I haven’t seen anything
so exquisite for years; _do_ let me show her to you?”
“There is no occasion, thank you, she is my niece, Miss Glyn,”
proclaimed the uplifted aunt.
“What--your niece?” echoed a matron. “Why, my dear lady, where have you
kept her all this time?”
“She has only been with us about two months.”
“And you have defrauded us of two months,” burst in a young man. “Mrs.
Fen, how dared you?”
“No, no,” protested Mrs. Flashman of the bold eyes and a scandalously
_décolleté_ dress. “Mrs. Fenchurch is a clever woman. She understands
the art of an effective surprise!”
By this time the music had ceased, and Miss Glyn, a little breathless
and looking radiantly happy, was brought back to her aunt--now
encompassed by a number of men clamouring for introductions. In the
midst of this triumphant scene, a square-shouldered individual,
perfectly groomed, with the blue of his strong beard showing through
his heavy, clean-shaven face, stepped up on the platform. It was the
psychological moment! Here was the girl he had noticed at the gate,
surrounded by competitive partners, and he said to himself, “No
wonder!” This dazzling vision in white and silver, eclipsed every woman
in the room! He accosted Mrs. Fenchurch with unusual _empressement_,
and then glanced interrogatively at her companion.
“Oh, let me present you to my niece--Mr. Blagdon--Miss Glyn,” she
murmured with effusive haste.
“Got any dances to spare?” he asked with an off-hand air.
“Yes,” she answered; “I have two or three left--but----”
“Are you engaged for the next?” he interrupted brusquely.
As this happened to be a set of Lancers, she breathed a reluctant “No.”
“Oh, then _I_ may have it?” he declared, confronting her with a bold
and confident eye. As she yielded her card, he wrote himself down for
this, as well as two others (which Letty had secretly been keeping
for Lancelot Lumley). “H. Blagdon” was also marked before an extra;
but a man with many thousands a year is granted a liberal margin.
Mrs. Fenchurch was looking on; her eyes glittered, a real colour came
into her thin cheeks. Supposing that he had taken a fancy to Letty?
It would be too wonderful to think of! The most promising suitor she
had allowed herself to expect, was some officer from a neighbouring
depôt; but then, until that evening she had never fully understood the
value of the treasure she had hidden at The Holt. Now, her ambition,
determination, and energy, were stirred, and she was resolved that
Letty should make a _great_ match. Everyone knew that Hugo Blagdon
‘barred girls’: he never noticed them, never danced with them--indeed,
he rarely danced at all--generally he sat in a remote corner with some
notorious married woman--yet here he was, filling up the programme of
her niece, and devouring her shy beauty with his hard, bold eyes.
Undoubtedly most people liked to look at Letty. Was there ever such a
perfect little nose, such a short upper lip, delicately cut mouth, or
sweeping black lashes?
Presently the Lancers struck up, and Blagdon, offering his arm,
conducted his partner down the room, as it were in triumph; undoubtedly
she was the star of the evening! As he passed along, he noticed that
the eyes of everyone were fixed upon his companion. This was just the
sort of girl that would suit him for a wife! a girl so remarkable, so
absolutely perfect in appearance, that all the jealous world would
stare at her open-mouthed.
Having invited an aristocratic _vis-à-vis_, they took their places in
a set and danced. Blagdon found Miss Glyn shy--she had not much to say
for herself. With difficulty he gathered that she didn’t hunt, had
only lately left school, and was seventeen last birthday; but it was
sufficiently agreeable for him to feel that she was the cynosure of all
eyes, and that he was the envy of every man in the room!
Mrs. Flashman, who was in the same set, swam hither and thither in her
gorgeous French gown, and now and then darted glances of sarcastic
amusement at her friend Hugo and the little baby; and whispered _en
passant_ in the Grand Chain:
“_Where_ is the bread and butter?”
The remainder of that evening was, from her aunt’s point of view, an
uninterrupted triumph for Letty: a number of influential people had
begged to make her acquaintance; envious and rancorous rivals--mothers
of large families, had uttered spiteful things about Hugo Blagdon. He
had taken her niece to supper, had only danced with her that night,
and when not dancing, had posted himself where he could keep her in
view--all of which signs and tokens even the most comatose chaperon
could not fail to note! Oh, it was undoubtedly a case.
