The front of the Town Hall resounded with the ring of horse-hoofs, the crack of whips, the bawling of coachmen, the clank of carriage steps and clang of coach doors. A promiscuous mob of the plebs and profanum vulgus of Gylingden beset the door, to see the ladies--the slim and the young in white muslins and artificial flowers, and their stout guardian angels, of maturer years, in satins and velvets, and jewels--some real, and some, just as good, of paste. In the cloak-room such a fuss, unfurling of fans, and last looks and hurried adjustments.

When the Crutchleighs, of Clay Manor, a good, old, formal family, were mounting the stairs in solemn procession--they were always among the early arrivals--they heard a piano and a tenor performing in the supper-room.

Now, old Lady Chelford chose to patronise Mr. Page, the Dollington professor, and partly, I fancy, to show that she could turn things topsy-turvy in this town of Gylingden, had made a point, with the rulers of the feast, that her client should sing half-a-dozen songs in the supper-room before dancing commenced.

Mrs. Crutchleigh stayed her step upon the stairs abruptly, and turned, with a look of fierce surprise upon her lean, white-headed lord, arresting thereby the upward march of Corfe Crutchleigh, Esq., the hope of his house, who was pulling on his gloves, with his eldest spinster sister on his lank arm.

'There appears to be a concert going on; we came here to a ball. Had you not better enquire, Mr. Crutchleigh; it would seem we have made a mistake?'

Mrs. Crutchleigh was sensitive about the dignity of the family of Clay Manor; and her cheeks flushed above the rouge, and her eyes flashed severely.

'That's singing--particularly _loud singing_. Either we have mistaken the night, or somebody has taken upon him to upset all the arrangements.

You'll be good enough to enquire whether there will be dancing to-night; I and Anastasia will remain in the cloak-room; and we'll all leave if you please, Mr. Crutchleigh, if this goes on.'

The fact is, Mrs. Crutchleigh had got an inkling of this performance, and had affected to believe it impossible; and, detesting old Lady Chelford for sundry slights and small impertinences, and envying Brandon and its belongings, was resolved not to be put down by presumption in that quarter.

Old Lady Chelford sat in an arm-chair in the supper-room, where a considerable audience was collected. She had a splendid shawl or two about her, and a certain air of demi-toilette, which gave the Gylingden people to understand that her ladyship did not look on this gala in the light of a real ball, but only as a sort of rustic imitation--curious, possibly amusing, and, like other rural sports, deserving of encouragement, for the sake of the people who made innocent holiday there.

Mr. Page, the performer, was a plump young man, with black whiskers, and his hair in oily ringlets, such as may be seen in the model wigs presented on smiling, waxen dandies, in Mr. Rose's front window at Dollington. He bowed and smiled in the most unexceptionable of white chokers and the dapperest of dress coats, and drew off the whitest imaginable pair of kid gloves, when he sat down to the piano, subsiding in a sort of bow upon the music-stool, and striking those few, brisk and noisy chords with which such artists proclaim silence and rea.s.sure themselves.

Stanley Lake, that eminent London swell, had attached himself as gentleman-in-waiting to Lady Chelford's household, and was perpetually gliding with little messages between her ladyship and the dapper vocalist of Dollington, who varied his programme and submitted to an occasional _encore_ on the private order thus communicated.

'I told you Chelford would be here,' said Miss Brandon to Rachel, in a low tone, glancing at the young peer.

'I thought he had returned to Brighton. I fancied he might be--you know the Dulhamptons are at Brighton; and Lady Constance, of course, has a claim on his time and thoughts.'

Rachel smiled as she spoke, and was adjusting her bouquet, as Dorcas made answer--

'Lady Constance, my dear Radie! That, you know, was never more than a mere whisper; it was only Lady Chelford and the marchioness who talked it over--they would have liked it very well. But Chelford won't be managed or scolded into anything of the kind; and will choose, I think, for himself, and I fancy not altogether according to their ideas, when the time comes. And I a.s.sure you, dear Radie, there is not the least truth in that story about Lady Constance.'

Why should Dorcas be so earnest to convince her handsome cousin that there was nothing in this rumour? Rachel made no remark, and there was a little silence.

'I'm so glad I succeeded in bringing you here,' said Dorcas; 'Chelford made such a point of it; and he thinks you are losing your spirits among the great trees and shadows of Redman's Dell; and he made it quite a little cousinly duty that I should succeed.'

At this moment Mr. Page interposed with the energetic prelude of his concluding ditty. It was one of Tom Moore's melodies.

Rachel leaned back, and seemed to enjoy it very much. But when it was over, I think she would have found it difficult to say what the song was about.

Mr. Page had now completed his programme, and warned by the disrespectful violins from the gallery of the ball-room, whence a considerable caterwauling was already announcing the approach of the dance, he made his farewell flourish, and bow and, smiling, withdrew.

