THE FANCY BALL.
[Illustration: Chapter XI drop-cap I]
It was the night of Lady Marsden's fancy ball, and the crowd outside
the beautiful grounds of Kenmuir House at Goring grew greater each
moment. Policemen were stationed near, in order to keep a free passage
for the stream of carriages which came up continually.
Within the noble house all that art and beauty could do to make the
scene as like fairyland as possible had been done. Exotics of the
rarest beauty and sweetest perfume were placed wherever flowers could
appear; the lights were softened by shades of golden silk; the great
marble staircase--a feature of the house--was thronged with guests in
every imaginable costume. Motley, truly, was the animated scene, for
people of all nationalities appeared to be present--Turks, Mohammedans,
Armenians, Greeks. Men who seemed to have stepped down from ancient
history; men who might have been pictured in the canvases of Vandyck
and Romney; men of low degree, and men of high degree; savages with
tomahawks; graceful and scented cavaliers of the time of Charles the
First; men who came to look foolish, men who came to look beautiful or
wise, as the case might be--but all more or less disguised, more or
less carried out of themselves by the auspicious occasion--thronged the
passages and pressed up the stairs.
The garbs in which the women appeared were even more humorous and
striking than those worn by the men, for at a fancy ball imagination
can have its full sway. Any daring thought that comes to you you may
execute, being assured of at least a measure of success. Provided you
have funds, or provided you do not mind running into debt, you can at
least look _outré_ or _blasé_; you can get, for the time being, out of
your true personality, which doubtless is the main fascination of all
incognitos. The desire at any cost to get away from _ego_; the desire
to be somebody else for at least a few hours--somebody else who carries
your heart within him, who hopes with your hopes, who fears with your
fears, who carries your anxieties or your joys, your curses or your
blessings, as the case may be, and yet who is not wholly you--is worth
struggling for. In its way there is no charm like this; you see
yourself from a novel standpoint. Sometimes you learn fresh and great
truths with regard to yourself.
The ball at Kenmuir House had been anticipated for a long time. Lady
Marsden was one of the beauties of the past London season. She had
been a _débutante_ at the beginning of the season, and before the end
had become engaged to Lord Marsden--one of the best matches of the
year. During the period when London is supposed to be empty she had
married him, and now stood a bride of dazzling youth and fairness in
one of her husband's noble houses, receiving her guests as one so
lovely, talented, and high-born knew how.
The nuns and the cavaliers, the savages with tomahawks and the fair
ladies of the time of Marie Antoinette, went off in couples, and the
spacious rooms beyond the great staircase filled fast; the sweet,
spirited music of the Blue Hungarian Band sounded through all the
rooms, and the dance went merrily forward. But no one guessed, as the
fair girls and the gallant men danced together, or met together, or
talked together, that in those rooms and through those most lovely
grounds stalked also a gaunt figure. It is true a few saw him in
imagination, but no one fully recognized him. He was the god of war.
For war had been declared between England and the Transvaal, and
already the best of her sons, the flower of her young manhood, were
preparing to go south. So the aching hearts which some wore that
night, and the dread which encompassed others, and the longing for
glory and fame and greatness which swelled the breasts of others, were
all due to the god of war. He had been quiet, sleeping for a long
time; but he was awake at last, and he came to gloat over his victims
at Kenmuir House that evening.
The dance was essentially a dance for the military; for Lord Marsden
belonged to a family of soldiers, and three of his own young brothers
were amongst those who were to go to Africa immediately.
In the midst of the throng there came slowly up the stairs a slender
young figure--a girl with a pale face, large and sorrowful dark eyes,
and lips slightly, very slightly rouged; those lips revealed white
teeth, and constantly smiled, and gave the lie to the sorrowful and
anxious eyes. The girl was spoken of in the list of guests as the
Silver Queen, her real name being Katherine Hepworth. She came in the
company of a titled lady, who had promised to chaperon her to the great
fancy ball; and following her at a slight distance, accompanied by her
father, Hunt the millionaire, came Anne Boleyn. For some extraordinary
reason, the bold, bright, dark eyes of Anne Boleyn followed the slender
figure of the Silver Queen. She did not even know who the young lady
was, but her face attracted her. Presently, leaning on the arm of an
Armenian slave, she pointed in the direction where the Silver Queen was
standing in the midst of a glittering throng.
"Who is that young lady?" asked Anne Boleyn.
Her companion followed her eyes, looked at the Silver Queen, and said
in a tone of admiration,--
"What a lovely girl she is! quite one of the belles on this most
auspicious evening."
