BEING A CHAPTER OF HOOPS, FEATHERS, AND BRILLIANTS, AND BUCKS AND
FIDDLERS.
It was a mighty grand affair, this ball of the Royal Irish Artillery.
General Chattesworth had arrived that morning, just in time to preside
over the hospitalities--he could not contribute much to the dancing--and
his advent, still a little lame, but looking, as his friends told him,
ten years younger for his snug little fit of the gout at Buxton,
reinstated Aunt Becky in her place of power, to the secret
disappointment of Madame Strafford, who had set her heart on doing the
honours, and rehearsed for weeks, over her toilet, and even in bed, her
little speeches, airs, and graces.
Lord Castlemallard was there, of course--and the gay and splendid Lady
Moira--whom I mention because General Chattesworth opened the ball in a
minuet with her ladyship--hobbling with wonderful grace, and beaming
with great ceremonious smiles through his honourable martyrdom. But
there were more than a score of peers there beside, with their peeresses
in tall feathers, diamonds, and monstrous hoops. And the lord lieutenant
was very near coming--and a lord lieutenant in those days, with a
parliament to open, and all the regalia of his office about him, was a
far greater personage than, in our democratic age, the sovereign in
person.
Captain Cluffe had gone down in a chair to Puddock's lodgings, to borrow
a pair of magnificent knee-buckles. Puddock had a second pair, and
Cluffe's own had not, he thought, quite recovered their good looks since
that confounded ducking on the night of the serenade. The gallant
captain, learning that Puddock and Devereux intended walking--it was
only a step across to the barrack-yard--and finding that Puddock could
not at the moment lay his hand upon the buckles, and not wishing to keep
the chair longer--for he knew delay would inflame the fare, and did not
like dispensing his shillings--
'Hey! walk? I like the fancy,' cried the gay captain, sending
half-a-crown down stairs to his 'two-legged ponies,' as people
pleasantly called them. 'I'd rather walk with you than jog along in a
chair by myself, my gay fellows, any day.'
Most young fellows of spirit, at the eve of a ball, have their heads
pretty full. There is always some one bright particular star to whom,
even as they look on their own handsome features in the mirror, their
adoration is paid.
Puddock's shoe-buckles flashed for Gertrude Chattesworth, as he turned
out his toes. For her his cravat received its last careless touch--his
ruffles shook themselves, and fell in rich elegance about his plump
little hands. For her his diamond ring gleamed like a burning star from
his white little finger; and for her the last fragrance was thrown over
his pocket-handkerchief, and the last ogle thrown upon his
looking-glass. All the interest of his elaborate toilet--the whole
solemn process and detail--was but a worship of his divinity, at which
he officiated. Much in the same way was Cluffe affected over his
bedizenment in relation to his own lady-love; but in a calmer and more
long-headed fashion. Devereux's toilet most of the young fellows held to
be perfection; yet it seemed to trouble him less than all the rest. I
believe it was the elegant and slender shape that would have set off
anything, and that gave to his handsome costume and 'properties' an
undefinable grace not their own. Indeed, as he leaned his elbow upon the
window sash, looking carelessly across the river, he did not seem much
to care what became of the labours of his toilet.
'I have not seen her since I came; and now I'm going to this stupid ball
on the chance of meeting her there. And she'll not come--she avoids
me--the chance of meeting her--and she'll not come. Well! if she be not
kind to me, what care I for whom she be? And what great matter, after
all, if she were there. She'd be, I suppose, on her high horse--and--and
'tis not a feather to me. Let her take her own way. What care I? If
she's happy, why shouldn't I--why shouldn't I?'
Five minutes after:--
'Who the plague are these fellows in the Phoenix? How the brutes howl
over their liquor!' said Devereux, as he and Puddock, at the door-steps,
awaited Cluffe, who was fixing his buckles in the drawing-room.
'The Corporation of Tailors,' answered Puddock, a little loftily, for he
was not inwardly pleased that the precincts of the 'Phoenix' should be
profaned by their mechanical orgies.
