THE DUCHESS OF DEVONSHIRE.
Late one night a carefully dressed elderly gentleman applied his
latch-key to the door of a house in Bury Street, St. James's, and was
about to enter without any great circumspection, when he was suddenly
met by a white phantom, which threw him off his legs, and dashed outward
into the street. The language that the elderly gentleman used, as he
picked himself up, need not be repeated here. Suffice it to say that the
white phantom was the dog Oscar, who had been shut in a minute before by
his master, and who now, after one or two preliminary dashes up and down
the street, very soon perceived the tall figure of Macleod, and made
joyfully after him. But Oscar knew that he had acted wrongly, and was
ashamed to show himself; so he quietly slunk along at his master's
heels. The consequence of this was that the few loiterers about beheld
the very unusual spectacle of a tall young gentleman walking down Bury
Street and into King Street, dressed in full Highland costume, and
followed by a white-and-lemon collie. No other person going to the
Caledonian fancy-dress ball was so attended.
Macleod made his way through the carriages, crossed the Pavement, and
entered the passage. Then he heard some scuffling behind, and he turned.
"Let alone my dog, you fellow!" said he, making a step forward, for the
man had got hold of Oscar by the head, and was hauling him out.
"Is it your dog, sir?" said he.
Oscar himself answered by wrestling himself free and taking refuge by
his master's legs, though he still looked guilty.
"Yes, he is my dog; and a nice fix he has got me into," said Macleod,
standing aside to let the Empress Maria Theresa pass by in her
resplendent costume. "I suppose I must walk home with him again. Oscar,
Oscar, how dare you?"
"If you please, sir," said a juvenile voice behind him, "if Mr. ----
will let me, I will take the dog. I know where to tie him up."
Macleod turned.
"_Co an so?_" said he, looking down at the chubby-faced boy in the
kilts, who had his pipes under his arm. "Don't you know the Gaelic?"
"I am only learning," said the young musician. "Will I take the dog,
sir?"
"March along, then, Phiobaire bhig!" Macleod said. "He will follow me,
if he will not follow you."
Little Piper turned aside into a large hall which had been transformed
into a sort of waiting-room; and here Macleod found himself in the
presence of a considerable number of children, half of them girls, half
of them boys, all dressed in tartan, and seated on the forms along the
walls. The children, who were half asleep at this time of the night,
woke up with sudden interest at sight of the beautiful collie; and at
the same moment Little Piper explained to the gentleman who was in
charge of these young ones that the dog had to be tied up somewhere, and
that a small adjoining room would answer that purpose. The proposal was
most courteously entertained. Macleod, Mr. ----, and Little Piper walked
along to this side room, and there Oscar was properly secured.
"And I will get him some water, sir, if he wants it," said the boy in
the kilts.
"Very well," Macleod said. "And I will give you my thanks for it; for
that is all that a Highlander, and especially a piper, expects for a
kindness. And I hope you will learn the Gaelic soon, my boy. And do you
know 'Cumhadh na Cloinne?' No, it is too difficult for you; but I think
if I had the chanter between my fingers myself, I could let you hear
'Cumhadh na Cloinne.'"
"I am sure John Maclean can play it," said the small piper.
"Who is he?"
The gentleman in charge of the youngsters explained that John Maclean
was the eldest of the juvenile pipers, five others of whom were in
attendance.
"I think," said Macleod, "that I am coming down in a little time to make
the acquaintance of your young pipers, if you will let me."
He passed up the broad staircase and into the empty supper-room, from
which a number of entrances showed him the strange scene being enacted
in the larger hall. Who were these people who were moving to the sound
of rapid music? A clown in a silken dress of many colors, with bells to
his cap and wrists, stood at one of the doors. Macleod became his
fellow-spectator of what was going forward. A beautiful Tyrolienne, in a
dress of black, silver, and velvet, with her yellow hair hanging in two
plaits down her back, passed into the room, accompanied by Charles the
First in a large wig and cloak; and the next moment they were whirling
along in the waltz, coming into innumerable collisions with all the
celebrated folk who ever lived in history. And who were these gentlemen
in the scarlet collars and cuffs, who but for these adornments would
have been in ordinary evening dress? he made bold to ask the friendly
clown, who was staring in a pensive manner at the rushing couples.
"They call it the Windsor uniform," said the clown. "_I_ think it mean.
I sha'n't come in a fancy dress again, if stitching on a red collar will
do."
At this moment the waltz came to an end, and the people began to walk up
and down the spacious apartment. Macleod entered the throng to look
about him. And soon he perceived, in one of the little stands at the
side of the hall, the noble lady who had asked him to go to this
assembly, and forthwith he made his way through the crowd to her. He was
most graciously received.
"Shall I tell you a secret, Lady ----?" said he. "You know the children
belonging to the charity; they are all below, and they are sitting doing
nothing, and they are all very tired and half asleep. It is a shame to
keep them there--"
"But the Prince hasn't come yet; and they must be marched round: they
show that we are not making fools of ourselves for nothing."
