"Meanwhile the day sinks fast, the sun is set, And in the lighted hall the guests are met; The beautiful looked lovelier in the light Of love, and admiration, and delight Reflected from a thousand hearts and eyes, Kindling a momentary paradise."

--Sh.e.l.lEY: _Ginevra_.

It is the night of Mabel Steyne's ball. In the library at Chetwoode they are almost every one a.s.sembled, except Lilian, and Florence Beauchamp, and Mr. Musgrave, whose dressing occupies a considerable part of his life, and who is still sufficiently young to find pleasure in it.

Lady Chetwoode in gray satin is looking charming; Cecilia, lovely, in the palest shade of blue. She is standing at a table somewhat apart, conversing with Cyril, who is fastening a bracelet upon one of her arms.

Guy and Archibald are carrying on a desultory conversation.

And now the door opens, and Lilian comes in. For the first time for a whole year she has quite discarded mourning to-night, and is dressed in pure white. Some snowdrops are thrown carelessly among the folds of the tulle that covers and softens her silk gown; a tiny spray of the same flower lies nestling in her hair.

She appears more fairy-like, more child-like and sweeter than ever, as she advances into the room, with a pretty consciousness of her own beauty, that sits charmingly upon her. She is a perfect little vision of loveliness, and is tenderly aware of the fact. Her neck is fair, her shoulders rounded and kissable as an infant's; her eyes are gleaming, her lips apart and smiling; her sunny hair, that is never quite as smooth as other people's, lies in rippling coils upon her head, while across her forehead a few short rebellious love-locks wander.

Seeing her, Sir Guy and Chesney are filled with a simultaneous longing to take her in their arms and embrace her then and there.

Sweeping past Sir Guy, as though he is invisible, she goes on, happy, radiant toward Lady Chetwoode. She is in her airiest mood, and has evidently cast behind her all petty _desagrements_, being bent on enjoying life to its fullest for this one night at least.

"Is not my dress charming, auntie? does it not become me?" she asks, with the utmost _navete_, casting a backward glance over her shoulder at her snowy train.

"It does, indeed. Let me congratulate you, darling," says Lady Chetwoode to her favorite: "it is really exquisite."

"Lovely as its wearer," says Archibald, with a suppressed sigh.

"Pouf!" says Lilian, gayly: "what a simile! It is a rudeness; who dares compare me with a paltry gown? A tenth part as lovely, you mean. How refractory this b.u.t.ton is!" holding out to him a rounded arm to have the twelfth b.u.t.ton of her glove fastened; "try can you do it for me?"

Here Taffy enters, and is apparently struck with exaggerated admiration as he beholds her.

"Ma conscience!" he says, in the words of the famous Dominie, "what a little swell we are! t.i.tania, my dear, permit me to compliment you on the success you are sure to have. Monsieur Worth has excelled himself!

Really, you are very nearly pretty. You'll have a good time of it to-night, I shouldn't wonder."

"I hope so," gladly; "I can hardly keep my feet quiet, I do so long to dance. And so you admire me?"

"Intensely. As a tribute to your beauty, I think I shall give you a kiss."

"Not for worlds," exclaims she, retreating hastily. "I know your embraces of old. Do let me take my flowers and tulle uncrushed to Mabel's, or I shall complain of you to her, and so spoil your evening."

"I am glad to see you have recovered your usual spirits," maliciously: "this morning you were nowhere. I could not get a word out of you. Ever since yesterday, when you were disappointed about your run, you have been in 'doleful dumps.' All day you looked as though you thought there was 'nothing so dainty sweet as lovely melancholy.' You seemed to revel in it."

"Perhaps I was afraid to encourage you. Once set going, you know you cannot stop," says Lilian, laughing, while two red spots, caused by his random remark, rise and burn in her cheeks.