"She is a beautiful girl. But I am not interested in her looks," said
Katherine Hunt; "I want to know her name."
"If you will let me take you to this chair, I will endeavour to find
out," replied the Armenian slave.
She sank into a seat near an open window, and he went to do her
bidding. He came back after a minute or two.
"The fair lady's name is Miss Katherine Hepworth. I cannot find out
much about her. She has been in society a little, not a great deal.
She is acknowledged to be quite a beauty wherever she goes."
"Katherine Hepworth," whispered Katherine Hunt to herself. "K.H.,
Katherine Hepworth--K.H."
"What do you mean?" asked the Armenian slave.
"She has my initials," replied the girl. "I am interested in her. I
should like to know her."
"Well, I have no doubt we can manage an introduction. I will try to
find a mutual friend."
"Oh, there is no special hurry. I am not inclined to dance just at
present; I want to watch the people. Sit down near me, will you, and
tell me who's who."
The Armenian slave was well known in society as a certain Mr. Roy, an
inveterate gossip, and a man who never failed to secure an _entrée_
into the best houses. He was not in love with Katherine Hunt; but he
was considerably in love with her money, and in consequence was only
too anxious to do anything to please the young lady. He stood near her
now, bent towards her, and answered her different questions. Yes, he
knew everybody; through all their disguises he recognized the
well-known features of the ladies of fashion. Even under their
dominoes he knew who the men were who walked about to-night in their
foreign characters. The only guest he neither knew nor recognized was
the god of war, who made no sound as he peered into the faces of the
guests. Beside the god of war might also have been seen by those who
had very keen vision--by those who had that penetration which amounts
to second sight--the grim, very grim form of the god of death. And the
god of death marked his victims that night, scoring the name of one
young gallant after another in his book of fate, for many met that
evening who were never to meet again. The fancy ball at Kenmuir House
was something like the celebrated dance in Brussels before the battle
of Waterloo--
"Bright eyes looked love to eyes that spake again,
And all went merry as a marriage bell."
Miss Katherine Hunt enjoyed herself on the whole. She had by no means
got over her curiosity with regard to the handsome young man who had
brought her back her hundred pounds. Not that she had been specially
struck with that young man's beauty; but she had penetration--a good
deal, all things considered--and she read beneath his light words, and
made a very shrewd guess with regard to the truth. Never, even for a
single instant, did she accuse him in her own mind of having taken her
money. When he denied all chivalry in the matter, she became certain
that his action had been caused by chivalry of a rare quality; and now
she, who had never before been seriously interested in any man except
her father, was anxious to see Captain Keith again. He was one of the
few men present who wore his uniform only on the auspicious occasion.
He wore the full and very becoming uniform of the North Essex Light
Infantry, and he came into the ballroom with a smiling face, and looked
around him for the Silver Queen. He was a little late in arriving, and
the rooms were very full. Katherine Hunt saw him long before Katherine
Hepworth did, for Katherine Hunt still retained her cool point of
vantage near a window; and as the Armenian slave had long ceased to
interest her, and was only standing on sufferance by her side, she was
able to give her full attention to all the new arrivals; and when she
saw Captain Keith, who walked across the room with that upright and
graceful step which always characterized him, the colour rose in her
cheeks under all her rouge, and she half started forward, as though she
would speak to him. As she did so she caught his eyes. Her own--dark,
brilliant, daring--fell beneath his gaze. He looked at her as if he
would recognize her, but under the guise of Anne Boleyn he did not see
the slim girl to whom he had spoken a few days before, and was passing
on, when she called his name.
"Captain Keith!" said Katherine Hunt.
He turned at once.
"Don't you know me?" she said. "I am Anne Boleyn in this room. When I
return home to-night I shall be Katherine Hunt. Don't you remember me?"
"Of course I do now," replied Keith. He did not offer to shake hands
with her, nor did she hold out her hand to him, but he stood near her
without speaking for a minute.
The Armenian slave, seeing he was not wanted, went off in quest of
another partner, and Katherine made way for Keith to sit by her side.
"I am interested in you," she said frankly. "What you did the other
day struck me as particularly un-nineteenth century. Why are you not
in costume to-night?"
"I wear my Queen's colours," he replied.
She laughed, but it was evident that his remark pleased her.
"You are one of those who go south?" she said, dropping her voice.
"I am glad to say yes."
