The night of the Stormont ball was as lovely and warm as a July night
could be so far north. It was, it is scarcely necessary to say, full
moon, country entertainers taking care to secure that great luminary to
light their guests home, though in this case it was scarcely necessary,
for no one intended that anything less than daylight should see them
leave the scene of the festivities. The commotion was great in the old
house, where every servant felt like one of the hosts, and the house
was turned upside down from top to bottom with an enjoyment of the
topsy-turvy which only a simple household unused to such incidents
can know. Mrs. Stormont had spared no expense; there were lanterns
hung among the trees, along the whole length of the avenue; there
were lights in every window; even on the top of the old tower there
was a blaze which threw a red reflection on the water, and was the
admiration of the village. To see the ladies of Murkley cross in the
great ferry-boat in their old-fashioned brougham, which was scarcely
big enough to hold the three, and the Setons after them, wrapped up in
cloaks and "clouds," was a sight that filled all Murkley with pleasure.
"And they'll come back like that at three or four in the morning. Eh,
bless me! but they maun be keen of pleasure to gang through a' that
for't," the elderly sceptics said; but they were pleased to see the
ladies in their fine dresses all the same. Miss Jean had a silver-grey
satin, a soft, poetical dress that suited her; but Miss Margaret,
notwithstanding the season, was in velvet, with point-lace that a queen
might have envied. As for Lilias, it was universally acknowledged that
the ball-dress which had come for her from London "just beat a'."
Nothing like it had ever been imagined in Murkley. We have read in
an American novel--where such glories abound--an account of a lovely
_confection_ by Mr. Worth, called the "Blush of Dawn," or some other
such ethereal title, by which an awed spectator might see what a fine
thing a ball-dress could be; but English narrative is not equal to the
occasion, and the dress of Lilias was white and virginal, as became the
wearer, and afforded no such opportunities to the historian. These two
parties were the only ones that crossed the ferry. Peter the ferryman
was aware that their coming back might abridge his rest, and was not
over-gracious.
"It'll be fower in the mornin' or sae, or ye come back?" he said to old
Simon on the box of the brougham.
"Me! I'm coming back to my supper and my bed," said the other; "but
fower is late for the leddies. I would say atween twa and three," which
made Peter grave.
"One man's meat is another's man's poison," he said to himself. The
manse party would certainly not return till four at the earliest, so
that he had the comfortable prospect of being up all night, "and none
o' the fun," not even a dram to keep him warm: for even a July morning,
between two and four, is a chilly moment so far north. The high-road
was in a cloud of dust with the carriages that came rolling along from
all quarters in the soft twilight; for, though in July the days have
shortened a little, the skies were still shining clear at nine o'clock,
and the lingering reflections of the sunset scarcely passed away.
Mrs. Stormont and her son were both dressed and ready, standing in
the handsome old gallery, where the dancing was to be. She was in her
widow's dress, which so many ladies in Scotland never abandon, and
which, notwithstanding all the abuse that has been levelled at it, is
like a conventual garb, very becoming to a person with any natural
claim to admiration. Her rich black silk gown, her perfectly plain,
spotless cap with the long white, misty pendants like a veil behind,
made Mrs. Stormont, who might have been buxom in gay colours, into a
dignified, queen-dowager personage of imposing appearance. She was
giving a final lecture to Philip, who was nervous in the prospect, and
felt the dignity of the position too much for him.
"You will mind," she said, "my dear, that, when you give us a grand
party like this, it is not altogether just for pleasure like those
silly bits of dances you go to at the manse."
"You may be sure, mother," said Philip, ironically, "that there is no
chance of forgetting that."
"I hope not, Philip. It's a return for favours received, and also it's
a claim for your proper position in the county, a claim you must never
let down; and Philip, my man, you will mind, will you not, to pay a
great deal of attention to Lilias Murray? I consider her the queen of
the ball. There will be a great curiosity about her, because she is so
young, poor thing, and because nobody knows much about her, and her
position is so very peculiar. As often as you can spare from duty to
other people you will dance with Lilias, Philip. You have very little
occasion, I can tell you, to make a face at that. Better men than you
would be glad of the chance."
"That may very well be, and I hope they will take it," said Philip. "I
am not going to make a fool of myself, I can tell you, dancing every
dance with any girl--if she were Cleopatra!" Philip cried. Why he
should have chosen Cleopatra as his type of womanhood nobody could have
guessed, and himself least of all.
