THE BALL.
Lights gleamed from the rooms of the banker's house in Stilborough. A
flood of light blazed from the hall, and was reflected on the pavement
outside, and on the colours of the flowering plants just within the
entrance. Mr. Peter Castlemaine and Miss Castlemaine gave a dance that
night; and it was the custom to open the door early, and keep it open,
for the arrival of the expected guests.
The reception-rooms were in readiness, and gay with their wax lights
and flowers. They opened mostly into one another. The largest of them
was appropriated to dancing. All its furniture and its carpet had been
removed; benches occupied the walls under the innumerable sconces
bearing lights; and the floor was chalked artistically, in a handsome
pattern of flowers, after the fashion of the day.
In the small apartment that was her own sitting-room stood Mary
Ursula. In her rich robes of white silk and lace, and in the jewels
which had been her mother's, and which it was her father's wish she
should wear on grand occasions, she looked, with her stately form and
her most lovely face, of almost regal beauty. Excitement had flushed
her cheeks to brightness; on her delicate and perfect features sat an
animation not often seen there. Whatever evil might be overhanging the
house, at least no prevision of it rested on Miss Castlemaine; and
perhaps few young ladies in all the kingdom could be found who were
possessed of the requisites for happiness in a degree that could vie
with the banker's daughter, or who had so entire a sense of it.
Beautiful, amiable, clever, rich; the darling of her father; sheltered
from every care in her sumptuous home; loving and beloved by a young
man worthy of her, and to whom she was soon to be united! In the days
to come, Mary Ursula would look back on this time, and tell herself
that the very intensity of its happiness might have warned her that it
was too bright to last.
He, her lover, was by her side now. He had come early, on purpose to
be for a few minutes alone with her, before the arrival of the other
guests. They stood together on the hearthrug. A quiet-looking young
man of middle height, with dark hair, just the shade of hers, and
rather a pensive and mild cast of face: a face, however, that did not
seem to proclaim much moral strength. Such was William Blake-Gordon.
They were conversing of the future; the future that to both of them
looked so bright; of the home and home life that ere long would be
theirs in common. Mr. Blake-Gordon had been for some little time
searching for a house, and had not met with a suitable one. But he
thought he had found it now.
"It seems to me to be just the thing, Mary," he was saying--for he
never called her by her double name, but "Mary" simply. "Only four
miles from Stilborough on the Loughton road; which will be within an
easy distance of your father's home and of Sir Richard's. It was by
the merest chance I heard this morning that the Wests were going; and
we can secure it at once if we will, before it goes into the market."
Miss Castlemaine knew the house by sight; she had passed it many a
time in her drives, and seen it nestling away amid the trees. It was
called by rather a fanciful name--Raven's Priory.
"It is not to be let, you say, William; only bought."
"Only bought. There will be, I presume, no difficulty made to that by
the authorities."
He spoke with a smile. She smiled too. Difficulty!--with the loads of
wealth that would be theirs some time! They might well laugh at the
idea.
"Only that--that it is uncertain how long we may require to live in
it," she said, with a slight hesitation. "I suppose that--some
time----"
"We shall have to leave it for my father's home. True. But that, I
trust, may be a long while off. And then we could re-sell Raven's
Priory."
"Yes, of course. It is a nice place, William?"
"Charming," he replied with enthusiasm. For, of course, all things,
the proposed residence included, were to him the hue of
couleur-de-rose.
"I have never been inside it," she observed.
"No. The Wests are churlish people, keeping no company. Report says
that Mrs. West is a hypochondriac. They let me go in this morning, and
I went over all the house. It is the nicest place, love--and not too
large or too small for us; and the Wests have kept it in good
condition. You will be charmed with the drawing-rooms, Mary; and the
conservatory is one of the best I ever saw. They want us to take to the
plants."
"Are they nice?"
"Beautiful. The Wests are moving to London, to be near good advice for
her, and they do not expect to get anything of a conservatory there;
at least, that is worth the name. I wonder what your papa will think
about this house, Mary? We might tell him of it now. Where is he?"
"He is out," she answered. "Just as he was going up to dress, Thomas
Hill sent for him downstairs, and they went out somewhere together.
