THE MYSTERIOUS STRANGER AT THE PENZANCE BALL.
Frederick Morley was getting strong again, and had met Alrina several
times, and pressed her to go to the ball at Penzance; but this she could
not think of doing, she said. Neither her father nor her aunt would
sanction that, she was quite sure; for, although her education had been
such as so fit her for ball-room society, and her beauty eminently
qualified her for a ball-room belle, yet the equivocal position of her
father, and the mystery which appeared to hang over them all, precluded
her from enjoying at present the society of him she loved so much, in
that sphere to which he of right belonged. He was unwilling to go
without her, and had almost made up his mind not to go; but she knew it
would do him good to mix in the society to which he had been accustomed,
and she knew, also, that if he declined accompanying the Pendray party
to the ball, his motives would be canvassed, and their secret love,
which it was best for the present should be concealed, might become
known; and so Alrina persuaded him to go.
Carriages were sent out from Penzance to take the Pendray family and the
two officers to the ball, which was expected to be a very aristocratic
affair. When they arrived at the hotel, they found that the best
sitting-room and bedroom--which Squire Pendray wished to have secured
for his party--had been engaged that morning by a strange gentleman, who
came in from Hayle in a carriage-and-four, the waiter said. He was
dressed like a foreigner, and had a large trunk with him, but no
servant. He seemed rich, and gave orders as if he had been accustomed to
be waited upon by a good many servants, and would not be satisfied with
any but the best rooms. He took two tickets for the ball, the waiter
said, and therefore, he supposed, he expected a friend, but no one had
yet arrived.
The ball was a very brilliant one, for a country ball in those days, and
everyone seemed in anxious expectation for the entrance of the
stranger--especially the young ladies. Miss Pendray looked splendid. She
had impressed Frederick Morley into her service, as her favoured beau;
for she had taken a great interest in him since his accident, and had
paid him marked attention,--indeed, she now looked upon him as a hero,
whom she could almost worship. Such deeds of daring had a charm for her
which few else could understand. But still, he did not come up to her
standard of manly perfection. There was scarcely enough of that romantic
devotion towards herself displayed, which she so much required, and
demanded from those she took an interest in. This placed Morley in a
very awkward position, for he could not help seeing that he had
attracted Miss Pendray's attention, and that she seemed more pleased
with his society than that of any other gentleman of her acquaintance.
But he could not return it as she evidently would have wished him to do;
for he had a secret treasure concealed within his breast, far dearer to
him than all the charms of person and mind and fortune which Miss
Pendray possessed. He would not exchange his Alrina's love for the
fairest and brightest jewel that the world could bestow; for, without
her, all the world to him would be an empty and worthless blank.
He enjoyed the ball as much as he could do in the absence of her who was
uppermost in his thoughts. The excitement of the music, the company, and
the dancing, brought back reminiscences of similar scenes abroad. His
wonted spirits returned, and he entered thoroughly into the pleasures of
the moment, and forgot for a time the scene on the cliffs, the horse's
screech of terror, and the sound of his falling from rock to rock, as he
went down over that awful precipice, while he himself was dangling on
the very edge. He danced with all alike,--one lady was the same, to him,
as another, there,--and he did not notice that Miss Pendray had
withdrawn from the dancing, and was sitting alone at one end of the
room, when the stranger entered. All eyes were directed towards the
door, as the waiter showed him in; but his eyes were evidently attracted
by the magnificent form of Miss Pendray, as she sat alone on a seat
nearly opposite the door.
One of the stewards immediately went up to him, introducing himself as
"steward," and offering to present him to a partner.
The stranger bowed, and expressed a wish to be presented to the lady who
was sitting opposite.
