THE OFFICERS' MESS
A gigantic sentry of her Majesty's Household Cavalry paces up and down
in front of the officers' quarters at Knightsbridge Barracks some two
hours before watch-setting. It is fortunate that constant use has
rendered him insensible to admiration. Few persons of either sex pass
under his nose without a glance of unqualified approval. They marvel
at his stature, his spurs, his carbine, his overalls, his plumed
helmet, towering high above their heads, and the stupendous
moustaches, on which this gentleman-private prides himself more than
on all the rest of his heroic attributes put together.

Beyond a shade of disciplined weariness, there is no expression
whatever on his handsome face, yet it is to be presumed that the man
has his thoughts too, like another. Is he back in Cumberland amongst
his dales, a stalwart stripling, fishing some lonely stream within the
hills, watching a bout at "knurr-and-spell" across the heather, or
wrestling a fall in friendly rivalry with his cousin, a son of Anak,
tall as himself? Does that purple sunset over Kensington Gardens
remind him of Glaramara and Saddleback? Does that distant roar of
wheels in Piccadilly recall the rush and ripple of the Solway charging
up its tawny sands with the white horses all abreast in a spring-tide?

Perhaps he is wishing he was an officer with no kit to keep in order,
no fatigue-duty to undergo, sitting merrily down to as good a dinner
as luxury can provide, or a guest, of whom he has seen several pass
his post in starched white neckcloths and trim evening clothes.
Perhaps he would not change with any of these, after all, when he
reflects on his own personal advantages, his social standing amongst
his comrades, his keen appreciation and large consumption of beer and
tobacco, with the innumerable conquests he makes amongst maids and
matrons in the middle and lower ranks of life. Such considerations,
however, impress themselves not the least upon his outward visage. A
statue could not look more imperturbable, and he turns his head but
very slightly, with supreme indifference, when peals of laughter,
more joyous than common, are wafted through the open windows of the
mess-room, where some of our friends have fairly embarked on that tide
of good-humour and hilarity which sets in with the second glass of
champagne.

It is a full mess; the colonel himself sits at dinner, with two or
three friends, old brothers-in-arms, whose soldier-like bearing and
manly faces betray their antecedents, though they may not have worn
a uniform for months. A lately-joined cornet looks at these with a
reverence that I am afraid could be extorted from him by no other
institution on earth. The adjutant and riding-master, making
holiday, are both present--"to the front," as they call it, enjoying
exceedingly the jests and waggeries of their younger comrades. The
orderly-officer, conspicuous by his belt, sits at one end of the long
table. Lord Bearwarden occupies the other, supported on either side by
his two guests, Tom Ryfe and Dick Stanmore. It is the night of Mrs.
Stanmore's ball, and these last-named gentlemen are going there, with
feelings how different, yet with the same object. Dick is full of
confidence, elated and supremely happy. His entertainer experiences a
quiet comfort and _bien-etre_ stealing over him, to which he has long
been a stranger, while Tom Ryfe with every mouthful swallows down some
emotion of jealousy, humiliation, or mistrust. Nevertheless, he is in
the highest spirits of the three.

"I tell you nothing can touch him, my lord, when hounds run," says he,
still harping on the merits of the horse he sold Lord Bearwarden in
the Park. Of course half the party are talking of hunting, the other
half of racing, soldiering, and women. "He'd have been thrown away on
most of the fellows we know. He wants a good man on his back, for if
you keep him fiddling behind, it breaks his heart. I always said you
ought to have him--you or Mr. Stanmore. He's just the sort for both of
you. I'm sorry to hear yours are all coming up at Tattersall's," adds
Tom, with a courteous bow to the opposite guest. "Hope it's only to
make room for some more."

Dick disclaims. "No, indeed," says he, "it's a _bona fide_
sale--without reserve, you know--I am going to give the thing up!"

"Give up hunting!" expostulates a very young subaltern on Dick's left.
"Why, you're not a soldier, are you? What shall you do with yourself?
You have nothing to live for."

Overcome by this reflection, he empties his glass and looks feelingly
in his neighbour's face.