Papa ran up to tell me he would be back as soon as he could, but that
I must for once receive the people alone."
"I wish I might stand by your side to help receive them!" he said,
impulsively. "Would any of them faint at it? Do you think Mrs. Webb
would, if she were here?" he continued, with a smile. "Ah, well--a
short while, my darling, and I shall have the right to stand by you."
He stole his arm round her waist, and whispered to her a repetition of
those love vows that had so often before charmed her ear and thrilled
her heart. Her cheek touched his shoulder; the faint perfume of her
costly fan, that she swayed unconsciously as it hung from her wrist,
was to him like an odour from Paradise. He recounted to her all the
features he remembered of the house that neither of them doubted would
be their future home; and the minutes passed, in, to both, bliss
unutterable.
The crashing up of a carriage--of two carriages it
seemed--warned them that this sweet pastime was at an end. Sounds of
bustle in the hall succeeded to it: the servants were receiving the
first guests.
"Oh, William--I forgot--I meant to tell you," she hurriedly whispered.
"I had the most ugly dream last night. And you know I very rarely do
dream. I have not been able to get it out of my mind all day."
"What is it, Mary?"
"I thought we were separated, you and I; separated for ever. We had
quarrelled, I think; that point was not clear; but you turned off one
way, and I another. It was in the gallery of this house, William, and
we had been talking together. You went out at the other end, by the
door near the dining-room, and I at this end; and we turned at the
last and looked at one another. Oh, the look was dreadful! I shall
never forget it: so full of pain and sadness! And we knew, both of us
knew, that it was the last farewell look; that we should never again
meet in this world."
"Oh, my love! my love!" he murmured, bending his face on hers. "And
you could let it trouble you!--knowing it was but a dream! Nothing but
the decree of God--death--shall ever separate us, Mary. For weal or
for woe, we will go through the life here together."
He kissed away the tears that had gathered in her eyes at the
remembrance; and Miss Castlemaine turned hastily into one of the
larger rooms, and took up her standing there in expectation. For the
feet of the gay world were already traversing the gallery.
She welcomed her guests, soon coming in thick and threefold, with the
gracious manner and the calm repose of bearing that always
characterised her, apologising to all for the absence of her father;
telling that he had been called out unexpectedly on some matter of
business, but would soon return. Amid others, came the party from
Greylands' Rest, arriving rather late: Mrs. Castlemaine in black
velvet, leaning on the arm of her stepson; Ethel Reene walking
modestly behind, in a simple dress of white net, adorned with white
ribbons. There was many a fine young man present, but never a finer or
more attractive one than Harry Castlemaine; with the handsome
Castlemaine features, the easy, independent bearing, and the ready
tongue.
"Is it of any use to ask whether you are at liberty to honour me with
your hand for the first dance, Mary Ursula?" he inquired, after
leaving Mrs. Castlemaine on a sofa.
"Not the least, Harry," answered Miss Castlemaine, smiling. "I am
engaged for that, and for the second as well."
"Of course. Well, it is all as it should be, I suppose. Given the
presence of Mr. Blake-Gordon, and no one else has so good a right as
he to open the ball with you."
"You will find a substitute for me by the asking, Harry. See all those
young ladies around; not one but is glancing towards you with the hope
that you may seek her."
He laughed rather consciously. He was perfectly well aware of the
universal favour accorded by the ladies, young and old, to Harry
Castlemaine. But this time, at any rate, he intended to disappoint
them all. He turned to Miss Reene.
"Will you take compassion upon a rejected man, Ethel? Mary Ursula
won't have me for the first two dances, you hear; so I appeal to you
in all humility to heal the smart. Don't reject me."
"Nonsense, Harry!" was the young lady's answer. "You must not ask me
for the first dance; it would be like brother and sister dancing
together; all the room would resent it in you, and call it bad
manners. Choose elsewhere. There's Miss Mountsorrel; she will not say
you nay."
"For the dances, no but she'll not condescend to speak three words to
me while they are in process," returned Mr. Harry Castlemaine. "If you
do not dance them with me, Ethel, I shall sit down until the two first
dances are over."
