THE STANNARD BALL, AND AFTER--AN EVENTFUL NIGHT
“It’s going to be an awfully nice affair,” said Gladys Milnes, as she
admiringly surveyed the evening gown which Celia laid on the bed for her
inspection. “Blue Hungarian band, and the catering done in Manchester. I
met Reggie Stannard on my way here, and he told me all about it.”
They were discussing the Stannard ball, given to celebrate the coming of
age of the squire’s younger son, which was to take place the following
Thursday. It had been the chief topic of conversation in Durlston for
the past fortnight, for in that quiet town such a gay function as a ball
was of rare occurrence. Over one hundred and fifty invitations had been
issued, and anybody who did not receive one was considered quite without
the pale of social eligibility; in fact, there was hardly any one who
would have owned to such a slight.
“What are you going to wear?” asked Celia, with interest. “Your white
dress, I suppose?”
“Yes, the same old thing, of course; it trots out with never-failing
regularity. I have coaxed father every day for a month to let me have a
new dress; but he doesn’t see the necessity of incurring such an expense
just for the Stannards’ ball. He wouldn’t let me wear a low bodice like
yours and Miss Wilton’s either. If I were to appear before him attired
in my nightdress with a pale blue ribbon sash, he would say I looked
lovely, and would never know what it really was. What is a girl to do
with a dad like that?”
“Never mind,” returned Celia, cheerfully. “You look very nice in white.
Is your father going with you?”
“Oh no, he wouldn’t go to a dance; it’s too frivolous for him, you know.
Mrs. Lester has promised to take me under her wing; but she is sure to
want to go home about twelve o’clock--just when the fun begins. That’s
where I miss Geoffrey so much. He used to make such a delightful
cavalier.”
At the mention of Geoffrey’s name Celia looked up with interest.
“Have you heard from him lately?” she asked.
“Yes. We had a letter this morning. Dick Stannard has joined him in
Sydney, and they both expect to be home for Christmas. That will be
nice, won’t it? Geoff writes a good deal about a Miss Thornton and her
mother, who will be coming to England the same time as themselves. Do
you know, I shouldn’t be surprised if he were engaged to her, although
he doesn’t actually say so. I should like to see Geoff married to a nice
girl, wouldn’t you, Cely?”
“Ye--es,” answered Celia, mechanically, the colour suddenly leaving her
cheeks.
Geoffrey Milnes engaged! She had never thought of that. Yet why should
he not think of marrying, just as she herself had done? Why should the
thought of his possible marriage cause her heart to sink like a leaden
weight? Why should it? But it did.
Since her engagement with David Salmon had been broken off, she had
allowed her mind to dwell once more on her old-time friendship with Dr.
Milnes. She was looking forward with almost feverish eagerness to his
return, and tried to imagine the joy of their meeting. But, if he came
back as the lover or husband of some one else! She could scarcely bear
to think of it.
Gladys rattled on with her inexhaustible stock of light chatter, not
noticing her friend’s sudden pensiveness. She could talk of nothing else
but the ball, and favoured Enid Wilton--who was also to be a guest--with
a full account of the people who would be there, whilst Celia sat quite
quiet, thinking of Miss Thornton.
When the eventful day arrived, Enid was confined to her room with a
cold. Her going to the ball was quite out of the question, and in
consequence thereof, Celia refused to go either. In vain did Enid
protest, and beg her friend not to forego her amusement for her sake.
Celia would not be persuaded, and declared that she was not at all
anxious to go. She had been to so many dances during the “season” that
she had outgrown her liking for them.
As soon as her decision was made, she went downstairs to inform her
brother. She found him in the studio, putting the finishing touches to
the paintings for the Duke of Downshire’s chapel, prior to their being
despatched the following day. There were five of them altogether, all
representing incidents of Gospel history.
“I was just thinking of sending an invitation to Mendel’s people to come
and have a private view,” he said facetiously. “Do you think they would
accept it, Celia?”
“I think they would injure the pictures if they did come,” she rejoined
seriously. “And that would be a pity, for they are beautiful things. I
like the ‘Annunciation’ the best. You have made the angel Gabriel’s
wings quite translucent. You did not paint this one, did you, Herbert?”
pointing to an unframed representation of the Crucifixion, which struck
her as being somewhat musty in comparison with the others.
The artist smiled. “No, I wish I had,” he replied enthusiastically.