"Are you so fond of it too?" asks Dick with a smile.

"Fond of it! I believe you!" answers the boy. "What is there to be
compared to it?--at least that I've tried, you know. I think the
happiest fellow on earth is a master of fox-hounds, particularly if
he hunts them himself: there's only one thing to beat it, and that's
soldiering. I'd rather command such a regiment as this than be Emperor
of China. Perhaps I shall, too, some day."

The real colonel, sitting opposite, overhears this military sentiment,
and smiles good-humouredly at his zealous junior. "When you _are_ in
command," says he, "I hope you'll be down upon the cornets--they want
a deal of looking up--I'm much too easy with them." The young soldier
laughed and blushed. In his heart he thought the "chief," as he called
him, the very greatest man in the world, offering him that respect
combined with affection which goes so far to constitute the efficiency
of a regiment, hoping hereafter to tread in his footsteps and carry
out his system.

For ten whole minutes he held his tongue--and this was no small effort
of self-restraint--that he might listen to the commanding officer's
conversation with his guests, savouring strongly of professional
interests, as comprising Crimean, Indian, and continental experiences,
all tending to prove that cavalry massed, kept under cover, held well
in hand, and "offered" at the critical moment, was _the_ force to
render success permanent and defeat irretrievable.

When they got into a dissertation on shoeing, with the comparative
merits of "threes" and "sections" at drill, the young man refreshed
himself liberally with champagne, and turned to more congenial
discourse.

Of this there seemed no lack. The winner of the St. Leger was as
confidently predicted as if the race were already in his owner's
pocket. A match was made between two splendid dandies, called
respectfully by their comrades "Nobby" and "The Dustman," to walk from
Knightsbridge Barracks to Windsor Bridge that day week--the odds being
slightly in favour of "The Dustman," who was a peer of the realm. A
moderate dancer was freely criticised, an exquisite singer approved
with reservation, and the style of fighting practised by our present
champion of the prize-ring unequivocally condemned. Presently a deep
voice made itself heard in more sustained tones than belong to general
conversation, and during a lull it became clear that the adjutant was
relating an anecdote of his own military experience. "It's a wonderful
country," said he, in reply to some previous observation. "I'm not an
Irishman myself, but I've observed that the most conspicuous men
in all nations are pure Irish or of Irish extraction. Look at the
service. Look at the ring--prize-fighters and book-makers. I believe
the Slasher's mother was born in Connaught, and nothing will convince
me but that Deerfoot came from Tipperary--east and west the world's
full of them--they swarm, I'm told, in America, and I can answer for
them in Europe. Did ye ever see a Turk in a vineyard? He's the very
moral of Pat in a potato-garden: the same frieze coat--the same baggy
breeches--the same occasional smoke, every five minutes or so--and the
same rooted aversion to hard work. Go on into India--they're all over
the place. Shall I tell you what happened to myself? We were engaged
on the right of the army, getting it hot and heavy, all the horses
with their heads up, but the men as steady as old Time. I was in the
Lancers then, under Sir Hope. The Sikhs worked their guns beautifully,
and presently we got the word to advance. It wasn't bad ground for
manoeuvring, and we were soon into them. The enemy fought a good
one--those Sikhs always do. There was one fine old white-bearded
patriarch stuck to his gun to the last. His people were all speared
and cut down, but he never gave back an inch. I can see him now,
looking like the pictures of Abraham in my old Sunday-school book. I
thought I'd save him if I could. Our chaps had got their blood up, and
dashed in to finish him with their lances, but I kept them off with
some difficulty, and offered him 'quarter.' I was afraid he wouldn't
understand my language. 'Quarter,' says he, in the richest brogue
you'll hear out of Cork--'quarter! you bloody thieves! will you stick
a countryman, an' a comrade, ye murtherin' villains, like a _boneen_
in a butcher's shop!' He'd have gone on, I dare say, for an hour, but
the men had their lances through him before you could say 'knife.' As
my right-of-threes, himself a Paddy, observed--he was discoorsin'
the devil in less than five minutes. The man was a deserter and a
renegade, so it served him right, but being an Irishman, you see, he
distinguished himself--that's all I mean to infer."