He spoke still in the same laughing, half joking manner; but,
nevertheless, there was a ring of decision in the tone of the last
words; and Ethel knew he meant what he said. The Castlemaines rarely
broke through any decision they might announce, however lightly it was
spoken; and Harry possessed somewhat of the same persistent will.
"If you make so great a point of it, I will dance with you," observed
Ethel. "But I must again say that you ought to take anyone rather than
me."
"I have not seen my uncle yet," remarked Miss Castlemaine to Ethel, as
Harry strolled away to pay his devoirs to the room generally. "Where
can he be lingering?"
"Papa is not here, Mary Ursula."
"Not here! How is that?"
"Really I don't know," replied Ethel. "When Harry came running out to
get into the carriage to-night--we had been sitting in it quite five
minutes waiting for him but he had been away all day, and was late in
dressing--Miles shut the door. 'Don't do that,' said Harry to him,
'the master's not here.' Upon that, Mrs. Castlemaine spoke, and said
papa was not coming with us."
"I suppose he will be coming in later," remarked Mary Ursula, as she
moved away to meet fresh guests.
The dancing began with a country dance; or, as would have been said
then, the ball opened with one. Miss Castlemaine and her lover, Mr.
Blake-Gordon, took their places at its head; Harry Castlemaine and
Miss Reene were next to them. For in those days, people stood much
upon etiquette at these assemblies, and the young ladies of the family
took precedence of all others in the opening dance.
The dance chosen was called the Triumph. Harry Castlemaine led Mary
Ursula down between the line of admiring spectators; her partner, Mr.
Blake-Gordon, followed, and they brought the young lady back in
triumph. Such was the commencement of the figure. It was a sight to be
remembered in after years; the singular good looks of at least two of
the three; Harry, the sole male heir of the Castlemaines, with the
tall fine form and the handsome face; and Mary Ursula, so stately and
beautiful. Ethel Reene was standing alone, in her quiet loveliness,
looking like a snowdrop, and waiting until her turn should come to be
in like manner taken down. The faces of all sparkled with animation
and happiness; the gala robes of the two young ladies added to the
charm of the scene. Many recalled it later; recalled it with a pang:
for, of those four, ere a year had gone by, one was not, and another's
life had been blighted. No prevision, however, rested on any of them
this night of what the dark future held in store; and they revelled in
the moment's enjoyment, gay at heart. Heaven is too merciful to let
Fate cast its ominous shade on us before the needful time.
The banker came in ere the first dance was over. Moving about from
room to room among his guests, glancing with approving smile at the
young dancers, seeing that the card-tables were filled, he at length
reached the sofa of Mrs. Castlemaine. She happened to be alone on it
just then, and he sat down beside her.
"I don't see James anywhere," he remarked. "Where is he hiding
himself?"
"He has not come," replied Mrs. Castlemaine.
"No! How's that? James enjoys a ball."
"Yes, I think he does still, nearly as much as his son Harry."
"Then what has kept him away?"
"I really do not know. I had thought nearly to the last that he meant
to come. When I was all but ready myself, finding James had not begun
to dress, I sent Harriet to remind him of the lateness of the hour,
and she brought word back that her master was not going."
"Did he say why?" asked Mr. Peter Castlemaine.
"No! I knocked at his study door afterwards and found him seated at
his bureau. He seemed busy. All he said to me was, that he should
remain at home; neither more nor less. You know, Peter, James rarely
troubles himself to give a reason for what he does."
"Well, I am sorry. Sorry that he should miss a pleasant evening, and
also because I wanted to speak to him. We may not have many more of
these social meetings."
"I suppose not," said Mrs. Castlemaine, assuming that her
brother-in-law alluded in an indirect way to his daughter's approaching
marriage. "When once you have lost Mary Ursula, there will be nobody to
hold, festivities for."
"No," said the banker, absently.
"I suppose it will be very soon now."
"What will be soon?"
"The wedding. James thinks it will be after Easter."
"Oh--ay--the wedding," spoke Mr. Peter Castlemaine, with the air of a
man who has just caught up some recollection that had slipped from
him. "I don't know yet: we shall see: no time has been decided on."
"Close as his brother" thought Mrs. Castlemaine. "No likelihood, that
he will disclose anything unless he chooses."