He gave his name to the steward who introduced him to Miss Pendray as
"Mr. Smith." The stranger was the topic of conversation throughout the
room. He certainly looked like a foreigner. His dress was that of an
Indian gentleman of rank of those days. His coat was of the finest
purple satin, trimmed and ornamented with gold; a white satin waistcoat,
tastefully embroidered with silver; and white kerseymere breeches of the
finest texture, fastened below the knee with a silver band; the white
silk stocking displaying to advantage a finely-turned leg,--his shoes
being fastened with small gold buckles. He was a tall, fine-looking man,
apparently between forty and fifty years of age--nearer the former,
perhaps, than the latter. He seemed to be making himself very agreeable
to Miss Pendray; for she became full of animation, and her handsome
countenance lit up radiant with beauty.
The stranger would not dance, but was introduced, by turn, to almost all
the ladies of note in the room. Miss Pendray, however, was the principal
attraction, and he returned to her side again and again.
Frederick Morley looked at the stranger several times with earnest
attention, and, after a time, became absorbed in thought. He was not
jealous of the attention bestowed on him by the lady whom he had led
into the room. No, it could not have been that. He did not care enough
for Miss Pendray to feel jealous of her attentions being bestowed
elsewhere. No, it was not that. He watched the stranger narrowly, and he
came to the conclusion that he was not the person he assumed to be.
"Smith" was a feigned name, evidently. His dress and ornaments betokened
him to have been a resident in India. India was a country familiar to
Morley by name, and dear to him, as having been the residence of his
father for so many years, and the birthplace of his mother, his brother
and sister, and himself. He had not seen his brother since he and his
sister were brought over by their father, when they were children, and
when that never-to-be-forgotten calamity befel his father, which
shortened his life. That false accusation was still hanging over the
family. He had been reminded of it, in almost every letter he had
received from his brother since their father's death; and, in his last
letter, he said he had wound up their father's affairs, and his own, in
India, and he intended to return to England by the next ship, to arrange
the property according to their father's will, and to make a strict
search after the wretches who had murdered their own father, on that
terrible night, and caused the suspicion and accusation to rest on an
innocent man. He would travel all over England, he said, and spend the
whole of his fortune, to clear his father from that foul suspicion.
Frederick had but a very faint recollection of his brother; but a
strange, unaccountable idea, took possession of him during supper. He
thought he observed the stranger start once or twice, when the name of
"Morley" happened to be spoken by anyone at the table--as was frequently
the case; for Frederick was a stranger too, and, therefore, received
great attention from the stewards, and, indeed, from the ladies, whose
goodness of heart frequently prompts them to show greater attention to
strange gentlemen than to those whom they are in the habit of meeting
every day.
Ever since he had heard of the wreck of that East-Indiaman at Pendeen,
he had been persuading himself that his brother might have been one of
the passengers on board that ill-fated vessel; and, as very few bodies
had been washed on shore, it was probable that one of the boats might
have withstood the storm, and, when the sea was more tranquil, they
might have landed somewhere on the north coast. It was possible. There
was just sufficient possibility in it to keep alive hope.
What if this stranger should turn out to be his brother? It was scarcely
probable; but yet the idea had seized hold of him, and he could not get
rid of it.
The discovery and exposure of those wretches, who had been the means of
hastening their father's death, and embittering his last moments, was
the constant theme in all his brother's letters, and seemed uppermost in
his thoughts. Year after year he longed to be able to give up his
business in India, and return to England seemingly for that one purpose.
He had witnessed the effect the stain of this false accusation had
produced on his father's mind and bodily health, and had seen him pine
away under it; and he had received his father's dying injunction to sift
the affair to the bottom as soon as he could return to England.
He had refrained from marrying in India, that he might have no ties to
keep him there after his business affairs were wound up. He would, of
course, change his name in searching after the fugitives, and he might
have commenced at once, Frederick thought, however remote the chance of
his finding them on the narrow strip of land which terminates the
kingdom of England.
In spite of its improbability, Morley could not divest himself of the
idea which had taken such a deep hold of him, and he determined on
speaking to the stranger after supper, and asking him if he had ever met
with a merchant of the name of Morley in India. He was disappointed,
however; for, almost immediately after supper, Frederick was seized with
one of his nervous attacks, and it was as much as his friend Fowler
could do to support him to his room; and when he came down to a late
breakfast, he found that the stranger had gone out for his morning's
walk.