The young officer was exceedingly attentive to an anecdote which, thus
told by its bronzed, war-worn, and soldier-like narrator, possessed
the fascination of romance with the interest of reality.

Lord Bearwarden and his guests had also broken off their conversation
to listen--they returned to the previous subject.

"There are so many people come to town now-a-days," said his lordship,
"that the whole thing spoils itself. Society is broken up into sets,
and even if you belong to the same set, you cannot insure meeting any
particular person at any particular place. Just the same with clubs.
I might hunt you two fellows about all night, from Arthur's to
the Arlington--from the Arlington to White's--from White's to the
Carlton--from the Carlton back to St. James's Street--and never run
into you at all, unless I had the luck to find you drinking gin and
soda at Pratt's." Tom Ryfe, belonging only to the last-named of these
resorts, looked gratified. Dick Stanmore was thinking of something
else.

"Now, to-night," continued Lord Bearwarden, turning to the latter,
"although the ball is in your own step-mother's house, I'll take odds
you don't know three-fourths of the people you'll meet, and yet you've
been as much about London as most of us. Where they come from I can't
think, and they're like the swallows, or the storks, or the woodcocks,
only they're not so welcome. Where they'll go to when the season's
over I neither know nor care."

Tom Ryfe would have given much to feel equally indifferent. Something
like a pang shot through him as he reflected that for him the battle
must be against wind and tide--a fierce struggle, more and more
hopeless, to grasp at something drifting visibly out of reach. He
was not a man, however, to be beat while it was possible to persist.
Believing Dick Stanmore the great obstacle in his way, he watched that
preoccupied gentleman as a cat watches a mouse.

"I don't want to be introduced to any more people," said Dick rather
absently. "In my opinion you can't have too few acquaintances and too
many friends."

"One ought to know lots of _women_," said Mr. Ryfe, assuming the air
of a fine gentleman, which fitted him, thought Lord Bearwarden, as
ill as his uniform generally fits a civilian. "I mean women of
position--who _give_ things--whom you'd like to be seen talking to in
the Park. As for girls, they're a bore--there's a fresh crop every
season--they're exactly like each other, and you have to dance with
'em all!"

"Confound his impudence!" _thought_ Lord Bearwarden; "does he hope to
impose on _me_ with his half-bred swagger and Brummagem assurance?"
but he only _said_, "I suppose, Tom, you're in great request with
them--all ranks, all sorts, all ages! You fellows have such a pull
over us poor soldiers; you can be improving the time while we're on
guard."

Tom looked as if he rather believed he could. But he only _looked_
it. Beneath that confident manner, his heart was sad and sinking. How
bitter he felt against Miss Bruce, and yet he loved her, in his own
way, too, all the while.

"Champagne to Mr. Stanmore!" said his entertainer, beckoning to a
servant. "You're below the mark, Stanmore, and we've a heavy night
before us. You're thinking of your pets at Tattersall's next week.
Cheer up. Their future masters won't be half so hard on them, I'll be
bound. But I wouldn't assist at the sacrifice if I were you. Come
down to the Den with me; we'll troll for pike, and give the clods
a cricket-match. Then we'll dine early, set trimmers, and console
ourselves with claret-cup under affliction."

Dick laughed. Affliction, indeed, and he had never been so happy in
his life! Perhaps that was the reason of his silence, his abstraction.
At this very moment, he thought, Maud might be opening the packet he
made such sacrifices to redeem. He had arranged for her to receive the
diamonds all reset and glittering at the hour she would be dressing
for the ball. He could almost fancy he saw the beautiful face flushed
with delight, the dark eyes filled with tears. Would she press those
jewels to her lips, and murmur broken words of endearment for _him_?
Would she not love him _now_, if, indeed, she had not loved him
before? Horses, forsooth! What were all the horses that ever galloped
compared to one smile of hers? He would have given her his right arm,
his life, if she wanted it. And now, perhaps, he was to obtain his
reward. Who could tell what that very night might bring forth?