“That is a real Raffaelle, my dear. It belongs to the duke, who lent it
me as a guide. I had better put it away while I think of it. I wouldn’t
have anything happen to that for the world.”
Suiting the action to the word, he wrapped the painting in an holland
covering, then placed it carefully in the cupboard under lock and key.
The other pictures he left where they were: one on the easel, and the
others on the floor facing the French windows.
He thought of them again when he was at the Stannards’ ball, although
there was no reason why they should recur to his memory just then.
Perhaps it was because the face of his partner reminded him of the
features he had given to the Magdalene. He often found resemblances
between the people he met and characters in his pictures.
The ball-room was crowded with quite a galaxy of fresh-complexioned
country girls escorted in the dance by the young scions of the
neighbouring county families; whilst on the platform which bounded the
room were ranged in solemn state their chaperons. The absence of Celia
Franks caused universal regret; but to one of the guests, at least, the
cloud had a silver lining. This was Lady Marjorie Stonor.
“You will let me give you a lift, if you have not ordered your dog-cart
to come for you to-night?” she said to the artist, as soon as she found
his sister was not there. She did not wish to miss the opportunity of a
moonlight drive with him alone.
“It is very kind of you,” he replied politely. “But I have accepted
Major Denham’s offer of a seat in his motor-car.”
His refusal almost sounded like a rebuff, but the young widow did not
take it in that light. Instead, she flashed him a glance out of those
wonderful blue eyes of hers.
“It is such a long drive,” she murmured with a sigh, “and I am all
alone. Cannot you countermand your acceptance?”
He would have been more than mortal if he could have withstood such a
look and such an appeal.
“It shall be as you wish; I shall be delighted to be your escort,” he
answered gallantly, lifting up her programme in order to reserve the
conventional three dances for himself.
Lady Marjorie looked her best that evening; and was, perhaps, conscious
of the fact. She was dressed in white: yet not girlish white, for her
gown was elaborately trimmed with incrustations of handsome lace, in
the centre of each of which gleamed a minute ruby. The cluster of red
roses at her breast set off to advantage the creamy smoothness of her
neck and shoulders. The diamonds in her hair and at her throat seemed to
enhance the air of distinction which was hers by birth.
To Herbert Karne she was by far the most brilliant woman in the room,
although not being given to indulge in compliments he did not tell her
so. But he spent every available moment by her side, and insisted on
claiming all the extra dances. For once he broke through his customary
reserve, and seemed suddenly to have become an impetuous youth again.
Lady Marjorie was glad that it should be so. To waltz with him to the
entrancing strains of the “Blue Danube,” or to sit out with him in the
flower-bedecked alcoves afforded her infinite delight. She knew that she
was monopolizing the best dancer in the room, and that people were
watching and might talk; but her eyes shone defiance at them all.
Her carriage came somewhat early, for she had not anticipated the
pleasure of Herbert Karne’s company on the drive home. Fortunately he
had not engaged himself for the last two extras; and after the “Sir
Roger,” which she was obliged to dance with Squire Stannard, they left.
She gave a little sigh of satisfaction as the footman closed the door,
and sprang up to his perch. Herbert drew her white cloak carefully
around her, and arranged the rug at her feet. He seemed full of
solicitude lest she should catch cold. They were both silent as the
brougham bowled smoothly down the drive, and out at the stately gates.
As they turned into the dark country road, Major Denham’s motor-car
passed them at full speed. When the _teuf-teuf_ died away in the
distance, Lady Marjorie spoke.
“I do think Major Denham a terrible creature!” she remarked lightly. “We
had quite a hot discussion this evening. He wanted to convince me that
love and romance are entirely the result of a defective brain, sluggish
liver, or disordered system. Did you ever hear anything so horrible?”
Herbert smiled. “Love’s young dream also?” he inquired.
“Yes; all dreams. I told him I was glad that so few of us possessed
perfect systems if that meant doing away with romance. Why, just think
of the poets, painters, musicians, and authors, who are all dreamers in
their way. How prosaic and dull we should be without them: it is they
who keep the world young.”
“I am afraid Major Denham had a firm opponent in you,” he remarked,
trifling idly with her fan. “You are endowed with a romantic temperament
yourself, Lady Marjie.”