"We are late, are we not?" says Florence, entering at this moment; and as Florence never errs, Archibald instantly gives his arm to Lady Chetwoode and takes her down to the carriage. Taffy, who has already opened an animated conversation with Miss Beauchamp on the horrors of square dances, accompanies her; Cyril disappears with Cecilia, and Lilian is left alone in the library with Sir Guy.

Curving her body gracefully, Lilian gathers up with slow nonchalance her long train, and, without bestowing a glance upon Guy, who is silently waiting to escort her to the smaller brougham, goes up to a mirror to take a last lingering survey of her own bewitching image. Then she calmly smooths down her glove, then refastens a bracelet that has come undone, while he, with a bored expression on his face, waits impatiently.

By this, Archibald, who has had ample time to put Lady Chetwoode in her carriage and come all the way back to find a fan forgotten by Miss Beauchamp, re-enters the room.

Lilian beams upon him directly.

"Good Archie," she says, sweetly, "you have returned just in time. There was positively n.o.body to take poor little me to the brougham." She slips her hand beneath his arm, and walks past Sir Guy composedly, with laughing friendly eyes uplifted to her cousin's.

The ball is at its height. The first small hour of morning has sounded.

The band is playing dreamily, sweetly; flowers are nodding everywhere, some emitting a dying fragrance, others still fresh and sweet as when first plucked. Afar off the faint splashing of the fountains in the conservatories echoes tremulously, full of cool imaginings, through the warm air. Music and laughter and mirth--real and unreal--are mixed together in one harmonious whole.

Mrs. Steyne has now an unaffected smile upon her face, being a.s.sured her ball is an undeniable success, and is allowing herself to be amused by Taffy, who is standing close beside her.

Tom Steyne, who, like Sir Charles Coldstream, is "thirty-three and used up," is in a corner, silently miserable, suffering himself to be flirted at by a gay young thing of forty. He has been making despairing signs to Taffy to come to his a.s.sistance, for the past five minutes, which signals of distress that young gentleman basely declines to see.

Every one is busy asking who Mrs. Arlington can be, and, as n.o.body knows, everybody undertakes to tell his or her neighbor "all about her."

And by this time every one is aware she is enormously rich, the widow of an Indian nabob, from whom she was divorced on account of some "fi-fi story, my dear, that is never mentioned now," and that she is ever so many years older than she really looks; "painting is brought to such perfection nowadays!"

All night long Sir Guy has not asked Lilian to dance; he has held himself aloof from her, never even allowing his glance to stray in her direction, although no smallest grace, no faintest coquetry, of hers has escaped his notice. To him the whole evening has been a miserable failure. He has danced, laughed, flirted a good deal, "as is his nature to,"--more particularly with Florence,--but he has been systematically wretched all through.

Lilian and Archibald have been inseparable. She has danced with him, in defiance of all decent rules, dance after dance, even throwing over some engagements to continue her mad encouragement of him. She has noted Sir Guy's attention to his cousin, and, noting (although in her heart she scarcely believes in it), has grown a little reckless as to what judgment people may form of her evident appreciation of Chesney's society.

There is indeed a memorable five minutes when she absolutely deliberates as to whether she will or will not accept her cousin's hand, and so give herself a way to escape from Sir Guy's dreaded displeasure. But, while deliberating, she quite forgets the terrible disappointment she is laying up in store for him, who has neither thought, nor eyes, nor words, for any one but her. Being the undisputed belle of the evening, she naturally comes in for a heavy share of attention, and, be sure, does not altogether escape unkind comment.

"Oh, poor Tom! Do look at Tom and that fearful Miss Dumaresque," says Mrs. Steyne, who just at this moment discovers the corner where Tom is doing his utmost to "suffer and be strong." It is, however, a miserable attempt, as he is visibly depressed and plainly on the point of giving way altogether. "Somebody must go to his succor," says Mabel, with decision: "the question is, who? You, my dear Taffy, I think."