Mr. Stanmore's glass remained untasted before him, and Lord Bearwarden
observing that dinner was over, and his guests seemed disinclined to
drink any more wine, proposed an adjournment to the little mess-room
to smoke.

In these days the long sittings that delighted our grandfathers have
completely given way to an early break up, a quiet cigar, and a
general retreat, if not to bed, at least to other scenes and other
society. In ten minutes from the rising of the colonel, Lord
Bearwarden, and half-a-dozen guests, the larger mess-room was cleared
of its inmates, and the smaller one crowded with an exceedingly merry
and rather noisy assemblage.

"Just one cigar," said Lord Bearwarden, handing a huge case to
his friends. "It will steady you nicely for waltzing, and some
eau-de-cologne in my room will take off all the smell afterwards. I
know you dancing swells are very particular."

Both gentlemen laughed, and putting large cigars into their mouths,
accommodated themselves with exceeding goodwill to the arrangement. It
was not in the nature of things that silence should be preserved
under such incentives to conversation as tobacco and soda-water with
something in it, but presently, above other sounds, a young voice was
heard to clamour for a song.

"Let's have a chant!" protested this eager voice; "the night is still
young. We're all musical, and we don't often get the two best pipes in
the regiment to dine here the same day. Come, tune up, old boy. Give
us 'Twisting Jane,' or the 'Gallant Young Hussar.'"

The "old boy" addressed, a large, fine-looking man, holding the
appointment of riding-master, smiled good-humouredly, and shook his
head. "It's too early for the 'Hussar,'" said he, scanning the
fresh beardless face with its clear mirthful eyes. "And it's not an
improving song for young officers neither. I'll try 'Twisting Jane' if
you gentlemen will support me with the chorus;" and in a deep mellow
voice he embarked without more ado on the following barrack-room
ditty:--

I loved a girl, down Windsor way,
When we was lying there,
As soft as silk, as mild as May,
As timid as a hare.
She blushed and smiled, looked down so shy,
And then--looked up again--
My comrades warned me: 'Mind your eye,
With Twisting Jane!'

I wooed her thus, not sure but slow,
To kiss she vowed a crime,--
For she was 'reining back,' you know,
While I was 'marking time.'

'Alas!' I thought, 'these dainty charms
Are not for me, 'tis plain;
Too long she keeps me under arms,
Does Twisting Jane.'

Our corporal-major says to me,
One day before parade,
'She's gammoning you, young chap,' says he,
'Is that there artful jade!
You'll not be long of finding out,
When nothing's left to gain,
How quick the word is "Threes about!"
With Twisting Jane!'

Our corporal-major knows what's what;
I peeped above her blind;
The tea was made--the toast was hot--
She looked so sweet and kind.
My captain in her parlour sat,
It gave me quite a pain,
With coloured clothes, and shining hat,
By Twisting Jane.

The major he came cantering past,
She bustled out to see,--
'O, major! is it you at last?
Step in and take your tea.'
The major halted--winked his eye--
Looked up and down the lane;
And in he went his luck to try
With Twisting Jane.

I waited at 'attention' there,
Thinks I, 'There'll soon be more.'
The colonel's phaeton and pair
Came grinding to the door.
She gave him such a sugary smile,
(Old men is very vain!)
'It's you I looked for all the while,'
Says Twisting Jane,

'I've done with you for good,' I cried,
'You're never on the square;
Fight which you please on either side,
But hang it, lass, fight fair!
I won't be last--I can't be first--
So look for me in vain
When next you're out "upon the burst,"
Miss Twisting Jane!--
When next you're out "upon the burst,"
Miss Twisting Jane!'

"A jolly good song," cried the affable young gentleman who had
instigated the effort, adding, with a quaint glance at the grizzled
visage and towering proportions of the singer, "You're very much
improved, old chap--not so shy, more power, more volume. If you mind
your music, I'll get you a place as a chorister-boy in the Chapel
Royal, after all. You're just the size, and your manner's the very
thing!"