"That is right, my man, that is just what I desired to hear," cried his
mother. "Of course, you must ask all the principal ladies, and mind you
begin with the countess, and make no mistake. The quadrilles are for
that. If I see you sitting out, as you call it, with Katie Seton or any
other cutty, when you should be doing your duty----"
"I wish you would not be violent, mother," Philip said.
His mother had to pause, to gulp down the excitement which such an
apprehension raised in her, and which just the moment before the
arrival of the guests was doubly inappropriate, before she spoke. She
had not time to be angry. She laid her hand on his arm, just as the
bell clanged into the echoes announcing the first arrival.
"My dear boy," she said, almost with tears in her eyes, "mind that the
Murkley lands march with Stormont, and, though they're not very rich,
it's a grand old family, and two littles would make a muckle in such a
case."
She put her hand upon his shoulder, but Philip twisted himself away
from her touch. He had heard all this before, and he was not at all
disposed to listen now.
"I think I had better go down to the hall and receive them as they
arrive," he said.
His mother looked at him divided between admiration and suspicion.
"Well, that is a very good idea," she said. "It will have a nice effect
if you lead the countess up the stairs yourself instead of leaving it
to the servants, and you may do the same to Margaret Murray, or any
important person, but don't you waste your time upon the common crowd:
and, above all, Philip----" He gave his shoulders an impatient shrug,
and was gone before she could say more. Poor Mrs. Stormont shook her
head. "It will be to get a word with that little cutty out of my
sight," the poor lady said, "and that scheming woman, her mother!"
she added to herself, with a movement of passion. She could have been
charitable to Katie--but a manœuvring mother, a woman that would stick
at nothing to get a good marriage for her girl! that was what Mrs.
Stormont could not away with, she said in her heart.
It is needless to say that she had divined Philip's meaning with the
utmost exactitude. To get a word with Katie was indispensable: for,
if he was rather more in subjection to his mother than was for his
comfort, Philip was in subjection to Katie too, and just as much afraid
of her. By good luck he fell into the midst of the group newly arrived
from Murkley, which was followed almost immediately by the Setons. They
were almost the first, and the young master of the house was at liberty
to stand among them, and talk while the elder ladies took tea.
"The light on the Tower has a great effect, and so have the lamps in
the avenue. Do you call it an avenue?" Miss Margaret said, graciously,
yet with a betrayal of her sense of the inferiority which perhaps was
not so well-bred as Margaret usually was.
"It's just like fairyland," cried Mrs. Seton, much more enthusiastic.
"Yes, yes, just like the decorations you read of in the newspapers
when some grand person comes of age. The lamps among the green are
just beautiful, and an avenue is far more picturesque, if it's not so
imposing, when it mounts a hill-side."
While they were talking, and Miss Jean was giving a last tender touch
to the roses on Lilias' bodice, Philip ventured to Katie's side.
"If I seem to neglect you, Katie, will you understand?" he said.
"Oh, yes, I will understand," said the little cutty, with a toss of her
pretty head, "that you are just frightened to speak to me; but I'll get
plenty of others that will speak to me."
Philip in his despair was so wanting in politeness as to turn his back
upon the elders and more important people.
"If you go flirting about with Murray and Alec Bannerman you will just
drive me desperate," he said.
"What would your lordship like me to do?" said Katie. "Sit in a corner
and look as if I were going to cry? I will not do that, to please
anybody. I have come to enjoy myself, and, if I cannot do it in one
way, I will in another."
"Oh, Katie, have a little pity upon me, when you know I cannot help
myself," the unfortunate lover said.
"I will make everybody believe that there's nothing in it," said
Katie, "your mother and all. And is not that the best thing I can do
for you?"
She was radiant in mischief and contradiction, inexorable, holding her
little head high, ready to defy Mrs. Stormont and every authority. Poor
Philip knew she would flirt to distraction with every man that crossed
her path while he was dancing quadrilles with the dowagers, and doing
what his mother thought his duty. But at that moment among a crowd of
new arrivals came the countess herself, and Katie had to be swept away
by the current. Amuse herself! She might do it, or anyone else might
do it: but as for the hero of the occasion, poor fellow, that was the
last possibility that was likely to come to him. He walked through the
quadrille with the countess, looking like a mute at a funeral, and as,
fortunately, she was a woman of discretion, she gave him her sincerest
sympathy.
"I think you might have dispensed with this ceremony," she said. "But
don't look so miserable, it will soon be over."
"I miserable! Oh, no; though I confess I don't care for square dances,"
Philip said.
"Nobody does," said the lady, "but still you should show a little
philosophy. Who is that little espiègle that is laughing at us?"