Had Letty enjoyed her first ball? She was not sure. She enjoyed dancing
with Mr. Lumley and with various other young men; she enjoyed the band,
and the ices, and loved dancing for dancing’s sake, but somehow there
seemed to be between Mr. Lumley and Mr. Blagdon a sharp but secret
conflict for her company. When she was swinging round in the arms of
Mr. Lumley, she was aware that the other was watching them closely; and
when it was Blagdon’s dance he stalked up and claimed her with an air
of appropriation, that she found both disagreeable and disconcerting.
However she danced the last waltz that evening with the soldier--who
informed her that he had come all the way from Aldershot on purpose to
claim her promise! He was so good-looking, he had a charming voice and
such nice eyes; little Letty’s heart beat quickly, and the colour came
into her cheeks.
“Give my love to Aunt Harriet,” he said; “and tell her that I will run
over and see her before very long, and stay three or four days.”
For a moment the girl felt ecstatically happy, inspired by an
unreasoning joy and strangely moved and uplifted; but it was Mr.
Blagdon who escorted her to have a cup of soup at the buffet before she
departed, who stared at her with an expression that frightened her,
and who conducted her down to the entrance hall through a long line of
spectators. And never had Letty known her aunt to be so gracious, so
affectionate, or in such talkative good-humour; she had actually called
her ‘darling!’
“I hope you are well wrapped up,” she urged; “take care of your dress,
darling.”
“And mind _you_ take great care of her,” supplemented Blagdon at
the carriage window. He held out his hand to Letty, kept hers an
unnecessary length of time, and squeezed it painfully ere he closed the
door of the brougham and they drove off. The last object she beheld,
thrown into sharp relief by the glaring lamps and red carpet, was his
hard, staring brown eyes, his stolid, complacent face, and she sank
into her corner with a sigh of relief. Thank goodness she would never
see him again!
She was to hear of him, however! On the way home her aunt loudly sang
the praises of Hugo Blagdon, the richest man in the county. He had the
most lovely place, and was so popular; he had travelled a great deal,
and owned a yacht and a coach, indeed everything--just like a prince
in a fairy tale. During all these eulogiums and dazzling descriptions
Colonel Fenchurch maintained an unusual silence.
“What do you think of him, Letty?” he enquired at last.
“He dances well,” she answered carelessly, “though he soon gets out of
breath, and has rather an old-fashioned step.”
“Well, there is not a woman in this part of the world that isn’t
delighted to have him for a partner,” said her aunt, with an air of
finality; then, changing the subject, she proceeded to discuss the
ball in detail, from the decorations to the soup. Her remarks about
the guests--especially girls--were not altogether generous; now that
she had, so to speak, her own goods to offer, Mrs. Fenchurch was a
merciless critic of the wares of others.
“Did you notice Lady Vera, Tom? She’s supposed to be a beauty, a tall,
scraggy, spotty creature, with a wreath over her nose?” A pause. “And
how _can_ Mrs. Reed allow her daughters to be seen in such filthy
frocks!--anything good enough for the country. Those poor Bradfields
hardly left their seats--_so_ humiliating for a chaperon to have her
charges on hand all the time--what do you say, Tom?”
But Tom’s sole reply was a gentle snore.
Then, turning to Letty and stroking her arm, her aunt said:
“My dear child, you were perfectly right about the white _crêpe_, you
looked charming--charming! I was proud of you!” and as she pinched her
wrist, playfully, the girl, with the quick insight of youth, divined
that here was an entirely different relative to the one who had told
her she was a ‘pauper, and a burden.’ She now addressed her, as if she
were an equal--and indeed there was actually a tinge of deference in
her remarks. What did it mean?
The Belle of the Hunt Ball toiled up to bed tired and footsore at five
o’clock in the morning. She had enjoyed the evening immensely, and
yet she had not enjoyed it! On the one hand, there was the dancing,
the good partners, the charming things people had said to her, and
the agreeable inward conviction of having been whispered about, and
admired; on the other, there was the rich man, with his staring eyes
and brusque, imperious manner--and the inexplicable rise in the
temperature of her aunt’s affection. What did it mean?
And still wondering, Letty tumbled into bed, and presently entered the
land of dreams.