Through the open bow window of the great oak parlour of the inn was
heard the mighty voice of the president, who was now in the thick of his
political toasts.
'Odds bud!' lisped little Puddock, 'what a stentorian voice!'
'Considering it issues from a tailor!' acquiesced Devereux, who thought
he recognised the accents, and hated tailors, who plagued him with long
bills and dangerous menaces.
'May the friends of the Marquis of Kildare be ever blessed with the
tailor's thimble,' declaimed the portentous toast master. 'May the
needle of distress be ever pointed at all mock patriots; and a hot
needle and a burning thread to all sewers of sedition!' and then came an
applauding roar.
'And may you ride into town on your own goose, with a hot needle behind
you, you roaring pigmy!' added Devereux.
'The Irish cooks that can't relish French sauce!' enunciated the same
grand voice, that floated, mellowed, over the field.
'Sauce, indeed!' said Puddock, with an indignant lisp, as Cluffe, having
joined them, they set forward together; 'I saw some of them going in,
Sir, and to look at their vulgar, unthinking countenances, you'd say
they had not capacity to distinguish between the taste of a quail and a
goose; but, by Jove! Sir, they have a dinner. _You're_ a politician,
Cluffe, and read the papers. You remember the bill of fare--don't
you?--at the Lord Mayor's entertainment in London.'
Cluffe, whose mind was full of other matters, nodded his head with a
grunt.
'Well, I'll take my oath,' pursued Puddock, 'you couldn't have made a
better dinner at the Prince of Travendahl's table. Spanish olea, if you
please--ragou royal, cardoons, tendrons, shellfish in marinade, ruffs
and rees, wheat-ears, green morels, fat livers, combs and notts. 'Tis
rather odd, Sir, to us who employ them, to learn that our tailors, while
we're eating the dinners we do--our _tailors_, Sir, are absolutely
gorging themselves with such things--with _our_ money, by Jove!'
'_Yours_, Puddock, not mine,' said Devereux. 'I haven't paid a tailor
these six years. But, hang it, let's get on.'
So, in they walked by the barrack-yard, lighted up now with a splendid
red blaze of torches, and with different emotions, entered the already
crowded ball-room.
Devereux looked round the room, among nodding plumes and flashing
brilliants, and smirking old bucks, and simpering young ones, amidst the
buzz of two or three hundred voices, and the thunder and braying of the
band. There were scores of pretty faces there--blondes and
brunettes--blue eyes and brown--and more spirit and animation, and, I
think, more grace too, in dance and talk, than the phlegmatic
affectation of modern days allows; and there were some bright eyes that,
not seeming to look, yet recognised, with a little thrill at the heart,
and a brighter flush, the brilliant, proud Devereux--so handsome, so
impulsive, so unfathomable--with his gipsy tint, and great enthusiastic
eyes, and strange melancholy, sub-acid smile. But to him the room was
lifeless, and the hour was dull, and the music but a noise and a jingle.
'I knew quite well she wasn't here, and she never cared for me, and
I--why should I trouble my head about her? She makes her cold an excuse.
Well, maybe yet she'll wish to see Dick Devereux, and I far away. No
matter. They've heard slanders of me, and believe them. Amen, say I. If
they're so light of faith, and false in friendship to cast me off for a
foul word or an idle story--curse it--I'm well rid of that false and
foolish friendship, and can repay their coldness and aversion with a
light heart, a bow, and a smile. One slander I'll refute--yes--and that
done, I'll close this idle episode in _my_ cursed epic, and never,
_never_ think of her again.'
But fancy will not be controlled by resolutions, though ne'er so wise
and strong, and precisely as the captain vowed 'never'--away glided that
wild, sad sprite across the moonlit river, and among the old black elms,
and stood unbidden beside Lilias. Little Lily, as they used to call her
five years ago; and Devereux, who seemed to look so intently and so
strangely on the flash and whirl of the dancers, saw but an old
fashioned drawing-room, with roses clustering by the windows, and heard
the sweet rich voice, to him the music of Ariel, like a far-off dirge--a
farewell--sometimes a forgiveness--and sometimes the old pleasant talk
and merry little laugh, all old remembrances or vain dreams now.
