Rereworth saw it, and tried vainly to soothe it. He had frequently pressed Randolph to accompany him into society; he prevailed on him to acquire the accomplishments of life, and thereby provided a considerable source of amus.e.m.e.nt for Mr. Peach, who frequently inquired concerning his lodger's progress in the airs and graces.

"My dancing!" Randolph might exclaim in answer to such queries; "it prospers marvellously. Yet methinks it is a ridiculous occupation."

"By no means, my dear sir," would be the reply. "Hath not the 'Spectator' observed, that 'no one was ever a good dancer that had not a good understanding?' Ah! I see why you smile; but that's not the meaning."

But hitherto Rereworth had been unable to persuade his friend to avail himself of his new acquirements. Trevethlan's secret held him back. It met him at every turn. But now, in his eagerness to forget himself, he at last consented to go with Seymour to an a.s.sembly at the house of a near relation, where, Rereworth said, his friends were always welcome. The evening arrived, and Randolph joined his introducer at his chambers.

"You may call yourself a happy man, Morton," cried Rereworth gaily.

"You shall be the envy of all our s.e.x, for my fair cousin's sister is the loveliest girl in London, and I have made her promise to be disengaged to dance with you. I told her you were a very good-looking fellow."

"That is not a good introduction," Randolph said, with a faint smile.

"But you sacrifice yourself."

"Never fear, you won't disappoint her," Seymour continued. "And as for me, I have romped with her this many a day. She waltzes with me in the morning, and teazes me in the evening. I shall really be glad to inflict her upon you."

"Then I accept the doom," said Randolph.

"Dance with her after supper," added his friend. "That's the time when 'beauty like the midnight flower--'" and Rereworth whistled "Fly not yet."

His companion's spirits rose under the influence of his own.

"Another gla.s.s to her health, Morton, and let us away."

It was quaffed, and they departed. A lumbering hackney-coach conveyed them to Cavendish-square. "Mr. Rereworth." ... "Mr. Rereworth." And Randolph had made his bow to Mrs. Winston.

It is not easy for one who went down his first country-dance when seven years old, at a children's ball, and has since practised the festive science until he is too old to obtain any but children for partners, to imagine the sensations of a novice like Randolph.

Leaning on Rereworth's arm, he looked confusedly at the fluctuating scene around him, stationary himself among a universal motion, silent amidst an all-pervading voice. His friend in the meantime was surveying the company as it flowed tranquilly by him, recognising acquaintances, now and then exchanging a few sentences. Randolph heeded him not, being engaged in a fanciful comparison of the a.s.sembly to the sea, and blending the faces of the company into waves, instead of distinguishing individuals. He did not even observe that one quitted the stream and ranged itself on the other side of Rereworth.

He did not observe it, until that gentleman, pressing his arm, said, "Morton, my cousin-_in-law_, Miss Pendarrel."

It was a little sudden. Schoolboys tell stories about home and relations; "men" at college become more reserved; in the world such confidences cease. One sometimes knows nothing even of an intimate friend's family. Thus Rereworth had not mentioned other names in his invitation to Randolph, and Winston brought no a.s.sociations to his mind at its first announcement. But the case was very different when he heard that of Pendarrel, and recognised its fair owner.

Mechanically, intuitively, he offered Mildred his arm. She laid her hand lightly within it, and they moved onward with the crowd. They made the tour of the saloon before the cavalier uttered a syllable.

"Seymour has brought me an oddity," thought Mildred. Randolph was overwhelmed with a flood of rapid emotions, sombre as the canopy which hung above his father's deathbed. His heart beat quick, and he pressed his lips together, struggling hard to obtain a mastery over the tumult within him. One moment he wished he could vanish away, the next he thrilled with rapture at the light touch upon his arm. Mildred was perplexed. She knew she might esteem any one of whom Rereworth spoke well. She had been prepared to see, and to excuse, a little confusion. But there was more here than the confusion of a novice.

"Pardon me, Miss Pendarrel," at length Randolph said, in a voice of tremulous tenderness: "I am new and strange to society. I have relied too lightly on my friend's promises. I walk in a dream."

There is a sort of seeming egotism which is very profitable in love.

Few men will fail to excite interest by the true account of their own emotions. To a woman the confidence is always flattering. Randolph's speech was strangely at variance with the usual persiflage. But, perhaps, if he had intended to make love, he could not have spoken better. Mildred was struck by his accent, and interested by his manner. But she was experienced.

"A pleasant dream, Mr. Morton, I hope," she said.

He quivered at the sound of the name.

"Pleasant!" he exclaimed; and then recovering himself partly--"I think it is pleasant.... They are forming quadrilles. Shall we dance, Miss Pendarrel?"

"If you please," answered Mildred, partly puzzled and partly provoked.

"Mr. Melcomb," she added to that gentleman, as he pa.s.sed with a lady, "you will be my _vis-a-vis_."