She laughed in sympathy, being a very good-natured woman, but Philip
did not laugh; for of course it was Katie, radiant with mischievous
smiles, upon the arm of Mr. Alec Bannerman, with whom she was to "take
the floor" at once, as soon as this solemnity was over. By the glance
she gave him, touching the card which swung from her fan, he divined
that she had filled up that document, and had not a dance left: and for
the rest of the melancholy performance the countess could not extract
a word from him. Of his two tyrants, Katie was the worst. There was no
telling the torture to which she subjected him as the evening went on.
She was an admirable dancer; as airy as a feather, adapting herself to
everybody's step, or in the intervals of the dances, during the other
quadrille, which absolutely put Philip's sanity in danger, teaching
her own in a corner to an intending partner. And her flirtations were
endless.
"Katie?" said Mrs. Seton. "Oh, don't ask me anything about Katie! She
has never once sat down all the night. No, no, not a sight of her have
I had, the little monkey. She would just dance, dance till the day
after to-morrow, if there was no stop put to her. I am just obliged to
submit, for I cannot go running after her all down this long gallery,
and she knows where to find me, if such a thing happened as that she
had no partner, which is but little likely," Mrs. Seton said.
"I was coming to see if I could get her partners," said Mrs. Stormont.
"For not being out, or in society, as I understood----"
"I am sure you are very kind: but nobody need give themselves any
trouble about Katie," said Mrs. Seton.
It was "not very nice" of Philip's mother to be displeased and angry
when she heard this; for as she took the trouble to separate Philip
from her, she ought to have been glad that the girl, even if she was a
"little cutty," should have others to amuse her: but Mrs. Stormont was
not pleased. She felt injured by the popularity of the foolish little
thing who had come between her son and herself.
Lilias enjoyed her first ball in a much more modest and subdued way.
She stood by the side of her sisters, whose anxiety about the perfect
success of her _début_ was great, surveying the scene around her with a
smile. She made the old-fashioned curtsey which they had taught her to
the young men, who came round with eagerness, not only to do their duty
to the old family tree, but to secure the hand of the heroine of the
evening, the girl who had piqued the curiosity of the county more than
anyone had done before for generations, and who was at the same time
the prettiest creature, the beauty of the assemblage. Lilias made her
pretty curtsey to them, and gave each a smile, but she said,
"I do not mean to dance very much. I am not used to it. You must not
think me uncivil. Thank you very kindly. No, I wish to look on, and see
the others. It is so pretty. If I were to dance, I should not see it."
Some of the suppliants were entirely discomfited by this novel
reception; they retired in offence or in dismay; but those who were
more discerning exercised a little diplomacy, and from time to time,
"the Lily of Murkley," as Mrs. Stormont, for the greater glory of
her entertainment, had called the girl, was led forth by a gratified
partner, to the envy of the others. Her success in the obstinacy of
her determination not to accept everybody, gave a little excitement of
triumph to Lilias. She was pleased with herself and with everybody. As
for the sisters, there can be no doubt that this singular behaviour
brought on them a momentary cloud.
"I see Katie Seton dancing every dance," Miss Jean said, with an air of
trouble.
She looked wistfully at the partners whom Lilias sent away. And even
Miss Margaret for the first moment was disappointed. The idea that
anyone could imagine her child, her little princess, to be neglected,
fired her soul, and it was all she could do to restrain herself when
Mrs. Seton came bustling up to interfere.
"Dear me! dear me!" cried that energetic woman, "do I see Lilias
without a partner? I could not believe my eyes. No, no, you'll not tell
me that the young men are so doited; there must just be some mistake.
No doubt there is some mistake. They are frightened for you two ladies
just like two duennas. A girl should be left to herself for a little.
But just let me----"
"You'll observe, if you will wait for a moment," said Miss Margaret,
with dignity, "that Lilias does not just dance with everybody. It is
not my pleasure that she should. I am not one that would have a girl
make herself cheap."
"But not because she looks down upon any person," cried Miss Jean,
eagerly, "because she is not just very strong, and we insist she should
not weary herself, as it is her first ball, and she is not used to it."
Thus they took upon themselves the blame: while Lilias stood smiling
by, and from time to time accepted the arm of a partner more fortunate
than the rest, leaving her sisters in a flutter which it was difficult
to conceal.
"Now what could be the reason of her choosing _him_?" Miss Jean
whispered, in a faltering voice.
"Oh, just her ain deevil," cried Miss Margaret, moved out of all
decorum. "I think the creature will just drive me out of my senses."
"But she has good taste," said Miss Jean, wistfully, "on the whole."