"Wait till I get _you_ in the school with that new charger," answered
the other, laughing. "I think, gentlemen, it's my call. I'll ask our
adjutant here to give us 'Boots and Saddles,' you all like that game."

Tumblers were arrested in mid-air, cigars taken from smooth or hairy
lips, while all eyes were turned towards the adjutant, a soldier down
to his spurs, who "tuned up," as universally requested, without delay.

BOOTS AND SADDLES.

The ring of a bridle, the stamp of a hoof,
Stars above, and a wind in the tree,--
A bush for a billet,--a rock for a roof,--
Outpost duty's the duty for me!
Listen. A stir in the valley below--
The valley below is with riflemen crammed,
Covering the column and watching the foe--
Trumpet-major!--Sound and be d----d!
Stand to your horses!--It's time to begin--
Boots and Saddles! The Pickets are in!

Though our bivouac-fire has smouldered away,
Yet a bit of good 'baccy shall comfort us well;
When you sleep in your cloak there's no lodging to pay,
And where we shall breakfast the devil can tell!
But the horses were fed, ere the daylight had gone,
There's a slice in the embers--a drop in the can--
Take a suck of it, comrade! and so pass it on,
For a ration of brandy puts heart in a man.
Good liquor is scarce, and to waste it a sin,--
Boots and Saddles! The Pickets are in!

Hark! there's a shot from the crest of the hill!
Look! there's a rocket leaps high in the air.
By the beat of his gallop, that's nearing us still,
That runaway horse has no rider, I'll swear!

There's a jolly light-infantry post on the right,
I hear their bugles--they sound the 'Advance.'
They will tip us a tune that shall wake up the night,
And we're hardly the lads to leave out of the dance.
They're at it already, I'm sure, by the din,--
Boots and Saddles! The Pickets are in!

They don't give us long our divisions to prove--
Short, sharp, and distinct, comes the word of command.
'Have your men in the saddle---Be ready to move--
Keep the squadron together--the horses in hand--'
While a whisper's caught up in the ranks as they form--
A whisper that fain would break out in a cheer--
How the foe is in force, how the work will be warm.
But, steady! the chief gallops up from the rear.
With old 'Death-or-Glory' to fight is to win,
And the Colonel means mischief, I see by his grin.--
Boots and Saddles! The Pickets are in!--
Boots and Saddles! The Pickets are in!

"And it must be 'Boots and Saddles' with us," said Lord Bearwarden to
his guests as the applause subsided and he made a move towards the
door, "otherwise we shall be the 'lads to leave out of the dance'; and
I fancy that would suit none of us to-night."




CHAPTER XV


MRS. STANMORE AT HOME.


DANCING.

Amongst all the magnificent toilettes composed to do honour to the
lady whose card of invitation heads this chapter, none appeared more
variegated in colour, more startling in effect, than that of Miss
Puckers the maid.

True, circumstances compelled her to wear a high dress, but even
this modest style of costume in the hands of a real artist admits of
marvellous combinations and extraordinary breadth of treatment. Miss
Puckers had disposed about her person as much ribbon, tulle, and cheap
jewelry as might have fitted out a fancy fair. Presiding in a little
breakfast-room off the hall, pinning tickets on short red cloaks,
shaking out skirts of wondrous fabrication, and otherwise assisting
those beautiful guests who constituted the entertainment, she afforded
a sight only equalled by her after-performances in the tea-room,
where, assuming the leadership of a body of handmaidens almost as
smart as herself, she formed, for several waggish and irreverent young
gentlemen, a principal attraction in that favourite place of resort.

A ball is so far like a run with fox-hounds that it is difficult to
specify the precise moment at which the sport begins. Its votaries
gather by twos and threes attired for pursuit; there is a certain
amount of refitting practised, as regards dress and appointments,
while some of the keenest in the chase are nevertheless the latest
arrivals at the place of meeting. Presently are heard a note or two,
a faint flourish, a suggestive prelude. Three or four couples get
cautiously to work, the music swells, the pace increases, ere long the
excitement extends to all within sight or hearing, and a performance
of exceeding speed, spirit, and severity is the result.

