The Child Wife. Майн Рид
sawtingly I shall—sawtingly. But, madam, you adwess me as yaw ludship. May I ask why I have the honaw to be so entitled?”
“Oh, sir; how could I avoid giving you the title, after hearing your servant so address you?”
“Aw, Fwank, stoopid fellaw! doose take him! Pawdon me, madam, faw seeming woodness. I vewy much wegwet the occurrence. I am twavelling incognito. You, madam, will understand what a baw it is—especially in yaw fwee land of libawty, to have one’s self pawpetwally pointed out? A howed baw, I assure yaw?”
“No doubt it is. I can easily understand that, my lord.”
“Thanks, madam! I am vewy much indebted to yaw intelligence. But I must ask a still greater fayvaw at your hands. By the stoopidity of my fellaw, I am completely in yaw power. I pwesume I am talking to a lady. In fact I am shaw of it.”
“I hope so, my lord.”
“Then, madam, the fayvaw I would ask is, that yaw keep this little secwet abawt ma title. Pway am I asking too much?”
“Not at all, sir; not at all.”
“Yaw pwomise me?”
“I promise you, my lord.”
“How vewy kind! A hundwed thousand thanks, madam! I shall be fawever gwateful. P’waps yaw are going to the bawl to-night?”
“I intend so, my lord. I go with my daughter and niece.”
“Aw—aw. I hope I shall have the plesyaw of seeing yaw. As I am a stwanger here, of cawse I know naw one. I go out of meaw quyuosity, or rather I should say, to observe yaw national cawactewistics.”
“Oh, sir; you need be no stranger. If you wish to dance, and will accept as partners my niece and daughter, I can promise that both will be most happy.”
“Madam, yaw ovawwhelm me with yaw genewosity.”
The dialogue here came to an end. It was time to dress for the ball; and, with a low bow on the part of the lord, and an obsequious courtesy on the side of the lady, they separated—expecting to come together again under the sheen of the chandeliers.
Chapter Nine.
Avant le Bal.
Terpsichore, at a fashionable watering-place in the New World, affects pretty much the same airs as in the Old.
In a ball-room, where all are not supposed to be best people, the solitary gentlemen-stranger finds but little opportunity of taking exercise—especially in the “square-dances.” As the coteries make the sets, and monopolise the choicest portions of the floor, when the room is crowded and everybody determined to dance, the unlucky wight, without acquaintances, finds himself sadly overlooked. The stewards are usually too much occupied with themselves, to remember those honorary duties represented by rosette or ribbon in the buttonhole.
When it comes to the “round,” the stranger stands a better chance. It is only a matter of mutual consent between two individuals; and he must be a very insignificant personage, indeed, who cannot then find some neglected wallflower willing to accommodate him.
Something of this frigidity might have been felt in the atmosphere of a Newport ball-room; even in those days, ante bellum, when shoddy was a thing unheard-of, and “ile” lay “unstruck” in the dark underground.
Something of it was felt by the young officer lately returned from Mexico, and who was in fact a greater stranger to the “society” of the country for which he had been fighting, than to that against which he had fought!
In both he was but a traveller—half-wandering waif, half-adventurer—guided in his peregrinations less by interest than inclination.
To go dancing among unknown people is about the dullest occupation to which a traveller can betake himself; unless the dance be one of the free kind, where introductions are easy—morris, masque, or fandango.
Maynard knew, or conjectured, this to be true of Newport, as elsewhere. But for all that, he had determined on going to the ball.
It was partly out of curiosity; partly to kill time; and perhaps not a little for the chance of again meeting the two girls with whom he had been so romantically made acquainted.
He had seen them several times since—at the dinner-table, and elsewhere; but only at a distance, and without claiming the privilege of his outré introduction.
He was too proud to throw himself in their way. Besides, it was for them to make the advance, and say whether the acquaintance was to be kept up.
They did not! Two days had passed, and they did not—either by speech, epistle, bow, or courtesy!
“What am I to make of these people?” soliloquised he.
“They must be the veriest—” He was going to say “snobs,” when checked by the thought that they were ladies.
Besides, such an epithet to Julia Girdwood! (He had taken pains to make himself acquainted with her name.) Not more inappropriate than if applied to a countess or a queen!
With all his gallantry he could not help some spasms of chagrin; the keener, that, go where he would, Julia Girdwood seemed to go along with him. Her splendid face and figure appeared ever before him.
To what was he to attribute this indifference—it might be called ingratitude on her part?
Could it be explained by the promise exacted from him upon the cliff?
This might make it in some way excusable. He had since seen the girls only with their maternal guardian—a dame of severe aspect. Had the secret to be kept from her! And was this the reason why they were preserving distance?
It was probable. He had some pleasure in thinking so; but more, when once or twice, he detected Julia’s dark eyes strangely gazing upon him, and instantly withdrawn, as his became turned upon her.
“The play’s the thing, wherewith to touch the conscience of the king,” Hamlet declared.
The ball! It promised a clearing up of this little mystery, with perhaps some others. He would be sure to meet them there—mother, daughter, niece—all three! It would be strange if he could not introduce himself; but if not, he must trust to the stewards.
And to the ball he went; dressed with as much taste as the laws of fashion would allow—in those days liberal enough to permit of a white waistcoat.
With only an occasional interval—transient as the scintillation of a meteor—it has been black ever since!
The ball-room was declared open.
Carriages were setting down by the piazza of the Ocean House, and silks rustling along the corridors of that most select of caravanserais.
From the grand dining-saloon, cleared for the occasion (and when cleared, making a dancing-room worthy of Terpsichore herself), came those not very harmonious sounds that tell of the tuning of fiddles, and clearing out the throats of trombones.
The Girdwood party entered with considerable éclat—the mother dressed like a grand-duchess, though without her diamonds. These blazed upon the brow of Julia, and sparkled on her snow white bosom—for the set comprised a necklace with pendants.
She was otherwise splendidly attired; and, in truth, looked superb. The cousin of more modest grace and means, though pretty, seemed as nothing beside her.
Mrs Girdwood had made a mistake—in coming in too early. It is true there were fashionable people already in the room. But these were the “organisers” of the entertainment; who, backed by a sort of semi-official