This action upon the part of Lilias changed to them the whole character
of the evening. They would have liked that she should have been like
Katie, besieged by partners. The partners, indeed, had besieged her,
but the company was not aware of it, and it was possible that other
people besides Mrs. Seton might suppose it to be neglect.
This was not the only way in which Lilias signalized herself, though
fortunately it was only a few who were conscious of what she did. She
was dancing with Philip Stormont, whom, with a sense of the obligations
of a guest, she did not refuse, at the lower end of the gallery, far
away from the inspection of the greater ladies of the party. Poor
Philip looked very glum indeed, especially when Katie, at a height of
gaiety and excitement, which betrayed some sentiment less happy below,
came across him. He had never danced with Katie the whole evening
through, and as her enjoyment grew, his countenance became heavier
and heavier. Poor Philip was too far gone to attempt any semblance of
happiness; he turned round and round mechanically, feeling, perhaps, a
little freedom with Lilias, an emancipation from all necessity to talk
and look pleasant.
"Look at Philip Stormont revolving," Katie said to Lewis, with whom
she was dancing; "he is like a figure on a barrel organ. I suppose he
is tired, poor fellow. Perhaps he has been fishing all day, Mr. Murray.
You admire him for fishing all day: and you have been doing nothing
but playing the piano. I am sorry for Lilias; he is dragging her about
as if she were a pedlar's pack. Let us go round and round them," cried
that spiteful little person, pressing her partner into a wilder pace.
"You must not be cruel," said Lewis; "you will be sorry to-morrow if
you are cruel."
"Cruel!" cried Katie--"he never asked me till it was far too late. Was
I going to wait for him--he that has always come to us as long as I can
recollect?--and he never asked me. I want to show him the difference,"
Katie cried.
Next moment she begged her partner to stop, that she was out of breath.
The poor little girl was too young to be able to keep the mastery over
herself all the evening. The tears were very near her eyes as she
laughed in Philip's face, who had come ponderously to a stop also close
to her.
"I hope you are enjoying your ball," she said, maliciously. "It is a
beautiful ball, and you have danced with all the best people,--you
would, of course, in your own house," Katie cried.
Philip was beyond speech; he heaved a sigh, which nearly blew out the
nearest lights, and cast a pathetic look at her.
"Oh, yes, I have seen you; you have been enjoying yourself," Katie
cried, and laughed. "I am quite ready, Mr. Murray."
Upon this Lilias darted in, clapping her hands softly together as they
do in childish games.
"We will change partners," she cried. It seemed to Lewis that he had
bounded suddenly into the skies when she laid her hand on his shoulder.
"Quick, quick, that they may not stop us," Lilias said.
And Lewis was not reluctant. They flew off together, leaving the other
two astonished, confused, looking at each other.
"I suppose we may as well dance," said Philip, and then he poured forth
his heart. His little tormentor was taken by surprise. "Oh, what a
wretched night!" said poor Philip. "I have been wondering whether it
would ever be over, and, now that I have got you, it is against your
will. I will never forget Lilias Murray for it all the same. That's
what a good girl will do for you--a real true, good girl, by Jove, that
does not mind what anybody thinks."
"And I am a bad girl, I suppose?" said Katie, held fast in his arm, and
carried along against her will, yet with a thrill of pleasure which had
been absent from all her previous merry-making.
"Oh! I don't know what you are," cried the angry lover. "You are just
you; there is nobody else. Oh! Katie, how are we to get out of this? I
cannot go through such another night. If I had not got you, what would
have happened to me?"
"Nothing," cried Katie, almost sobbing, determined to laugh still at
all costs; "you would just have gone to your bed and had a good night's
rest."
"I think I would have gone to the bed of Tay," cried poor Philip.
She laughed upon his shoulder till he could have beaten Katie, until he
suddenly found the sound turn to crying, when Philip grew frightened
and abject. He took her downstairs, as soon as she had recovered a
little, to have some tea, and caught up the first shawl he could find
and wrapped it round her, and led her out into the flower-garden, where
the night odours were sweet from the invisible flowers, and the tower
threw a deep black shadow, topped by the glare of the light which rose
red and smoky against the shining of the moon. There were various other
pairs about, but they kept in the moonlight. Philip and Katie felt
themselves safer in the dark, and there lingered, it is needless to
say, much longer than they ought.
"Are you shocked at my behaviour, Mr. Murray?" said Lilias. "Should I
not have done it? Perhaps I should not; but they were so unhappy. And I
thought you would never mind. I do not think I would have done it if it
had not been you."
"That is the best of all," said Lewis.
