"WHAT MADE THE BALL SO FINE?"
"But come; our dance, I pray:
She dances featly."
_A Winter's Tale_.
The ball at Brocklehurst was this year anticipated with more than
ordinary interest. It was to be an unusually good one, said the local
authorities; all the "best" houses in the neighbourhood were to be
filled for it; the regiment at the nearest garrison town was a
deservedly popular one, and at least three recognised beauties were
expected to be present.
All these facts were discussed with eagerness by the young people round
about Brocklehurst, to whom a ball of any kind was an event, to whom
this special ball was _the_ event of the year. And in few family
circles was it more talked about than in the isolated Rectory at
Hathercourt, by few girls was it looked forward to with more
anticipation of enjoyment than by the Western sisters. Yet it was not
the first, nor the second, nor, in the case of Lilias, the third
Brocklehurst ball even, at which they had "assisted," and only a few
weeks previous Miss Western had been seriously talking of declining for
the future to take part in the great annual festivity. And here she was
now, the week before, as interested in the question of the pretty fresh
dresses, which, by an extra turn or two of the screw of economy, the
mother had managed to provide for her girls, as if she were again a
_debutante_ of seventeen; and, more wonderful still, the excitement had
proved infectious, for Mary, sober-minded Mary, was full of it too. She
could think of little else than what Lilias was to wear, how Lilias was
to look--but for Lilias, the consideration of what _Mary_ was to wear,
how _Mary_ was to look, would have been very summarily dismissed.
It is not easy, even with the most unselfish and "managing" of mothers,
with the most--theoretically, at least--indulgent of fathers; with two
pair of fairly clever hands, and two or three numbers of the latest
fashion books, it is not _easy_, out of what a girl like Alys Cheviott
would have thought a not extravagant price for a garden-hat, or a new
parasol, to devise for one's self a ball-dress, in which to appear with
credit to one's self and one's belongings, on such an occasion as a
Brocklehurst ball. And at first the difficulties had appeared so
insuperable that Mary had proposed that the whole of the funds should be
appropriated to the purchase of a dress for Lilias only.
"You could get one really handsome dress--handsome of its kind, that is
to say--for what will only provide two barely wearable ones," she said,
appealingly, "and, Lilias, you should be nicely dressed for once."
"And you?" said Lilias, aghast.
Mary blushed, and stumbled over a proposal that she should wear some
mythical attire which "really might be made to look decent," out of the
remains of the tarletans which had already done good duty on two, if not
three previous occasions, "or," she added, still more timidly, "if you
don't think I _could_ go in that, Lilias, I don't see why I should go at
all this time. You know my pleasure, even selfishly speaking, would be
far greater if you alone were to go, _comfortably_, than if we both
went, feeling half ashamed of our clothes! It would spoil the
enjoyment--there is no use denying it, however weak-minded it sounds to
say so."
"Of course it would," said Lilias, promptly. "I am not at all ashamed
of saying so. But I don't despair yet, Mary--only listen to me. I will
not go without you--do you hear, child?--I _won't_ go without you, and
we shall be dressed exactly alike. Your dress must be precisely and
exactly the same as mine, or I won't go. There, now you know my
decision, and you know that you'll have to give in."
She sat down as she spoke on the side of the bed in her room, on which
was displayed such modest finery as was in their possession, and in
presence of which the weighty discussion was taking place--she sat down
on the side of the little bed, and looked Mary resolutely in the face.
"Mary," she repeated, "you know you will have to give in."
And Mary gave in on the spot.
That had been three weeks ago. Now it was within two or three days of
the ball. How they had managed it, I cannot tell; what good fairy had
helped them, I cannot say--none, I suspect, but their own light hearts
and youthful energy, and love for each other--but Lilias's prophesy had
proved correct. The two dresses were ready, simple, but not shabby,
perfectly suited to their wearers. "A dress," thought Lilias, "which
must make every one see how really pretty Mary is."
"A dress," thought Mary, "which Captain Beverley need not be afraid of
his grand friends criticising, if, as they must, they notice him dancing
with Lilias."
They were in the midst of their admiration of the successful
achievement, when there came an interruption--a noisy knock at the door,
and Josey's noisy voice.