"Will James be coming in to Stilborough to-morrow?" asked the banker.
"I'm sure I cannot tell. He goes out and comes in, you know, without
any reference to me. I should fancy he would not be coming in,
unless he has anything to call him. He has not seemed well to-day; he
thinks he has caught a cold."
"Ah, then I daresay that's the secret of his staying at home
to-night," said Mr. Peter Castlemaine.
"Yes, it may be. I did not think of that. And he has also been very
much annoyed to-day: and you know, Peter, if once James is thoroughly
put out of temper, it takes some little time to put him in again."
The banker nodded assent.
"What has annoyed him?"
"A very curious thing," replied Mrs. Castlemaine: "you will hardly
believe it when I tell you. Some young man----"
Breaking off suddenly, she glanced around to make sure that no one was
within hearing. Then drawing nearer to the banker, went on in a
lowered voice:
"Some young man presented himself this morning at Greylands' Rest,
pretending to want to put in a claim to the estate."
Abstracted though the banker had been throughout the brief interview,
these words aroused him to the quick. In one moment he was the calm,
shrewd, attentive business man, Peter Castlemaine, his head erect, his
keen eyes observant.
"I do not understand you, Mrs. Castlemaine."
"Neither do I understand," she rejoined. "James said just a word or
two to me, and I gathered the rest."
"Who was the young man?"
"Flora described him as wearing a coat trimmed with fur; and Miles
thought he spoke with somewhat of a foreign accent," replied Mrs.
Castlemaine, deviating unconsciously from the question, as ladies
sometimes do deviate.
"But don't you know who he was? Did he give no account of himself?"
"He calls himself Anthony Castlemaine."
As the name left her lips a curious kind of change, as though he were
startled, passed momentarily over the banker's countenance. But he
neither stirred nor spoke.
"When the card was brought in with that name upon it--James happened
to be in the red parlour, talking with me about a new governess--I
said it must be an old card of your father's that somebody had got
hold of. But it turned out not to be that: and, indeed, it was not
like the old cards. What he wants to make out is, that he is the son
of Basil Castlemaine."
"Did James see him?"
"Oh dear yes, and their interview lasted more than an hour."
"And he told James he was Basil's son?--this young man."
"I think so. At any rate, the young man told Ethel he was. She
happened to meet him as he was leaving the house and he introduced
himself to her as Anthony Castlemaine, Basil's son, and said he had
come over to claim his inheritance--Greylands' Rest."
"And where's Basil?" asked the banker, after a pause.
"Dead."
"Dead?"
"So the young man wishes to make appear. My opinion is he must be some
impostor."
"An impostor no doubt," assented the banker, slowly. "At
least--he may be. I only wonder that we have not, under the
circumstances, had people here before, claiming to be connected with
Basil."
"And I am sure the matter has annoyed James very much," pursued Mrs.
Castlemaine. "He betrayed it in his manner, and was not at all like
himself all the afternoon. I should make short work of it if the man
came again, were I James, and threaten him with the law."
Mr. Peter Castlemaine said no more, and presently rose to join other
of his guests. But as he talked to one, laughed with another, listened
to a third, his head bent in attention, his eyes looking straight into
their eyes, none had an idea that these signs of interest were evinced
mechanically, and that his mind was far away.
He had enough perplexity and trouble of his own just then, as Heaven
knew; very much indeed on this particular evening; but this other
complexity, that appeared to be arising for his brother James, added
to it. To Mrs. Castlemaine's scornfully expressed opinion that the man
was an impostor, he had assented just in the same way that he was now
talking with his guests--mechanically. For some instinct, or prevision,
call it what you will, lay on the banker's heart, that the man would
turn out to be no impostor, but the veritable son of the exile, Basil.
Peter Castlemaine was much attached to his brother James, and for
James's own sake he would have regretted that any annoyance or trouble
should arise for him; but he had also a selfish motive for regretting
it. In his dire strait as to money--for to that it had now come--he
had been rapidly making up his mind that evening to appeal to James to
let him have some. The appeal might not be successful under the most
favourable auspices: he knew that: but with this trouble looming for
the Master of Greylands, he foresaw that it must and would fail.