A sharper person than Macleod might have got in a pretty compliment
here: for this lady was charmingly dressed as Flora Macdonald; but he
merely said:--
"Very well; perhaps it is necessary. But I think I can get them some
amusement, if you will only keep the director of them, that is, Mr.
----, out of the way. Now shall I send him to you? Will you talk to
him?"
"What do you mean to do?"
"I want to give them a dance. Why should you have all the dancing up
here?"
"Mind, I am not responsible. What shall I talk to him about?"
Macleod considered for a moment.
"Tell him that I will take the whole of the girls and boys to the
Crystal Palace for a day, if it is permissable; and ask him what it will
cost, and all about the arrangements."
"Seriously?"
"Yes. Why not? They can have a fine run in the grounds, and six pipers
to play for them. I will ask them now whether they will go."
He left and went downstairs. He had seen but few people in the hall
above whom he knew. He was not fond of dancing, though he knew the
elaborate variations of the reel. And here was a bit of practical
amusement.
"Oh, Mr. ----," said he, with great seriousness, "I am desired by Lady
---- to say that she would like to see you for a moment or two. She
wishes to ask you some questions about your young people."
"The Prince may come at any moment," said Mr. ---- doubtfully.
"He won't be in such a hurry as all that, surely."
So the worthy man went upstairs; and the moment he was gone Macleod shut
the door.
"Now, you piper boys!" he called aloud, "get up and play us a reel. We
are going to have a dance. You are all asleep, I believe. Come, girls
stand up. You that know the reel, you will keep to this end. Boys, come
out. You that can dance a reel, come to this end; the others will soon
pick it up. Now, piper boys, have you got the steam up? What can you
give us, now? 'Monymusk?' or the 'Marquis of Huntley's Fling?' or 'Miss
Johnston?' Nay, stay a bit. Don't you know 'Mrs. Macleod of Raasay?'"
"Yes," "Yes," "Yes," "Yes," "Yes," "Yes," came from the six pipers, all
standing in a row, with the drones over their shoulders and the chanters
in their fingers.
"Very well, then--off you go! Now, boys and girls, are all ready?
Pipers, 'Mrs. Macleod of Raasay!'"
For a second there was a confused roaring on the long drones; then the
shrill chanters broke clear away into the wild reel; and presently the
boys and girls, who were at first laughingly shy and embarrassed, began
to make such imitations of the reel figure, which they had seen often
enough, as led to a vast amount of scrambling and jollity, if it was not
particularly accurate. The most timid of the young ones soon picked up
courage. Here and there one of the older boys gave a whoop that would
have done justice to a wedding dance in a Highland barn.
"Put your lungs into it, pipers!" Macleod cried out, "Well played, boys!
You are fit to play before a prince?"
The round cheeks of the boys were red with their blowing; they tapped
their toes on the ground as proudly as if every one of them was a
MacCruimin; the wild noise in this big, empty hall grew more furious
than ever--when suddenly there was an awful silence. The pipers whipped
the chanters from their mouths; the children, suddenly stopping in their
merriment, cast one awestruck glance at the door, and then slunk back to
their seats. They had observed not only Mr. ----, but also the Prince
himself. Macleod was left standing alone in the middle of the floor.
"Sir Keith Macleod?" said his Royal Highness, with a smile.
Macleod bowed low.
"Lady ---- told me what you were about. I thought we could have had a
peep unobserved, or we should not have broken in on the romp of the
children."
"I think your Royal Highness could make amends for that," said Macleod.
There was an inquiring glance.
"If your Royal Highness would ask some one to see that each of the
children has an orange, and a tart, and a shilling, it would be some
compensation to them for being kept up so late."
"I think that might be done," said the Prince, as he turned to leave.
"And I am glad to have made your acquaintance, although in--"
"In the character of a dancing-master," said Macleod, gravely.
After having once more visited Oscar, in the company of Phiobaire bhig,
Macleod went up again to the brilliantly lit hall; and here he found
that a further number of his friends had arrived. Among them was young
Ogilvie, in the tartan of the Ninety-third Highlanders; and very smart
indeed the boy-officer looked in his uniform. Mrs. Ross was here too and
she was busy in assisting to get up the Highland quadrille. When she
asked Macleod if he would join in it, he answered by asking her to be
his partner, as he would be ashamed to display his ignorance before an
absolute stranger. Mrs. Ross most kindly undertook to pilot him through
the not elaborate intricacies of the dance; and they were fortunate in
having the set made up entirely of their own friends.
Then the procession of the children took place; and the fantastically
dressed crowd formed a lane to let the homely-clad lads and lasses pass
along, with the six small pipers proudly playing a march at their head.
He stopped the last of the children for a second.
"Have you got a tart, and an orange, and a shilling?"
"No, sir."
"I have got the word of a prince for it," he said to himself, as he went
out of the room; "and they shall not go home with empty pockets."