Puckers, with her mouth full of pins, is rearranging the dress of
a young lady in her first season, to whom, as to the inexperienced
hunter, that burst of music is simply maddening. She is a well-bred
young lady, however, and keeps her raptures to herself, but is
slightly indignant at the very small notice taken of her by Dick
Stanmore, who rushes into the tiring-room, drops a flurried little
bow, and hurries Puckers off into a corner, totally regardless of the
displeasure with which a calm, cold-looking chaperon regards this
unusual proceeding.

"Did it come in time?" says Dick in a loud agitated whisper. "Did you
run up with it directly? Was she pleased? Did she say anything? Has
she got them on now?"

"Lor, Mr. Stanmore!" exclaims Puckers; "whatever do you mean?"

"Miss Bruce--the diamonds," explains Dick, in a voice that causes two
dandies, recently arrived, to pause in astonishment on the staircase.

"O, the diamonds!" answers Puckers. "Only think, now. Was it _you_,
sir? Well, I never. Why, sir, when Miss Bruce opens the packet, not
half-an-hour ago, the tears comes into her eyes, and she says, 'Well,
this _is_ kind'--them was her very words--'this _is_ kind,' says
she, and pops'em on that moment; for I'd done her hair and all. Go
up-stairs, Mr. Stanmore, and see how she looks in them. I'll wager
she's waiting for Somebody to dance with her this very minute!"

Though it is too often of sadly short duration, every man _has_ his
"good time" for a few blissful seconds during life. Let him not
complain they are so brief. It is something to have at least tasted
the cup, and perhaps it is better to turn with writhing lips from the
bitter drop near the brim than, drinking it fairly out, to find its
sweets pall on the palate, its essence cease to warm the heart and
stimulate the brain.

Dick, hurrying past his mother into the soft, mellow, yet brilliant
radiance of her crowded ball-room, felt for that moment the happiest
man in London.

Miss Bruce was _not_ waiting to dance with him, according to her
maid's prediction, but was performing a waltz in exceeding gravity,
assisted, as Dick could not help observing, with a certain
satisfaction, by the ugliest man in the room. The look she gave him
when their eyes met at last sent this shortsighted young gentleman
up to the seventh heaven. It seemed well worth all the hunters in
Leicestershire, all the diamonds in Golconda! He did the honours of
his step-mother's house, and thanked his own friends for coming, but
all with the vague consciousness of a man in a dream. Presently the
"round" dance came to an end, much to the relief of the ugly man, who
cared, indeed, for ladies as little as ladies cared for him; and
Dick hastened to secure Miss Bruce as a partner for the approaching
"square." She was engaged, of course, six deep, but she put off all
her claimants and took Mr. Stanmore's arm. "He's my cousin, you know,"
said she, with her rare smile, "and cousins don't count; so you're
all merely put back _one_. If you don't like it, you needn't come for
it--_c'est tout simple_!"

Then they took their places, and the dark eyes looked full into his
own. Dick felt he was winning in a canter.

Miss Bruce put her hand on the collar of diamonds round her neck. "I'm
glad you're _not_ my cousin," she said; "I'm glad you're not _really_
a relation. You're far dearer as it is. You're the best friend and
truest gentleman I ever met in my life. Now I sha'n't thank you any
more. Mind your dancing, and set to that gawky woman opposite. Isn't
she badly dressed?"

How could Dick tell? He didn't even know he had a _vis-a-vis_, and the
"gawky woman," as Miss Bruce most unjustly called her, only wondered
anybody could make such blunders in so simple a figure as the _Ete_.
His head was in a whirl. A certain chivalrous instinct warned him that
this was no time, while his idol lay under a heavy obligation, to
press his suit. Yet he could not, for the life of him, help venturing
a word.

"I look at nobody but you," he answered, turning pale as men do when
they are in sad earnest. "I should never wish to see any other face
than yours for the rest of my life."