"Lilias! Mary! let me in!" she exclaimed. "Mamma says you are to come
down at once. Captain Beverley's here; he has come back from London,
and has walked over all the way from Romary. Come quick!"
Mary turned to Lilias. Lilias had grown scarlet.
"I don't know that I shall go down," she said. "I must put away all
these things, and I wanted you to help me to fold these dresses, Mary.
But mother will be vexed if one of us does not go. Josey, send Alexa up
to help me--tell mother Mary is just coming, but that I am very busy."
"I'll tell Captain Beverley so," said Josephine, maliciously.
Mary said nothing, but set to work at folding the dresses, and Lilias
assisting her, they were all carefully disposed of before Alexa made her
appearance.
"Now, Lilias, be sensible, and come down with me," said the younger
sister. "He has walked all the way from Romary, you hear, and I think
its very nice of him. He hardly expected to be able to see us again
before the ball, and it looks like affectation not to give him a cordial
reception."
But still Lilias hesitated.
"It isn't affectation," she said at last, "but--Mary," she went on,
suddenly breaking off her sentence, "I think it is horrid to talk of
such things before there is actually anything to talk of, but to you I
don't mind. I cannot understand Captain Beverley quite; that is why I
said I was not sure that I should go down. I don't understand why--why
he has never yet said anything definite. He has been on the verge of it
a dozen times at least, and then he has seemed to hesitate."
Mary looked at her sister anxiously.
"Perhaps he is not sure of _you_," she said. "You know, Lilias, what a
way you have of turning things into jest very often."
Lilias shook her head. "No," she said, "it isn't that. He _knows_,"
she hesitated, and again her fair face grew rosy, "he _knows_ I like
him. No, it is as if there were, some difficulty on his side--his
friends perhaps."
"It can't be that," said Mary, decidedly. "He has no parents, no very
near friends. He must be free to act for himself, Lilias. I think too
highly of him to doubt it, for it has been all so entirely his own
doing--from the very first--and if he were in any way not free, it would
have been shameful;" her face darkened, and a look came into her eyes
which told that Mary Western would not be one to stand by silently and
see another wronged, whatever powers of endurance she might have on her
own account. But it cleared off again quickly, and she smiled at her
sister re-assuringly.
"I am fanciful where you are concerned, Lilias," she said. "There is no
reason for misgiving, I feel sure. I think Captain Beverley is good and
true, and it will all be right. Come down-stairs now--mother will not
like our leaving her so long alone."
Lilias made no further objection, and they went down together to the
drawing-room, where it would be difficult to say which of the two, Mrs
Western or Captain Beverley, was the more eagerly expecting them.
It was only three or four days since the young man had been at the
Rectory, for the period of his mysterious absence from Miss Winstanley's
house had really, little as the Cheviotts suspected it, been spent at
Hathercourt.
But during those three or four days he had been to town and back again,
and now he had left the Edge and taken up his quarters at Romary. A
great deal seemed to have happened in these few days, and, in her secret
heart, Lilias Western had looked forward to them as to a sort of crisis.
"He will, probably, have been talking over things with his cousin, Mr
Cheviott," she said to herself, "and, naturally, he wishes to have some
points settled before speaking to papa or me."
And it was, therefore, with a sort of expectancy, half hope, half
timidity, that added an indefinable charm to her whole bearing and
expression, that Lilias met her all but declared lover this afternoon.
He felt that she was more attractive than ever, "she grows lovelier
every time I see her," he said to himself, with a sigh, and then tried
to forget that he had anything to sigh about, and gave himself up to the
pleasure of being again beside her--to the consciousness that his
presence was not distasteful to her, and smothered all misgivings with a
vague, boyish confidence that, somehow or other, things would all come
right in the end.
There could be no doubt about it--he was more devoted than ever--what
nineteenth century _preux chevalier_ could give greater proof of his
devotion than a ten miles' walk on a dull December day, for the sake of
an hour's enjoyment of his lady-love's company, and a cup of tea from
her fair hands? Yet when their guest rose to go--he had arranged, he
told them, for a dog-cart from Romary to meet him at the Edge Farm--
Lilias was conscious of a chill of disappointment. True, he had not
been alone with her, but had he sought any opportunity of being so? And
Mr Western was at home, sitting reading, as usual, in his study;
nothing could have been more easily managed than an interview with him,
had Captain Beverley wished it. But a word or two that passed, as he
was saying good-bye, again put her but half-acknowledged misgivings to
flight.