CHAPTER x.x.xVI.

THE BALL ROOM.

Rachel Lake, standing by the piano, turned over the leaves of the volume of 'Moore's Melodies' from which the artist in black whiskers and white waistcoat had just entertained his n.o.ble patroness and his audience.

Everyone has experienced, I suppose for a few wonderful moments, now and then, a glow of seemingly causeless happiness, in which the earth and its people are glorified--peace and sunlight rest on everything--the spirit of music and love is in the air, and the heart itself sings for joy. In the light of this celestial illusion she stood now by the piano, turning over the pages of poor Tom Moore, as I have said, when a low pleasant voice near her said--

'I was so glad to see that Dorcas had prevailed, and that you were here.

We both agreed that you are too much a recluse in that Der Frieschutz Glen--at least, for your friends' pleasure; and owe it to us all to appear now and then in this upper world.'

'Excelsior, Miss Lake,' interposed dapper little Mr. b.u.t.tle, with a smirk; 'I think this little bit of music--it was got up, you know, by that old quiz, Dowager Lady Chelford--was really not so bad--a rather good idea, after all, Miss Lake. Don't you?'

Poor Mr. b.u.t.tle did not know Lord Chelford, and thus shooting his 'arrow o'er the house,' he 'hurt his brother.' Chelford turned away, and bowed and smiled to one or two friends at the other side of the room.

'Yes, the music was very pretty, and some of the songs were quite charmingly sung. I agree with you--we are very much obliged to Lady Chelford--that is her son, Lord Chelford.'

'Oh!' said b.u.t.tle, whose smirk vanished on the instant in a very red and dismal vacancy, 'I--I'm afraid he'll think me shockingly rude.' And in a minute more b.u.t.tle was gone.

Miss Lake again looked down upon the page, and as she did so, Lord Chelford turned and said--

'You are a worshipper of Tom Moore, Miss Lake?'

'An admirer, perhaps--certainly no worshipper. Yet, I can't say. Perhaps I do worship; but if so, it is a worship strangely mixed with contempt.'

And she laughed a little. 'A kind of adoring which I fancy belongs properly to the lords of creation, and which we of the weaker s.e.x have no right to practise.'

'Miss Lake is pleased to be ironical to-night,' he said, with a smile.

'Am I? I dare say. All women are. Irony is the weapon of cowardice, and cowardice the vice of weakness. Yet I think I was naturally bold and true. I hate cowardice and deception even in myself--I hate perfidy--I hate _fraud_.'

She tapped a little emphasis upon the floor with her white satin shoe, and her eyes flashed with a dark and angry meaning among the crowd at the other end of the room, as if for a second or two following an object to whom in some way the statement applied.

The strange bitterness of her tone, though it was low enough, and something wild, suffering, and revengeful in her look, though but momentary, and hardly definable, did not escape Lord Chelford, and he followed unconsciously the direction of her glance; but there was nothing there to guide him to a conclusion, and the good people who formed that polite and animated mob were in his eyes, one and all, quite below the level of tragedy, or even of melodrama.

'And yet, Miss Lake, we are all more or less cowards or deceivers--at least, to the extent of suppression. Who would speak the whole truth, or like to hear it?--not I, I know.'

'Nor I,' she said, quietly.

'And I do think, if people had no reserves, they would be very uninteresting,' he added.

She was looking, with a strange light upon her face--a smile, perhaps--upon the open pages of 'Moore's Melodies' as he spoke.

'I like a little puzzle and mystery--they surround our future and our past; and the present would be insipid, I think, without them. Now, I can't tell, Miss Lake, as you look on Tom Moore there, and I try to read your smile, whether you happen at this particular moment to adore or despise him.'

'Moore's is a daring morality--what do you think, for instance, of these lines?' she said, touching the verse with her bouquet.

Lord Chelford read--

I ask not, I know not, if guilt's in thy heart I but know that I love thee, whatever thou art.'

He laughed.

'Very pa.s.sionate, but hardly respectable. I once knew,' he continued a little more gravely, 'a marriage made upon that principle, and not very audaciously either, which turned out very unhappily.'

'So I should conjecture,' she said, rising from her chair, rather drearily and abstractedly, 'and there is good old Lady Sarah. I must go and ask her how she does.' She paused for a moment, holding her bouquet drooping towards the floor, and looking with her clouded eyes down--down--through it; and then she looked up suddenly, with an odd, fierce smile, and she said bitterly enough--'and yet, if I were a man, and capable of loving, I could love no other way; because I suppose love to be a madness, and the sublimest and the most despicable of states. And I admire Moore for that flash of the fallen angelic--it is the sentiment of a hero and a madman--too base and too _n.o.ble_ for this cool, wise world.'