"How tired you'd get of it," said she, with a bright smile; but she
timed her reply so as to embark immediately afterwards on the _Chaine
des Dames_, a measure exceedingly ill calculated for sustained
conversation, and changed the subject directly she returned to his
side.

"Where did you dine?" she asked saucily. "With those wild young men at
the barracks, I suppose. I knew you would: and you did all sorts of
horrid things, drank and smoked--I'm _sure_ you smoked." She put her
laced hand-kerchief laughingly to her nose.

"I dined with Bearwarden," answered honest Dick, "and he's coming on
here directly with a lot of them. My mother will be so pleased--it's
going to be a capital ball."

"I thought Lord Bearwarden never went to balls," replied the young
lady carelessly; but her heart swelled with gratified vanity to think
of the attraction that drew him now to every place where he could hear
her voice and look upon her beauty.

"There he is," was her partner's comment, as his lordship's
head appeared in the doorway. "We'll have one more dance, Miss
Bruce--Maud--before the night is over?"

"As many as you please," was her answer, and still Dick felt he had
the race in hand and was winning in a canter.

People go to balls for pleasure, no doubt, but it must be admitted,
nevertheless, that the pleasure they seek there is of a delusive kind
and lasts but for a few minutes at a time.

Mr. Stanmore's whole happiness was centred in Miss Bruce, yet it was
impossible for him to neglect all his step-mother's guests because of
his infatuation for one, nor would the usages of society's Draconic
laws, that are not to be broken, permit him to haunt that one
presence, which turned to magic a scene otherwise only ludicrous for
an hour or so, and simply wearisome as it went on.

So Dick plunged into the thick of it, and did his duty manfully,
diving at partners right and left, yet, with a certain characteristic
loyalty, selecting the least attractive amongst the ladies for his
attentions. Thus it happened that as the rooms became crowded,
and half the smartest people in London surged and swayed upon the
staircase, he lost sight of the face he loved for a considerable
period, and was able to devote much real energy to the success of his
step-mother's ball, uninfluenced by the distraction of Miss Brace's
presence.

This young lady's movements, however, were not unobserved. Puckers,
from her position behind the cups and saucers, enjoyed great
reconnoitring opportunities, which she did not suffer to escape
unimproved--the tea-room, she was aware, held an important place in
the working machinery of society, as a sort of neutral territory,
between the cold civilities of the ball-room and the warmer interests
fostered by juxtaposition in the boudoir, not to mention a wicked
little alcove beyond, with low red velvet seats, and a subdued light
suggestive of whispers and provoking question rather than reply.

Puckers was not easily surprised. In the housekeeper's room she often
thanked her stars for this desirable immunity, and indeed on the
present occasion had furnished a loving couple with tea, whose united
ages would have come hard upon a century, without moving a muscle
of her countenance, albeit there was something ludicrous to
general society in the affectation of concealment with which this
long-recognised attachment had to be carried on. The gentleman was
bald and corpulent. The lady--well, the lady had been a beauty thirty
years ago, and dressed the character still. There was nothing to
prevent their seeing each other every day and all day long, if they
chose, yet they preferred scheming for invitation to the same places,
that they might meet _en evidence_ before the public; and dearly
loved, as now, a retirement into the tea-room, where they could
enact their _role_ of turtle-doves, uninterrupted, yet not entirely
unobserved. Perhaps, after all, this imaginary restraint afforded the
little spice of romance that preserved their attachment from decay.

Puckers, I say, marvelled at these not at all, but she did marvel, and
admitted it, when Miss Bruce, entering the tea-room, was seen to be
attended, not by Mr. Stanmore, but by Lord Bearwarden.

Her dark eyes glittered, and there was an exceedingly becoming flush
on the girl's fair face, usually so pale. Her maid thought she had
never seen Maud look so beautiful, and to judge by the expression of
his countenance, it would appear Lord Bearwarden thought so too. They
had been dancing together, and he seemed to be urging her to dance
with him again. His lordship's manner was more eager than common, and
in his eyes came an anxious expression that only one woman, the one
woman it was so difficult to forget, had ever been able to call into
them before.