"Then when shall I see you again?" he said, as he held her hand in his
for an instant, unobserved in the little bustle of taking leave.
Lilias glanced round hastily; her mother and Mary were hardly within
hearing.
"I really cannot say," she replied, somewhat coldly, drawing her hand
away as she spoke. "I _suppose_ Mary and I will go to the ball on
Thursday, with Mrs Greville, but--"
"Suppose," repeated Captain Beverley, hastily interrupting her. "Are
not you _sure_ of going? I should not have promised to go had I not
thought you were certain to be there."
"Are you going to the ball from Romary?" asked Mary, coming up to where
they were standing, before Lilias had time to reply.
"I don't know exactly," replied Captain Beverley. "I am not sure what I
shall do."
Mary looked up in surprise, and Lilias saw the look.
"Mary and I will have a very long drive," she said. "You know we are
going with Mrs Greville from Uxley."
Captain Beverley's face cleared.
"I shall get there somehow," he said, brightly, "and you must not forget
the dances you have promised me, Miss Western." And then he said
good-bye again, and really took his departure. Lilias's good spirits
did not desert her through the evening, and Mary was glad to see it, and
tried to banish the misgivings that had been left in her own mind by her
conversation with her sister. But she did not succeed in doing so quite
effectually.
"I wonder," she said to herself--"I wonder why Captain Beverley did not
order the dog-cart to come _here_ to meet him. And I wonder, too, why
he says so little about the Cheviotts. Under the circumstances, it
would be only natural that we should know something of them--he has so
often said Miss Cheviott was just like a sister to him."
"Miss Cheviott is to be at the ball, I suppose," she said to Lilias the
next day. "Does she count as one of the three beauties we heard about,
do you think?"
"I suppose so," said Lilias, rather shortly.
"Did Captain Beverley not say anything about her going?" persisted Mary.
Lilias turned round sharply.
"You heard all he said," she exclaimed. "He was speaking to you quite
as much as to me. I don't think he mentioned the Cheviotts at all, and
I don't care to hear about them. It is not as if they were Captain
Beverley's brother and sister."
"I didn't mean to vex you, Lilias," said Mary, and then the subject
dropped.
Mrs Greville was a very good sort of person to be a _chaperon_. She
was her husband's second wife, a good many years his junior, and she had
no daughters of her own. She was pretty well off, but owing to Mr
Greville's delicate health, her allowance of amusement was, even for a
clergyman's wife, moderate in the extreme, and she had very little
occupation of any kind; there were no poor people in the very well-to-do
parish of Uxley, and her two boys were at school. She liked chaperoning
the Western girls, Lilias especially, as her beauty was sure of
receiving attention, and both she and Mary were quickly grateful for a
little kindness, unexacting, and ready to be pleased. So, all things
considered, she looked forward to the Brocklehurst ball with scarcely
less eagerness then the sisters themselves.
"I am so pleased that you have got such pretty dresses this year," said
Mrs Greville, when she and her charges found themselves fairly launched
on the eventful evening. She had chartered the roomiest of the
Withenden flys, as much less damaging to their attire during a seven
miles' drive than her own little pill-box, in which, carefully wrapped
in innumerable mufflers and overcoats, Mr Greville followed meekly
behind. "Yes, I am particularly pleased you have got such pretty
dresses, for I quite think it is going to be a very brilliant ball. You
have heard that there are to be three beauties--_noted_ beauties, have
you not? There's young Mrs Heron-Wyvern, the bride, you know; she is
of Spanish origin; her father was a General Monte something or other,
and they say she is lovely; and Sir Thomas Fforde's niece, Miss--oh, I
always forget names, but she is very pretty--handsome, rather--she is
not so very young; and then there is Miss Cheviott of Romary. I have
not seen her since she was quite a little girl, but she was pretty then,
even."