“Well, why not?” she answered half seriously. “When I was a child I used
to delight in fairy stories; in fact, I lived in an atmosphere of
fairyland. I remember the time when the account of Sleeping Beauty or
Cinderella made me positively thrill every time I heard it. Then when I
outgrew that stage, I got into the habit of idealizing the most trivial
incidents: of finding the romantic side to quite prosaic things.”
“On the ‘Sermons in stones; and good in everything’ principle, I
suppose?”
“Yes. And now I’m told that it all came from dyspepsia or the liver. No
wonder Major Denham is a bachelor. He could not hold such a pernicious
theory had he ever loved.”
“You are married,” he said provokingly. “You speak from experience.”
“That doesn’t always follow,” she rejoined, with a sigh. “But of course
you cannot know. You, too, are a bachelor.”
Herbert thought the conversation was drifting into an undesirable
channel.
“How philosophic we are,” he remarked, leaning back in the carriage to
stifle a yawn. “At two o’clock in the morning, too.”
Repelled once again, Lady Marjorie relapsed into silence. Presently a
dog-cart passed the carriage coming from the opposite direction. To
Karne it had the appearance of his own, but having given orders to
Roberts not to fetch him, he came to the conclusion that he was
mistaken.
Suddenly his companion gave a slight involuntary shiver.
Karne drew her cloak further around her shoulders. “What is the matter?”
he asked kindly. “Are you cold?”
“No,” she replied nervously. “A sort of half-presentiment of evil came
over me. I can’t explain it. But it doesn’t matter: it has gone now.”
“According to Major Denham’s theory it is the effect of the goose we
had for supper,” he rejoined laughingly; but even in the dim moonlight
he could see that she was unusually pale.
The brougham approached the Towers through the small gate at the north
side of the house, at which angle the studio was built. As it drove
through, the occupants detected a faint odour of burning. At the same
moment the noisy clatter of horses’ hoofs warned them of the approach of
some vehicle: and in the course of a few seconds a fire-engine dashed
rapidly past them, causing their horses to swerve sharply to the left.
Herbert let down the window and looked out. A thin line of smoke,
emitting sparks, was plainly discernible through the trees. Another bend
in the road gave him a closer view.
“Good heavens, Marjorie!” he exclaimed in horror, sinking back into his
seat. “It looks as if the Towers were on fire!”
It was the first time he had addressed her without prefixing her title,
but she was too excited to notice it just then. The Towers on fire meant
that the inmates, including Celia, were in peril: this thought was
uppermost in her mind.
Karne gave orders to the coachman to drive faster; and in a short space
of time they had arrived upon the scene.
The spectacle that met their gaze confirmed their fears. The Towers was
on fire; but as yet the studio only, and not the house, had been
attacked. A number of firemen were diligently plying the hose, their
endeavours being noisily encouraged by the excited servants.
Persuading Lady Marjorie to remain in the carriage, Herbert sprang out,
not waiting for the footman to attend at the door. Every pulse in his
body seemed throbbing, but with an effort he pulled himself together,
and set about making inquiries with as much calmness as he could muster.
The fire must have been smouldering since the early part of the evening,
but had broken out less than an hour ago. Directly the discovery was
made, Roberts had been sent off in the dog-cart to give the alarm and
fetch his master. The firemen had been able to remove some of the
paintings out of the studio, but those on the walls and floor were
blistered by the heat; and four of the larger ones were totally
destroyed.
They had got the fire well under, and were hopeful of extinguishing it
without much further damage. There was little danger of its attacking
the house on account of the stone passage and stairs.
So much Herbert Karne learnt from the eager servants. Then he went back
to the brougham to take Lady Marjorie into the house.
Celia, in a loose dressing-gown, with her hair flowing over her
shoulders, met them on the stairs.
“Oh, Herbert, I am so glad you have come!” she exclaimed, with a sigh
that was almost a sob. “The Raffaelle--where’s the key? Go quickly; you
may be able to save it yet.”
Her brother could not take in her meaning at first, but suddenly
comprehension dawned upon him.
“Good heavens, yes! The Duke of Downshire’s picture! He will never
forgive me if that gets burnt.”
“Where is the key?” repeated the girl, excitedly.
“I have it here in my pocket. But it is a patent lock; the firemen won’t
be able to manipulate it. I shall have to do it myself;” and tossing his
silk scarf to his sister, he dashed down the stairs.
Celia drew Lady Marjorie into the library, and gave her a chair by the
window overlooking the studio. Her face was pale and anxious; she looked
as if she had received a painful shock.