"What is the best of all? It was taking a liberty--I am very conscious
of that; but Jean says you are full of understanding. And you saw,
didn't you, as well as me? Why should people come between other people,
Mr. Murray? If I were Philip's mother--you need not laugh--"
"What should you do if you were Philip's mother?" he said.
"I would never, never stand between them. How can she tell she might
not be spoiling his life? You read that in books often. Philip is not
the grand kind of man who would die for love----"
"Do you think that would be a grand kind of man?"
"Oh, don't you? I would like to live among that kind of people. It
would be far finer, far simpler, than the common kind that die just of
illnesses and accidents like beasts. I would like to die by my heart."
"I don't think Mr. Stormont will die."
"No, he is not good enough," said Lilias, "he is afraid of his mother.
I am a little afraid of Margaret, too; but I would not do an ill thing,
I think, even if she wanted me. To be sure, she never would want me.
Do you know, I have had my way to-night; I have just refused the people
I did not like. Katie dared me to do it, and Jean said I must not do
it; but I did it--I was determined I would: and Margaret knew nothing
about it, so she could not forbid me," said Lilias, with a laugh.
"That was very prudent, when there is only one you are afraid of, not
to let her know."
"I did not keep it from her on purpose," said Lilias, half-offended.
"Mr. Murray, do you see that they have gone away downstairs? I am
afraid they may be silly now they are together. Don't you think we
should go too?"
"I will do whatever Miss Lilias pleases," said Lewis, "and go where you
like best. After this you will give me one other little dance--just
one; that was like heaven."
"Heaven!" cried Lilias, scandalized. It seemed profanity to her
innocent ears. "That will be the way," she said, somewhat severely,
"that people permit themselves to speak abroad? I have always
heard----But I am sure you did not mean it. It was very nice. I
suppose, Mr. Murray, you dance very well?"
"I am not the judge," said Lewis laughing, but confused in spite of
himself.
"Neither am I," said Lilias, calmly, "for I have never danced much with
gentlemen. But you do not bump like most; you go so smoothly, it was a
pleasure. But I wonder where Katie is? Doesn't it seem to you a long
time?"
"It is only a moment since we have been together," Lewis said.
"Do you think so? Oh! I am afraid a great many moments--even minutes.
Look! Mrs. Stormont is beginning to be uneasy--she is looking for
Philip. Oh! come before she sees----"
They hurried downstairs, Lilias leading the young man after her, with a
guiding hand upon his arm. The great hall door was standing open, the
freshness of the summer night coming in, close to the house a dark belt
of shadow, and beyond the shadow, and beyond the shrubberies and garden
paths clear in the moonlight. It could only have been by instinct that
Lilias penetrated round the corner to the lonely spot in the darkness
where the two lovers had betaken themselves, and where Katie, after
her hysterical outburst, had become calm again and recovered command
of herself. The darkness, and the moonlight, and the soft noises and
breathings of the night, and the neighbourhood of the other pair,
mounted into the head of Lewis. He scarcely knew what he was doing. He
said in a whisper, "Do not interrupt them. Wait here a little," not
knowing what he said.
Lilias did not object, or say a word. She took the _rôle_ of sentinel
quite calmly, while he stood by her, throbbing with a thousand motives
and temptations. His own conscious being seemed arrested, his reason
and intelligence; bold words came into his mind which he wanted to
whisper to her--he bent towards her, in spite of himself approaching
her ear. How was it that he said nothing? He could not tell. His heart
beat so fast that it took away his breath. Had he not been so entirely
transported out of himself he must have spoken, he must have betrayed
himself. He felt afterwards, with a shudder, as if he had been on the
edge of a bottomless pit, and had been kept on firm standing-ground not
by any wisdom of his, but by the rapture of feeling which possessed
him. He had kissed her hand in her own house without any hesitation or
sense of timidity, but he did not do it now. He did not even touch with
his own the hand that lay on his arm. He was in a sort of agony, yet
ecstasy. "Wait a little, wait a little," was all he said. And Lilias
took no fright from the words. She did not know how near she was to
some confession, some appeal, that would have startled her at once out
of her usual freshness and serenity. They stood close together, like
two different worlds, the one all passion and longing, the other all
innocent composure and calm. But by degrees Lilias became impatient of
waiting.
"You are kinder than I am," she whispered, "Mr. Murray. It is a little
cold, and Mrs. Stormont will be looking everywhere for Philip. We must
not stand any longer, we must try to find them. Do you see nothing?"
"Nothing," said Lewis, with a gasp of self-restraint. His face seemed
nearer to her than she expected, and perhaps this startled Lilias. She
gave a sudden low cry through the stillness.
"Katie! are you there? Katie! are you there?"