As he was coming up the staircase again to the ball-room he was preceded
by two figures that were calculated to attract any one's notice by the
picturesqueness of their costume. The one stranger was apparently an old
man, who was dressed in a Florentine costume of the fourteenth
century--a cloak of sombre red, with a flat cap of black velvet, one
long tail of which was thrown over the left shoulder and hung down
behind. A silver collar hung from his neck across his breast: other
ornament there was none. His companion, however, drew all eyes toward
her as the two passed into the ball-room. She was dressed in imitation
of Gainsborough's portrait of the Duchess of Devonshire; and her
symmetrical figure and well-poised head admirably suited the long
trained costume of blue satin, with its _fichu_ of white muslin, the
bold coquettish hat and feathers, and the powdered puffs and curls that
descended to her shoulders. She had a gay air with her, too. She bore
her head proudly. The patches on her cheek seemed not half so black as
the blackness of her eyes, so full of a dark mischievous light were
they; and the redness of the lips--a trifle artificial, no doubt--as she
smiled seemed to add to the glittering whiteness of her teeth. The
proud, laughing, gay coquette: no wonder all eyes were for a moment
turned to her, in envy or in admiration.
Macleod, following these two, and finding that his old companion, the
pensive clown in cap and bells, was still at his post of observation at
the door, remained there also for a minute or two, and noticed that
among the first to recognize the two strangers was young Ogilvie, who
with laughing surprise in his face, came forward to shake hands with
them. Then there was some further speech; the band began to play a
gentle and melodious waltz; the middle of the room cleared somewhat; and
presently her Grace of Devonshire was whirled away by the young Highland
officer, her broad-brimmed hat rather overshadowing him, notwithstanding
the pronounced colors of his plaid. Macleod could not help following
this couple with his eyes whithersoever they went. In any part of the
rapidly moving crowd he could always make out that one figure; and once
or twice as they passed him it seemed to him that the brilliant beauty,
with her powdered hair, and her flashing bright eyes, and her merry
lips, regarded him for an instant; and then he could have imagined that
in a by-gone century--
"Sir Keith Macleod, I think?"
The old gentleman with the grave and scholarly cap of black velvet and
the long cloak of sober red held out his hand. The folds of the velvet
hanging down from the cap rather shadowed his face; but all the same
Macleod instantly recognized him--fixing the recognition by means of the
gold spectacles.
"Mr. White?" said he.
"I am more disguised than you are," the old gentleman said, with a
smile. "It is a foolish notion of my daughter's; but she would have me
come."
His daughter! Macleod turned in a bewildered way to that gay crowd under
the brilliant lights.
"Was that Miss White?" said he.
"The Duchess of Devonshire. Didn't you recognize her? I am afraid she
will be very tired to-morrow; but she would come."
He caught sight of her again--that woman, with the dark eyes full of
fire, and the dashing air, and the audacious smile! He could have
believed this old man to be mad. Or was he only the father of a witch,
of an illusive _ignis fatuus_, of some mocking Ariel darting into a
dozen shapes to make fools of the poor simple souls of earth?
"No," he stammered, "I--I did not recognize her. I thought the lady who
came with you had intensely dark eyes."
"She is said to be very clever in making up," her father said, coolly
and sententiously. "It is a part of her art that is not to be despised.
It is quite as important as a gesture or a tone of voice in creating the
illusion at which she aims. I do not know whether actresses, as a rule,
are careless about it, or only clumsy; but they rarely succeed in making
their appearance homogeneous. A trifle too much here, a trifle too
little there, and the illusion is spoiled. Then you see a painted
woman--not the character she is presenting. Did you observe my
daughter's eyebrows?"
"No, sir, I did not," said Macleod, humbly.
"Here she comes. Look at them."
But how could he look at her eyebrows, or at any trick of making up,
when the whole face, with its new excitement of color, its parted lips
and lambent eyes, was throwing its fascination upon him? She came
forward laughing, and yet with a certain shyness. He would fain have
turned away.
The Highlanders are superstitious. Did he fear being bewitched? Or what
was it that threw a certain coldness over his manner? The fact of her
having danced with young Ogilvie? Or the ugly reference made by her
father to her eyebrows? He had greatly admired this painted stranger
when he thought she was a stranger; he seemed less to admire the
artistic make-up of Miss Gertrude White.
The merry Duchess, playing her part admirably, charmed all eyes but his;
and yet she was so kind as to devote herself to her father and him,
refusing invitations to dance, and chatting to them--with those
brilliant lips smiling--about the various features of the gay scene
before them. Macleod avoided looking at her face.
"What a bonny boy your friend Mr. Ogilvie is!" said she, glancing across
the room.
He did not answer.
"But he does not look much of a soldier," she continued. "I don't think
I should be afraid of him if I were a man."
He answered, somewhat distantly:--
"It is not safe to judge that way, especially of any one of Highland
blood. If there is fighting in his blood, he will fight when the proper
time comes. And we have a good Gaelic saying--it has a great deal of
meaning in it, that saying--'_You do not know what sword is in the
scabbard until it is drawn._'"
"What did you say was the proverb?" she asked; and for second her eyes
met his; but she immediately withdrew them startled by the cold
austerity of his look.
"'_You do not know what sword is in the scabbard until it is drawn_,'"
said he, carelessly. "There is a good deal of meaning in it."