“I have persuaded Miss Wilton to go back to bed,” she said, sinking on
to the couch with a shiver. “She has such a bad cold. Isn’t this
dreadful, Lady Marjorie? I shall never feel safe here again; and I shall
be so anxious for Herbert when I am away. It is incendiarism, you know.”
Her friend gave an ejaculation of horror.
“Are you sure?” she asked in astonishment. “How do you know that it was
not accident?”
“The firemen found some ignited boards soaked in oil against the studio
walls,” Celia replied. “One of them had ‘Mendel and Co.’ painted on the
back. It’s the factory people. They have been threatening us for some
time, as you are aware; but we never dreamt of this. If there had been
the slightest breeze we should have been burnt right out.”
“The wretches!” exclaimed Lady Marjorie. “I hope they will get the
imprisonment they deserve. We must be thankful, however, that the danger
was not greater; it might have been worse.”
She glanced through the window, and remarked with satisfaction that,
although the engines were still at work, the smoke had dissolved, and
the flames were quenched.
Suddenly the measured tread of heavy feet on the lower staircase made
her turn quickly towards the door. Tramp, tramp, they came, and an icy
fear gripped her heart as she listened. Expecting she knew not what, she
nervously made her way to the landing, and looked over the balustrade.
A small procession of firemen and servants were coming up the stairs.
What did they want up there, she wondered vaguely. They seemed to be
carrying something ... a motionless form with arms hanging limply down.
Some one had evidently been injured--perhaps worse. With a shudder she
looked away, and for a moment everything swam before her eyes; until a
smothered sob from Celia recalled her to herself.
The firemen came nearer, and turning into an adjacent room, deposited
their burden on the bed. As though fascinated, Lady Marjorie followed.
The servants made way for her, although one of them would fain have
spared her the painful sight. With a low cry of grief and terror, she
advanced towards the bed, for on it lay the apparently lifeless figure
of the man she loved!
Celia, with praiseworthy calmness, was bathing his face, whilst Higgins
attempted to remove his blackened dress-coat, the left sleeve of which
had been partly burnt away. One servant was hunting for lint, another
for iodoform, a third for vaseline; but Lady Marjorie saw none of them.
She was conscious only of that white set face with the long black lashes
drooping over the pallid cheeks. Flinging off her cloak, she bent over
him, and began whispering all the endearing names she could think of.
Conventional discretion was for the moment set aside.
Presently he seemed to regain consciousness; and, at a look of warning
from Celia, she removed the diamond star which blazed on her breast,
casting it heedlessly on the floor. A quivering of the eyelids, a slight
moan; and then the sufferer looked up and met her gaze.
“Thank God!” she ejaculated under her breath. “Oh, Herbert darling, I
thought you were dead!”
He tried to smile, but the pain in his arm caused his face to contract
in agony. Then--“The picture?” he gasped. It was for that he had risked
his life.
“That’s all right, sir; it’s quite safe,” Higgins assured him; and with
a sigh he closed his eyes again.
After what seemed an eternity, Dr. Forrest arrived. Herbert’s arm was
badly burnt from the shoulder to the elbow, but the doctor feared the
effect of the shock even more than the actual injury. He prescribed
absolute quietude for his patient, and with firm but kindly insistence
persuaded Lady Marjorie to return to her home.
She did not want to go, and could hardly bear to tear herself away, but
she was sensible enough to admit that she could do no good by remaining.
The doctor reminded her also that she had her servants and horses to
consider.
So once more she bent over Herbert to say good-bye. He was more
comfortable now, and his face had relaxed its expression of pain.
Feeling the fragrance of her perfumed hair, he opened his eyes, and
there was a look in them she had never seen before--a look which made
her heart beat high.
With her face close to his she whispered her farewell, and listened
joyfully to his murmured response--
“I’m all right now, little woman. Good-bye.”
Then she kissed Celia, and, putting on her cloak again, went forth to
resume her interrupted drive. The fire appeared to be totally
extinguished by this time; but the hose continued to play upon the
heated roof. Two of the engines were about to depart, one having already
left.
Lady Marjorie watched them with mingled feelings. She regretted the
damage to the studio and paintings, she grieved for the painful injury
to Herbert’s arm; but if, as she diffidently hoped, the fire had been
the means of kindling the artist’s love for herself, both he and she
would forget the temporary misfortune in the aftermath of joy that would
be theirs.