Greylands' Rest might be James's in all legal security; but an
impression had lain on the mind of Peter Castlemaine, since his
father's death, that if Basil ever returned he would set up a fight
for it.
Supper over--the elaborate, heavy, sit-down supper of those days--and
the two dances following upon it, most of the guests departed. Mr.
Blake-Gordon, seeking about for the banker to wish him goodnight, at
length found him standing over the fire in the deserted card-room.
Absorbed though he was in his own happiness, the young man could but
notice the flood-tide of care on the banker's brow. It cleared off, as
though by magic, when the banker looked up and saw him.
"Is it you, William? I thought you had left."
"I should hardly go, sir, without wishing you goodnight. What a
delightful evening it has been!"
"Ay, I think you have all enjoyed yourselves."
"Oh, very, very much."
"Well, youth is the time for enjoyment," observed the banker. "We can
never again find the zest in it, once youth is past."
"You look tired, sir; otherwise I--I might have ventured to trespass
on you for five minutes' conversation, late though it be," pursued Mr.
Blake-Gordon with some hesitation.
"Tired!--not at all. You may take five minutes; and five to that,
William."
"It is about our future residence, sir. Raven's Priory is in the
market: and I think--and Mary thinks--it will just suit us."
"Ay; I heard more than a week ago that the Wests were leaving."
The words took William Blake-Gordon by surprise. He looked at the
banker.
"Did you, sir!--more than a week ago! And did it not strike you that
it would be a very suitable place for us?"
"I cannot say that I thought much about it," was the banker's answer;
and he was twirling an ornament on the mantelpiece about with his
hand as he spoke: a small, costly vase of old china from Dresden.
"But don't you think it would be, sir?"
"I daresay it might be. The gardens and conservatories have been well
kept up; and you and Mary Ursula have both a weakness for rare
flowers."
That was perfectly true. And the "weakness" showed itself then, for
the young man went off into a rapturous description of the wealth of
Raven's Priory in respect of floriculture. The ten minutes slipped
away to twenty; and in his own enthusiasm Mr. Blake-Gordon did not
notice the absence of it in his hearer.
"But I must not keep you longer, sir," he suddenly said, as his eyes
caught the hands of the clock. "Perhaps you will let me see you about
it to-morrow. Or allow my father to see you--that will be better."
"Not to-morrow," said Mr. Peter Castlemaine. "I shall be particularly
engaged all day. Some other time."
"Whenever you please, sir. Only--we must take care that we are not
forestalled in the purchase. Much delay might----"
"We can obtain a promise of the first refusal," interrupted the
banker, in a somewhat impatient tone. "That will not be difficult."
"True. Goodnight, sir. And thank you for giving us this most charming
evening."
"Goodnight, William."
But Mr. Blake-Gordon had not yet said his last farewell to his
betrothed wife; and lovers never think that can be spoken often
enough. He found her in the music-room, seated before the organ. She
was waiting for her father.
"We shall have Raven's Priory, Mary," he whispered, speaking in
accordance with his thoughts, in his great hopefulness; and his voice
was joyous, and his pale face had a glow on it not often seen there.
"Your papa himself says how beautiful the gardens and conservatories
are."
"Yes," she softly answered, "we shall be sure to have it."
"I may not stay, Mary: I only came back to tell you this. And to wish
you goodnight once again."
Her hand was within his arm, and they walked together to the end of
the music-room. All the lights had been put out, save two. Just within
the door he halted and took his farewell. His arm was around her, his
lips were upon hers.
"May all good angels guard you this happy night--my love!--my promised
wife!"
He went down the corridor swiftly; she stole her blushing face to the
opening of the door, to take a last look at him. At that moment a
crash, as of some frail thing broken, was heard in the card-room. Mr.
Blake-Gordon turned into it Mary Ursula followed him.
The beautiful Dresden vase lay on the stone flags of the hearth,
shivered into many atoms. It was one that Mary Ursula set great store
by, for it had been a purchase of her mother's.
"Oh papa! How did it happen?"
"My dear, I swept it off unwittingly with my elbow: I am very sorry
for it," said Mr. Peter Castlemaine.