Melcomb bowed, looked at Mildred's partner, and raised his eyebrows slightly. Randolph recollected the man he had seen at the opera, disliked what he fancied was a singular familiarity, and wondered what was the c.o.xcomb's position in the family. As he warmed in the dance, however, his moodiness and taciturnity gave way. He flung himself into the humour of the moment, retrieved his character with his partner, and obtained another engagement. "Let destiny decide," he said to himself.

Melcomb was Mildred's partner in the next set.

"Who is your unknown knight?" he asked.

"My partner!" said the lady. "A friend of Mr. Rereworth's."

"He is in love with you," remarked the c.o.xcomb.

"I hope he is," Mildred laughed.

"Cruel! He will languish and die."

"That is as I please. I am to dance with him again."

"Is Mrs. Pendarrel here?"

It was a taunt, and Mildred felt it.

Turn the kaleidoscope. "I consider," wrote Sir Richard Steele, "woman as a beautiful romantic animal, that may be adorned with furs and feathers, pearls and diamonds, ores and silks. The lynx shall cast its skin at her feet to make her a tippet; the peac.o.c.k, parrot, and swan shall pay contributions to her m.u.f.f; the sea shall be searched for sh.e.l.ls, and the rocks for gems; and every part of nature shall furnish out its share towards the embellishment of a creature that is the most consummate work of it." The numerous fair forms in Mrs. Winston's saloons, on which such adornments were lavished in profusion, might easily remind a spectator of the toy which we have named. Randolph, after resigning his partner, wandered rather desolately through the brilliant throng, un.o.bservant and little observed. Finding a vacant and remote corner, he ensconced himself there as an absentee. The gay crowd glimmered before his eyes with the changing hues of the opal, the music sounded from afar like the waves on the sea-sh.o.r.e. Why did that a.s.sociation continually intrude? Why did the muser's thoughts ever turn to Trevethlan? Why did he wish, so earnestly, ever and anon, that he had never quitted the home of his fathers?

Solitude in a crowd has been the theme of much moralizing. In Randolph's case it was peculiarly striking, for it was due, not merely to absence of mind, but also to an absolute want of acquaintance. Except Rereworth and his late partner, the muser might be said to know no one in the whole of the gay a.s.sembly. And even Seymour was ignorant of his real situation. Randolph felt oppressed by his loneliness, yet at the same time unwilling to accept any companionship.

In such mood he was, when a voice pierced through the cloud which surrounded him. Rereworth came to seek his friend.

"Morton," he cried, laughing, "'awake, arise, or be for ever fallen.'

Winston desires me to present you. Winston, Mr. Morton--Morton, Mr.

Winston. Pray find my friend a partner, most philosophical sir."

But Randolph begged to be excused. He escaped from the metaphysician, found his way to an uncurtained window, and looked forth upon the midnight sky. The stars were shining, and he thought of the science which pretended to connect their aspects with the fate of the wanderers upon earth. Which was his? The planet of the queen of love was there, bright in the deep blue canopy. Was she his friend? It was a soothing idea. He forgot his doubts and presentiments, and allowed himself to indulge in the most delicious dreams. His fancy became exalted to the highest pitch. He felt supremely happy.

In this disposition he sought Mildred to claim her engagement. She could complain of no want of devotion now. Her partner was romantic, without sentimentalism; serious, and yet full of imagination. He was pleased, and he exerted himself to please. He allowed his natural enthusiasm to take its course. Mildred wondered no longer at the praises which Rereworth had bestowed upon his friend.

A quadrille affords but scanty and inconvenient opportunity for conversation. But Randolph managed to protract the subsequent promenade. He even drew Mildred apart to that deserted window from which he had been gazing on the sky, and rehea.r.s.ed some of the marvels of the astrologers, pointing out the planet which had attracted his attention. But he was suddenly awakened from his entrancement. Mrs.

Pendarrel, leaning on Melcomb's arm, came to seek her daughter.

"Mildred, my dear," she said, "I have sent to call our carriage." And she held her arm to the young lady, and bowed very loftily to Randolph.

"The carriage is at the door, my dear," said a little man, bustling up with some officiousness. Randolph had retired a few paces, but not so far as to avoid hearing the first of the following words. It was Esther that spoke.

"Mr. Trevethlan Pendarrel, I should be glad if you would ascertain who that gentleman is. A Mr. Morton, I understand. Hark, sir," she whispered, "do you see no likeness?"

"Yes, my dear, certainly I do," said the obsequious husband. "To whom?"

Randolph advanced at the same moment.

"Spare your pains, sir," he said; "I am Randolph Trevethlan."

Face to face, only two steps apart, with their eyes fixed on each other, stood the son and the lover of Henry Trevethlan. Esther's countenance was inscrutable. Her daughter clung to her arm, with cheeks and forehead flushed crimson, and glanced involuntarily at her late partner. Mr. Pendarrel had shrunk a little behind. Melcomb showed a nonchalant dislike to a scene. Randolph faced them, pale as death, his head thrown back, his breast heaving, his eyes flashing fire. But he recovered himself in an instant, bent one look of ineffable tenderness on Mildred, and rushed from the house.