"Not I," says Taffy; "please, dear Mrs. Steyne, do not afflict me so far. I couldn't, indeed. I am very dreadfully afraid of Miss Dumaresque; besides, I never pity Tom even when in his worst sc.r.a.pes. We all know"--sentimentally--"he is the happiest man alive; when he does fall in for his bad quarter of an hour, why not let him endure it like another? And he is rather in a hat, now, isn't he?" taking an evident keen delight in Mr. Steyne's misfortunes. "I wouldn't be in his shoes for a good deal. He looks as if he was going to cry. The fact is, the G.o.ds have pampered him so much, that it is a shame not to let him know for a few minutes what real distress means."

"But what if he _should_ die!" reproachfully: "one so unaccustomed to adversity as Tom would be very likely to sink under it. He looks half dead already! Mark the hunted expression in his poor dear eyes."

"I wish you would mark the forlorn and dejected expression in other people's eyes," in an injured tone; "but all that, of course, goes for nothing."

"In yours, do you mean?" with exaggerated sympathy. "My dear boy, have you a secret sorrow? Does concealment, like that nasty worm, prey upon you? I should be unhappy forever if I could bring myself to think so."

"Then don't think so; come, let us finish this waltz, and forget that lucky fellow in the corner."

"What! you would have me trip it on the light fantastic toe while Tom is enduring torment? Never! Whatever I may do in prosperity, in adversity I 'never will desert Mr. Micawber.'"

"I vow I think you are jealous of that antiquated though still frisky damsel," says Taffy, ready to explode with laughter at the bare idea, as he watches the frisky one's attempt at subjugating the hapless Tom.

"You have discovered my hidden fear," replies Mabel, laughing, too: "forgive my weakness. There are moments when even the strongest break down! Wait here patiently for me, and I have no doubt with a little skill I shall be able to deliver him."

At one side of the ball-room, close to an upper window, is a recess, dimly lit, and partially curtained, in which it is possible for two or three to stand without letting outsiders be aware of their vicinity: into this nook Lilian and Archibald have just withdrawn, she having confessed to a faint sense of fatigue. The sweet lingering notes of the waltz "Geliebt und Verloren" are saddening the air; now they swell, now faint, now almost die out altogether, only to rise again full of pathetic meaning.

"How charming it is to be here!" says Lilian, sinking into a cushioned seat with a sigh of relief, "apart from every one, and yet so near; to watch their different expressions, and speculate upon their secret feelings, without appearing rude: do you not think so? Do you like being here?"

"Yes, I like being here with you,"--or anywhere else, he might have added, without deviating from the truth.

At this moment Guy, who is not dancing, happens to saunter up, and lean against the curtains of the window close to their hiding-place, totally unconscious of their presence. From where she is sitting Lilian can distinctly see him, herself unseen. He looks moody, and is evidently enchanted with the flavor of his blonde moustache. He is scarcely noticeable from where he stands, so that when two men come leisurely up to the very mouth of the retreat, and dispose of themselves luxuriously by leaning all their weight upon the frail pillars against which the curtains hang, they do not perceive him.

One is Harry Bellair, who has apparently been having a good many suppers; the other is his friend.

Mr. Bellair's friend is not as handsome as he might be. There is a want of jaw, and a general lightness about him (not of demeanor: far be it from me to hint at that!) that at a first glance is positively startling. One hardly knows where his flesh ends or his hair begins, while his eyes are a marvel in themselves, making the beholder wonder how much paler they _can_ get without becoming pure white. His moustache is of the vaguest tints, so vague that until acquaintance ripens one is unaware of its existence. Altogether, he is excellently bleached.

To-night, to add to his manifold attractions, he appears all shirt-front and white tie, with very little waistcoat to speak of. In his left and palest optic is the inevitable eyegla.s.s, in which he is supposed by his intimates to sleep, as never yet has human being (except perhaps his mamma in the earlier scenes of his existence) seen him without it. In spite of all this, however, he looks mild, and very harmless.