"Look odd!" he repeated, while he set down her cup and gave her back
the fan he had been holding. "I thought you were above all that, Miss
Bruce, and did what you liked, without respect to the fools who stare
and can't understand."

She drew up her head with a proud gesture peculiar to her. "How do you
know I do like it?" said she haughtily.

He looked hurt, and lowered his voice to a whisper. "Forgive me," he
said, "I have no right to suppose it. I have been presumptuous, and
you are entitled to be unkind. I have monopolised you too much, and
you're--you're bored with me. It's my own fault."

"I never said so," she answered in the same tone; "who is unkind now?"
Then the dark eyes were raised for one moment to look full in his, and
it was all over with Lord Bearwarden.

"You will dance with me again before I go," said he, recovering his
former position with an alacrity that denoted some previous practice.
"I shall ask nobody else--why should I? You know I only came here to
see _you_. One waltz, Miss Bruce--promise?"

"I promise," she answered, and again came into her eyes that smile
which so fascinated her admirers to their cost. "I shall get into
horrid disgrace for it, and so I shall for sitting here so long now.
I'm always doing wrong. However, I'll risk it if you will."

Her manner was playful, almost tender; and Puckers, adding another
large infusion of tea, wondered to see her look so soft and kind.

A crowded waltz was in course of performance, and the tea-room, but
for this preoccupied couple, would have been empty. Two men looked in
as they passed the door, the one hurried on in search of his partner,
the other started, scowled, and turned back amongst the crowd.
Puckers, the lynx-eyed, observing and recognising both, had sufficient
skill in physiognomy to pity Mr. Stanmore and much mistrust Tom Ryfe.

The former, indeed, felt a sharp, keen pang, when he saw the face that
so haunted him in close proximity to another face belonging to one
who, if he should enter for the prize, could not but prove a dangerous
rival. Nevertheless, the man's generous instincts stifled and kept
down so unworthy a suspicion, forcing himself to argue against his own
conviction that, at this very moment, the happiness of his life was
hanging by a thread. He resolved to ignore everything of the kind.
Jealousy was a bad beginning for a lover, and after all, if he should
allow himself to be jealous of every man who admired and danced with
Maud, life would be unbearable. How despicable, besides, would she
hold such a sentiment! With her disposition, how would she resent
anything like _espionage or surveillance_! How unworthy it seemed both
of herself and of him! In two minutes he was heartily ashamed of his
momentary discomfiture, and plunged energetically once more into the
duties of the ball-room. Nevertheless, from that moment, the whole
happiness of the evening had faded out for Dick.

There is a light irradiating all such gatherings which is totally
irrespective of gas or wax-candles. It can shed a mellow lustre on
dingy rooms, frayed carpets, and shabby furniture; nay, I have seen
its tender rays impart a rare and spiritual beauty to an old, worn,
long-loved face; but on the other hand, when this magic light is
quenched, or even temporarily shaded, not all the illuminations of a
royal birthday are brilliant enough to dispel the gloom its absence
leaves about the heart.

Mr. Stanmore, though whirling a very handsome young lady through a
waltz, began to think it was not such a good ball after all.

Tom Ryfe, on the other hand, congratulated himself on his tactics in
having obtained an invitation, not without considerable pressure put
upon Miss Bruce, for a gathering of which his social standing hardly
entitled him to form a part. He was now, so to speak, on the very
ground occupied by the enemy, and though he saw defeat imminent, could
at least make his own effort to avert it. After all his misgivings as
regarded Stanmore, it seemed that he had been mistaken, and that Lord
Bearwarden was the rival he ought to dread. In any case but his own,
Mr. Ryfe was a man of the world, quite shrewd enough to have reasoned
that in this duality of admirers there was encouragement and hope. But
Tom had lost his heart, such as it was; and his head, though of much
better material, had naturally gone with it. Like other gamblers, he
determined to follow his ill-luck to the utmost, bring matters to a
crisis, and so know the worst. In all graver affairs of life, it is
doubtless good sense to look a difficulty in the face; but in the
amusements of love and play practised hands leave a considerable