But Devereux had business on his hands that night, and about eleven
o'clock he had disappeared. 'Twas easy to go and come in such a crowd,
and no one perceive it.
But Puddock was very happy and excited. Mervyn, whom he had once feared,
was there, a mere spectator, however, to witness that night's signal
triumph. He had never danced so much with Miss Gertrude before, that is
to say, at a great ball like this at which there was a plenty of bucks
with good blood and lots of money; and indeed, it seemed to favour the
idea of his success that Aunt Rebecca acknowledged him only with a
silent and by no means gracious courtesy.
She was talking to Toole about Lilias, and saying how much better she
had looked that evening.
'She's not better, Ma'am; I'd rather she hadn't the bright flush you
speak of, there's something, you see, not quite right in that left lung,
and that bright tint, Madam, is hectic--she's not better, Madam, not
that we don't hope to see her so--Heaven forbid--but 'tis an anxious
case;' and Toole shook his head gravely.
When Aunt Becky was getting on her hood and mantle, she invariably fell
into talk with some crony who had a story to tell, or a point to
discuss. So as she stood listening to old Colonel Bligh's hard, reedy
gabble, and popping in her decisive word now and then, Gertrude,
equipped for the night air, and with little Puddock for her escort,
glided out and took her place in the great state coach of the
Chattesworths, and the door being shut, she made a little nod and a
faint smile to her true knight, and said with the slightest possible
shrug--
'How cold it is to-night; my aunt, I think, will be obliged for your
assistance, Lieutenant Puddock; as for me, I must shut up my window and
wish you good-night.'
And with another smile she accordingly shut up the window, and when his
best bow was accomplished, she leaned back with a pale and stricken
countenance, and a great sigh--such a one as caused Lady Macbeth's
physician, long ago, to whisper, 'What a sigh is there! the heart is
sorely charged.' The footmen were standing by the open door, through
which Aunt Becky was to come, and there were half a dozen carriages
crowded side by side, the lackeys being congregated, with links lighted,
about the same place of exit; and things being so, there came a small
sharp tapping at the far window of the carriage, and with a start
Gertrude saw the identical mantle, and the three-cocked-hat with the
peculiar corners, which had caused certain observers so much speculation
on another night, and drawing close to the window, whereat this
apparition presented itself, she let it down.
'I know, beloved Gertrude, what you would say,' he softly said; 'but be
it frenzy or no, I cannot forbear; I am unalterable--be you the same.'
A white, slender hand glided in and seized hers, not resisting.
'Yes, Mordaunt, the same; but, oh! how miserable!' said Gertrude, and
with just the slightest movement in the fingers of her small hand,
hardly perceptible, and yet how fond a caress!
'I'm like a man who has lost his way among the catacombs--among the
dead,' whispered this muffled figure, close to the window, still
fervently holding her hand, 'and sees at last the distant gleam that
shows him that his wanderings are to end. Yes, Gertrude, my
beloved--yes, Gertrude, idol of my solitary love--the mystery is about
to end--I'll end it. Be I what I may you know the worst, and have given
me your love and troth--you are my affianced bride; rather than lose
you, I would die; and I think, or I am walking in a dream, I've but to
point my finger against two men, and all will be peace and light--light
and peace--to me long strangers!'
At this moment Aunt Becky's voice was heard at the door, and the flash
of the flambeaux glared on the window. He kissed the hand of the pale
girl hurriedly, and the French cocked-hat and mantle vanished.
In came Aunt Rebecca in a fuss, and it must be said in no very gracious
mood, and rather taciturn and sarcastic; and so away they rumbled over
the old bridge towards Belmont.