She did not speak at all for a minute. Then she said slowly,--
"My card is not full." She handed it to him, smiling as she did so.
He took it, and scribbled his name for a waltz.
"The third from now," she said, looking at him. "Yes, I can give it
you."
He sat with her for a few minutes longer, then bowed and left her. A
partner came up to claim her hand. She glided away in the mazes of the
waltz. As she flew round and round with her companion, a cavalier of
the time of King Charles, she saw Captain Keith leaning idly against
one of the massive doors. He was not dancing; his face looked moody.
It seemed to her that his eyes were watching for some one. Presently
she saw the girl in white and silver glide by in the arms of a handsome
partner. At the same moment she noticed that Captain Keith drew
himself up, and stood like one at attention. He seemed to stiffen all
over, and his face wore an expression which was almost akin to pain.
His eyes were fixed full on the girl in white and silver. Katherine
Hunt began to feel that the plot was thickening.
"What intuition has seized me?" she said to herself. "He knows
her--beyond doubt, he knows her. I wait with impatience for the third
waltz."
It came, and with it Captain Keith.
"Don't dance," she said suddenly; "come and sit in the garden. I am
too hot to dance."
"Shall I fetch you an ice?" he asked.
"No; I only want air. It is cool out of doors. Come."
She led the way, and he followed her. They sat down together.
Katherine Hunt was not sorry to perceive that the white and silver
dress was in view--that another girl, bearing the same initials as her
own, was also resting under the shade of a sycamore. The light from a
Chinese lantern fell softly on her face. This girl had her cavalier,
of course, but her attitude was weary, and she was scarcely speaking.
Katherine Hunt, impelled by an ardent curiosity, determined to see this
game, as she termed it, through. She chose a seat which would keep the
Silver Queen full in view, and she contrived that Captain Keith should
sit near her, and in such a position that he could see each movement of
the Silver Queen. They talked for a moment or two upon indifferent
matters; then she turned her head, looked full up at him, and watched
until his eyes rested on the hem of the dress of the other girl.
"How pretty she is!" said Katherine Hunt.
"Who?" he asked, with a start.
"The young lady whom they call Katherine Hepworth. I have been told
that is her name. Do you know her, Captain Keith?"
"Yes, I know her," replied Keith.
"I have not seen you dancing with her."
"I shall dance with her next time. Her name is on my card."
Katherine Hunt tapped the ground with the heel of her white satin shoe.
She was silent for a minute; then she said,--
"It is strange, her initials are the same as my own."
"Are they?" answered Keith.
"Yes. My name is Katherine Hunt; her name is Katherine Hepworth. I
presume she spells her name with a 'K'?"
"She does; we call her Kitty at home."
"At home! Do you know her very well?"
"Miss Hepworth lives with my mother; she is my mother's adopted
daughter."
"How interesting! What a charming face she has! Are you engaged to
her, Captain Keith?"
"What do you mean?" he asked, in astonishment.
"You are not married, are you?"
"No," he replied; and his face seemed to stiffen, and he moved a little
away from Katherine Hunt.
"I hope you will forgive me," she added, noticing this movement. "I am
a daring girl, but it seems to me that to be in the same house with a
girl like the Silver Queen, to see her daily, would make it almost
impossible to any man not to have a good try for her. I wonder if you
have tried, and if you are going to succeed! I know you like her--I
see it in your face."
Captain Keith turned and looked at the audacious girl with an
expression of utter astonishment. She gazed back at him with bright,
laughing eyes, and his own fell under her glance.
"I read your secret in your face," she said then. As she spoke she
rose and laid her hand on the back of her chair. "Take me back to the
ballroom, please," she said.
As he was leading her back she continued in a light tone,--
"Thank you for returning the money; only I miss the purse. It was
given to me by a very dear friend. The initials on the purse were
'K.H.,' and I miss it; I should like to have it back."
He looked then as if he wished to speak, but not a word passed his
lips. The waltz had come to an end, and Katherine's partner came to
claim her. Keith was released. He went back to the garden to find
Katherine Hepworth. She was waiting for him. She was standing in an
expectant attitude; her face was very white. There was a moon in the
sky, and some of its light fell with silver radiance across the slender
figure of the Silver Queen, and made her beautiful face look almost
unearthly. As Keith approached her lips trembled.
"This is our dance," he said.
He took her hand, and was about to lead her into the ballroom, when she
interrupted.
"I cannot dance," she said, in a husky voice.
Then he knew that his hour had come, and that he must go through with
something which would crush the joy out of his life.