"Are the Cheviotts at Romary now?" asked Mary, when she got a chance of
speaking.
"Oh, yes, I believe so, and very much liked, I hear," replied Mrs
Greville. "There was an impression that Mr Cheviott was stiff and
`stuck up,' but I believe it's not at all the case when you know him. I
hear Romary is likely to be one of the pleasantest houses in the county.
I dare say Miss Cheviott will be making some grand match before long,
though I _have_ heard--"
But just at this moment the sudden rattle of the wheels upon the
unmistakable cobble stones of Brocklehurst High Street distracted Mrs
Greville's attention.
"Here we are, I declare!" she exclaimed, "How quickly we seem to have
come! I do hope the brougham is close behind, for Mr Greville has all
the tickets;" and, in the bustle that ensued, what she had heard as to
Miss Cheviott's prospects or intentions was never revealed.
They were very early. Mrs Greville liked to be early, "to see all the
people come in." Hitherto, on such occasions, this weakness of her
friend had been a sore trial to Lilias, but this year, for reasons of
her own, she had made no objections to it, and had not, as formerly,
exhausted her energies in search of some cleverly-laid scheme for making
Mrs Greville late in spite of herself. And if Lilias was content, it
never occurred to Mary to be anything else; so they all sat down
together "in a nice corner out of the draught," and listened to the
discordant preliminaries of the band, and watched the gradually filling
of the bare, chilly rooms, two hearts among the four caring for little
but the confidently looked-for approach of a tall, manly figure, with a
bright fair face, to claim his partner for the first two dances.
But time wore on; the first quadrille was a thing of the past, and still
Lilias and Mary sat decorously beside their _chaperon_, each thinking to
herself that "surely the Romary party was very late." But when the
second dance, a Waltt, had also come to an end, Lilias's air changed; a
proud flush of colour overspread her cheeks, and when Frank Bury, a
Withenden curate of rather unclerical tastes, but decided in his
admiration for Miss Western, begged for "the honour of the third dance,"
she accepted at once--so much more amiably, and with so much sweeter
smiles than usual, that the poor young man grew crimson with
astonishment and delight. Mary longed, yet dared not, to interfere;
there was "a look" in Lilias's face as she walked away on Frank Bury's
arm that made Mary's heart burn with anxiety for the possible issues of
this evening.
"Oh," said she, to herself, "if he were to come just now and think she
would not wait for him!"
And she sat still in fear and trembling, longing for, yet dreading
Captain Beverley's appearance.
The dance was not half over when there came a little bustle at the
principal door-way. Those nearest it stood back, and even through the
music one discerned a slight hush of expectancy. Some new-comers were
at hand; new-comers, too, of evident importance. Mrs Greville's ears
and eyes were equally wide awake.
"The Cleavelands party," she whispered to Mary, "and I hear all the
three beauties come with them! The Heron-Wyverns are staying there, and
so are the Ffordes, and the Cheviotts. It looks as if it had been
arranged on purpose to make a sensation."
Mary would have cared little but for one thought. "Then there has been
no party at Romary?" she asked.
"I suppose not--evidently not, for see, there is Mr Cheviott coming
into the room with Sir Thomas's niece on his arm--what a handsome
couple! but he has a forbidding expression. Then that must be the
bride, I suppose--oh, yes, look, Mary, she is going to dance with her
husband, young Heron-Wyvern--he has reddish hair--and how, I wonder what
has become of the third beauty, Miss Cheviott."
But at this moment an acquaintance of Mrs Greville happening to take
the vacant seat on her other side, her attention was distracted, and
Mary's eyes were left free to roam in search of one familiar figure.
Her heart was beating fast with excitement and anxiety, her sight surely
was growing confused, for could _that_ be he? Over on the other side,
through a bewilderment of faces, she espied the one she was in search
of, gazing about in quest of Lilias, or disconsolately observing her
defalcation. Ah no, Captain Beverley's face was bent to meet the
upturned glance of a beautiful woman on his arm she was smiling up at
him; he, down upon her, "just," thought Mary, with a thrill of something
very nearly approaching agony, "_just_ as I have seen him look at Lilias
hundreds of times." Never had he appeared to greater advantage, never
had his fair, handsome face looked brighter or more attractive--and the
lady--yes, in another instant, Mary was sure of it, recognised fully the
slight, graceful figure, the peculiar "set" of the haughty little head,
and the glance of the pretty violet eyes. Yes, they were nearer her
now, the young lady was his cousin, the beautiful Miss Cheviott! In
another instant his arm was round her waist, they were dancing together.
And Mary, for the first time in her life, felt as if it might be
possible to _hate_ good-natured Mrs Greville, when a succession of
lady-like nudges having compelled her attention, her _chaperon_
whispered, triumphantly, "Look, Mary, quick, child, or you won't see
them--_there_ is Miss Cheviott, isn't she lovely? And she is dancing
with her cousin, Captain Beverley. And Mr Knox tells me--he has just
heard it on the best authority--they are _engaged_ to each other."
"You forget that I know Captain Beverley," Mary could not help
rejoining, coldly; "he has called at the Rectory several times when he
has been staying at the Edge Farm."
"Ah, yes, to be sure. I wish he would come and ask you to dance," said
Mrs Greville, carelessly.
But Mary felt as if "the dance had all gone out of her." Her mental
tremors now took a new form--dread of her sister's return, and, more in
cowardice than because she had the slightest wish to move, she accepted
Mr Greville's offer of a convoy across the room "for a change; Mr Knox
will look after my wife till your sister comes back," he said,
good-naturedly.
"Across the room," Mary met with an unexpected invitation to "join the
dance." The major of the 210th was an old friend of Mr Greville's, and
being a quiet, retiring man, the number of his acquaintances at
Brocklehurst was not large. He did not care much about dancing, but
after chatting to Mr Greville for a minute or two, he discovered that
the girl on his friend's arm had a nice face and an undoubtedly
beautiful pair of eyes, and, before Mary knew what she was about, she
was dancing with Major Throckmorton, and engaged to him for the
quadrille to follow. Between the dances her partner proposed that they
should walk up and down the long corridor into which the ball-room
opened, and Mary, caring little--so completely were her thoughts
absorbed with Lilias--where she went, absently agreed. Major
Throckmorton was so shy himself that he naturally attributed to the same
cause the peculiarity of the young lady's manner, and liked her none the
less on account of it. But before the quadrille had reached the end of
its first figure, his theory had received a shock. For suddenly his
partner's whole manner changed. She smiled, and talked, and laughed,
and seemed interested; where before he had only succeeded in extracting
the most indistinct of monosyllables, she now answered with intelligence
and perfect self-possession, hazarding observations of her own in a way
which proved her to be by no means the timid, ill-assured country maiden
he had imagined her.
"What a curiously changeable girl!" he said to himself. "Five minutes
ago I did not feel sure that she took in the sense of a word I said to
her, and now she is as composed and rational as possible, and evidently
a well-educated girl. What queer creatures women are!"
His glance ran down the lines of faces opposite them. Among them one
arrested his attention. "What a beautiful girl," he exclaimed; "the
most beautiful in the room, in my opinion. Do you happen to know who
she is, Miss Western?"
Mary's eyes followed willingly in the direction he pointed out--whither,
indeed, they had already been frequently wandering--and her whole face
lighted up with a happy smile.
"_Do_ you think her the most beautiful girl in the room?" she said. "I
am so glad, for she is my sister. Do you know the gentleman she is
dancing with?"
Major Throckmorton glanced at Lilias's partner. "No," he said, "I don't
think I do. I know so few people here. He is a good-looking fellow,
and," he hesitated, and glanced again in Miss Western's direction, then
added with a kindly smile, "it is evident _he_ would agree with my
opinion as to who is the most beautiful girl in the room."
Mary smiled too, and blushed a little, and decided that her partner was
one of the pleasantest men she had ever met. And poor Major
Throckmorton thought how pretty she looked when she blushed, and said to
himself that before long, very probably, some other fellow would be
appropriating her, as her beautiful sister evidently was already
appropriated, and he sighed to think that, not withstanding his eighteen
years' service, such good luck had never yet come in _his_ way! For it
was a case of "uncommonly little besides his pay," and beautiful girls
were not for such as he.